Ship of Smoke and Steel

by Django Wexler

  “Ahdron told me to come answer your questions,” he says, after a moment’s pause. “About Soliton, I mean. I’m sure you’re confused.”

  “You’ve been here a long time?”

  “Only a year,” he says. “But it feels like longer.”

  I nod. All right. I don’t know if I trust this strange boy, but information is information, and I need whatever I can get. I tighten the cap on the canteen and set it aside.

  “First question,” I say. “Is this really a ship?”

  He nods. “I’ve been up to the deck, once. It’s like being on top of a mountain. You can see forever.”

  “Zarun said the angels would stop us if we try to leave. Is that true?”

  “Yes.” His voice is very quiet, as though he is worried they might hear. “They’re alive. And they can find you anywhere. If you try to leave the ship, they come after you, and…” He swallows hard.

  That might present a problem. I make a mental note that the angels need investigating.

  “Who’s in charge? Ahdron said something about a Captain.”

  “The Captain runs the ship,” Berun says. “He decides where we go, and he controls the angels. But he only talks to the officers’ council, and they make all the decisions for the rest of us.”

  A familiar pattern. Back in Kahnzoka, I’d never spoken to the shadowy bosses who were my ultimate employers.

  “Is the Butcher an officer?” I ask.

  Another nod. “She’s in charge of the fresh meat. That’s why they call her—”

  “I gathered that,” I deadpan.

  “Sorry.” He cringes a little.

  “It’s—never mind.” I shake my head. “Why are we locked in here? Are they ever going to let us out?”

  “The Butcher decides where newcomers should go. The officers each have a clade.” He can see my frown at the unfamiliar word, and clarifies hastily. “That’s like … their household. Servants. But not just servants. People who can do useful things and need protection. Then there’s the packs. Most of the packs owe loyalty to one of the officers, too. They’re the ones who go out into the ship and bring back food. There’s hunting packs and scavenger packs. And then there’s the wilders; they live out beyond the Captain’s law and don’t listen to anyone—”

  “Slow down, please.”

  “Sorry,” Berun says. His apologies seem to be reflexive. “It’s complicated.”

  I don’t need to know the details. The structure is familiar—bosses and gangs, just like in Kahnzoka, or for that matter just like a medieval lord and his knights. The strong rule, and the weak serve in exchange for protection. The oldest way of organizing a society.

  I feel a little of my confidence returning. I can work with that.

  “What about us? This is Pack Nine, they told me. Are all the packs locked up?”

  “No.” Berun speaks quietly again, and he glances nervously over his shoulder. “Pack Nine is on probation. Ahdron used to be one of the Butcher’s lieutenants, but he made her angry somehow, so she stuck him here and sends him the dregs.” He swallows. “There were six of us before the last time we went out.”

  Pieces fall into place, the cruel laughter of the Butcher’s crew, her nasty smile. She’s assigned me to a bunch of screwups, at the lowest rung of the social hierarchy, the equivalent of a trash-picker gang in Kahnzoka. A clever solution to the problem of what to do with me, once I’d challenged her authority.

  I want to ask what he means by “went out” and what it is the packs actually do to find food, but Meroe shifts and groans. The movement startles Berun, who pulls back into a crouch, staring at her.

  “I … I’ll…” He swallows, looking between us, then gets to his feet. “I’ll find some more water. For her. I’ll be back.”

  Given the speed with which he darts off, I find that unlikely. I wonder what it is about Meroe that frightens him. She blinks muzzily, touching the bandage on her cheek, and tries to sit up. I put a hand on her shoulder to keep her in place for the moment.

  “Easy. Give it a minute.” I watch her eyes for a moment—they’re red-brown, the color of freshly fired clay—and make sure they focus properly. “Do you want some water?”

  Meroe nods fractionally, and I bring up the canteen. She gulps, swallows, and lets out a long breath.

  “I guess I’m not dead,” she says.

  “How do you feel?”

  “Like I was trampled by a … a…” She waves her hands vaguely. “A zousan. A big gray animal. There’s no word for it in Imperial.” She chuckles weakly, then winces, putting a hand to her stomach. “Okay. No laughing for the immediate future.”

