Ship of Smoke and Steel

by Django Wexler

  “Good,” Meroe says, and turns back to the Moron. “I’ve figured it out. Finally.”

  The boy is staring down at the book in deep concentration, dark brown skin furrowed. He taps it again, looking at Meroe, and she holds up a hand for him to wait.

  “He can read?” I say.

  “I tried writing messages to him,” Berun says. “He never seemed to understand anything.”

  “Because you didn’t use the right language,” Meroe says.

  “He’s Jyashtani, isn’t he?” Berun says.

  “He’s a little dark for a Jyashtani,” I say. “I thought he was from the Southern Kingdoms.”

  “He’s technically Jyashtani,” Meroe says. “But Jyashtan is a big place. The people we usually think of as Jyashtani are from the north, where the capital is. Their empire rules the south, too, but there are a lot of peoples there who speak their own languages.” She grins. “And, in this case, use their own system for writing. Look.”

  I examine the book. The letters are, indeed, unrecognizable, strange square glyphs instead of the thin-lined characters of Imperial. Jyashtani use the same script we do, I think. I hadn’t known there were others.

  “This is a book from … well, I don’t know exactly where,” Meroe goes on. “The point is he can read it. And so can I, a little.” She shakes her head. “He’s deaf and dumb, I think. Can you imagine being dumped in here and not being able to hear or make anyone understand you?”

  I look at the boy, who meets my eyes with a calm, curious gaze. “I’m amazed he’s still alive,” I say.

  Meroe nods. “His name is Aifin. I may be pronouncing that wrong. I’m not exactly sure what language he speaks, only that it uses these Fertani characters. I’m going to have to see if there are any more books in the market.”

  There are a surprising number of books on Soliton. The various ports think they make good sacrifices, I guess. For the most part, the crew don’t have much use for them.

  “Well. It’s good to meet you, Aifin,” I say, and then feel stupid because of course he just keeps staring. “Meroe, could I speak to you alone for a moment?”

  “Of course.”

  “I’ll get dinner started,” Berun says. There’s a small hearth in one corner, below a convenient rust hole in the ceiling. I’m almost used to the smell of the dried mushroom they use in place of firewood.

  I help Meroe to her feet, and she slips the crutch under her arm. Berun and the Moron—Aifin—have been sharing one of the three bedrooms, and Thora and Jack claimed another. That leaves the last for me and Meroe. We found sleeping mats in the market—they sleep properly in Nimar, apparently—and she’s added other odds and ends. A few books stand in a pile beside her bed, next to a bowl of beaten gold and a small collection of charms made from parts of crabs.

  “How’s the leg?” I ask, as the curtain closes behind us.

  “Itchy,” Meroe says. “But it shouldn’t be long before I can walk at least a little. Sister Cadua’s remedies really do work wonders.”

  Meroe herself, of course, can literally work miracles, but I let the irony of that pass. She doesn’t like to be reminded of what she is, and if we’re being completely honest neither do I.

  “Any luck today?” I ask.

  She crutches to her sleeping mat and lowers herself onto it. “No. Nobody knows anything.”

  “That they’re willing to say.”

  “In that case, they’re very good liars.” Meroe sighs. “I don’t understand.”

  In the couple of weeks since we moved into Tower Five, Meroe has been helping me dig up information on the Captain. More accurately, she’s been doing the digging, while I chop unfortunate crabs into pieces. She’s become well versed in the ins and outs of Soliton society remarkably quickly, but the Captain himself remains elusive.

  “It doesn’t make sense,” I say. “Someone has to bring him food, clean his rooms, warm his bed. There has to be something.”

  “I know,” Meroe says patiently. “The officers take care of it is all anyone will tell me.”

  “Personally?” I can’t imagine the Butcher fetching the Captain’s towel or cooking his crab juice.

  “I don’t know.” Meroe sighs. “But I think Zarun is still our best chance.”

  Our clade leader has been a frequent guest, eager to check up on his latest acquisitions. His interest in me, specifically, is obvious, both because the crew is still abuzz with talk of the Deepwalker and for … other reasons. Lately, he’s renewed his invitation to find me something to wear for the Council meeting.

