* * *
“That,” I tell the Scholar, “doesn’t make any rotting sense.”
“Karakoa never told me,” he says, “but I think it was Jarli who came up with the idea. She was the first one to come in here and find old Mahjir. By the time they brought me onto the Council, it was already … tradition.”
“The Council knows? About … this?”
“Of course.”
“Then why—”
“Think about it like this,” he says. “If there’s a Captain, then the officers are merely representatives of a mysterious, all-powerful force. If there isn’t, then they’re just a bunch of high-and-mighty bastards who are unaccountably in charge.”
“It’s all a lie?” My hand is trembling, which makes him flinch. “Just for your convenience?” I shake my head. “That still doesn’t make sense. Does the Council control the angels, then? Who sets the ship’s course?”
“You still don’t get it?” Beads of sweat stand out on the Scholar’s forehead. “The ship runs itself. It goes where it wants. The angels do what they want. None of us, no human, has ever been able to command it or turn it or change one rotting thing.”
“You mean it’s alive?”
“Some of the others think so. Karakoa seems to regard it as a kind of god.” He shrugs. “I’ve seen the Eddica energy that drives it. I told you, it’s a machine, made out of steel and magic. It’s not alive any more than a … a clock is alive, or a waterwheel. It’s just a thing, doing whatever it was built to do.”
For a moment, all I can do is stare. The Scholar coughs uncomfortably.
“If you’re not going to kill me,” he says eventually, “would you mind…”
“Why shouldn’t I kill you?” I force a savage grin. “You lied to me. I took my pack to find the dredwurm because you said you could get me to the Captain, and now you tell me there’s no such thing. Which means Berun died for nothing, so you could have some trinket.” I press closer, and he flinches as crackling energy singes his skin. “Talk fast, Scholar.”
“I have … a plan. To save us. To save everyone. I needed the eye—ah!”
I lower the blade a fraction. “Why not tell me from the start?”
“Would you have believed me?” He’s breathing hard. “You needed to see this. Now you understand.”
“A little, at any rate.” With a sigh, I dismiss the blade and let my hand drop. The Scholar heaves a sigh of relief. “You said the Council knows. And the Council offered the bounty for the dredwurm’s eye. So why did you need me to get it for you?”
“The rest of them don’t understand what the eyes are. There are all sorts of legends about them, but the one the officers believe is that the dredwurm’s eye will let you command an angel.”
“Will it?”
“Possibly. The eye is a focus for Eddica power. If you or I used it, we might be able to take over an angel, but the possibilities go so much deeper than that. We could change the course of Soliton itself.”
“You told the Council,” I guess, “and they don’t believe you.”
“Of course they don’t. Even if they did, they wouldn’t risk it. The last two eyes that have fallen into their hands they’ve destroyed.”
“Why?”
“The Council works because the clades are in balance,” he says bitterly. “What do you think would happen if one of the officers had an angel on his side?”
“All right.” My anger has faded a little. “So you needed someone to get to the eye who wouldn’t just hand it over to the Council, and I’m the perfect idiot who volunteered.”
“You’re the Deepwalker,” he says. “I hoped you would be strong enough. But it’s more than that. If I’m going to make this work, I need your help.” He steps closer, his fear apparently forgotten. “You can touch Eddica more deeply than I can. You have a better chance of being able to use the eye.”
“To turn the ship away from the Rot.”
He nods. “We’re still sailing east. We don’t have much time.”
“And what is that going to take, apart from the eye?”
“The … mechanism that controls the ship is buried deep,” he says. “We can’t reach it from here. But there is a place where it can be accessed. I’ve tried to … map the currents, you might say, the flows of energy. Beyond the Center, close to the Bow, there’s—”
“The Garden.” My voice is a whisper.
“What?” The Scholar steps closer again. “How do you—”
“That’s the place, isn’t it?”
“I … think so.” His speech is getting faster as he gets excited. “Some of the old books talk about it. Mahjir mentioned looking for it in his journal. It’s supposed to be full of food, water, everything people need. But sealed, against the crabs and the Rot.”
