Ship of Smoke and Steel

by Django Wexler

  In spite of Zarun’s brutality, I’m perversely feeling a little better than I was in the cage. Brutality I can handle. There’s still a great deal I don’t know about this ship—if it is a ship; I can’t quite believe it—but there’s some kind of society. We’re not simply going to be devoured by monsters. I’m accustomed to dealing with people who use casual violence to make their points. Naga, the rotsucker, was probably right—working my way from gutter rat to ward boss prepared me for this.

  Not that it’s going to save him, when I get back to Kahnzoka. He’s going to wish that he’d done what Zarun did, and taken me seriously.

  Finally, we arrive at a door, jury-rigged out of wood scraps to fit into a metal hatchway. One of the crew knocks, and it opens from the inside. The space beyond has the feel of a barracks common room, with cushions, empty wine bottles, and dirty plates scattered everywhere. Weirdly, the cushions are made of fine fabric, battered with use but clearly very expensive. Some of the plates, chipped as they are, are gold-inlaid china, finer than anything in use at Tori’s house in the Second Ward. I can see a statue of the Blessed One, his hand raised in the traditional benediction, made from silver with flashing blue stones for eyes; it would buy a tenement building in the Sixteenth Ward, and it’s being used to weigh down scraps of paper.

  The crew in the room, perhaps two dozen of them, pause what they’re doing as we’re led inside. Several games seem to be in progress, cards and dice and stranger things I can’t identify. My attention, however, is drawn to the woman getting to her feet at the far end of the room.

  It would be difficult for her not to draw attention. She’s an iceling, and enormous even by iceling standards, a head and a half taller than me and at least twice as broad. The way she’s dressed makes her look even bigger, swathed in rough leather and fur, with chunks of yellowing bone sewn in. The top half of a crab’s claw, too big to have come from any crab I’d ever seen, adorns each of her shoulders. Her hair is twisted into thick, greasy dreadlocks, all tied back together, and the pale skin of her face is patchy with angry red blotches. She wears a thick, square sword at her side that looks more like an enormous meat cleaver.

  This, I assume, is the Butcher.

  “I thought I smelled fresh meat,” she says. Her Imperial is atrociously accented, as though she were gargling rocks. She adds something in another language, and the lounging crew laugh. The sound reminds me of the baying of hounds. “Is this all they’ve brought?”

  “Zarun had to put two down,” one of the women who brought us says.

  “And they call me a butcher,” the Butcher says, to another laugh. “He ought to just hand them over; we’d whip them into shape.”

  “Zarun believes in the power of making an example,” the woman says.

  Something passes between her and the Butcher, some mutual animosity. I can feel the division between the crew who came with us and those in the room, like two gangs working on the same job while keeping a wary eye on each other.

  “Well,” the Butcher grunts. “It’ll have to do.”

  She comes over to us, her footfalls loud on the metal deck. The boy must have pissed himself again, because a fresh wave of stench rolls over us, and the Butcher wrinkles her nose.

  “Freeze and rot,” she says, glaring at him. “Right. What’s your Well?”

  He blinks, eyes flicking back and forth.

  “It’s not a hard question,” the Butcher growls. “What can you do?”

  “M … Myrkai,” the boy says, in a tiny voice. “It’s Myrkai. But I’m not v … very strong. I swear.”

  Like me, he’s probably spent his whole life hiding the fact that he’s mage-born. Admitting it in front of strangers isn’t easy.

  The Butcher snorts. “Give him to Strom,” she says over her shoulder. “She’ll see if there’s anything worthwhile buried in there.”

  One of the Butcher’s crew grabs the boy’s arm and drags him away, ignoring his yelps. The huge woman turns to the streetwalker, who stares up at her with red-rimmed eyes.

  “And you?” the Butcher says.

  “Tartak,” she says. “But I’m only touched.”

  “Hmph.” The Butcher looks the woman up and down. “Can you fight?”

  “No.” The streetwalker squares her shoulders. “I’m a prostitute.”

  “And not ashamed of it, I see,” the Butcher says. “Officers’ hall for this one, see if anyone wants her for their clade.” Her face splits open, showing brown teeth. “I just might make an offer myself.”

