Ship of Smoke and Steel

by Django Wexler

  “Thank you,” Meroe says, though I can tell the cage brings up the same associations for her. She steps into it unhesitatingly nevertheless, sitting down near the center. I follow, sitting opposite for balance’s sake.

  “More than two would be a strain,” Jack says, “so your valiant hero will take the stairs, for the good of all. See you at the top, pretties.”

  She bounds off, and the crew close the door. A few moments later, at an unseen signal, the cage starts to rise. Points of light from torches and lanterns outline the Upper Stations as clearly as a map, a two-by-two square defined by the nine towers that stretch up to meet the distant ceiling. Behind me is the rear wall of the ship, and to the right another slab-like section of hull rises up. To the left and in front of me, only the man-height wall of scrap metal separates the civilized part of Soliton from the crab-infested wilds.

  It brings home how small it is, everything the officers and crew have built, compared to the vastness of the great ship. The darkness of Soliton swallows them like the ocean swallows a flung stone, stretching out into the unknowable distance.…

  Not my concern, I admonish myself, and lift my head to look up. That’s what I need to worry about. I can see starlight through a square hole in the deck, with the chain a black slash through the center.

  “Are you nervous?” Meroe says.

  “A bit.” I look across at her. “I have to keep reminding myself nobody’s going to be trying to kill me.”

  “Hopefully.”

  I smile. “Hopefully.” Then my expression turns sour. “I wish we had a better idea what we were looking for.”

  “Play it by ear. Ask about the Captain, but don’t push too hard.” She takes my hand in hers. “If all else fails, try to have a good time. It can’t hurt.”

  “Stick close, would you?” I give her hand a squeeze. “This sort of event … isn’t my strong suit.”

  The cage rises through the hole in the deck, and suddenly the sky is alive with stars. It takes my breath away for a moment, a river of light stretching from horizon to horizon, diamond dust gleaming on the deepest black velvet. In Kahnzoka, the stars are a few flickering points, visible on a clear night through the haze and the ever-present lights of the city. Here, though, there’s no urban glow to drown them out, and they shine down in their uncounted millions.

  It’s only been a few weeks, but I’ve almost forgotten what it’s like to see the sky. I take a deep breath, my chest expanding like a weight has come off. I’m so busy staring upward that I barely notice as more crew grab the cage and bring it to a halt over the deck. Meroe touches my hand again, gently, and I look down to see that the door is open.

  We step out, carefully. A few lanterns provide enough light to see the deck, but no more than that. Beyond them, there’s nothing but darkness. Soliton is visible only in silhouette, its shape outlined against the spectacular starscape. I can see the vast bulk of it, stretching off into forever. Distance is impossible to judge.

  Behind me, a single spear of darkness rises far overhead. It’s a spire, tall and slender. From the descriptions I’ve heard, this can only be the Captain’s tower, set on the very stern of the ship. At the top, a pale light glows, hard to distinguish from the stars around it. I wonder if the Captain is looking down at us.

  Beyond the sides of the ship, there’s only darkness. The ocean must be out there, but I can’t see it, only the curtain of stars descending to the horizon on all sides. There’s no sense of motion, though I know the ship is under way. It’s much too big to sway with the waves, so the only hint that we’re moving is a steady breeze.

  “Deepwalker,” says one of the crew, a tall, dark-skinned young man with a grave manner. “This way, please.”

  We follow him, toward the ring of lanterns. They’re set in a rough circle on the deck, revealing the rusted metal underfoot. And more that that; at the far side, two huge figures stand, barely outlined in the light. They’re twisted amalgamations of human and animal forms, one a coiled serpent with a woman’s multi-armed torso and the head of an ant, the other a bull with a bird’s beak, a human face screaming from inside its open mouth. Angels. I remember the one I saw in the Deeps, its smooth, uncanny motion, and I’m very grateful these two are inanimate.

  “Isoka Deepwalker,” a woman says. There’s a small crowd of people inside the ring of lanterns, and while I was staring they noticed our arrival. The woman facing me is an Imperial in a kind of kizen, except it’s been slashed indecently short, well above her knees. A pair of gold snakes twine through her hair. I blink at her, trying to get my bearings, and send up a silent thanks when Meroe steps between us.

