Ship of Smoke and Steel

by Django Wexler

  “Until now? I am still master of this clade.” His smile disarms the comment.

  “Now I feel like we have a mutual understanding.”

  “We’re using each other, in other words.”

  “Exactly. I needed to be sure you had a use for me other than in bed. In my experience, that doesn’t lead to reliable partnerships.”

  “Reliable partnerships,” he says, smile widening. “Oh, I like you, Isoka. You are a cold little reptile, aren’t you?”

  “It’s kept me alive.”

  He leans closer. “You never let personal feelings get in the way?”

  “Of staying alive?” I snort. “Do you want to know how many people I’ve had to kill because a personal feeling made them do something stupid?”

  “I wonder if your total is higher than mine,” he says. “Honestly, I haven’t kept track. It feels like there’s one in every batch of fresh meat.” He frowns. “There was someone like that in yours, wasn’t there? I made an example.”

  “An idiot. And then his sister.”

  He doesn’t even remember. Why should he? He’s a monster.

  Like me.

  “Ah, yes.” He looks back down at the wine bottle, half-empty already. “Well, Deepwalker. Let me speak your language. Would you like to go into the other room and rut?”

  “I thought you’d never ask.” I make my voice a low growl.

  In a few moments, we’re kissing, his hands on me and mine on him, trying to stumble back toward the doorway without pulling apart. We lurch off course, and my back slams into the wall hard enough to sting. He presses his palms against my shoulders, pinning me there, and kisses my neck down to my collarbone. My fingers curl in his hair.

  There’s nothing wrong with what I’m doing. Not with the rutting, anyway. It’s not like Meroe and I have said anything to each other, made any promises. I’m within my rights to dally with a pretty boy, to kiss him as thoroughly as I wish, to let his hands creep up under my leather top, feeling the tightness in my chest, the heat sinking down through my belly. To pull him through the doorway at last, back to the bed.

  And, when my eyes are closed, if I’m thinking about darker skin, a softer body with a different shape, thick dark hair, and clever fingers …

  There’s nothing wrong with that, either, I suppose.

  * * *

  It would be poetic justice to say that, for all his handsome face and obvious self-regard, Zarun made for an indifferent lover. Truthfully, though, he was attentive and patient, and by the time we were finished I lay comfortably beside him on the silk sheets, sweaty and satisfied. He had his head against my shoulder, one arm thrown over my breasts, and I stared at the ceiling and waited while his breathing deepened into the steady rhythm of sleep.

  Sister Cadua really does have a mushroom for everything. This one, she assured me, makes for a gentle potion when dissolved in wine. Just enough to make you drowsy, and ensure a good, uninterrupted night’s sleep once you’ve dozed off.

  That’s all I need. When I’m sure Zarun is well and truly dreaming, I slip out from under him. A lantern is still burning in the other room, and by its dim light I wriggle into my clothes. I carry my boots in my hand, padding barefoot and silent through the carpeted suite, around the corner, and into the curtained-off room.

  As I suspected, there’s a desk covered in papers. Running a clade takes work, just like the street gangs of Kahnzoka. There are notes on outstanding scrip, bills from the other officers, all written on little slips of scraped-down, recycled paper still spotted with old ink.

  In the center of this mess is a rough set of maps, an eye-twisting jumble that I just recognize as the Stern. Much of the area is blank, unknown except for a few tentative pencil marks, especially on the lower levels. Passages twist and turn in a complex three-dimensional maze, with rusted-out walls and floors adding extra opportunities for confusion. Someone has attempted to impose some order on this disaster, numbering the levels and assigning labels to a grid. Coordinating a search.

  As I’d hoped, the information I need is obvious. The map on the top of the pile has a section clearly marked, annotated with reports from the scouting pack. Fresh holes in the deck and half-eaten crabs—sure signs that the dredwurm is nearby.

  I pause long enough to make sure I can find the place, then replace the papers I’d disturbed, I hope close enough that no one would suspect I was there. Padding out again, I glance at the bedroom, reassured to find Zarun still sprawled and snoring. I put my boots on and slip out the door.

  He won’t be surprised to find me gone, I think. I certainly wouldn’t, if our positions were reversed. We are, as he said, only using each other. He just doesn’t fully understand how.