  “I think you’re going to be all right,” I tell her. “No broken bones that I could find.”

  “That’s a lot better than I expected,” she says. “What happened?”

  “You talked back to someone you shouldn’t have.”

  “I remember that.” Meroe pulls herself up slightly. “I mean what happened afterward?”

  “I convinced the Butcher she was better off not killing you.”

  “You did?” Meroe raises one eyebrow, looking at the bandage on my cheek. “I’m sorry I missed that.”

  “It wasn’t that impressive.”

  “Then you saved my life.” A smile stretches her lips, thin and insubstantial. “Not that I’m not grateful and everything. But why?”

  I feel myself flush a little. The truth is, I still don’t know why I helped her. It’s possible she could be an ally and having her in my debt might be useful, but that wasn’t worth making the Butcher angry with me. Stepping in had been the wrong decision, unquestionably, but I couldn’t help but feel like I’d do it again.

  It was something about the way she’d talked to the Butcher. She’d been completely in the older woman’s power, helpless, but there was no fear in Meroe’s eyes. Just …

  “Do I need a reason?” I say, irritably.

  “I mean, people usually have reasons for doing things,” Meroe says. “If you don’t want to tell me, I suppose I can’t complain. I just thought it might help me thank you properly.”

  “Don’t worry about thanking me.” I hand her the canteen again, and she takes another drink. “Is it true what you said? About being a princess?”

  She nods. “First Princess of Nimar. But I’m not sure my father will really reward you if you bring me back. In all honesty I think the Butcher was right about him sending me here.”

  “Why would he do that?”

  “Oh, I’ve lost track of the ways in which I’ve disappointed him. I suppose he finally got fed up with me.”

  “You seem … calm about it.”

  “I’ve been kidnapped before,” she says brightly. “Twice by one of my uncles, and once by bandits. It’s a hazard of my profession. This time they were nice enough to use some kind of drug, because the last thing I remember is strangers in masks getting aboard the royal coach. We’re a long way from Nimar, aren’t we?”

  “I think so,” I say, “but I have to admit that I don’t exactly know where Nimar is.”

  She waves a hand, as if it’s of small importance. “Is this really a ship?” She raps the floor with her knuckles. “I’ve never been on a proper ship before. Are they usually made of metal?”

  “No.” I’m having a little difficulty keeping up. Meroe seems to be speaking faster as her head clears, and the way she jumps from topic to topic is disconcerting. “This is Soliton. It’s … unique. Have you heard the stories?”

  She shakes her head, and listens raptly as I give her the abridged version, along with the information I’ve been able to glean from Berun.

  “Nimar is well inland,” she says when I’m finished. “So we don’t get many ghost ships. My father must have really wanted to be rid of me if he sent me all the way to Kahnzoka. I’m surprised he didn’t just slit my throat.” She looks around. “So what now?”

  I find myself staring at her. “You did hear what I said? That we’re stuck here for good?”
/>   She nods. “Sorry. I’m sure that must be very difficult for you.”

  “It’s not for you?”

  “Well, if it’s true my father sent me here, that means there’d be no place for me at home anyway. So if I’ve got to leave, I suppose this is as good a place as any. And, well…” She pauses, looking at me expectantly.

  “You’re a very strange princess,” I tell her.

  “Yes! That.” She smiles, broadly this time, cheeks dimpling. “I get that a lot. When’s dinner?”

  7

  I sit against the stacked carpets for a while, eyes closed. Meroe has found Berun, and he’s having trouble keeping up with her rapid-fire questions. Just listening to it is exhausting.

  Focus. I think about Tori. About the house in the Second Ward, where she probably doesn’t even know what’s happened to me, has no idea that her beautiful, comfortable life is hanging by a thread. She won’t learn that anything’s wrong until I don’t visit when I said I would. She’ll be heartbroken and worried.

  Rotting Naga and his rotting Immortals. He could at least let me send her a letter. I will settle things with him, one way or the other. Zarun and Ahdron were both certain there was no way off the ship—I think of the angels and their horrible voices, and shiver—but they can’t be certain. There has to be something.

