Ship of Smoke and Steel

by Django Wexler

  “What in the Rot is a quiche?”

  “You Imperials are barbarians.” She sucks in a breath. “Have I said thank you yet? For, you know, not leaving me to die when you probably should have.”

  “You haven’t.” I sit up. “And don’t. We’re not finished yet.”

  * * *

  To climb the stairs, I lift Meroe onto my back, her arms around my neck, splinted leg sticking out awkwardly in front of me. Fortunately, the steps aren’t very steep, winding around and around the pillar in a lazy spiral. The gray thread points straight up, as though it were a fishing line descending to snare me through the sternum.

  We climb, and climb, and eventually we reach one of the circular platforms, with bridges extending out into the darkness in several directions. The gray thread points to one, taut and certain, but I set Meroe down and collapse against the pillar.

  “Rest,” she says, looking at me worriedly.

  I take a long drink from the canteen, then heft it thoughtfully.

  “I know,” Meroe says. “We’re going to have to make it last.”

  I offer it to her, and she takes a single sparing swallow. I’m too tired to argue. I lean against the pillar, head resting on Meroe’s shoulder. The strange voices are there, almost comfortingly familiar in their unintelligible babble.

  When I wake up, I’ve slumped over farther, so my head is in Meroe’s lap. She’s asleep, too, mouth wide open and drooling a little. Not very princess-like at all. I sit up, my abdominal muscles aching, a dull pounding in my skull. The gray thread is still there, still pointing in the same direction. I poke Meroe.

  “We need to go.” I still feel exhausted, but I’m not sure I’m going to get any stronger sitting here. Not once we run out of water.

  “Mmm.” Meroe blinks and sits up. “You’re sure you’re ready for this?” She yawns. “You don’t want to sleep for another, you know, six days?”

  I find myself grinning. “I don’t want to hear any complaining. You can sleep on the way.”

  “I offer moral support,” Meroe says. “Moral support can be surprisingly tiring.”

  In truth, she doesn’t look great. There are bags under her eyes, and the flesh around her broken bone is distinctly puffy. She wraps her arms around my neck, chin on my shoulder, breathing hard.

  In fairly short order my thighs are a mass of pain, my shoulders ache abominably, and each step drives knives into my lower back. We stop when I can’t take it anymore, resting against a railing and chewing the strips of crab. I take another careful swallow from the canteen, and pass it to Meroe.

  I can’t see more than the next few steps. The Center is an enormous, three-dimensional maze, hanging in open space, but I can make out none of it. All I have to go on is the gray thread, unreeling steadily in front of me. I can feel Meroe’s curiosity when we come to an intersection, but she never asks how I know which way to go.

  She’s gotten very quiet, in fact. When we stop, I deposit her against the rusted railing and kneel in front of her. Sweat beads on her forehead, and her hair is soaked. I press my hand to her skin, and it’s hot to the touch. I ruck up her skirt to get a look at the wound, and the flesh of her thigh is dark and swollen.

  “Cheeky,” she says weakly, as I slide my hand up her leg. “Take me dancing first.”

  I roll my eyes, and pull out the canteen. It’s heavier than I expected, nearly half-full, and it takes me a second to understand. “You haven’t been drinking, have you?”

  “Wasn’t thirsty,” Meroe says. Her lips are cracked, and her tongue rasps over them. Her voice has gone dreamy. “’Sides. Logical. If you collapse, we both die. If I pass out, you’re already carrying me.” She closes her eyes. “Or just leave me. ’S all right. Doesn’t hurt. I’ll just sleep awhile, and come after you when I’m feeling better.”

  “Meroe.” When she looks up, I force the canteen into her mouth. She gags for a moment, then swallows. When I take it away, she coughs, and looks up at me resentfully.

  “What are you so eager to get back for, anyway?” The water seems to have revived her a little. “You want to get back to working for the Butcher? Fighting crabs?”

  “Better than dying here.” I strap the canteen to my belt, significantly lighter now.

  “Is it?” She looks at me, and I can see tears in her brown eyes. “Nobody leaves the ship. Is that really a life worth fighting for?”