  I can see the fear on the girl’s face, but she keeps her back straight as she’s led away. The Butcher stalks to the southerner, looming over her.

  “Right,” she rumbles. “Well?”

  “I don’t have one,” the southern girl says. “I’m not mage-born—”

  The Butcher’s hand whips around hard, hitting the girl’s cheek with a crack. She stumbles backward, hand rising to her face. It comes away covered in blood—the Butcher has something sharp on the back of her glove, a white wedge that might be a shark’s tooth.

  “I am…” The southerner straightens, and she looks up at the Butcher, ignoring the blood running down her cheek.

  “I am Meroe hait Gevora Nimara, First Princess of Nimar.” Her throat works as she swallows hard. “My presence here is some sort of mistake. My father, the King of Nimar, will—”

  The Butcher’s other hand cracks across her jaw, an open-handed slap that makes the girl reel backward. She steadies herself, looks up again.

  “The King of Nimar,” she repeats, staring right at the Butcher. “And he will reward you handsomely for my return. I will persuade him to forgive any offense you might have given me”—she touches her bloody cheek—“in return for your service.”

  Oh, Blessed. It’s brave and honest and utterly, completely stupid. I tense for what I know is coming, but the girl, Meroe, doesn’t move a muscle until the Butcher’s fist slams into her gut with the force of a sledgehammer. She doubles over, folding up around the blow, and the Butcher grabs her hair to keep her from falling.

  “First of all,” the huge woman says, “you never lie to me. If you weren’t mage-born, the angels would have torn you apart the moment you came on board. Second of all, no one rotting cares who your daddy is, and he sure as ice isn’t going to protect you now. I’d give good odds he was the one who sent you here.” She looks around at her crew. “We’re all rejects on Soliton. The ones they wanted to get rid of.” There’s a chorus of assent, and some jeers. The Butcher turns back to Meroe. “If you’re here, that means you’re a reject, too. The sooner you accept that, the longer you’ll survive. Not that I’d give odds on you living very long in any case.”

  Meroe’s lips work, but she can’t draw a breath. The Butcher hauls her upright.

  “Now tell me,” she says, spittle flying into the southern girl’s face. “What is your Well?”

  “I don’t…” Meroe’s voice is a wheeze. “I don’t have—”

  The Butcher hits her again, and this time lets her collapse, following up with a kick to the midsection. Meroe has gone still, and the Butcher is winding up again.

  “You’ll kill her.” I don’t realize I’ve spoken until the words are out of my mouth.

  The Butcher freezes, then turns slowly toward me.

  “And what’s it to you,” she says, quietly, “if I do?”

  Nothing. It’s nothing to me. If I’m going to survive on Soliton long enough to escape, I need to start making allies. This is only going to antagonize this woman, questioning her in front of her underlings. It may also get me beaten to a bloody pulp.

  But now it’s too late. I’ve challenged her authority, and she can’t let that stand.

  “She may not know what her Well is, that’s all,” I say, trying for diffidence. “Some people don’t find out until they’re much older.”

  “So rotting what?” the Butcher says, stalking closer.

  “So she’s not lying to you, and there’s no sense in beatin
g her to death.”

  Her voice rises to a bellow. “What makes you think you get a say?”

  “I just wanted—”

  Her arm comes around. I know the backhand is coming, and it’s hard work to keep my Melos armor suppressed, to let her hit me. My head rings with the impact, and the shark’s tooth slashes my cheek open, letting a warm trickle of blood roll down to my chin.

  I have to do that, have to let her get her own back, show me who’s boss. She can’t afford to look weak, not in front of everyone. I’ve seen this story a hundred times.

  “And you?” the Butcher hisses. “What’s your Well, rotscum?”

  I step back and ignite my blades. The ropes around my wrists fall away as the energy sears through them, and I raise my hands, green power crackling. There’s a hush among the gathered crew, broken only by the hiss of writhing magic.

  “I see,” the Butcher says. “Melos. I should have known. It rots the brain, makes you think you’re invincible.” Her lips curl into a snarl. “Are you going to fight us all?”

