Makare Maroun gazed out of the school window and over the roofs to the bustling wharves and quays of the free-port of Sweetwater. For an infamous den of pirates and scoundrels it looked awfully peaceful. In fact, it looked like all the non free ports that Makare had seen. It seemed that illicit and untaxed goods looked exactly the same as licit taxed ones. Ships, be they sky ships or river barges, looked the same wherever they docked, and pirates looked very like sailors. Though pirates did dress better when they weren’t working.

When her mother had burst into her bedroom late one night, and told her that the big escape was on, and they were fleeing her father’s stifling control, and running for the legendary pirate city in the heart of the Dune Sea it sounded like an adventure. The journey had been adventurous. Slipping aboard a sky ship flying a false flag and running before the dawn.

Then they arrived in Sweetwater and discovered that it was just like the other cities of the Dune Sea. Mother had already purchased a small house in one of the cheaper areas of the city, high up on a cliff-side overlooking the giant sink-hole lake where the free port was. Before she knew it Makare was enrolled in the free school built onto the side of the Foundling House.

She didn’t miss her father’s home, or his temper, but she did miss private tutors, fine food, and beautiful dresses. She missed no-one caring if she was good at maths. Father had certainly never cared if she could count. Maths homework could die in a fire.

“Makare!” The teacher’s sharp voice snapped her attention back to the room.

“Yes, miss?” Makare tried hard to sound like she had absolutely been paying attention to every word and had not been moping and staring idly out of the window.

“As our resident outsider, what do you know about the founding of the city?”

Was that what she’d missed? Damn, that sounded interesting.

“Not much miss,” said Makare, “My tutors didn’t teach me much history, just the history of my father’s family and the other great families of Hathorth. I did have a book of the tales of Bassin Barrode and that said that he founded it as a city for all the slaves he freed.”

The boy at the desk in front of Makare turned around in his seat. Djet, Makare thought he was called. “You didn’t even get to learn the history of your own city? Just the fancy families? Your Father is a real cloaca.”

“Yes,” said Makare, surprised at her own honesty, “Yes he is.”

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“Leave her alone, Djet,” said the teacher, so Makare remembered his name right. “Not everyone gets to pretend that they’re descended from the Liberator. Some people have to make do with their actual families.”

Djet gave Makare a sheepish and apologetic grin and turned back around.

“If we can get back to the matter at hand…” the teacher waited until the class had quietened down. “Since we have someone in the class who did not get the chance to learn about Bassin Barrode properly I have obtained permission to take the class on an expedition to see the True History of the Liberator paintings. Not the copies in the Museum. The originals.”

Makare had no idea if that was good or not but most of the class seemed pleased. Djet seemed to be almost buzzing with excitement and barely able to keep to his seat.

The teacher seemed pleased with the reaction. “I want you all to do some homework on this. But not the usual kind. Ask your families for their tales of Bassin Barrode, read the old story books, go and view the copies. Makare, get someone to show you some of the public sculptures of him and his crew around the city.”

“I’ll do it,” said Djet. No longer able to hold his excitement in.

“Okay,” said Makare, “Thank you.” 

“The Foundlings already have permission for the trip, I asked the Senior Brother when I was getting permission to take the class. Everyone else you will need to ask whichever responsible adult you can find at home to send me a note allowing it. You have until the end of the week to bring me a note.” If the teacher said anything else it was drowned out by the gong signalling the end of the school day. 

Most of the class grabbed their things and boiled out of the room as quickly as they could. Makare found the crowd overwhelming and tended to take her time packing her tablet and her books into her bag. 

“Will you have trouble getting permission?”

Makare looked up from her bag to see Djet standing over her, with his bag already on his shoulder, and a look of concern on his face.

“I doubt it. This is the sort of thing Father would have hated so Mother will be delighted to allow it.”

“I’m sorry about calling your Dad a cloaca. I shouldn’t have said that.”

“Don’t be sorry. You shouldn’t apologise for telling the truth,” said Makare. She found that she was smiling. It felt good to insult Father. She’d never dared to do it before. When he was in closer proximity it had seemed dangerous to even think that way. The one thing that made Sweetwater completely different to Hathorth was that nobody here gave a damn about her Father or his fancy family.

“Do you want to go and look at some sculptures then?” said Djet “I know some near a really good honey twist stall.”

Okay,” said Makare. “But afterwards you have to come back to my house. I’ve been trying to learn how to make hot drinks now that we don’t have staff. I need people other than Mother to experiment on. She’ll always just say it’s lovely, even if I catch her pouring it out of the window when she thinks I’m not looking.”

“I’ve been learning how to cook over a brazier, the way the sky sailors do,” said Djet, “we can compare notes.”