  19

  I have almost convinced myself Meroe isn’t glaring at me while my back is turned.

  We descend, level by level, into the depths of the Stern. This is where we came to fight the shaggies, a maze of corridors, stairways, and rusty holes, instead of the bridges and pillars of the Center. I know where we’re going, but not exactly how to get there, so we search, argue, and occasionally backtrack. Eventually, though, we always manage to find a way to go down another level.

  As Meroe predicted, both Berun and Aifin were willing to join us. Berun seems even more nervous than usual, clutching a round metal shield and with a sword at his belt. Aifin is surprisingly calm, having claimed a pair of short swords for his own. He has his slate and chalk, and we worked out a few simple gestures for emergencies.

  Berun walks beside me as we descend yet another flight of stairs, holding up a lantern to light the way. It’s getting darker the farther down we go, the weight of Soliton’s metal blocking the morning light filtering in. As the lantern bounces, our shadows spin wildly around us, flicking long and sinister along the walls.

  “You’re certain you know where to find the dredwurm?” Berun says, for the tenth time. I’m not sure whether he wants me to say yes or no.

  “I have an idea, at least. It may have moved on.”

  “If we’d brought Thora and Jack—”

  “You’re almost as strong as Thora now,” I tell him. It’s not quite true, but I hope it’s close enough. “We can handle this.”

  “But…” He subsides, slinking back to walk beside Meroe.

  I find myself preferring Aifin’s company. At least he’s quiet.

  In truth, the farther down we go, the more I wonder if I’ve made a mistake. Crabs are relatively scarce—plenty of packs have come this way in recent days—but the passageways are steadily more overgrown by mushrooms, thick shelf-like varieties on the walls and puffballs that crackle underfoot and hang from the ceiling. I can smell them, a dry, spicy scent, and when the lantern light hits them they reveal brilliantly colored flesh, blue and green and crimson. It’s like walking into another world, an alien, lightless place.

  Somewhere in here is the dredwurm. A nightmare. I’ve killed nightmares before, of course, but …

  I catch Meroe’s eye, and she nods to me, encouraging. I think of the Scholar’s map, and Hagan’s cryptic warning.

  The Scholar might be wrong. But I can’t take the chance. Tori’s life depends on it.

  I just wish Meroe didn’t insist on putting herself in danger, too.

  Aifin stops, holds up a hand. I halt, too, looking at him curiously. Berun and Meroe come up from behind.

  “What—” Berun says.

  “Shhh,” I tell him.

  “I thought he couldn’t hear,” he says, looking at Aifin.

  “I can,” I say, irritable. “And I’d like to try.”

  Aifin tugs at my sleeve, then points down at the deck. He crouches, putting his hand flat against the metal, and I do the same.

  Then I feel it. A vibration, the deck shaking against my palm. It makes my teeth buzz in sympathy.

  “It’s here,” I say. “We’re close.”

  Berun swears, quietly. Aifin stands up, catches my eye, and points to the direction where the vibration felt strongest.
I nod agreement.

  We walk down the corridor, through the narrow clear space between the encrustations of mushrooms. A little bit farther on, it ends in a T-junction. The mushroom puffballs on the wall are swaying visibly with the grinding vibration.

  “Stay here,” I tell Meroe. “I’ll take this side, Aifin will take the other, and we’ll see if we can spot it.” I gesture to Aifin, who quickly gets the idea.

  Berun clutches his shield a little closer. “What if it turns up here?”

  “Try to slow it down, then run for it. We won’t be far.”

  “We’ll be fine, Berun.” Meroe catches my eye and nods. I pad around the corner, moving quietly, listening to the hum from the walls.

  Berun’s devotion to Meroe would be touching, if he weren’t so craven otherwise. I shouldn’t blame him, but I can’t help a prickle of irritation, especially when Meroe takes his hand.

  She doesn’t feel like that, though. Not about Berun.

  And what if she did? I taunt myself, twisting the knife. You didn’t tell her anything. She hasn’t made any promises to you, any more than you did to her, before you went off and slept with Zarun.

  Focus, Isoka. This is—

  There’s something moving in the wall. A thick stream of gray motes, what the Scholar called Eddica energy. In the Deeps it was everywhere, but here in the Stern it’s less common. I hesitate for a moment, then put my hand up against it.

