Ship of Smoke and Steel

by Django Wexler

  “If there’s a Stern, is there a Bow?” Meroe’s face is animated in the lantern’s half-light. “How does the Captain steer?”

  “None of that rot makes any difference to you,” Ahdron says. “Keep up.”

  “We should try to stay quiet,” Berun says, as we start walking.

  “Crabs can hear your footsteps half the ship away,” Ahdron says contemptuously. “If they’re around, whispering isn’t going to hide you.”

  “Crabs aren’t the only things out here,” Berun says. But he doesn’t argue further, only winces a little every time Ahdron’s boots ring too loudly off the metal deck.

  The bridge slopes down a little, and the surface is uneven, parts of it sagging or twisted. The railings are intermittent. In the darkness below us, colored lights move, fade out, and bloom again. We cross a circular landing, where several bridges meet and a spiral stairway descends dizzyingly out of sight. Most of the steps are broken in the middle, the rust-edged remnants clinging to the frame like a mouthful of shattered teeth. I think I can hear water rushing, far below us. Ahdron leads us across the landing and onto another bridge, where a crude arrow has been scraped into the rust.

  I pause by a support pillar. There’s a noise, down at the very edge of hearing, like someone talking in another room. And I swear I can see something moving, running along the metal surface in intricate, shifting patterns. Gray light. I blink, and look at Meroe, but she doesn’t seem to notice. The others are already past, and I hurry to catch up, fighting a chill.

  At the second landing, we turn left, as Haia instructed. Soon I can hear the patter of falling water, and we reach a spot where the bridge changes shape, splitting into four curving sections connected by long, arched buttresses. A little ways on, part of one section has broken free, leaning drunkenly against its neighbor. The paths divide and divide again, creating a labyrinth of interconnected bridges, like a hedge maze with bottomless pits instead of hedges.

  Water falls from above us, not a steady rain but a constant spatter, drops splashing off the walkways or missing them and falling into oblivion. I hold out my hand for a few moments, and a heavy drop splashes into it, while another lands in my hair. I sniff my hand—freshwater.

  “Don’t try to drink it,” Berun says. We all have canteens, though we didn’t pack any food.

  “Here,” Ahdron says from up ahead. “This is what we came for.”

  He raises his lantern, and a hundred tiny gleams of light move with it. The curving paths are covered in weird fungal growths, huge shelf-like things veined with purple, sprigs of what looks like bright red grass, dangling tendrils that remind me of jellyfish tipped with electric blue. The dominant type seems to be a mushroom of a more normal toadstool shape, whose caps are plated unevenly with what looks like polished silver. They reflect the glow of the lanterns like stars.

  “Silvercaps,” Ahdron says. “They’re good to eat. Here.” He digs into a pouch and extracts several wadded bags. “Take the ones that are about as big as your hand. Just grab them right under the cap and snap them off the stalk. Try not to touch anything else. I don’t know if anything really nasty grows here, but I wouldn’t take chances.”

  The Coward takes a bag with bad grace, and the Moron accepts one with no sign of understanding. I exchange a glance with Meroe.

  “That’s it?” I say. “We’re gathering mushrooms?”

  Ahdron’s face is thunderous. “We’re doing the job we’ve been assigned to do, fresh meat. Be glad it’s such an easy one.”

  Meroe and I take our bags and follow him inside the moist garden. The fungus is thickest on the edges of the path, so we walk in single file, staying clear of protruding growths. In places they tower overhead, tall spires of pale white flesh and sprays of leafy nodules.

  “It’s practically a forest,” Meroe says.

  “I’ve never been in a forest, so I wouldn’t know.”

  “What?” Meroe turns to me. “You’ve never seen a forest?”

  “We don’t have them inside the walls of Kahnzoka. Until they brought me here, I’d never been outside the city.”

  “Oh.” Meroe gives me an odd look, and goes quiet.

  We stop to pick some of the silvercaps. They’re a little rubbery to the touch, but their flesh parts easily under my fingernail. I drop several into the bag, and stop to look down at one particularly large specimen, nearly a foot across. Its silver coating reflects a distorted image of my face.

