“No. Other than that someone named Jarli was in charge.” I was starting to see Zarun’s point.
“One woman, ruling in the name of the Captain. Ruling over a single clade of perhaps … a hundred people?” He shrugs. “I arrived not long after, you see. Though it was years before I was admitted to the Council.”
“All right. So what?”
“At the time we had barely begun to secure a single tower in the Upper Stations. Now we have nine, and they’re nearly full.”
I recall the ride up in the cage, the endless darkness. “There’s plenty of room.”
“Not the point,” he snaps.
“Please get to the point.”
“One hundred people then,” he says. “How many now, do you know?”
“I don’t—”
“One thousand three hundred twenty-one,” he cuts in. “Not counting any deaths that haven’t been reported yet. I keep track.”
“Good,” I manage, “for you.”
“Which means a little more than eighty people added as sacrifices per year. Net of deaths, of course.”
The tickle in my mind from earlier is back. “And not counting any children.”
“No children on Soliton.”
“What?”
“Women can’t conceive on the ship.” He gives a tight smile. “It just … doesn’t happen.”
At some level, it made sense. I hadn’t seen any babies or expecting mothers, and as far as I could tell there were no ghulwitches to provide family planning. But …
“Why not?”
“Good question.” He looks over my shoulder, at the rest of the crowd, and sneers. “They’re not fond of asking questions. But think a little harder. Eighty people added per year. Which means?”
I speak slowly. “What were things like a few years before Karakoa came aboard?”
“Death rate is high. Few survivors. Hard to say. But another good question.”
“Hang on,” I say. “Soliton has been going around for centuries. And there were people here a lot longer than twenty years ago. I saw a village in the Deeps.…” I trail off, as he stares at me with interest. “It was a ruin. But it had been there a long time.”
“Indeed.” He cocks his head. “I like you, Isoka Deepwalker. You have the air of someone who asks questions.”
There’s a long drumroll, drowning out conversation for a moment. The Scholar bangs his cane on the deck and bows.
“That,” he says, “is my cue. You must come and visit me, I think. We can … ask questions. In the meantime, I’ll leave you with one.” He waves his cane at the crowd. “Apart from the children, what’s missing?”
He stalks away before I can answer, twisted foot dragging. I watch him go, hardly sure what to think. He seems half-crazy. But …
I think back to Kahnzoka, to crowds like this one. Men and women, children and adults, rich and poor. The fish market, where they all came together. Old men sitting in doorways, telling tales to a crowd of street kids. Old women, bent double under the weight of a load of fish, still capable of a shocking turn of speed.
Karakoa might be thirty. A few others I’d seen look a touch older, but not much. No one past that.
People come on board as teenagers. The Captain and the angels wouldn’t accept anyone younger or older, or so I’d been told. So if someone had been brought on board fifteen years ago and they’d been nineteen, that would make them thirty-four today. The math works out.
No one in this crowd, no one I’d met on Soliton, can date from much before Karakoa arrived. Some people die, of course, but … everyone?
What in the Rot is happening on this ship?
* * *
I manage to find Meroe, still waiting by the table of food, working her way through a plate of fried … things with evident relish.
“Do you have any idea what those are?” I ask her.
She shrugs, mouth full. “’ey’re goo’.” I roll my eyes, and she swallows. “Did you find anything?”
“Maybe.” I’m still not sure what to make of the Scholar. “I’ll tell you later.”
The drumroll sounds again, and the crowd goes quiet. A couple more lanterns come alight, revealing the officers standing in a line between the pair of massive, motionless angels. The Butcher waits with her arms crossed, looking uncomfortable and even larger than usual next to the petite Shiara. Karakoa and Zarun seem more relaxed. Off to one side is the Scholar, leaning on his cane.
“Is he an officer or not?” I ask Meroe.
“He’s on the Council,” she says, “but he doesn’t have his own clade or any hunting packs. The others keep him around because he’s useful.”