  I assure myself it’s not personal. If Hagan is real—if he’s really Hagan—he might be able to help us. My eyes search the darkness as I whisper, “Hagan, can you hear me?”

  “Isoka.” His voice is stronger than last time, with less of the strange distortion. “… hear you.”

  “Blessed’s balls,” I swear. Because what am I supposed to say to him? “Is that really you?”

  “… think so…” And there’s just a twist of irony in his voice that’s so like the old Hagan it makes me wince.

  “Are you…” I swallow hard. “Are you dead?”

  “… not sure.”

  I freeze, because what I want to ask next is, Do you remember me stabbing you? And are you angry about it? Instead, I’m silent for a moment.

  “The anomaly,” he says. “… coming soon. No one … survive.”

  “The Rot. Do you mean the Rot?”

  “Rot? Maybe … it says anomaly … sense out of it…”

  “What says?”

  “No time. The rogue … you’re … danger.”

  Rot. The flow in the wall is weakening, fading away as I watch, and his voice fades with it.

  “Hagan, why is the Captain taking us into the Rot? Can you speak to him?”

  “Don’t…” His voice fades, then returns, thick with effort. “Find the Garden. Forward. The Bow. Safe there.”

  “The Bow? We don’t know the way.”

  “… help you. Like before. Find a strong enough…” His voices rises. “Rogue. Go, Isoka!”

  There’s a scream from behind me, and the vibration redoubles. A moment later, Meroe comes running around the corner, with Berun trailing her, hand in hand.

  “It’s coming!” Berun shouts.

  Okay. Some mysteries will have to wait.

  “Through the deck,” Meroe pants. “Spikes. It’s below us.”

  “Rot.” I look down the narrow corridor. The floor is shaking violently, and bits of mushroom cascade from the walls. “We need more space. Come on.”

  We run. The corridor lets out into a larger room, which is more to my liking. Even better, I spot Aifin on the other side, hurrying toward the vibration. He pauses when he sees me, and I gesture for him to stay put.

  Something punches up through the floor, near where we came in. It’s a long black spike, needle thin, parting the metal of the deck as easily as cheese. It retreats just as rapidly, and another one comes up a few feet farther on, closing in on us. Berun and Meroe back away.

  I raise my blades. “Berun, the next time it does that, try to hold it in place.”

  He swallows hard and nods. A moment later, a spike slams upward, only a foot in front of my face. It’s close enough that I can see the serrated edges, gleaming with a dangerous sheen. Blue light materializes around it, Tartak bonds gripping the thing as tight as Berun can manage. It tries to retreat, tugging against the magic, but it can’t move, at least for the moment. I swing both my blades inward, closing them like a scissor, biting into the base of the spike. It’s tougher than I expected, and heat flares on my arms as my power struggles. With a blast of green light, the blades cut through, and the spike clatters to the deck.

  The sheared-off surface is smooth and featureless. No blood, no internal structure, just tough, metallic carapace.

  Underneath me, the deck shudders. I hear a wild scree, the slashing of talons against metal. I barely have time to leap aside before the deck plates buckle upward, opening outward like a flower in a shower of sparks. More black spikes tear at them, forcing the hole wider, and inch by inch the dredwurm pulls itself up.

  It’s roughly cylindrical, maybe twenty feet long, thickest at the head and tapering to a thin, whipping tail. The black spikes are set on multi-jointed limbs, which protrude from its segmented body in rings, a dozen at a time. It doesn’t seem to have a sense of up and down—the spikes hold it off the floor and anchor it to the ceiling, both at once, scraping against the metal with hideous screeches.

  At the front of it, there are three triangular mouths, ringed by rows of inward-pointing teeth. Each mouth is surrounded by another ring of limbs, smaller than the big leg-spikes but just as sharp. A final barbed spine tips the thing’s tail. It’s a dull black all over, carapace scraped and scratched from its passage through the metal. The only hint of color is in the center of its head, between the three mouths, where a faceted crystal pulses with a bloody red light.

  It looks … familiar.

  I am now firmly convinced this was a bad idea.