“Sealed? So it would protect us, even if we couldn’t change course?”
He shrugs. “Legends scribbled by dead men. Who knows? But no one has ever been able to find it. Or at least if they have, they haven’t written down how.”
I think of Hagan, his urgent warning.
“I may be able to get us there,” I say, slowly. “But I need to talk to someone first.”
“Then we should go,” the Scholar says. “Now! I will prepare a team for the journey, and you will do … whatever you need to do. The sooner we leave, the better chance we’ll have.”
“That won’t be necessary,” a deep voice says from the outer room. The Scholar turns, and swears in Jyashtani. Karakoa is standing in front of the stairs, arms crossed. Zarun lounges beside him, one eyebrow delicately arched. “You’ll be coming with us, Deepwalker.”
21
“Don’t,” the Scholar hisses to me, “do anything—”
He cuts off, but I get the drift. Stupid. Violent. Such as killing these two and making a run for it.
There was a time when I’d have considered it. But I’ve seen Zarun fight, and I doubt I could take him and Karakoa together. And, unlike back in Kahnzoka when I was cornered by the Immortals, I have something to lose. If I die here, Tori dies with me, and Meroe as well if the Scholar is right.
So this time, I let them take me. It turns out to be the right move. Zarun is no fool, and there are a dozen armed crew waiting nervously outside the entrance to the Captain’s tower.
“I’ll work this out,” the Scholar says. “Don’t worry.”
We’re not bound and gagged, but the circle of guards marks us clearly as prisoners. We descend via the cage, in carefully managed shifts so I’m never alone. I’m honestly impressed—the Ward Guard in Kahnzoka would have given me a dozen chances to slash someone’s throat and make a run for it by now. Zarun catches my eye and smiles, as though it’s all one big joke, but Karakoa’s expression is grim.
“So what happens now?” I ask, when we’re on the deck.
Karakoa shakes his head. “It has yet to be decided. For the moment, you will be detained.” He glares at the Scholar. “And you will explain your actions to the Council.”
“Gladly,” the Scholar says. “Maybe this time you’ll actually listen.”
That doesn’t make Karakoa any happier. They take us to the First Tower, at the corner where Soliton’s side and rear walls come together. I’d expected to be shoved back down in the Drips, where Pack Nine had originally been quartered, but instead there’s a long hallway fitted out as an actual cellblock. Guards open the door to one of four small rooms and gesture me inside. I hear the clatter of bolts and bar after they close it.
As cells go, it’s not bad. Sleeping pallet, chamber pot, water basin. No rats. I’ve paid good money for worse rooms, frankly. I stretch myself out on the pallet, suddenly feeling the exhaustion that’s been hovering somewhere behind me since last night. I haven’t slept since before we went after the dredwurm, and my eyeballs feel like they’ve been wrapped in wool.
For a while, though, I can’t rest.
There is no Captain. There is no Captain. But the Scholar thinks he can control the ship.
So why are my instincts screaming at me that something’s wrong?
Why do I feel like he knows more than he should, and he’s telling me what I want to hear?
Does Meroe hate me?
Focus, Isoka.
I open my eyes. There’s a small candle on a shelf, but I haven’t bothered to light it, and no light is seeping through the cracks in the door. But I can see, just barely. A tiny trickle of gray light runs up through one of the walls, pulsing strong and fast. I edge over to it and press my hand against the metal.
“Hagan, are you there?”
It’s a moment before his voice comes. “… weak. Can’t hold … long.”
Rot. I have so many questions, it’s hard to stick to the most important.
“If I get to the Garden,” I say, “will I be able to turn the ship? Avoid the Rot?”
Another pause. “… no. Not enough…” His voice fades, then returns. “… Garden will protect you.”
“Just me?”
“Whoever reaches it.” His voice is strained. “Hurry. It’s…”
He fades away again, the river of gray light dwindling to a trickle, like a dying spring.