  “It’s pretty,” I offer, feeling as though I ought to make conversation.

  “It reminds me of descriptions of the Vile Rot,” she says. “Mushrooms that grow to the size of houses, and plants that take root in living flesh.”

  I pause, halfway to picking another mushroom. “Charming.”

  “Sorry.”

  We work for another few moments in awkward silence.

  “In Nimar,” Meroe says, “there are women who pick mushrooms in the royal forest. They find them using pigs, trained pigs.”

  I’m not quite sure what to make of this. “That’s interesting,” I say, non-committally.

  “The thing I could never understand,” she goes on, “is how they keep the pigs from eating the mushrooms once they find them.”

  My only experience with pigs is when they’re sliced up in bronze sauce, so I shrug. She’s not looking at me, and I wonder if she’s talking to herself.

  “I always wanted to try it,” she says. “My father wouldn’t let me, of course. Not a proper activity, a princess grubbing around in the dirt with pigs.” She pops a silvercap free. “I suppose I got the last laugh there.”

  “Meroe—”

  She turns around, grinning. “Sorry. I’m rambling. I just—”

  “Meroe, move!”

  Something huge and blue comes up over the edge of the walkway.

  * * *

  It’s a leg, as long as I am tall, protected by bright blue armor plating. It has four joints, and the end is tipped with a hairy, gooey ball that squishes against the deck. Another identical limb follows, rising over the edge and coming down gently amid the fungi.

  “Ahdron!” I shout. I’m already backing away, letting the bag of silvercaps fall, looking around for the others. Berun is just ahead of us, and Ahdron is a little behind. The Moron is nowhere to be seen.

  The body of the thing comes up over the rail. It’s enormous, bigger than a horse, discshaped, with four limbs on each side. Six legs serve to stick it to the walkway, as easily as any housefly walking upside down on the ceiling. The two arms are much larger, thick as tree trunks, supporting a pair of grasping claws big enough to fit around my waist. Facing me is what I assume is the thing’s mouth, a nightmare thicket of dozens of blade-tipped tendrils as long as my arm. Every bit of it is blue, the armor a bold sky color, the mouthparts closer to teal. There are no eyes, but the shell is covered in spiny growths.

  I have fought men who were bigger and stronger than me, many times. When I was a little girl, I fought men who might as well have been ogres, compared to my slight frame. But at least they were human. I’ve heard stories of the monsters of the world—the tigers of Jyashtan, the great snakes of the Southern Kingdoms, the ancient nightwalkers of the iceling lands, and of course the horrible twisted things that set on anyone who gets close to the Vile Rot. But I’d never thought to see one with my own eyes.

  So I freeze, for just a moment. Up ahead, Berun has frozen, too, clutching his sack of mushrooms as though they’re the most precious things in the world. The crab glides toward him. It’s so quiet, armor plates sliding smoothly across one another, and its padded, sticky feet make no sound at all. It steps forward almost daintily, entirely on the walkway now, one claw reaching toward Berun. The movement is oddly tentative, as though it doesn’t quite know what to make of us.

  “Hey!” Meroe shouts. A fist-sized bit of fungus flies through the air and shatters on the thing’s carapace in a spray of spores. “Over here! Leave him alone!”

  The crab’s whole body shivers a
t the sound. It spins, and its claw swings toward Meroe, hard and fast. While its slow advance had me almost hypnotized, the quick motion activates instincts hard-won in a hundred street fights. I throw myself flat and pull Meroe down with me, and the claw goes over our heads.

  “Run,” I hiss at her.

  I leave Meroe facedown in the padded fungus and spring up, igniting my blades. Melos power crackles from my wrists and runs over my body as the armor field stabilizes. As the crab brings its second claw down, I throw up an arm to push the strike aside, ready to move closer and jam an energy blade into its maw.

  This turns out to be a very bad idea. I do it automatically—against a smaller, weaker opponent, many large men will go for a sweeping downward blow, even if they should know better. It’s a great opportunity to end a fight before it really gets started. But I’m used to fighting humans, not crabs the size of carts. The claw meets my Melos blade and keeps coming, pushing my arm aside with no effort at all. It’s like trying to deflect a lead weight dropped from the top of a building. I have to throw myself out of the way, wrenching the muscles in my side, to avoid getting crushed.