  I shake my head and let the blades fade away. My cheek stings, but I don’t touch it, just hold the Butcher’s gaze. I may not understand people, but I understand this, the play of threat and counterthreat. She’s a bully, which means she’ll back away from strength and be merciless in the face of weakness. But she also has to keep up appearances with her people. I’m trying to show her I’m not a pushover without forcing her to prove herself by slapping me down.

  I can see her going through this, too, the calculation in her eyes. She knows I took the blow when I didn’t have to. Knows that if she pushes me too far, forces me into a fight, it’s not going to be a bloodless beating. She’s not stupid, in spite of her brutish appearance. Another thing I learned on the streets of the Sixteenth Ward—just because someone looks like an ogre doesn’t mean you can assume they haven’t got brains as well.

  “I think I know just the place for you,” she says, then looks at Meroe’s still form. “For both of you, since you’re such good friends. Pack Nine needs fresh blood, doesn’t it, Haia?”

  An iceling girl sitting in a nest of cushions, whippet thin and bald as an egg, gives a broad, nasty grin. “I’d say so. Yes, I certainly would.”

  Laughter spreads among the crew, the nasty chuckling of people who know you’re not in on the joke. I try not to react. Blood drips off my chin.

  “Very well. You two are assigned to Pack Nine.” The Butcher gestures, and several of her crew move to lift Meroe and surround me, hands on their weapons. I note that they keep a respectful distance, now. “Show them the way.”

  6

  Another trip through endless metal corridors. This time we’re definitely moving downward, descending several flights of stairs. At first some of the hallways are lit by hanging lanterns, but they disappear as we descend, and the stains and rust become more prevalent. Sometimes parts of the wall or floor have fallen away entirely, leaving holes into dark rooms. There are more mushrooms, bigger than I’ve ever seen. Brackish water drips down the walls and stands in puddles.

  There’s a lantern sitting on a wooden table, an oasis of light in the darkness. Two crew sit beside it, guarding a heavy metal door with a thick wooden bar. They lift the bar as we approach, and our escorts carry Meroe inside, gesturing for me to follow.

  It’s a large room with a high ceiling, and a shaft, far overhead, lets in a small measure of daylight. Dawn must have come outside. The floor is half-covered in water, like a miniature lake, complete with a pair of small “islands” thrusting up out of the murk. On the dry side, there’s a small collection of carpets and cushions pulled into a messy nest.

  Waiting just inside the doorway is a tall, gawky young man with long copper-colored hair. I can’t place his looks—his skin is light brown, darker than an Imperial’s but paler than most Jyashtani, and while his features have an Imperial cast, they’re thicker, with wide cheekbones. He has blue eyes, like the icelings, and wears weathered, practical clothes. He looks at me first, interested, and then his face falls when he sees Meroe.

  “What’s this?” he says.

  Haia, the bald girl who led our escort, answers with a sneer, “Fresh meat.”

  “What’s wrong with that one?” the young man says.

  “Mouthed off to the Butcher,” says one of the crew carrying her. He and his companion drop her awkwardly onto a carpet with a thump.

  “Now you’re back up to strength,” Haia says. “After dinner, you’re going out.”

  “You’ve got to be rotting kidding me,” the young man says. “With this lot?”

  “Don’t work, don’t eat,” Haia says. “You know the Captain’s law.” She gestures to the rest of the crew. “Come on.”

  The young man stares after them in sullen silence as they troop out. Then he turns on me, looking furious. I’m still in the calm, disconnected world of violence and threat assessment.

  “I suppose you only speak Imperial?” he says.

  I nod, glancing back at the door. I heard the thunk of the bar, and there are no other exits. A prison cell, then. I’ve been in less commodious accommodations.

  He takes a half step forward. “Rotting listen to me when I’m talking to you. That’s your first lesson. My name is Ahdron, and I’m pack leader here. Don’t forget that unless you want to end up like your friend.”