  “You fought for your life, even after you found out … what you are.” I grit my teeth. “Are you giving up now?”

  “Maybe my father was right.”

  I want to slap her. I want to take her in my arms until she stops crying. For a fleeting, weird moment I want to kiss her. Meroe’s not the only one feeling a little loopy, clearly. But I push all that away and grab her by the shoulders, hoisting her up once again on my back.

  “Isoka…,” she says.

  “Listen.” I take a deep breath. “I am not going to die on this ship, do you understand? My sister is waiting for me. She needs me. That means I’m getting out of here, no matter what.”

  “It must be nice to have someone waiting for you,” Meroe says, talking into my shoulder.

  “And I’m not leaving you behind,” I go on. “Not after I’ve hauled you this far. You can come with me to Kahnzoka and do … whatever you want to do. I don’t care. But you’re not going to stay here, and you’re not going to die.”

  There’s a long pause.

  “Always wanted to see the Empire,” Meroe says in a small voice.

  “You will. We’ll…” I pause, at a loss for what Meroe might actually like about my filthy, smoky Kahnzoka. “We’ll climb up the hill and visit the Emperor.” And maybe pay a visit to Kuon Naga while we’re at it.

  “Sounds nice.”

  “And get the best noodles in the city. I know a place. And plum juice.”

  “Mmm.”

  I start walking. Meroe is hot against my back, like I’m carrying an oven. She’s fallen asleep again, her wheezing breath whistling in my ear.

  My arms have gone past pain and into tingling numbness. I don’t dare stop, not now. I’d never start moving again. I follow the gray thread up stairs and around corners, across bridges and through intersections. If a crab finds us now, we’re finished, because I don’t have the strength left to fight a butterfly. Fortunately, all we see are more strange mushrooms and the tiny gray lights that live inside the pillars.

  When change comes, I’m almost too far gone to notice it. There are lights ahead, not the distant, colorful stars but ordinary torchlight, its flickering glow supremely alien here in the darkness. Specks of it swim in front of my vision, like fireflies. I run my sticky, dry tongue over my lips.

  I’m supposed to do something. What is it?

  Oh yes.

  “Here!” The reedy screech is the best shout I can manage. “Over here! We need help.”

  The torchlight pauses, then shifts. Someone has heard me.

  So that’s all right, then. I lay Meroe down, as gently as I can, and fall over. I’m unconscious before I hit the ground.

  13

  This business of waking up in strange rooms with no memory of how I got there is getting really old.

  The unfamiliar ceiling this time is metal, the rust-flaked fabric of Soliton. I’m lying on a proper sleeping mat, with a heavy, tasseled blanket pulled up to my neck. The room is small, lit by oil lamps, with the usual eclectic decor. It’s certainly a step up from the half-flooded cell Pack Nine called home, or even Sister Cadua’s.

  There’s a table and two chairs on the other side of the room. Zarun is sitting there, a book open in front of him. He looks at me as I move my head, and smiles.

  I sit up abruptly. The blanket falls to my waist, and I realize belatedly that I’m naked underneath. One of Zarun’s eyebrow quirks, very slightly, but I refuse to frantically cover myself for his benefit. If he wants to stare at my chest so badly, let him. Blessed knows there’s little enough to stare at.

  “Isoka,” he
says. “How do you feel?”

  “Better than last time,” I mutter. My limbs ache, but with the deep pangs of exhaustion, not the stabbing pain of injury. “Where am I?”

  “Back in the Upper Stations, in the guest quarters of my clade. It was some of my people who found you.”

  “Where’s Meroe? Is she all right?”

  “At Sister Cadua’s.” Zarun cocked his head. “I’m told that she had quite a severe fever, but Sister Cadua expects her to recover with treatment. She hasn’t woken up yet.”

  A little tension goes out of my shoulders. I have no idea what position I’m in here—as usual—but at least the nightmare march wasn’t all for nothing. I hike the blanket up enough to cover myself and let out a long breath.

  “You’re the talk of the ship,” Zarun says. “Again. This is becoming a habit.”

