Ship of Smoke and Steel

by Django Wexler

  Kiss her. Because she’s a better person than I could ever hope to be.

  Then she looks at the floor, and all the certainty drains out of her face.

  “What’s wrong?” I ask.

  “I…” She swallows. “Be honest with me. Can you beat her?”

  “The Butcher?”

  She nods. “I realized I just assumed you could do it. I think I’d believe you can do anything. But…” Meroe shakes her head. “Please, Isoka. Don’t just tell me everything will be all right. If you—if something happens to you, then it’s all for nothing. Can you?”

  This is my way out, I realize. If I want it. If I say I think the fight is hopeless, then I’ll be able to talk Meroe down, get her to come with us. We’ll be safe. Maybe.

  Or else I roll the dice. Save everyone, or die trying.

  Rot.

  I don’t care about everyone. Maybe that makes me a monster, but I’ve always known that. To save Tori, to save Meroe, to save my own skin, I’d kill every crew on the ship if I had to. But—

  There’s more to saving Meroe than just keeping her alive. If I take her with me, and we live when everyone else dies, then she’d never forgive herself. The goodness in her, the part that makes her care, might be snuffed out forever.

  Then she’d be a monster, too. And I can’t accept that.

  “I can beat her. I beat the hammerhead and the blueshell, and they were both bigger than she is.”

  “Right,” Meroe says. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to doubt you. It’s just if you went in there, because I asked you to, and … got hurt, or anything—”

  “I’ll be fine,” I tell her. And I will be. For her sake, if not for mine.

  “I’ll start laying the groundwork,” she says. “There’s a few people I know who can probably help.”

  I raise an eyebrow. “Have you been starting a revolution without me?”

  “Not … exactly,” she says. “But you kept talking about getting close to the Captain. I thought we might need some support eventually.”

  “Be careful.”

  “You too.”

  She looks up at me, hesitates, then leans forward impulsively. Her lips brush mine, as light a touch as a butterfly’s wing, less a kiss than a promise of things to come. She backs away, eyes wide as though amazed at her own daring, grinning like a fool. I think there’s a matching smile on my own face.

  Without taking her eyes off me, she gets up and bangs on the door to the cell. I stand up as the guards pull the bar and let her out, drinking in the sight of her as long as I can.

  “Wait,” I say, once she’s gone but before they can shut the door again. Both guards tense, as though they expect me to try something.

  “I need you to find Zarun,” I say.

  “Zarun doesn’t have time for you anymore,” he says.

  “He will. Tell him…” I pause, then shrug. “Tell him I’m ready to kill the Butcher for him.”

  * * *

  “Not bad, for a cell,” Zarun says, looking around. “I didn’t realize we kept prisoners in such luxury.”

  “It’s feeling less like a cell and more like an audience chamber,” I say. “I’ve had half the Council in here so far.”

  “I’d expect nothing less of the mighty Deepwalker.” He looks down at his nails, flicks away a bit of grit. Today he’s dressed soberly, in shimmering black velvet and crimson ribbons. “I ought to be very angry with you.”

  “For stealing the dredwurm’s eye, or for seducing you first?”

  “My memory of that night is a little fuzzy, but I don’t believe I took much seducing.” He grins, then lets it fade. “I’m sorry about your man. You shouldn’t have gone after it with a pack of four.”

  “They were the only four I could trust.”

  “Jack would be hurt, if she heard that.”

  “We both know Jack and Thora work for you first and me second.”

  “True.” Zarun sighs. “Ah, well. I can’t find it in me to hold it against you. The hunt for the eye was always a distraction, and truthfully I’m glad to have it over with. Things are difficult enough as it is.”

  “Do you believe the Scholar?”

  “Soliton’s never gone close to the Rot before. I still have a hard time believing it would do something so dangerous. Why collect us all, only to kill us?”

  “The Scholar says it isn’t alive. Just a kind of a machine. It may not understand.”

  “There’s still a few hundred miles to go. And even if we stay on course, nothing says we’ll get close enough to the Rot to be in danger.” He pauses. “Do you believe him?”

  “Let’s say that I think he has a point.”

  “And yet you sent the message that you’d be willing to kill the Butcher.” Zarun looks at me curiously. “You didn’t like the offer the others made you?”

  “I can always go after I’ve won the challenge,” I say. “If the Scholar is wrong, it’d be nice to have somewhere to come back to.”

  Zarun laughs. “Poor Shiara worked so hard to convince everyone it would be better to get rid of you quietly. It’s a shame to waste all her effort.”