  I glance at Aifin, give him the “okay” sign we agreed on. Back at home, we’d settled on a tentative plan. Aifin would work to draw the creature’s attention, while Berun tried to slow it down, and I would see about actually hurting it. Simple enough, when you’re not faced with tons of black armored monster.

  Aifin, to his credit, doesn’t hesitate. Golden light blooms around him, drawn from his Rhema Well, and his shape blurs. He skates forward, sliding across the deck so fast he leaves trails of sparks in his wake. The writhing spiked legs of the monster make it difficult to approach from the side, but he threads his way between them like they were standing still, and he puts all his weight and speed behind one of his swords, aimed right at the seam between two segments of the dredwurm’s body. It sinks in, halfway to the hilt, and sticks there.

  The screech comes not from the monster, but from the metal of the floor and ceiling as it grips hard, turning toward the source of the pain. Aifin darts backward, trailing golden sparks, as spiked limbs slash in his wake. He’s good, but I wonder how long he can keep it up. I’d rather not have to find out.

  “Berun!” I shout. “Try to clear me a path!”

  He wipes sweat from his eyes and raises his hands, the blue glow of Tartak. The closest half-dozen legs to me are wrapped in blue light, locking their joints. I can tell it won’t hold, the things are already trembling, but it gives me a second or two to sprint forward without having to dodge. I get to the thing’s side and grab a leg, hoisting myself off the ground.

  Aifin has retreated through a doorway. The dredwurm plunges after him, its limbs ripping the walls apart to make a space wide enough for it to pass. Mushrooms explode into fragments as it barrels down the corridors, legs digging into ceiling, walls, and floor, pulling it forward faster than a charging horse. I can see Aifin’s golden light, only barely staying ahead of the monster. I keep my head down, bits of mushroom and scraps of metal glancing off my armor.

  Time to do some damage. Locking one arm around the monster’s leg, I swing my blade inward, driving it into the dredwurm’s armor-
plated side. Melos power flares and crackles, but the energy skitters along the surface, scoring a line into the dull black armor without punching through. The dredwurm, still focused on Aifin, doesn’t even seem to notice.

  I close my eyes for a moment, concentrating, and refine my power into the penetrating shape I used against the blueshell. It still doesn’t come naturally, but I can force the energy into new channels, flooding into my right hand until my skin crackles, uncomfortably hot. The long Melos blade shifts into a short, pointed spike. I wind up, pushing away from the dredwurm’s skin and swinging back down with all my weight behind the blow.

  This time, the energy blade sinks in, until my knuckles scrape against the dredwurm’s skin. I release the pent-up energy inside the creature, braced for a furious reaction. But the blast feels muted, contained, as though the monster didn’t have any insides to shred, only more layers of armor. It barely reacts, shuddering slightly, legs still churning in its wild pursuit of Aifin.

  Well. Rot. Now what?

  Aifin is having trouble. He rounds a corner, and the dredwurm follows, slamming itself against the wall and scraping away a carpet of mushrooms. I hang on for dear life, armor flaring to protect me from countless minor impacts. Aifin’s golden aura is flickering, sparks of bright energy exploding off it, and he’s slowing down. He turns again, and I see we’re headed back toward the room where we left the others. Meroe is visible in the doorway, waving Aifin frantically to one side.

  “Now, Berun! Stop it!” Meroe screams.

  “I—I can’t.…” Berun hesitates, hands raised.

  “You can!”

  Berun’s hands close into fists. Blue energy sparks around him, and Tartak bindings wrap themselves around the dredwurm’s head, trying to lock it in place. I see them snap under the thing’s enormous momentum, magic shattering in showers of sparks, and with every sundering Berun winces as if he’d been struck. But he keeps trying, lashing out again and again, and the dredwurm slows. Steam is rising from Berun’s clothes as the heat plays over his body.

  I push off from the creature’s side again, bring the armor-penetrating spike around in another roundhouse swing. Once again, it sinks in, but the blast of energy that follows doesn’t seem to have any effect. This isn’t working, and I need to move. Taking a deep breath, I put my weight on the embedded blade and use it as a handhold to swing forward, grabbing for the next ring of legs. I get a grip and clamber through as they swing and strain, trying to drive the creature onward against the flaring pressure of Berun’s magic.