Ship of Smoke and Steel

by Django Wexler

  “Thora prefers a more personal role,” he says. “And Jack … is Jack.”

  It was hard to imagine the mercurial girl getting anyone to follow her. But I shook my head. “Still. You don’t need me.”

  He pauses for a moment, then holds up another dress. Or part of a dress—it’s hard to tell. It’s slashed open in so many places it looks like it was attacked by wolves. Being naked would be more modest.

  “Fine,” he says. “Ever since I saw you in the pit, I wanted you in my bed. When I heard you could fight as well, I was sure of it.”

  I smile, crookedly, and take a step closer to him. “Please. I’m honest enough with myself that I know I’m not the sort of beauty that turns men’s heads.”

  “Maybe not most men.” Zarun’s smile widens. “I have particular tastes.”

  I break eye contact for a moment to look down at myself. “You like skinny, gristly girls?”

  He puts one finger on my chin and lifts my head up to face him again. “I like girls,” he says, “who can hold their own.”

  We’re close enough that I can feel his breath on my face. My heart beats faster, and my chest feels hot and tight. For all that a certain princess has infested my dreams, there’s no denying that Zarun is toothsome, to use the late Ahdron’s word, lithe and lean, dark curls just the right length for me to twist in my fingers, sparkling eyes. And there’s a flush in his cheeks that says his interest is genuine.

  But he’s also lying.

  I turn away, grabbing a dress at random from the piles. “What about this one?”

  I hear him let out a breath, not quite a sigh.

  * * *

  Zarun ends up handing a half-dozen dresses to Feoptera, who looks me over with a practiced eye and says that she’ll see what she can do. We leave the shop before I fully realize that we’re done, back out into the muted sunshine of the Upper Stations, which feels bright after the gloomy interior of the tower. Around us, the market is in full swing, hawkers shouting the virtues of their scavenged morsels to the passing crew.

  “So what happens at this Council meeting?” I ask Zarun, as we walk side by side. “Aside from you introducing me to the other officers.”

  “The Council will meet in closed session beforehand,” he says, sounding bored at the prospect. “At the reception we’ll talk to the pack leaders and other notables.”

  “And what happens in the closed session?”

  “We take any decisions that need to be made. Unless there’s instructions from the Captain, of course.”

  “Can you bring issues to him, if you need to?”

  Zarun shrugs. “I suppose we could, but it almost never happens. The Captain is … not like the rest of us. He controls all of Soliton, not just the Stern, and he’s mostly concerned with where we’ll head and whether the sacrifices are adequate. Dealing with the crew he leaves to us.”

  “He could help, though. What if he sent the angels to fight the crabs? Or—”

  “He has his reasons,” Zarun says, cutting me off. He gives me an irritated glance. “You won’t get very far asking questions about the Captain.”

  “He doesn’t like being questioned?”

  “He doesn’t care a bit, as long as he’s obeyed. But there’s no point in asking about things nobody understands.”

  “I don’t know about that,” another voice says, with a thick Jyashtani accent. “In my experience, those are the only really important questions.”

  I look up to find another group approaching us. At the head is the Jyashtani I saw on the officers’ podium, with the round glasses that reminded me of Naga. He has the light brown skin of northern Jyashtan, dark, curly hair long enough to be a bit shaggy, and he wears a modest robe. He has a silver-headed walking stick in one hand, and as he comes closer I notice his right leg drags behind his left, foot sticking out at an odd angle.

  Beside him, enormous even without her crab-shell armor, is the Butcher. She’s wearing civilian clothes, a leather vest and trousers stitched together from a patchwork of oddly colored pieces. Without a helmet on, her surprisingly curly blond hair hangs in a loose tail at the back of her neck. She glowers at everyone, but her face darkens considerably on her sighting Zarun, and then goes positively stormy when she sees me with him. Behind her are a half-dozen crew, including the bald-headed Haia.

  “My esteemed colleagues,” Zarun says, making a little bow.

  “The fop,” the Butcher rumbles. “And the famous Deepwalker everyone finds so precious. What a lovely pair.” Her lips twist. “Has he bent you over a bench yet, or are you still just sucking his dick?”

