The mustardblood shivered in the cold twilight air. The Green Moon was low against the horizon, and he watched it struggle to rise and end the oppressive day. The wagon he was riding hit a rut, jerking to a stop. The driver swore, getting out of his spot in the front to inspect the trapped wheel.

A brownblood in the wagon across from the mustard whimpered, his head tucked between his legs, his sharp little horns poking at his knees. A rustblood was muttering something in an accent that no one could understand.

There were twelve of them, all children, stuffed into this little wagon. All their lusii had been culled at some point or another, leaving them rabid and wild and fending for themselves. Some kind of greenblood, probably olive, had gathered them to sell at the marketplace, when the wheel hit a rut. The mustard wasn't sure if he should count his blessings or curse them.

A horse-drawn coach rattled down the same narrow lane, and their driver hailed down the newcomer. "You there, I broke a spoke. Do you have any spare — " he broke off when he saw that the coach contained three primly-dressed seadwellers, staring coldly down at him. The driver nearly fell over dropping into a low bow, apologizing profusely.

The mustard craned his head to get a better look at the seadwellers — he'd never seen one before. Though they were all swaddled warmly to resist the dry air on land, he could still see their delicately finned ears poking out of their hair.

"What are you doing out this early?" one of the seadwellers asked, a note of repressed disdain in her voice.

"I — I'm just transporting some child-slaves to our local market, milady."

"Marquise," the seadweller corrected tersely. The driver, again, apologized liberally.

The seadwellers conferred quietly with each other, stealing glances at the driver and the wagon. They caught sight of the mustardblood, who whipped his head back into the wagon, heart beating fast.

"Let's see your wares," the Marquise said finally, standing and exiting her coach, the other two seadwellers following closely.

The driver swallowed, but nodded and turned to his wagon. He fumbled a little with the latch, then hissed at the children to line up and stay quiet.

The mustard and his companions followed the driver's instructions mutely, lining up in a neat row before the seadwellers. The mustard kept his eyes down, staring hard at his feet while the seadwellers paced among them.

"This one has strong horns, he'd surely make a great jouster," one of the seadwellers murmured to the Marquise.

The Marquise shook her head. "Look at those skinny arms. He wouldn't be good for much more than feeding some cerulean's lusus."

The third seadweller paused in front of the mustard, scrutinizing him. He still refused to look up. "Midblood, make this one with four horns look up at me. I want to check his eyes."

The driver nodded, then grabbed one of the mustard's horns and yanked his head up. The seadweller's mouth split into a smile.

"One blue eye and one red eye — a psionic! And I thought you were rounding up slaves." The seadweller turned to his companions, and said, "Wouldn't he look nice on our ship?"

The other two seadwellers laughed, and the mustard felt a chill travel down his spine.

Before his lusus had been culled, he used to live in a little hive with a tiny stash of picture books. One of the books, The Big Trip, told the story of three young highbloods flying for the first time on a ship. Most of the books on Alternia only featured highblood characters, but this one had a picture of a mustardblood — just like him. The mustardblood in the book was the pilot of the ship, and the three highbloods get to see her when they were looking around the main deck.

The pilot didn't get to speak. The pilot couldn't move. The pilot was strapped into the ship, wrapped in grotesque wires that poked into her red and blue eyes. She was exhausted, hanging from her arms, smoke rising from her eyes. The book said, "The pilot of the ship is a mustardblood with special psychic powers. She uses those powers to push the ship through space. Every couple of sweeps, the ship gets a new pilot when the old one burns out. This pilot, however, is right in the prime of her career! She'll be able to push the ship through space with no problem."

The Mustard forced bile back down his throat. He could almost feel the prick of wires already.

And as he should. After all, it was his destiny. It was in his blood.