  “It’s not something I’m aiming for,” I say. “I’m just trying not to die.”

  “I imagine.” He smiles. “Like it or not, I’m afraid, this time your fame will be considerable. Other people have fought blueshells and won. No one has ever fallen into the Deeps and survived.”

  “Lucky me.”

  “They’re calling you ‘Deepwalker.’ It has a certain ring to it.”

  I roll my eyes. “What are you doing here, Zarun? Just waiting for me to wake up in hopes of getting an eyeful?”

  His smile widens. “I’m afraid that’s only a side benefit. I wanted to speak to you before anyone else had the chance.”

  “Speak, then. Because I have to piss something fierce.” Not a lie. Someone must have given me water while I was sleeping.

  “As you wish. I would very much like to hear the story of your survival, but that can wait.” He sits up a little, and his smile disappears. “The Butcher, predictably, is pressing for me to return you to her … care. As we discussed before your little adventure, I would not be averse to having you in my service. So, if you’re willing, I am prepared to exert my influence on your behalf. It helps that you are already here, in my custody. In spite of her protestations, I can find something that will persuade the Butcher to drop her demands.” He spreads his hands. “Just say the word.”

  “And what exactly would I do, in your service?”

  “Given your talents, I imagine I’d put you in a hunting pack. Considering how well you’ve handled yourself so far, I’m excited to see what you could accomplish with a proper team. And, of course, you’d have better accommodations and freedom of the market, like any of my other crew.”

  I wouldn’t be a prisoner, in other words. Definitely a step up. Which is the goal—keep moving upward until I get to the top—but there are a few complications.

  “Can I think about it?”

  He shrugs. “If you wish, but not forever. I can only stall negotiations for so long.”

  “Just give me a few minutes.” I glance at the door, which here is a real door instead of a curtain. “Alone, if you don’t mind.”

  “Of course.” He picks up his book and gets to his feet.

  “And I’d like my clothes.”

  He wrinkles his nose. “I’m afraid what you were wearing was … not in a fit state. I’ve taken the liberty of having new clothes made ready.” He waves to a silver-inlaid wooden trunk in the corner of the room. “If there’s anything you need, please ask.”

  “Fine.” I don’t like taking gifts from Zarun, but it can’t be helped. Between my blood and the crabs’, my old outfit had gotten a bit foul.

  “And…” He hesitates, still looking at me. “I’m not sure if you had the chance to look in a mirror, on your adventure, but…”

  This confuses me for a moment, until I remember the marks. I touch my face, where I know the blue lines criss-cross my skin, though it feels no different under my finger.

  “I’m aware,” I tell him.

  “They suit you, I think.” He grins. “I look forward to hearing the story of exactly how you acquired them.”

  I stare at him pointedly until he leaves. Once the door is closed, I kick off the blanket and get to my feet, stretching and wincing as my muscles pop. My skin is clean, which brings up the unpleasant image of someone washing me while I was unconscious. I thrust that thought aside and kick open the chest to find a set of trousers, a tooled leather vest, and underclothes, along with my old boots, now washed and brushed. The vest has a low scooped neckline and is a little more decorative than I like, but it’s a hell of a lot better than nothing.

  There’s a silver ewer of water on the table, and a chamber pot underneath it. After making use of first the one and then the other, I’m feeling considerably more comfortable, and ready to think a little harder about Zarun’s offer. I knock at the door, and it’s opened by a young Imperial boy in a similar outfit. He bows and directs me through a larger room, where several mismatched chairs are set in a half circle. Zarun sits in one, and Thora and Jack share another, the slight Jack sitting half on Thora’s lap. Two more chairs are occupied by people I don’t know. Flunkies of Zarun’s, I assume.

  “Welcome,” he says, waving a hand but making no offer to find me a place to sit. “You look much improved, I must say. Your resilience is remarkable.”

  “I’ve often been compared to a cockroach,” I deadpan.

  “A very pretty cockroach,” Jack says dreamily. “I like the blue. It’s a good look for you, Deepwalker. Ow,” she adds, as Thora knuckles her on the head in warning. “Just stating a fact.”