  “Now, now,” Zarun says. “Just because you no longer have access to my bed—”

  “Not that he can manage much else,” the Butcher says, looking down at me. “If he finds the right place to stick it, you can count yourself lucky.”

  I admit I have a hard time imagining the Butcher rutting with Zarun. She’s a head taller than him and easily twice his weight, her limbs wrapped with slab-like muscle, with a neck like an ox and breasts like overgrown summer melons. She seems like she would crush anyone not built to her own heroic scale.

  “I believe you know the Butcher,” Zarun says, ignoring her. “And this young man we call the Scholar.” Zarun puts a hand on my shoulder, with a possessive air. “I’m bringing Isoka to the Council meeting for formal introductions.”

  “Lovely,” the Butcher snaps. “I’m sure we’ll all enjoy making conversation with your whore.”

  Zarun’s hand tightens on my shoulder, as if in warning. It’s unnecessary—it’s clear that making trouble here would be counterproductive, and in any event I’m used to people insulting my virtue, even if they’re usually men I’m about to kill. It’s amazing how many people, in the face of a cold-blooded killer, think the worst thing they can say about her is that she spreads her legs. So I keep up a smile, because I know it will annoy the Butcher. She stomps past us, brushing deliberately too close, and her crew follows suit.

  “I look forward to getting a chance to speak with you, Deepwalker,” the Scholar says, inclining his head. “I’ve been hoping to interview you about what you saw in the Deeps.”

  “The Scholar is the one who likes to ask questions about Soliton,” Zarun says. “The rest of us put up with him because he occasionally comes back with something useful.”

  “I putter,” the Scholar says modestly. “There’s so much that’s beyond our understanding. I’ve always thought—”

  “Scholar!” the Butcher roars over her shoulder. “Hurry up, if you want your rotting piece of junk.”

  “Another time,” the Scholar says, with a smile. He nods again and hobbles off after the Butcher and her crew.

  “Is it true?” I say quietly. “You and her?”

  “Hard to picture?” Zarun grins at me. “The truth is that I used her, to get where I am today. She didn’t take it well.”

  “Apparently.”

  “You wanted to know why I’m helping you?” He nods in the Butcher’s direction. “It’s because she hates you. You made her look weak and foolish when you came aboard, and every inch you rise is a twist of the knife in her back. She never could get over a grudge.”

  “So you’re helping me out of spite?”

  He laughs. “Don’t be silly. I don’t hold grudges.” He turns back to me and flashes his dazzling smile again. “Hate makes people stupid. If this keeps up, sooner or later she’ll make a mistake. And then…”

  He gives an eloquent shrug, and turns away.

  * * *

  The package from Feoptera arrives that evening, couriered by a breathless young man whose eyes go wide at the sight of the Deepwalker. I wave him away with a sigh and retreat to my room, where I’d been recounting my conversation with Zarun and the Butcher to Meroe.

  “The last thing he said, about the Butcher,” she asks as I re-enter. “Do you believe it?”

  “I’m not sure. It sounded more plausible than the rest.” I toss the package down beside her
and sit on my sleeping mat. “They obviously have a history.”

  “Does he hate her as much as she hates him?”

  I shrug. “If he does, he hides it well.”

  “Then what’s the endgame? Why does he need to damage her?”

  “From our point of view, does it matter?”

  Meroe nods. “It does. We still don’t know what Zarun is after. He and the other officers are already on the top of the heap here. Is he just defending himself against the Butcher? Or is there another step?”

  “The Captain.” I grimace. “If he’s ambitious, that’s the only place left for him to go.”

  “We don’t know how the Captain was chosen. What happens if he dies or steps down.” Meroe spreads her hands. “It’s possible is all I’m saying.”

  “There’s too much nobody wants to talk about.” I frown. “The Scholar seemed friendly. Maybe we can pin him down. And the Butcher…” I sigh. “We may have to kill her, whatever Zarun is planning. He’s right about how she feels about me. Every time she tries to hurt me and fails, it makes her look worse. She can’t back out now, not without making herself a laughingstock to her own people.”