  Even as I do, my second blade sweeps out, intercepting the crab’s arm just behind the claw. Against a human, a Melos blade will take a hand clean off with a good hit. Now my blade scrapes over the crab’s armor with a sound like a needle dragged over glass, leaving a dark, smoking scorch mark but no other damage. I feel heat wash across my arm as my power flares.

  The claw hits the ground with a crunch. Fortunately, by luck or good reflexes of her own, Meroe rolled sideways out of the way. Unfortunately, that took her closer to the crab, just underneath the writhing, bladed tendrils around its mouth. Meroe sits up in time to see a half-dozen tentacles tipped with long, sword-like points reaching toward her, and starts scrambling backward.

  Time to assess, now that I have a moment. The best option at this point would be to run away. Let the crab eat Meroe and probably Berun, too. Neither of them seems like they’re going to be much help, and I think I can find my way back the way we came. Ahdron probably already took off. If Haia objects to my coming back alone, I can always kill her.

  But I don’t run. Meroe’s not moving anymore—she grabbed the first two tentacles to reach her, and I can see her arms straining to keep them away. Blood leaks from her hands where they cut her, but she’s not giving up, even as more tentacles stretch forward.

  Rot. Oh, Blessed’s rotting balls. What am I doing?

  This is what I’m doing:

  Running forward. Seeing the big claw coming, ducking underneath it, feeling the wind of its passage on my back. Swinging my Melos blade at the closest tentacle, which Meroe has pinned. Feeling the flesh part—no armor here—and seeing green energy crackle. Watching Meroe scramble free as I sever another tentacle, feeling a third slam against my belly and bounce off in a spray of Melos power, the lines of energy hot underneath my skin.

  Seeing, too late, the second claw closing around my waist, catching me in its grip. I think Meroe screams my name.

  The crab lifts me off the ground, my feet kicking, and it squeezes me like a nutcracker. My armor flares in response, two shimmering discs of Melos energy, keeping the two halves of the crab’s claw from coming together and crushing my midsection. The lines of energy under my skin, where power from the Well runs, grow first warm, then hot, then unbearable, as though wire still glowing from the forge had been wrapped around me. I slam my blade against the claw, again and again, leaving a crisscross of smoking marks.

  Something hits the crab from behind, bright and too fast to see. A bolt of flame, and then another, impacting against its shell with explosive force. I can see Ahdron, his hands ablaze with orange-red Myrkai power. A third firebolt catches the crab on one of its squishy feet, and it stumbles for a moment, off balance.

  The pressure on my waist lessens, going from unimaginable pain to mere agony. The crab turns on its noiseless feet to go after Ahdron. It’s shockingly fast, as fast as a galloping horse. Ahdron throws another bolt of fire at its maw, but his aim is off and the flames explode along its shell. They burn for a moment, then wink out, leaving scorches but no damage. Ahdron backpedals rapidly as the crab’s other claw reaches out for him.

  I’ve had a second to catch my breath and think. I’ve never had a proper instructor for magic, obviously. In the Legions, they have drills and techniques, perfected over hundreds of years. All I’ve ever had to work with are my instincts. The power has always just been there, like a trusty knife in a secret sheath, and it never seemed wise to question it too closely.

  But now I need something different. Not a long blade for parrying, but something hard and sharp that will punch through this rotting armor. I exert my will, pushing the power down my arm, fumbling and uncertain. It feels like trying to think about something your body knows how to do automatically, like tying a knot, awkward at every step. But something shifts, and heat rises as green lightning crackles across my skin.

  I let one blade vanish. The other changes, getting shorter and thicker. It looks less like a sword and more like a spike, and I can feel the potential inside it, like a coiled spring. I jam the energy blade as hard as I can into the crab’s claw, aiming for the joint between armor plates.

  There’s a crack, like a lightning bolt, and a sharp metallic smell in the air. The blade goes in, armor plate snapping, the fracture spreading sideways. As it breaks through, I release the energy, and I feel power pulse through me and explode into the crab. There’s a sudden stench, like charred fish, and the claw holding me spasms and lets go.

