“Suspect I’ll find you dead on the shore any day now, beached like a rotten seal.” ” The sailor kicked him a second time for good measure. Little wee Johann of Elendhaven? Nameless spit of a hallankind.
“Why, don’t you have one, dock rat? No little Hans, little Ralf. The sailor laughed and kicked him in the ribs. “What’s your name, then?” the sailor asked, turning the coin to catch the light. His lip split on the dock and his mouth filled with a foul mixture of grease, salt, and blood. The sailor grabbed him by the back of the neck and slammed his head into the wall-once, twice, three times-and then yanked the coin from his hand.
He got the name when he was three feet and four inches tall, kneeling on the dock with a coin in his palm, from a sailor who stank of rum and fish oil. What he had were eyes that remembered faces, feet that knew the alleys, palms that grew calloused and soot stained from crawling through the cobblestone streets. What he had were long white fingers that hooked into purses and a mouth that told easy lies.
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