  “Have you considered my offer?” Zarun says.

  “What about the rest of Pack Nine?” I don’t want to give away that it’s mostly Meroe I’m concerned about, though I suspect Zarun can guess.

  “Ahdron is Pack Nine’s leader, and he’s still pledged to the Butcher,” Zarun says. “So they stay with her.”

  Is it my imagination, or is there a hint of expectation there? “What if he wasn’t leader?”

  Zarun shrugs, his expression all false innocence. “If Pack Nine were to get a new leader, through a formal challenge, then in theory that leader would be free to choose an allegiance or stay independent. In practice, independence is … difficult.”

  “Why’s that?”

  “’Cause if you don’t have anyone backing you up,” Jack says, “there’s nothing to stop the Butcher from sending a pack round to break your legs if you don’t swear service.”

  “Fine.” I lock eyes with Zarun. “And if I were to swear allegiance to you?”

  “Then I suppose I would be obligated to exert my influence on behalf of my new pack,” Zarun says. His eyes twinkle.

  I grit my teeth for a moment. I would rather not be in debt to Zarun, but it looks like on Soliton, like on the streets of Kahnzoka, trying to live without a patron is futile. Zarun is currently the best candidate in a field of one. At least pack leaders have some status, so I’ll be better off than if I simply joined his clade. And Meroe and the others will be safe.

  I can always betray him later.

  * * *

  Pack Nine, they tell me, has been moved to quarters on the Middle Deck. Thora escorts me outside to provide directions. Zarun’s clade lives in one of the nine square towers that define the limits of the Upper Stations, according to Thora generally considered the most desirable real estate on the ship.

  Once we go outside, smaller buildings are packed in tight, edged by the same street market I saw the last time I was here. The ceiling is high above, and I can see a cloudy night sky through the rusted-out gaps.

  “So why is this the place to live?” I ask her, as she leads me through the crowd. “This ship is so big every person here could build a palace with room to spare.”

  Thora smiles at me. She has a kind face, for an iceling, ringed by stray blond curls. Like many of the northerners, she’s enormous, a full head taller than me and broader in the shoulders than most Imperial men. Among the icelings, the Butcher must count as merely oversized instead of gigantic.

  “You’ve seen the rest of the ship by now. More of it than anyone else, a
ctually, if the stories are true. The problem isn’t lack of space; it’s keeping the crabs out.” She points into the middle distance, beyond the nearest row of shacks. “See the wall?”

  It takes me a moment. It’s a ramshackle thing, uniform only in its ten-foot height, made out of metal plates, pieces of crab shell, broken planks, and whatever else came to hand. At first I’d taken it for the back of another line of houses.

  “That keeps the crabs out?” I ask.

  “The smaller ones. The hunting packs intercept anything bigger.” She gestures at the huge square towers, arranged in a regular grid. “Originally we only defended the space between four of those, in the corner of this deck. Five years ago, the Council decided to expand the wall to nine. Someday we’ll have enough manpower to push it out again.”

  “What about the Middle Deck and the Drips?”

  “They’re all just corridors, so they’re easy to block off with doors and barricades. But the rooms are smaller and the ceilings are lower, so everyone would rather live up here if they can afford it.”

  I smile, just a little, because it reminds me of home. The Sixteenth Ward, crammed in along the shoreline and breathing the stink of rotting fish, with the rest of the wards stacked up above it one after another, all the way up to the Imperial Ward on the breezy summit of the hill. If the Emperor could have devised a way to build the higher wards directly on top of the lower ones, no doubt it would have made things easier.

  “Here we are,” Thora says. Where two streets cross, there’s a hole in the deck, and a stairway leading down. “Your pack’s quarters should be right down there; take the first left and look for a door. If you get lost, just ask around.”

  “Thanks.”

  She looks down at me, considering. “Zarun’s not as bad as he seems, you know.”

  “Five minutes after I arrived, I watched him cut a little girl’s head off.”

  Thora winces. “He can be … harsh. But he rewards loyalty with loyalty. If you prove you’re trustworthy, he’ll always back you up.”

  “I’ll keep that in mind,” I say.