  “I don’t like relying on him so much,” I mutter.

  “We’re not relying on him,” Meroe says. “We’re using him.”

  I can’t help but smile. “I’m rubbing off on you.”

  “Please.” She grins back. “Princesses can be as ruthless as gang bosses, believe me.”

  “I believe you.” I rub my eyes, trying to get my heart to slow down before a flush shows in my face. That smile. Rot.

  “He said he’d come by tonight,” Meroe says. “Go out with him. See what you can find out.”

  “If you say so.” I sigh. “Let me change clothes, then.”

  Meroe nods. “I’m going to keep working with Aifin.”

  She gets her crutch under her and makes her laborious way out of the room. As the curtain falls behind her, something slams against the metal wall beside me and I hear a moan, followed by a string of unfamiliar profanity and heavy breathing.

  The thing is … I mean …

  Rot it. The thing is, under other circumstances, I would have happily returned Zarun’s unsubtle interest. He’s handsome, with a touch of the exotic by Kahnzoka standards, and the suggestion of corded muscle under the loose shirts he wears makes me want to investigate more thoroughly. He’s dangerous, of course, and a murderer, but I can hardly complain about that. But.

  But …

  But it has become clear to me, through a couple of sleepless nights and several extremely explicit dreams, that it isn’t Zarun I want to rut. It’s Meroe hait Gevora Nimara, with her bright grin, her quick laugh, her thick, heavy braid. Her smooth, dark skin, the curve of her hip, the quick smile on her soft lips.

  I’ve never wanted someone so badly. I want to kiss her; I want to feel her hands on me; I want to nip at her throat and hear her gasp like—

  Well, like Jack is gasping in the next room, as Thora does whatever Jack keeps asking her not to stop doing.

  It doesn’t help that I’ve been lacking good opportunities to relieve my frustration, either alone or in company. I sleep six inches from Meroe, and while I’ve never been shy of myself, it feels … awkward. I don’t know what she’d think. Certainly I’ve never heard her indulge.

  I could, of course, go to the brothel. There’s one aboard ship, run by the Imperial girl I’d seen on the officers’ dais, whose name is Shiara. A few shells of scrip would get me a couple of hours with a pretty boy—or, rot it, a girl, if that’s what I need. But …

  But it’s not what I want. I don’t want anyone. I want her.

  The trouble is, I don’t know what she wants. Whether she’d laugh at me or hate me forever. And it’s become increasingly obvious that I need her to help me make sense of the tangled mess of Soliton’s politics. I can’t risk my relationship with my most valuable ally over a couple of wet dreams.

  Blessed’s rotting balls. Is it something about this rotting ship, or is there something wrong with me?

  * * *

  I emerge from our room in the loose trousers and green silk tunic I’ve been using for everyday wear. Soliton’s market has plenty of clothing, but the selection is eclectic. Meroe, fortunately, learned to wield a needle and thread in her early years, and she’s managed to alter a few things to a reasonable fit.

  She’s sitting with Aifin, while Berun watches and pokes at something on the hearth. Aifin is trying to get some point across, poking the book and then rapidly sketching a character in the air with his finger. Meroe frowns, clear
ly not getting it but determined to keep trying.

  I shake my head. Anyone else would have written the Moron off after a few tries. Leave it to Meroe to keep pushing until she gets through. She shifts a braid away from the long, delicate curve of her neck as she bends over the book, and my heart double-thumps.

  Rot, rot, rot. There’s a job to do here, Isoka. Remember Tori and Kuon Naga. The clock is ticking, and it’s not going to stop just because my body has gotten confused.

  There’s a knock, a gong-like sound on the metal wall. The front curtain pulls open, and Zarun is standing in the doorway, smiling his shark’s smile. He’s dressed as flamboyantly as ever, in a style I don’t recognize—a swathe of deep blue cloth pinned at one shoulder and hanging to his waist, with the other arm and shoulder exposed. It leaves a lot of nice-looking skin on display, just in case I wasn’t distracted enough.

  “Good evening, Isoka,” he says, with a brief nod at the others. “Congratulations on your hunt today.”