“Fellow sacrifices,” Karakoa booms, and there’s a ripple of laugher. “Thank you for joining us. As always, we are honored by your trust, and the Captain’s.” He glances in either direction at his fellow officers. “We will come to the point. There have been … irregularities, as I’m sure you’ve all noticed. Scholar, would you summarize?”
The Scholar steps forward with a click of his cane. “Our last stop was in Kahnzoka. We haven’t gotten any fresh meat since then, and Soliton has been staying mostly out of sight of land. Our speed has increased, too.” He gestures to his left. “Somewhere off that way is Cape Wall.”
I hear Meroe’s breath catch, and I lean close to her. “What does that mean?”
“Cape Wall is halfway down the Southern Kingdoms,” she says. “Well south of Nimar. We’re more than a thousand miles from Kahnzoka.”
A thousand miles. I can’t even visualize that distance. The Sixteenth Ward is a bit more than a mile from end to end, long and skinny as it crams against the waterfront. I try to picture a thousand of them, laid one after the other. It’s easy to forget that Soliton moves at all when I’m belowdecks; now I feel the wind on the back of my neck, and shiver.
A stray thought, infuriating but true: no wonder Kuon Naga wants this ship. Big enough to carry an army, faster than anything with sails, impervious to the unreliable wind and the waves. No arrow or siege engine could do more than scratch its metal hull. Forget some border squabble with Jyashtan. Control Soliton and you could rule the world.
People in the crowd have started shouting back, a confusing jumble of accents and languages. The gist is clear enough, though.
“What’s going on?”
“Why has the Captain changed course?”
“Where is he taking us?”
The Butcher steps forward, her voice a roar. “Shut up and listen!”
The crowd quiets again. Karakoa says, “Believe me, we heard your concerns, and we share them. Naturally, we petitioned the Captain.”
Now the hush is so quiet I can hear the whistle of the breeze, like when the priests intone the sacred names of the Blessed One.
“Of course,” Karakoa says, into the silence, “the Captain’s reasons are his own, and we do not question them. But he assures us that the disruption will be short-lived. Our regular stops will resume soon.”
“In other words,” the Butcher says, “try not to panic like a flock of rotting chickens! There’ll be more fresh meat and more sacrifices to scavenge soon enough. Just keep your heads down and keep hunting.”
Mutters from the pack leaders. They don’t sound happy.
“Speaking of hunting,” Zarun says, ignoring the glance of pure loathing the Butcher directs at him. “I imagine you’ve heard that Pack Twelve lost two men looking for blueshells six levels down from the Drips. One of my packs went looking for the bodies, and found what was left of them.” He pauses. “It wasn’t a blueshell that got them. It was a dredwurm.”
The name means nothing to me, and Meroe looks confused, too. But there’s a sigh from the crowd, a sort of collective intake of breath that indicates it’s very significant indeed.
“It cannot be allowed to run loose, and that means a Grand Hunt,” Zarun says. “The Council hereby makes this offer: whatever pack brings us the eye of the dredwurm can claim any boon within our power to grant
, in addition to the usual bounty of scrip.” He beams at us. “I expect quick results, my friends.”
* * *
With that announcement, the party seemed to be over. There was a brief crush as the assembled pack leaders looted what was left of the food and drink, and then a general movement in the direction of the stairs. I stick by Meroe’s side and wait as they disperse. Eventually, Jack appears, looking a bit sweatier and more disheveled than before, and gives us a grave bow.
“I trust that you enjoyed yourselves?” she says. “These audiences are the closest thing Soliton has to a social scene, not counting Shiara’s occasional debauches.”
“It was … interesting.” I glance at Meroe, who nods agreement. “Jack, what’s a dredwurm?”
“Ah, yes.” Jack’s eyes light up. “A truly legendary beastie, the king of crabs, risen from the Deeps. Or so we’re told.” She shrugs. “Each one looks different, but they’re all strong enough to break through the decking and tunnel wherever they like. They’re impossible to keep out with walls and guards, so the only option is to destroy them whenever they show their fangs.”
“And the eye?” Meroe says.