  Meroe looks pained at the thought, which sends a needle of guilt through my chest. She may have been raised under a threat of murder, but she’s not as comfortable with violence as she pretends. My princess.

  “There might be another way out, but right now I can’t see it,” I say. “Keep your eyes open.”

  “If Zarun’s driving you two at one another, it doesn’t seem likely.” Meroe shakes her head, and looks down at the package. “Let’s see what he got you.”

  I’m honestly a little afraid to look, but I untie the string and unfold the linen wrapping. Inside is … a dress, I suppose. It’s a dark blue-green, with overlapping folds and fringes of fine lace. Small silver charms click against one another as I lift it up. Underneath, Feoptera has thoughtfully included a hand mirror, an elaborately gold-inlaid thing that would be worth a small fortune on its own.

  “It’s … elaborate,” Meroe says.

  “I’d say ‘ridiculous,’” I mutter, looking at it. A kizen is one thing, but this?

  “Try it on,” Meroe says.

  I pick the dress up, struggling to figure out how the separate parts go together. I can’t even tell which is supposed to be the inside and which the outside, much less how they’re connected. I look up at the sound of a sputter, and find Meroe hiding her smile with both hands.

  “Sorry,” she says. “Just the look on your face.”

  I roll my eyes. “I suppose you know all about it.”

  “I think I can manage,” she says. “The style isn’t that far from what we wear in Nimar.” She gets up, leaning on her cane, and takes the dress out of my hands. “Come on, strip off, and I’ll see what I can do.”

  There was not a lot of room for modesty in my upbringing. Tori and I cleaned ourselves in public fountains, changed clothes in back alleys, and splashed naked in the cisterns in the summer heat with the other street children until the guards ran us off. While the servants I hired have struggled to mold her into a proper young woman, there was no one minding me. In theory, therefore, taking off my clothes and letting Meroe dress me should be no great affair.

  In practice, I feel her eyes on me like a shaft of sunlight, warming my skin wherever it touches. I shuck out of my trousers and pull my tunic over my head. Then, with a glance at the straps and stays of the dress, I undo my chest wrap as well. I keep my eyes resolutely on Meroe’s sleeping mat.

  Is she staring at me? What if she is? What if she isn’t? I feel my face flushing.

  The featherlight touch of her hand on my back makes me jump, heart pounding. She flinches away.

  “Sorry,” she says. “Are my fingers cold?”

  I give a lying nod. When she touches me again, I only shiver a little. Her fingers are wonderfully warm, in fact. She pushes my hair aside and traces the line of blue marks around my back and onto my flank.

  “I forgot how far these went,” she says, softly.

  I don’t know what to say. I want to tell her it’s all right, that she saved my life. I want her to keep touching me, so badly that my skin practically tingles at the prospect.

  Instead, she returns to the business at hand, and with some reluctance I pose as she instructs. Raise my arms, lower my arms, step into one skirt, and buckle another around my waist. Breathe in as she cinches up some ties, stand tremblingly still as she fusses with small knots at my collar, her breath hot on my neck. Finally, she steps back, looks me over, and raises an eyebrow.

  “Well?” I say.

  She picks up the mirror.

  Feoptera, to her credit, has done her best. The dress flares out from the waist down, but above that it shoves and prods my stubbornly uncurved body into something like a proper woman’s shape, with a high bodice that gathers every available ounce of flesh to create the illusion I have breasts. The lace spills from the cuffs and the neckline, the silver charms gleam, and the layers of skirts swish against one another as I turn. It’s a beautiful dress, and yet …

  “I look ridiculous,” I say flatly.

  “You look ridiculous,” Meroe says. “Because it’s not you. It’s like someone tried to put a fancy ball gown on a … a tiger.”

  I raise my eyebrows, then spread my fingers into claws and mouth a roar. Meroe laughs out loud, and after a moment I join her.

  “This is what Zarun thinks the Council wants to see,” I say, testing my range of motion.

  “Rot that,” Meroe says. “We can do better.”

  I look up at her. “You think?”

  “Trust me.” She grins. “It’s a princess thing.”