  I’m coming back, Tori. I swear it.

  Pleasant fantasies of what I’m going to do to Kuon Naga occupy me until dinner arrives, which fortunately doesn’t take long. The door opens, and Haia and a couple of crew bring in a large steel bucket and a stack of chipped bowls. Whatever’s in there, it smells wonderful.

  Ahdron faces off against Haia, trying to puff himself up and act tough. Haia isn’t buying it, though. She glances around at the rest of us with barely concealed contempt.

  “You’re going out in an hour,” she says. “Be ready.”

  “I’m ready,” Ahdron says, drawing himself up. “But I can’t speak for these—”

  “It’s just the Silvercap Gardens,” Haia interrupts. “Try not to muck it up.”

  “Or if you do,” one of the crew behind her says, “don’t bother coming back.”

  They set the bucket on the metal deck and leave, barring the door again.

  “What’s the Silvercap Gardens?” Meroe says, wandering over.

  “I’ll explain,” Ahdron grates, “when it needs explaining.” He goes to the bucket, looks in, and shudders. “Ugh. Crab juice again.”

  I can’t resist the smell anymore, and I go to the bucket. It’s full of a murky liquid, hot enough that it steams a little, with some greenish things and unidentifiable white bits floating in it. I’ve eaten crab, pulled from the ocean in wooden traps by fishermen from up the coast. It has to be rushed to the city on ice, so it’s a delicacy, steamed, salted, and buttered. Not worth the coin, in my opinion, but edible enough. The smell of this concoction doesn’t have much in common with what I remember, but I’m hungry enough that I don’t care.

  The boy from the island slips in front of me and grabs one of the bowls. He dips it in the bucket, pulls it out full and dripping, and retreats to sit on a folded carpet, drinking the liquid and scooping the soft pieces out with his fingers.

  “This is the Moron,” Ahdron says to me and Meroe. “Expect nothing from him and you won’t be surprised. He only turns up for meals.”

  “It’s nice to meet you,” Meroe says politely.

  “And he doesn’t talk,” Ahdron growls. “So don’t bother.”

  I take a bowl and fill it, mimicking the boy. Whatever “crab juice” is, it’s good. Shockingly good, even considering that I haven’t eaten in more than a day. Spices I can’t identify give it a tingling bite. The white lumps are meat—crab, I assume—and something spongy that I guess is mushroom. Either way, they’re suffused with the delicious broth, and I gobble them down.

  I glance at my empty bowl, then at Ahdron. He gestures wearily for me to go ahead—there’s plenty in the bucket. I have a second helping, which is as good as the first, and a long drink of water.

  “Melos, you said,” he says as I’m finishing.

  I nod.

  “If we’re lucky, we won’t run into anything nasty,” he says. “If we’re unlucky, it’s going to be on you and me to stop it. I’ll stay back, and you get in close and pin it down. Just keep it away from me and I’ll roast it.” He opens his palm, letting Myrkai fire flare briefly. “Think you can manage that?”

  As plans go, it’s not much. But I nod again. No sense picking a fight here, not yet. I wish I had Hagan at my side, someone I could count on; then I remember what happened to Hagan, and my stomach knots.

  Ahdron turns away, muttering. Meroe sits down next to me, a bowl of crab juice in her hands. She stares at it for a moment, as though unsure how to proceed.

  “You use your fingers, apparently,” I tell her. “Once you’re done with the broth.”

  She nods and lifts the bowl to her lips with an air of determined curiosity, like a traveler trying the customs of a strange new land.

  “You grew up in a palace, I suppose,” I say, as she slurps her soup. “Silver spoons and crystal goblets, that sort of thing.”

  “Oh yes.” She finishes the broth and attacks the rest with her fingers, shoveling mushroom and crab into her mouth. In between bites, she adds, “I had a tutor named Rimi just for table etiquette. How to tell a demi-forchette from a shell pick, and why you use one for nuts and the other for fruit, and so on.”

  I shake my head. “Important things.”