“That’s what makes it a dredwurm. Every one of the monsters has a single crystal eye, and the Council is bound to collect them for the Captain. Hence the bounty. Whoever takes the beast can name her price.” She grins. “Zarun will try for it, you can be certain. If you ask nicely, he’ll let you take part and we’ll all split the reward.”
Meroe and I exchange looks, and I can tell our thoughts are running on similar lines. If the Captain himself wants these eyes—
“But that’s for later,” Jack says. “Back to the cage, friends! Time to leave the angels to their silence and descend back to the world of mortals.” She winks at me, looking a little tipsy, even for Jack. “Thora will be waiting.”
17
I sit opposite Aifin, with a writing slate and some crumbly, chalk-like stuff on the table between us. He watches me with bright, intelligent eyes. I’ve never looked at him up close before; while his skin is as dark as a southerner’s, his features are more Jyashtani.
“His progress has been amazing,” Meroe says. She’s standing at my shoulder, holding her cane but not putting any weight on it. She’s still cautious of her leg, though Sister Cadua says it should nearly be back to full strength. “I’ve tutored him a little bit, but once he got the basics he started going through every book he could get his hands on. Go ahead, ask him something.”
It’s hard to imagine this is the boy we used to call the Moron, when he’s so obviously keenly alert. I clear my throat, then feel stupid for doing so and pick up the chalk instead. Carefully, I write out: “My name is Isoka,” in simple block letters.
He nods, takes the slate, and scribbles in a rough but readable hand: “M. tells me about you. Says you are leader of…”
He taps the chalk against the slate, thinking. I take it back and write: “Pack. Like wolves.”
“Pack,” he writes. “Yes. To fight monsters.”
I wipe the slate clean with my sleeve and start again. “Yes. We fight monsters, to get food to eat.”
“I will fight,” he writes, smudging the letters with his eagerness.
“Before, when Ahdron was leader, you didn’t fight.”
He taps the word “Ahdron” and shakes his head. I gesture, indicating a tall young man, and eventually he gets the idea. He writes: “Did not understand. So long without understanding. No one reads my words here. Could not read yours.”
“You could have made us understand, couldn’t you?” I gesture at my tongue and my ears, to demonstrate.
He gives an uncomfortable shrug. “Tried. Others didn’t listen. Hurt me. Stopped trying.” He hesitates, then adds: “Thought I had died, and in hell.”
“May I?” Meroe says. When I hand her the chalk, she writes: “Who taught you to read your language? How did you get here?”
Aifin wipes the slate again. “Father taught me. Loved me, even though broken.” He taps his throat. “But Father died. Uncle wants rid of useless mouth. Sell to slaver for monster ship.”
So many on Soliton have some variant of the same story. For all her cruelty, what the Butcher told Meroe wasn’t wrong.
“We’ll practice sometime soon,” I write. “So you can show me what you can do.”
Aifin nods enthusiastically. He holds up one hand, and for a moment it’s outlined in golden light, his fingers moving so fast they’re a blur.
“Rhema,” I say aloud, surprised. The Well of Speed is relatively rare. Picking up the slate again, I write: “That will be useful.”
Aifin nods again. A curtain shuffles in the back, and Jack emerges with a flourish. “Dinnertime! Are you lot coming to the Crossroads?”
“Isoka and I will,” Meroe says, before I can say anything. She takes the chalk and puts the question to Aifin, who shakes his head. “And Berun is still shopping.”
“Thora is still snoring, so the three of us will have to make do.” Jack strikes a heroic pose, like an explorer pointing the way. “Onward!”
I don’t grumble. But Meroe has become adept at reading my expressions, and she rolls her eyes at me as we follow Jack down the corridor.
“Eating dinner in public is hardly torture,” she says. “It’s good to get to know people.”
“Getting to know people is your department. I handle cutting them into pieces, remember?”
“You’re the pack leader. And the Deepwalker. Like it or not, that means you’ve got a role to play.”
I make a face, but the truth is this argument is mostly for show. Meroe makes much of the small talk anyway, so all I have to do is nod along. And the food is usually better, though you never quite know what you’re going to get.