  Word spreads fast in the small community of Soliton’s crew. I shrug.

  “Do you still have time this evening?” he says. “The Council meeting is the day after tomorrow. If you’re going to be presented to the officers, you’ll want to make a good impression.”

  People telling me I have to look nice instantly sets my teeth on edge. Unfortunately, he’s right. The Council is the only way to get closer to the Captain.

  “They saw me in the Ring, didn’t they?” I say. “It’s hardly being presented.”

  He shrugs. “This is more … official.”

  “All right.” I stretch, with a show of reluctance, and reach for the string that gathers our stack of scrip.

  Zarun waves a hand.

  “Please,” he says. “I’ll take care of everything.”

  I slip the scrip into a pocket anyway. Zarun’s grin widens a notch, and he gestures to the door. I follow him out through the corridor and into the crowded chaos of the Upper Stations. He leads the way through the streets, toward a section of the market I haven’t visited before.

  “So,” he says, falling into step beside me. “Are you getting accustomed to how things work here?”

  “More or less,” I tell him. “It’s not that different from back home. I get paid to kill things. Here they just tend to have more legs.”

  Zarun chuckles. “That’s what I like about you, Isoka. You’re so refreshingly direct.”

  By the way he looks at me, it’s clear that’s not all he likes about me. Fair enough. I’ve snuck a few admiring glances, too.

  “These Council meetings,” I ask him, “does the Captain ever attend?”

  He shakes his head. “Not since I joined. When we want to see the Captain, we visit him in his tower.”

  “When did you join? How long have you been on the ship?”

  I’ve picked up enough of Soliton’s etiquette to know this is something of a daring question. Everyone on board, no matter how comfortable they seem in their current circumstances, came from somewhere, and not by choice. We’re all prisoners here, and not everyone is happy to be reminded about it. Fortunately, Zarun only smiles slightly.

  “It will be … eight years, now?” He looks up at the ceiling, where the sun slants in through rusted holes. “I think. It can be hard to keep track, in here.” He glances back at me. “Did they tell you I’m a Jyashtani prince?”

  “I may have heard that somewhere, but I didn’t believe it.”

  “You’re wiser than most, then,” he says. “My father was a prince of Harzashti. And my mother was a weed picker’s daughter. When I became an embarrassment, Soliton provided a convenient solution.”

  If I’m right about his age, he wouldn’t have been more than twelve at the time. Hell of a place for a child to get dumped. “And the Council?”

  “That came later. I built a successful hunting pack, won the respect of my fellow crew, and eventually…” He spread his arms. “You’re full of questions today, Deepwalker.”

  “It’s sinking in that I’m really going to be staying here,” I ad-lib. “Seemed like I should learn the ropes.”

  “You’ve made a good start, at least. I hope Thora and Jack have been helpful.”

  “They have.” It was true, though I’m sure they also provided Zarun with regular reports. “Thora has been training Berun, too.”

  “Thora is extremely reliable,” Zarun says. “And your princess? Is she recovering?”

  “She is.” I don’t particularly want to discuss Meroe. “Where exactly are we going?”

  “In here.”

  He gestures down an alley, which leads to a side door into a nearby tower. There’s no sign, and I look around curiously as he walks up and knocks.

  “This is a shop?” I say.

  “Of a sort. The best of the scavenger’s finds aren’t laid out in the street.” Zarun gives me the shark’s smile again. “And you deserve the best, Deepwalker.”

  “Who’s there?” says a voice from inside. It sounds like a little girl.

  “Zarun, and a guest.”

  There’s the sound of muttering, and the door creaks open. A girl of thirteen or so, slim and dark-skinned, stands in the doorway in a baggy, oversized dress. She yawns ostentatiously.

  “Another girl, Zarun?” she says. “You were just in last week. What happened to Ralya?”

  “Ralya is well,” Zarun says. “Though we have, regrettably, parted ways. But this is Isoka Deepwalker.”

  “Deepwalker.” The girl leans forward, rising onto her toes to study the blue lines across my face. “Hmm. Is it true?”