  I hit the fungus-covered ground, feeling a wash of blessed chill as my armor vanishes. For a moment I lie still, breathing hard, but the crab is still moving. Another bolt from Ahdron hits it, and it charges toward him, legs churning as it passes over me. I roll onto my back after it goes past, in time to see him dodge another claw swipe. One of its tentacles licks out, slashing open his arm in a spray of blood. Ahdron desperately blasts the crab with a wave of fire, which forces it back a step.

  I get to my feet and sprint after it. A running jump gets me high enough to grab the spiny protrusions on its back, prickles of heat flaring across my body as the armor keeps me from getting skewered. I pull myself up, hand over hand, until my dangling feet get purchase. I summon the spike again and bring it down as hard as I can. I can feel it break through, and the crab twitches as I release another wave of energy inside it. But it doesn’t stop. Ahdron is down, on his back, a claw missing him by inches. I can’t see Meroe. I’m hurting the crab, but it’s like trying to kill an ox with a needle. I stab it again, pain flaring across my body with the ripple of heat. Rot rot rot!

  “The brain!” It takes me a moment to recognize the source of the shout. It’s Berun, on another walkway nearby, watching the fight across the gap. “Get the brain! Just above the mouth!”

  Another wave of fire from Ahdron. The crab rears up, nearly tipping me off, then comes back down on top of him, sword-tentacles lashing. I pull myself forward, armor flaring, the spikes of the monster’s back tearing my clothes. Now I’m almost upside-down, looking at where the eyes would be if the thing had eyes. I raise my energy blade, suck in a deep breath, and let the power build until I can’t take the heat anymore.

  Then I bring it down. The spike breaks through the armor with a crunch and a crackle of energy, and I hit the crab with everything I have, one rush of power that burns so hot it makes me scream. All eight of the crab’s limbs flail as the Melos energy courses through it. It tips sideways, spilling me off to lie panting and helpless on the walkway while it twitches. And then, finally, mercifully, it dies.

  8

  I remember the return trip in bits and pieces. I think I walk part of the way, but at least once I wake up and find myself on Meroe’s back, my arms dangling around her neck. Her hands are swathed in rough bandages, and she’s breathing hard, struggling with my weight. I see Ahdron ahead of us, cradling his arm, his shirt awash in blood.

  Befo
re we reach the door to the Stern, I pass out for good, because the next thing I know I’m waking up in a bed, in a place I’ve never seen before. I lie still, and look around as best I can.

  It’s a strange bed, nearly as high off the ground as a table and much too soft. I sink into it with a feeling unpleasantly like drowning. I vaguely recognize this as the Jyashtani style, though why they can’t have a proper sleeping mat on the floor like normal people I can’t guess. There’s a light sheet pulled over me—silk, I note absently—and beneath it my clothes are gone, replaced by a kind of half-length robe. More foreign clothing.

  My body hurts, especially my right arm. I’ve pushed my power too far before, and I recognize the sensation, the aftermath we call powerburn. The initial agony has faded into an itchy numbness on my skin, with deep aches stabbing down to the bone. When I breathe, pain pulses through my abdomen, where the crab’s claw almost crushed me.

  The walls are metal, as is the floor underneath a threadbare carpet. I haven’t been magically transported off Soliton, then, more’s the pity. I take a deep breath and raise my head, stifling a groan. The room is small, not much more than the bed, with only a hanging curtain for a door.

  “You’re awake,” Meroe says.

  She’s sitting in the corner of the room on a metal stool. The bandage I put on her face is gone, and the wound the Butcher’s blow left there is covered by an ugly scab. There are circles under her eyes, almost black against her dark skin. She’s replaced the clothes she came aboard in with an ill-fitting green dress, sleeves rolled up to keep from flapping over her hands. Her palms are wound round with linen bandages.

  “I’d rather not be,” I say honestly.

  “I can understand that.”

  She gets up and offers me a canteen. I take it, nearly fumbling the thing as pain spikes from my right hand. That was where I’d concentrated my power to kill the crab, and every movement aches atrociously.

  “How are you feeling?” Meroe says, watching with concern.