“Hagan?”
No answer.
* * *
I don’t remember falling asleep, only waking to a sharp rap on the door. I sit up, head full of fragments of dream.
“Who’s there?” I call out, before I fully remember that I’m stuck in a cell.
“’Tis Clever Jack,” says Jack. “Here to see the business done.”
“Jack?” I shake my head, trying to rouse myself. “What are you doing here?”
“I am charged with escorting you, so you might bear witness and understand. But I must have your word that you will not attempt to escape.”
“My word?” Back in Kahnzoka, I would have rolled my eyes at this, and happily made whatever promise she wanted. For some reason, here it brings me up short. “I … yes, I promise. I won’t run for it.”
“Well and good,” Jack says. “I would hate to have to kill you, but such is the fearsome duty that has been laid on me if you violate your oath. Now, bide a moment.”
There’s a heavy clunk as the bar is removed, and a metal screech as Jack shoots the bolts. I blink against the light from the corridor, which outlines Jack in her hunting leathers. The guards are nowhere to be seen.
“So you’re not breaking me out?”
“Only temporarily, I’m afraid. But I have every confidence you’ll be all right in the end.”
I stand up and stretch. At least the pain in my back has subsided a little.
“Have you heard what happened?” I said.
Jack catches my meaning. “I have. When Zarun made it clear to the Princess he knew the outlines, she confessed everything. I am sorry about Berun.”
“Me too.” I pause again. “And does Meroe … is she all right?”
Jack frowns. “I’m not certain, in truth. But she has emerged from isolation, which is something.”
“Good.” I swallow. “That’s … good.”
“Now come,” she says. “You wouldn’t want to miss the show.”
“Where are we going?” I ask, following Jack out of the cell. To my surprise, she doesn’t turn toward the entrance, but rather farther down the corridor.
“By secret ways, to secret ends,” Jack says. “More precisely, through a gap in the wall to listen at keyholes. Here.”
At the end of the corridor, a panel of scrap metal is bolted to the wall, with a rusted-out section visible behind it. Jack steps up and does something to one of the bolts, and the whole thing swings loose, leaving us looking into a dark space. It’s not quite a corridor—a long, solid-looking beam occupies the top half, so we have to stay crouched after we duck to pass through the hole. Jack leads the way, confidently making a couple of turns, until she stops in a narrow alcove where we can stand up. There’s a slitted grating just above my head, with light shining through.
“What’s in there?” I ask.
Jack lays a finger to her lips and speaks in a whisper. “The Council’s private chambers. They will begin their deliberations soon.”
My eyes narrow. “Zarun sent you, didn’t he?”
Jack shrugs, but she looks very pleased with herself.
“Why?” I ask. “What does he want me to hear?”
“Listen, and find out.”
It’s not long before voices filter back into the wall. It takes me a few moments to sort them out—Karakoa’s deep bass, Zarun’s pleasant tenor, the Butcher’s drawl, and Shiara’s crisp, unaccented Imperial. And, of course, the now-familiar voice of the Scholar. It was maddening not to be able to see, though. It felt like watching a stage play from behind the curtain.
BUTCHER: This isn’t like you, Scholar. I knew you were mad, but this is rotting reckless, too.
SCHOLAR: When catastrophe is imminent, inaction is reckless. I have to act because you all refuse to do so.
KARAKOA: We’ve heard your reports. But there is still plenty of time for Soliton to turn south before it reaches the Rot.
SCHOLAR: You have no idea how much time there is, and neither do I. No one knows how far beyond the shores of the island the influence of the Rot extends.
SHIARA: If, in fact, it extends at all. The ship may sail past in perfect safety.
BUTCHER: We’re not here to have this rotting argument again. We’re here because you did something stupid.
KARAKOA: Indeed. Showing the Deepwalker the truth of the Captain’s tower was … unwise.
SCHOLAR: I need her help to save us all. Apologies if that broke the rules.
KARAKOA: They exist for a reason. The myth of the Captain keeps order among the crew.