  Options. On the one hand, I could kill him. Not a guarantee, not on a ship where everyone is mage-born, but he’s stepped inside my reach, and I’m fairly certain I could take him by surprise. He’s locked in here with us, so he can’t be too important. On the other hand, I have no idea what the consequences might be and I can’t fight the Butcher and her whole crew. So probably best to be cautious, at least for now.

  I square off with Ahdron and look him in the eye. He’s a little taller than me and my guess is a few years older. Like the Butcher, he’s a familiar type, the small-timer clinging to whatever scraps of power he has, blustering and cruel in his weakness.

  “It would help if I knew what a pack leader was,” I say. “Or a pack, for that matter.”

  “Fresh meat.” He rolls his eyes. “A pack, like a hunting pack of wolves.”

  “Just you, me, and Meroe?”

  Ahdron grits his teeth. “There’s also the Moron and the Coward.” He nods out toward one of the little islands, where a younger Jyashtani boy is sitting alone. “That’s the Moron. The Coward is probably hiding somewhere.” He cocks his head. “What about you? Can you do anything useful?”

  “My Well is Melos. I can fight.”

  His expression shifts, just a little. Fear, greed, or a bit of both. “Can you, now?”

  I nod again. He looks me up and down, appraisingly, then glances over at Meroe.

  “What about her?”

  I shrug. “She doesn’t know her Well.”

  “Better and rotting better.” He sighs. “At least she’s toothsome.”

  “Don’t touch her,” I snap. Cautious is one thing, but some lines need to be made explicit immediately.

  “Oh, fresh meat? You going to stand in for her?” He runs his eyes over me again. “I prefer my fresh meat with a little more meat, frankly.”

  I match his stare again for a long, quiet moment. Then his mouth twists, and he laughs.

  “Relax, fresh meat. Captain’s law. Any man takes a girl who doesn’t want it, that man better look forward to having angels pull his arms and legs off. Or any girl who takes a boy, for that matter. Captain doesn’t discriminate, and neither do the officers. This isn’t like landside. Soliton is civilized.” He cocks his head. “What’s your name?”

  “Isoka,” I tell him. “And she’s Meroe.”

  “Very well, Isoka. Since you’re so worried about your friend, why don’t you go make sure she’s not going to bleed to death. I’ll see if I can get someone to explain the facts of life to you.”

  * * *

  I’m no doctor, but I’ve patched people up after enough street fights to know the basics. I
roll Meroe onto her back and check for broken bones. It seems like she got lucky, or else the Butcher is fairly skilled at administering beatings; probably both. Either way, she hasn’t broken any ribs. Aside from the cut on her cheek she’ll probably get away with some bad bruises. I wrap her cut and mine with strips of linen slashed from an old pillowcase.

  When I’m finished, I lean back against the pile of carpets, suddenly exhausted. The adrenaline that’s flooded my veins drains away, leaving me shaky and weak. I haven’t slept since Kuon Naga grabbed me, and that feels like a lifetime ago. I can feel my eyes drifting shut when there’s a bit of movement across from me, and then I’m suddenly wide awake, heart slamming against my ribs, a half second from igniting my blades.

  A slight figure shrinks back against the carpets. He holds a heavy canteen in front of him, like a peace offering.

  “Sorry,” he mumbles. “I just … Ahdron said I should bring this to you.”

  “It’s all right.” I rub my eyes and breathe. When he shuffles a little closer, I take the canteen and guzzle a long swig. “You just startled me.”

  “I’m sorry,” he repeats. “You can keep that. Don’t drink the water from the pool; it’ll make you sick.”

  I sit up and look at him more closely. He’s a couple of years younger than me, with a gauntness that speaks of hard, hungry days. He looks Imperial, though a darker tone to his skin might indicate some Jyashtani blood. His clothes are mostly layered rags.

  “Thanks,” I tell him, taking a slower drink. The water is tepid but tastes pure. “I’m Isoka.”

  “My name is Berun,” he says. “Most people call me the Coward, though.” He glances past me, at Meroe. “Is she going to be all right?”

  “I think so.”

  “That’s good.”

  He settles a little, coming out of his protective crouch. His eyes are still constantly moving, alert for danger. He reminds me of a rabbit, or a rat.