  “This is Gaetica,” she says. “The head of Pack Two, in Karakoa’s clade.”

  I bow slightly. “An honor to meet you.”

  “And you.” She’s staring at the blue marks on my face. “I’ve been hearing nothing but stories of your exploits of late.”

  I give an uncertain shrug. “I’m just trying to stay alive.”

  Gaetica watches me with an unreadable expression, leaving me feeling like I’ve failed some sort of test. By this time, though, more of the crowd has gathered, eager to make my acquaintance. I feel like I’m back at Breda’s in Kahnzoka, except none of the gathered pack leaders have petitions for me. Mostly, it seems, they just want to gawk at the Deepwalker.

  Meroe squires me from one to the next, her memory for names and positions apparently infallible. Few of the guests pay her much attention, which makes me feel obscurely offended on her behalf. Instead, they bow to me, or shake hands, or salute. I get more invitations to drinks or dinner than I can count, a half-dozen proposals for friendly sparring matches, and three explicit offers to rut. The last of these comes from a young woman, who looks between me and Meroe with a knowing smile. I’m glad it’s shadowy enough that Meroe can’t see me flush.

  “Do you really know everyone here?” I ask her, when we finally find ourselves in a quiet corner for a moment.

  “Most of the important ones,” she says.

  “How in the Rot can you keep them all straight? And don’t tell me any princess ought to be able to do it.”

  She giggles. “My sister Vera used to forget the names of the High Council. It made Father so mad I think she was doing it on purpose.” She shakes her head. “I suppose I’ve always had a knack for it.”

  “I feel like a monster in a menagerie,” I say. “They all just want to stare at me.”

  “Let them.” She puts her hand on my shoulder. “You’re doing fine, Isoka.”

  “I’m not getting us any closer to what we need.”

  “This is just the beginning. The officers will be here soon, I think.”

  Just the beginning. Rotting wonderful.

  There’s food laid out on a great wooden table, and rows of crystal glasses that belonged in a palace somewhere. I fight my way to the center of the scrum and help clear a path for Meroe. Once she arrives, tapping her cane on the deck, I hand her a plate of unidentifiable fried bits and a goblet of something amber. For myself, I take only a goblet.

  Whatever the stuff is, it’s surprisingly good, a bit like wine but considerably stronger. I can feel the liquor at the back of my throat as the initial sweetness fades. Meroe sips, and raises an eyebrow.

  “Well,” she says. “I could get used to that.”

  “Good, isn’t it?” Zarun steps up behind us. For a wonder, he’s dressed less garishly than usual, in a sleek dark green robe that’s almost subdued, matched with a floppy silk hat that hangs rakishly over one ear. “Lots of cities include liquor as part of their tribute, so the scavengers are always bringing back crates of the stuff, but the quality can be a bit hit-or-miss.”

  “When did you arrive?” I ask.

  “Just now.” He waves a hand. “It wouldn’t do for the Council to be the first ones here.”

  Meroe nods. “The most important person always arrives late.”

  “Let me make the introductions,” Zarun says. He slips his arm into mi
ne, so smoothly it almost feels natural. “If you don’t mind, Meroe?”

  “Go ahead.” I catch Meroe’s gaze, and she mouths, Eyes open. I nod.

  I can see the massive form of the Butcher, towering over the crowd. Somewhat to my relief, Zarun leads me in the opposite direction. Another large figure stands at the edge of the ring of light, surrounded by a smaller group of hangers-on. It’s the tall warrior I saw the day I fought Ahdron. He shares the light brown skin and broad features of my former pack leader. I’ve learned that these are characteristic of the people who inhabit what the Empire calls the Southern Wastes, who as far as I know have never been encountered by His Imperial Majesty’s explorers. The far south is notoriously treacherous sailing, with little but sand and snow to make up for the risk of foundering in a sudden blizzard. But Soliton, of course, knows no such hazards, and has scooped up its share of the people who call themselves Akemi.