  16

  “Almost ready,” Meroe says. “Stop squirming.”

  I do my best, sitting in our room on a borrowed chair, while her strong, clever fingers work on my hair. She slides in the steel pins, long, dangerous-looking things like miniature stilettos, fixing the carefully crafted braid in place like a butterfly in a collection box.

  “There,” she says. “That’s not going anywhere.”

  It’s odd, having my hair up. I haven’t worn it like that in years. The back of my neck feels cool and vulnerable.

  “I still don’t know where you found all of this,” I say.

  “I’ve been out in the markets while you’ve been fighting crabs,” she says. “I’ve gotten to know a few people.”

  Meroe’s ability to insinuate herself into Soliton’s society has been, frankly, astonishing. When we went to the market together, she seemed to be on a first-name basis with half the hawkers, and every one of them was happy to see her. I don’t think I knew my ward in Kahnzoka half as well as she’s come to know the Upper Stations in just a few weeks.

  She holds up the mirror. “Want to see?”

  “I’m not sure I do.”

  “Have a little faith,” Meroe says.

  I’m not sure why this bothers me so much. Back in Kahnzoka, clothes were never more than a means to an end. Maybe it’s the fact that Zarun and Meroe both seem to think they’re important that puts my teeth on edge. Regardless, I’m being stupid; I steel myself and look into the mirror.

  “That’s…” I blink. “Not bad.”

  It’s a long way from skirts and lace; that’s for certain. The trousers are worked leather, accented with carved crab shell, tight and dark. More crab shell on the top covers the shoulders, decorative but nonetheless suggesting armor plate. Deep red slashes are worked into the leather, visible only briefly as I move. It doesn’t flaunt my chest, but it doesn’t hide it, either. And it leaves my midriff bare where the line of twisting blue marks winds across it.

  When I turn my head, the steel points of the hairpins wink at me. Meroe is watching, and I suddenly realize she’s nervous.

  “It’s good.” I look down at my hands, which are wrapped in leather cords. “Very good. Definitely more … me.”

  “I don’t know what Zarun and the others will thin
k,” Meroe says, setting the mirror aside. “But I think it makes you look beautiful and dangerous.” She puts a hand on her stomach, where the marks are on mine. “You’re the Deepwalker. You should look the part.”

  Beautiful and dangerous. Not a description I’ve heard very often. I clear my throat to cover a moment’s hesitation. “It’s unfair, isn’t it? You came back from the Deeps as much as I did.”

  “Technically, I didn’t do much walking,” Meroe says. She leans on her cane to add the last part of her own costume, a thin silk shawl around her neck. Then she spreads her arms. “What do you think?”

  I hadn’t been so wrapped up in my own problems that I’d neglected to watch Meroe changing. Her dress was modest, with a high neckline and long sleeves, but it clung to her figure in appetizing folds. It was cream and light blue, contrasting with her skin, and blue gemstones sparkled at her ears and in her hair.

  “Beautiful,” I say. “And dangerous.”

  Meroe smirks. “Good.”

  * * *

  Berun gapes visibly as we leave, and even Aifin sits up to watch. Jack is waiting, her hair slicked back, crisp in a white shirt and black tailcoat. She gives Meroe a smile, then raises an eyebrow at me.

  “Thora is with Zarun,” she says. “Shall we proceed, brave companions?”

  “Lead the way,” I tell her, looking back at Meroe. “Slowly, if you please.”

  Jack is surprisingly solicitous of Meroe’s limited pace, given the way she usually skips across the deck. We leave the tower and wend our way through the Upper Stations. It’s well after dark, which only means the markets are a little more subdued. By the light of torches and mushroom-fed braziers, we make our way to a corner of the deck I haven’t visited before, up where the rear wall rises like a mammoth curtain of darkness.

  Up against that wall is a steel cage, unpleasantly similar to the one that brought me aboard ship. For all I know, it might be the same one. Two armed crew stand in front of it, and they nod to Jack as we approach.

  “There’s a stairway,” Jack says, “but for our princess I thought this might be more comfortable. It’s a long way up.”