  “When my father dined with us, one of his courtiers would watch me for mistakes,” she goes on, finishing the bowl. “If I made a mistake, I’d be punished.”

  “No dessert?”

  “He had a black lacquer switch, about as wide as your little finger. There was a special box for it, in my anteroom.”

  “Your father beat you for using the wrong fork?”

  “Oh no.” She holds out her arms, showing smooth, unblemished skin. “I had to remain pristine against the day I married some prince. He beat Rimi, and made me watch. Every time I looked away, he’d add another stroke.”

  Aristos. Whatever country they’re from, they live in a different world.

  Meroe scrapes the bottom of her bowl with her fingers and sucks them clean. “That was good. Do you think I could have some more?”

  A very, very strange princess. Wordlessly, I wave her on.

  * * *

  Haia and some other crew return after an hour, just long enough to let the crab juice settle. Ahdron calls us all together by the door, the two silent boys, me, and Meroe. The Moron looks at the two newcomers with interest, idly swiveling one finger back and forth in his ear. Berun is hunched in on himself, looking a little green. Ahdron looks from one of them to the other, sighs, and turns to me and Meroe.

  “You. Southerner. Mero, is it?”

  “Meroe,” she says. “Meh, roh, ei.”

  “Whatever. Isoka explained how things stand?”

  “She told me you’re in charge. And we have to go somewhere and do something.” She cocks her head. “I have questions, but—”

  “She said you don’t know your Well,” he interrupts. “Are you good for anything?”

  “I don’t have a Well,” Meroe says. “But I can dance, sing—maybe not well—speak seven languages, keep an account book up-to-date, follow trade law, and cook puff pastry.”

  “In other words,” he growls, “you’re useless.”

  “You haven’t tried my puff pastry.” Meroe grins at him fearlessly, and I suppress a laugh. Ahdron snorts. “If there’s a fight, stay out of the way,” he says, looking from her to Berun. To the Moron, he adds, “You can feel free to get yourself killed.”

  “The mighty pack leader,” Haia drawls from the doorway. “Come on. You don’t want to keep the crabs waiting.”

  We file out, and Haia leads us on another twisting journey through the ship. This time we don’t have far to go, though the direction is even farther
down, via a rusting staircase and a long ramp. We finally reach a place where the corridor dead-ends in a large metal door, secured in place with a double bar and guarded by a pair of crew. A stack of lanterns stands against one wall, beside a pile of crude spears.

  “Here we are,” Haia says. “Left at the second landing, then keep going until you get to the Silvercap Garden.”

  “I’ve done this before,” Ahdron says, taking a lantern and ignoring the spears.

  “Just thought you might have forgotten,” Haia says, grinning. “It’s been a while.”

  The Coward arms himself with a spear, but none of the rest of us do. We each take a lantern, and Ahdron lights them with a theatrical puff of Myrkai fire. The two guards undo the bars and open the door, which lets a cold wind and a strong smell of salt water into the corridor. The flames dance and flicker.

  “Good luck,” Haia says. I get the sense she doesn’t mean it.

  Ahdron strides forward, through the door and into the darkness, and the rest of us follow. It takes a moment for my eyes to adjust. By the sound, I can tell we’re in a much larger space, almost as though I’m back under the open sky. I blink and make out a metal bridge, wide enough for two carts to pass each other, lined by a railing. It stretches on farther than I can see, and to either side is only darkness.

  No. Not quite darkness. There are lights there, made tiny by distance, green and blue sparks like colorful stars. They hang in place or move slowly, as though swept by invisible tides.

  “What is this place?” Meroe says. “This cannot be a ship.”

  “Soliton is the largest ship ever to float,” Berun says, looking miserable. “It’s bigger than some cities. That way”—he points to the door behind us—“is the Stern, where the crew lives. This”—he waves at the darkness—“is the Center. There are other bridges, ladders, stairways, hundreds of them. This is where we come to hunt.” He huddles in on himself. “Where the crabs are.”

  Meroe steps to the railing and looks over the side. “What’s down at the bottom?”

  “The Deeps,” Berun says. “No one goes down there and comes back alive.”