  The circle of courtiers opens up as we approach. The southerner pauses to exchange a lingering kiss with his closest companion, a slight, younger man with a Jyashtani look, before he looks up to greet me. He has handsome, chiseled features, and dark hair braided close to his scalp. He’s dressed in tooled leather, not dissimilar from mine, but accented with small bits of twisted steel threaded onto silk cords.

  “Isoka,” Zarun says, “this is Karakoa. He’s the longest serving of our little Council.”

  “Deepwalker,” Karakoa says. His voice is a low rumble. “You were impressive in the Ring.”

  “Thank you,” I say. There’s a confidence about the man that’s a little intimidating, even for me. I’ve met many braggarts on the streets, but Karakoa has an altogether different air.

  “It has been a long time since Soliton had another Melos adept,” he says. When he smiles, his teeth are huge and white. “Your technique is primitive, but you show promise. I look forward to watching your development.” Then, as an afterthought, “If you survive.”

  “Thank you,” I say again, and mentally add, I think. “You’ve been on the Council—”

  “Almost from the beginning,” he says. “Fifteen years.”

  He can’t be more than thirty. I frown as he goes on.

  “When I came aboard, Jarli ruled the ship in the Captain’s name. I was the one who convinced her to share power.” He shakes his head. “Now there was an adept. Melos and Rhema both. Deadly as a scorpion and fast as sin.”

  “What happened to her?”

  Karakoa falls silent, and it’s Zarun who answers. “She died, trying to get beyond the Center.”

  “She said there had to be something there, at the other end of the ship,” Karakoa says. “Something more than mushrooms and crabs. Foolishness.”

  “Did Jarli introduce you to the Captain?” This feels about as subtle as a brick to the face, but this sort of thing isn’t my strength. “Or did that happen after she … was gone?”

  “She introduced me,” Karakoa says, glancing at Zarun.

  “Can you tell me what he’s like?”

  The big warrior purses his lips for a moment. “Not what I expected.”

  Someone else is trying to get Karakoa’s attention, so Zarun steers me away. “He’s a good sort, in the end,” he says in a low voice. “A bit … unsubtle, perhaps. But a hell of a fighter.”

  “I can imagine,” I murmur. There’s something bothering me, looking out at the crowd, but I can’t put my finger on it.

  “Now,” Zarun says. “Where—” His face falls, and he heaves a sigh.

  “What’s the problem?”

  “The Scholar.” Zarun’s lip twists. “I was hoping he’d stay with his precious books tonight. He usually does.”

  “You didn’t seem worried about him the other day.”

  “I’m not worried,” Zarun says. “He’s just tedious.” His eyes flick to me. “Incidentally. You didn’t care for the dress?”

  I look down at myself with a slight grin. “I thought this was more … me.”

  “Do you know, I think I agree with you?” His gaze lingers deliberately. “It’s…”

  “Dangerous?”

  “Exactly.” He reaches for my midriff and strokes it gently with the backs of his knuckles. “I hadn’t realized these marks went all over. I’d be … interested to examine the rest.”

  “Of course you would,” a woman says. “Honestly, Zarun, you call Karakoa unsubtle, but you’re about as delicate as a bull in heat.”

  “Shiara.” Zarun turns around, and I turn with him. “How lovely to see you.”

  It’s the other person I saw on the platform, the Imperial woman. She’s my age, or maybe even younger, and a spectacular beauty in the classical style: long, slim legs and a narrow waist, delicate features, and night-black hair falling in a torrent nearly to the deck. She’s wearing a dress, not a kizen, and it leaves little to the imagination, baring her shoulders and a deep neckline. Her skin is almost as pale as an iceling’s, and her lips are painted a deep, bloody red.

  I may not have Meroe’s facility for learning the lay of the political land, but I’ve heard a bit about Shiara. The other officers won their positions through skill and strength, but she’d taken hers by cunning, beginning as nothing more than a desperate hawker in the market. Careful trading had seen her rise to leader of a scavenger pack, and then beyond. Now her clade included the most successful traders on the ship, not to mention running the only brothel.