  “What, that I survived the Deeps?” I give another shrug. “It’s true. Though I’m not the only one. Meroe was with me.”

  “Ah, but one of you walked out carrying the other,” Zarun says. “Isoka, this is Feoptera, queen of scavengers.”

  “I told you not to call me that,” Feoptera snaps. “It makes me sounds like a vulture or a hyena. And I’m not anybody’s queen.”

  “Forgive me,” Zarun says, giving me an amused glance. “Just a young lady with exquisite taste.”

  “Your price is getting higher by the minute,” Feoptera says. “Come inside before you talk it up beyond your means.”

  She stalks away, and we follow. The metal corridor is lined with junk, so tight we sometimes have to squeeze past sideways. There are metal sheets, rusted at the edges, piles of dried mushrooms, and large fragments of crab shell. In and among these products of Soliton are bits of salvage: cups and plates, furniture, crates and boxes, wine bottles. Open doorways lead into rooms crammed with even more stuff.

  “So what is it this time?” Feoptera says over her shoulder. “Jewels? Perfume?”

  “Something for Isoka to wear to the Council meeting.”

  “Ah, yes.”

  The girl stomps into a room on her left. Several tables take up most of the space, and makeshift shelves line the walls. Every inch of horizontal surface is covered with fabric, a galaxy of brilliant colors and glittering adornments. There’s silk, and Jyashtani lace, and a hundred other materials I couldn’t hope to identify. A lamp in the corner gleams off cloth of gold and sparkles from precious stones.

  I can’t help but let out a low whistle. On Soliton, I know, bits of pretty cloth aren’t as valuable as a nice set of tools or a fine blade, but back in Kahnzoka the contents of this room would buy Tori’s estate several times over. Old instincts make my palms itch.

  “Take your pick,” Feoptera says. “Try not to damage anything.”

  She stalks out, with one last glare at Zarun.

  “She doesn’t seem to like you very much.” I say, in low tones.

  He chuckles. “Feoptera is very fond of me. You should see the way she treats people she really doesn’t like.”

  “And…” I gesture around at the mounds of finery, feeling a little helpless. “What do people wear to these Council meetings?”

  “It’s less that there’s a specific standard,” he says, running his fingers over a long bla
ck silk dress. “It’s more that we like there to be a sense of occasion. Here, hold this.”

  I take the wisp of fabric he hands me. He looks at us together for a moment, shakes his head, then takes it back and sets it aside.

  It turns out this is only the beginning. Zarun digs through the heaps, pulling out garment after garment. Some of them are familiar to me—Imperial kizen and Jyashtani robes—while others are more exotic. Dresses with wire stays, to spread one’s skirts across half a room, and slim, slitted sheets that would barely qualify as underwear back in Kahnzoka. Elaborate lace confections, dripping with gleaming gems, and loose-woven fabric in an overlapping pattern of colorful threads.

  Soliton had visited every city with a harbor and fine clothing was apparently a popular sacrifice. The collection stretched back in time, too—I could see double-fastened kizen of the kind that only grandmothers now wore. It was a remarkable collection of frippery, and I couldn’t help but marvel at the waste of it all. Every one of these dresses represented days, probably weeks, of labor, all to give some fine lady a way to impress her friends for an evening.

  Rotting aristos.

  Zarun sorts through the piles, holding garments up to me like I was a paper doll, then rooting around for new ones. I fidget uncomfortably while he works.

  Eventually, out of awkwardness more than anything else, I say, “Can I ask you something?”

  “Of course,” he says, glancing between a frothy blue lace confection and something black that shimmers like ravens’ wings.

  “Why are you helping me? Why all of this?”

  He looks up at me with a slight smile that doesn’t touch his pale blue eyes. “Oh. A real question.”

  “I’m just struggling to understand what you get out of it.”

  “Having the Deepwalker associated with my clade helps my prestige,” he says, looking back to the piles.

  “But you came to meet me before that,” I say. “Try again.”

  “Even at that point, it was obvious you were a superb fighter,” he says. “Any of the officers would be happy to have you.”

  “You’ve got plenty of fighters. You haven’t given Thora or Jack their own pack to lead.”