I have to admit, as we emerge from the tower and start threading our way through the market, that living on Soliton is starting to feel almost normal. The mix of people from every country on the planet no longer seems odd; when I get back to Kahnzoka, it will be strange to be surrounded by so many Imperials. I’ve gotten used to the haphazard clothes, the weird mix of primitive makeshift tools and luxury goods from the scavengers. I’m even coming to appreciate the differences between breeds of mushrooms, and know where the best meat comes off a crab.
I’m losing my edge, in short. Getting comfortable. At night I close my eyes, listening to Meroe’s soft breathing, and try to think about Tori. I try to picture what Naga will do to her if I don’t return.
It should be all I think about. But I keep getting distracted. Just now, I’m watching the way Meroe’s hair bounces as she walks, the sway of her hips.
Rot, rot, rot. Stay focused, Isoka.
* * *
When I first visited the Crossroads, it seemed like chaos. Now that I know what to look for, it’s still chaos, but organized chaos, if that makes any sense. The tables are roughly divided into clades, with pack leaders and important clade members drifting toward the center, and the rest surrounding them. There are no emblems for the clades, no explicit symbols, but it’s not hard to tell who’s who after a while. The Butcher’s people, for example, wear more trophies than anyone else, forever covering even their everyday clothes with bits of crab shell. Karakoa’s fighters wear plain, unadorned clothing, following the example set by their leader, whereas both men and women in Shiara’s clade seem to have some kind of competition to see who can wear the most jewelry.
Not everyone in Zarun’s clade dresses as gaudily as Zarun, but enough try to emulate him that a gathering of his servants is easy to pick out. My status as pack leader and Deepwalker gets us a place at the inner table, and a few others even push out of the way to make room. Jack seats herself at my left hand, Meroe at my right. One of the Crossroads’ young servers quickly comes over to offer us drinks, and I raise a mug in greeting, receiving nods from around the table.
At Meroe’s prodding, I’ve come to recognize a few of them. Pack Seventeen’s Attoka, an Imperial girl with a shock of bleac
hed-white hair, chats with the somber Marcius, the southerner head of Pack Eleven. Sketor, a tall but skeletally thin iceling boy who trades in weapons, flirts with a trio of young men from one of the hunting packs. There’s a general buzz of conversation, and I’m pleased to see that the others are getting used to me, too. The first few times we joined the group, I spent the whole time fielding questions about the Deeps, none of which I particularly wanted to answer.
The conversation, of course, is about the dredwurm. The hunt for the creature has stretched on longer than I expected, but Jack says this is normal—just finding a dredwurm is hard enough, let alone killing one. Hunting packs are flooding the lower sections of the Stern, looking for the telltale holes torn in the deck plates, and along the way cleaning out the crabs that cross their path. There’s talk of expanding the Middle Deck and the Drips, pushing the barricades outward to incorporate freshly cleared areas into the “civilized” part of the ship.
The gossip is all about who’s found fresh signs, who’s been hurt, who brought home a good kill. I listen with only half an ear as Meroe and I tuck into mushroom-and-crab pies, seasoned with some spice brought back by a scavenger. It’s hot enough to make my eyes water, and tasty enough that I send off for a second helping.
“Aifin,” I ask Meroe, as she guzzles water, “you really think we should bring him out on a hunt with us?”
“He volunteered,” she said. “After he quizzed me about Soliton. I think he’s desperate to fit in.” She shakes her head. “Imagine how lonely he must have been.”
He thought he was in hell. If that’s what hell is like, count me glad we Imperials don’t have such a thing.
“Well,” I say. “We’ll have to see how strong he is. I’ve never worked with someone who used Rhema before.”
Meroe nods. “He and I should both be able to come along soon.”
“You’re sure?” I glance at her cane.
“I think so. It feels much stronger.” She stomps her foot and grins. “Practically good as new.”
Frankly, I’d rather Meroe stay behind. It would be one less thing to worry about, but she’d never permit it. Princess or no princess, she doesn’t want to be coddled.
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