  Beside her is the Scholar, in his round spectacles. Unlike everyone else, he’s made no effort to dress up for the occasion, and still wears the slightly shabby robe in which I’d last seen him. He nods to me, as though we were old friends, the flickers of the lanterns reflected in his lenses.

  “You are a pretty man, Zarun, but somewhat empty-headed,” Shiara says. There’s a playfulness in her tone, unlike the Butcher’s mockery. “Go on. Make your introduction, since it pleases you so.”

  “Isoka, this is Shiara,” Zarun says. “She has a wasp’s stinger for a tongue, but she’s not as bad as she seems.”

  “Oh, is that how we’re playing?” Shiara steps forward, red lips crooked. “I could tell you stories about him, my dear. But tell me. You were taken from the Empire?”

  “Kahnzoka,” I say, cautiously.

  “It’s been nearly a year since we left Imperial waters,” she says. “I’m dangerously behind on the latest gossip. Did Princess Ariane ever figure out who the father of her baby was? Is old Barei still alive?”

  I can’t tell if she’s putting me on. That sort of story, treating the affairs of the royal family like the twists and turns of street theater, was everywhere in Kahnzoka’s taverns and winesinks, lowborn getting a bit of their own back by gawping at the antics of their betters. I’d never paid much attention, since the tales changed with the teller and had little bearing on anything that mattered.

  Zarun, apparently, agreed with me. “Why not just make up your own story, Shiara?” he says. “It’ll have just as much relevance.”

  “Knowing it’s real always adds a certain something,” she says. “Come on, Deepwalker. What’s the latest?”

  “You’re asking the wrong person,” I say. “I never kept track of all that who’s-sleeping-with-whom stuff.”

  Shira makes a disappointed pout. “Well. At least you’ve stirred things up a little around here. I’ve been so bored lately.”

  Zarun gives her a look I can’t interpret, and Shiara sighs. She’s turning to leave when something catches my eye. She’s wearing a necklace, a long silver chain with a chunk of metal on it. It’s dull and a little rusted, unlike the rest of her jewelry, and it seems to be a piece of something larger. Both ends are a filigree of tiny hairs, hanging loose, like an old, frayed rope.

  That’s not what captures my attention, though. Something is moving inside the metal, tiny points of soft gray light slowly churning in an endless spiral. They’re barely visible in the glow of the lanterns, but I’m certain it’s the same light I’ve seen in Soliton’s support pillars, the light that seemed t
o gather around the angel and shape itself into Hagan.

  Is she wearing a piece of the ship? But there’s scrap metal everywhere and I’ve never seen anything similar.

  “Isoka, dear. You’re welcome to keep staring, but after a certain point I usually charge a fee.”

  “Sorry.” I blink and look away, and find myself locking eyes with the Scholar, who is watching me intently. Shiara smiles, this time with a nasty edge, and slips off into the crowd.

  Zarun touches my arm. “Did I miss something?”

  “Just … the wine. Or whatever it is. It’s been a while since I had any.”

  “I think that means you need a bit more,” he says.

  “Not just yet.” I look around for Meroe, surreptiously pulling myself free of Zarun’s grip. “Do you—”

  “Do you think I could have a moment?” It’s the Scholar, stepping forward, his cane rapping sharply on the deck.

  “I suppose,” Zarun mutters. “I will have another glass of wine, at least.”

  He turns back toward the table, leaving me at the fringe of the crowd with the Scholar. We look at each other in silence for a few moments, until I start to feel awkward.

  “You wanted to talk to me,” I prompt.

  “I did,” he says.

  “If you want the story of what happened in the Deeps, this probably isn’t the best time.”

  “It’s not,” he agrees. “I’ll have it later.” He pauses again, holding up a hand just as I open my mouth to speak. “I’m considering,” he says, “the best approach.”

  “The best approach to what?” He’s starting to remind me of Jack, although a bit less excitable.

  “You talked to Karakoa.”

  “I did.”

  “And you asked him about when he joined the Council.” Apparently he’d been listening. “What did he say?”

  “That he helped found it, fifteen years ago.” I frown at him. “You must know this, right?”

  “Did he tell you,” the Scholar goes on, ignoring me, “what Soliton was like fifteen years ago?”