SCHOLAR: Why? So that everyone can die in an orderly fashion?
SHIARA: You’ve been awfully quiet, Zarun.
BUTCHER: For rotting once.
ZARUN: Apologies. I’ve been thinking.
BUTCHER: For rotting once.
KARAKOA: Enough. Have you come to any conclusions?
ZARUN: I must say I am inclined to think the Scholar, while he should have informed us, had the right idea.
BUTCHER: What?
KARAKOA: Explain.
ZARUN: The Deepwalker is a unique figure.
BUTCHER: My frozen arse. She’s a rotten piece of gutter quim—
ZARUN: She killed a dredwurm with a pack of four. How many of you would have taken less than twenty to that fight?
SHIARA: That just proves she’s a fool.
ZARUN: I think that, in the long run, we will have to admit her to the Council. So the Scholar’s sharing the secret with her is … premature, but not a catastrophe.
SCHOLAR: There is no rotting long run. Have none of you been listening?
BUTCHER: And I’d freeze my tits off before I let that bitch on the Council. One is bad enough.
SHIARA: He has a point.
KARAKOA: Enough! You all know the penalty for transgressing the Captain’s tower is death. I am in favor of applying that penalty. Rules must be respected. What do the rest of you say?
BUTCHER: I want the bitch’s severed head to shove down my toilet and piss on.
SHIARA: I …
ZARUN: Rare to see you uncertain.
SHIARA: The Deepwalker’s popularity is troublesome. I worry that executing her may lead to discontent.
ZARUN: My vote is to enlist her, not kill her.
KARAKOA: That means we are divided. What if she challenges?
There’s a spate of rapid whispering, what sounds like Shiara and the Scholar, too low for me to hear. I turn to Jack.
“What does he mean, challenge? Like when I challenged Ahdron?”
Jack nods. “If the Council are divided on a punishment, you’re entitled to challenge for your life. If no one is willing to face you, you go free.”
Small chance of that.<
br />
ZARUN: I certainly won’t face her.
SHIARA: Nor I.
KARAKOA: I admit I am … reluctant. Perhaps we should reconsider—
BUTCHER: To the Rot with that. I’ll rotting fight her, if you’re all such frozen cowards.
ZARUN: You’re certain? We all know she’s quite powerful.
BUTCHER: Don’t make me laugh, you miserable prick. I’ll kill her with one hand jammed up my arse, and have enough left for you, too, if you want some.
SHIARA: Karakoa, we need to speak. In private.
More whispers, and the sound of people moving about. Jack beckons me away from the grate, and we hunch down once more and retrace our steps.
“So because Zarun won’t agree to execute me,” I say, “I get to fight the Butcher in the Ring?”
“Quick on the uptake, our fearless leader,” Jack says. “That’s the gist.”
“He knew this was going to happen?” I shake my head. “Of course he did. He was practically baiting her.”
“Zarun and the Butcher have been at daggers drawn since I came aboard,” Jack says. “Only the pressure of the other two keeps them from open war. Which is, of course, the point of having rules. If the officers could fight each other we’d soon all be crab food.”
I remember Zarun’s smile, the day he’d taken me to look for dresses and we’d run into the Butcher.
“You wanted to know why I’m helping you? 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?”
“Don’t be silly. I don’t hold grudges. Hate makes people stupid. If this keeps up, sooner or later she’ll make a mistake. And then…”
“He set her up,” I say quietly. “He saw this coming, and now…”
He’s using me, a knife he can afford to lose. If I kill the Butcher, all the better for him. If I die, then he hasn’t lost much.
Rot.
“He didn’t send you into the Captain’s tower,” Jack says, sounding a little offended. “If he hadn’t argued on your behalf, you’d face simple execution, with no chance to fight your way out.”
“I’m sure another occasion would have presented itself.” If I hadn’t given him the opportunity, he would have created one. “Is the Butcher as tough as she looks?”
Ship of Smoke and Steel Page 29