  “Not from your point of view. This is what you wanted me for from the beginning, isn’t it?”

  He runs his eyes up and down me, with a faint smile. “Not the only thing.”

  “Well. Now you’ve gotten everything you wanted.”

  “And yet I find myself unsatisfied,” he says.

  He steps across the room, closer to me. I’m standing by the sleeping pallet, my back to the wall, and I look up at him without giving ground. His smile widens.

  “Have you given any thought,” he says quietly, “to what happens after you win the challenge?”

  “Do I get to be on the Council?”

  “It’s not quite that simple. To be on the Council, you need a clade, a power base of your own. There will be a … realignment. One that is potentially very favorable to me.” He leans a bit closer. “And to my partners.”

  “Partners. There’s a slippery word.”

  “Would you prefer something more … solid?”

  “Are you making me an offer?”

  “You are a remarkable woman, Isoka Deepwalker. I find that I want you for more than a pawn or a quick rut.” His voice drops. “You’ll have a place by my side in the Council. Authority in the clade. Safety for you and your pack.”

  “And all I have to do is warm your bed?”

  “I consider that a benefit, not a drawback,” he says. “But if you kill the Butcher for me, I will owe you a considerable debt. And I hate owing debts.”

  “An attractive proposition,” I deadpan.

  “I thought so.”

  “How about this? I kill the Butcher for my own reasons. As for the rest, we’ll see.” I shoot him a challenging stare. “Maybe I’ll just keep you in my debt.”

  “You never give an inch, do you?” He sounds genuinely impressed.

  “Not if I can help it.”

  Zarun grins like a wolf.

  23

  And so I find myself in the Ring. Again.

  I had thought the crowd was impressive the last time I was here. This time, it rises up around me like a bowl. They stand on boxes, and tables, and barrels, and bookcases. Now and then there’s a splintering crash and a wave of laughter as some priceless, overburdened object gives way.

  On the dais sit the officers. Zarun is taut, expectant, eyes gleaming. Karakoa looks on with interest, while Shiara affects boredom. The Scholar is sullen, arms crossed, tapping his cane nervously. The Butcher’s chair is empty.

  Meroe is on the other side of the arena, pressed against the jury-rigged rail. I’m glad to see Aifin by her side, along with Jack and Thora. There’s a chance that things could go very badly today. Worse comes to worst, I hope they can keep her safe.

  As for me, I’ve been given the opportunity to bathe, though not to change clothes. So I’m still in my hunting leathers, stained with sweat and blood, which is perhaps appropriate. My hair is t
ied back and pinned up. As I wait, I stretch, feeling the tug of half-healed burns on my back. In spite of its scars, my body feels light, energized. I bounce on the balls of my feet, and smile at the roar of the crowd.

  Then the Butcher arrives.

  Rot, she’s big. Not just big for a woman, but bigger than a human has any right to be, with barrel-thick arms, fists like knots of sausage, legs like tree trunks. She’s made all the larger by her armor, the same elaborate kit I saw her in the first night I arrived. Her blond hair is concealed under a narrow-visored helmet, and overlapping plates of crab shell cover her torso, her shoulders, her knees. Her hands are swathed in long leather gauntlets, with the white flash of the razor-sharp tooth on the back of each palm. Her sword is a rectangular thing like a cleaver, with no point but a gleaming, freshly honed edge.

  Enough. It’s not like I haven’t fought big bruisers before. Never so elaborately equipped, to be sure, but how much difference will that make against Melos armor and blades? Jack said that the Butcher has a touch of Rhema, which means she’ll be faster than she looks. And maybe Melos as well, though she can’t be very strong, or why rely on that monster sword?

  My eyes find Meroe in the crowd again, and I take a deep breath. I can do this. I have to do this.

  The deck doesn’t actually shake as the Butcher makes her way across the Ring. That has to be my imagination.

  “Hello, Butcher.”

  Her lip curls. “I knew I should have killed you for talking back.”

  “I knew I would have to kill you eventually.”

  “Better girls than you have tried.” She leans closer. “When I’m finished taking you apart, I’m going to take your princess and cut her into tiny pieces. Just remember that when you’re bleeding out.”

  I let out a breath, feeling strangely calm. “You won’t.”

  “You think Zarun will protect her? That two-faced prick? He’ll sell her to me for half a bucket of crab juice once you’ve failed him.”

  “Meroe can protect herself.”

  “Her? The girl who stood there and whined about her father while I beat her bloody?” Her lips part in a nasty grin. “That’s the funniest thing I’ve heard all day.”

  “Isoka Deepwalker.” Karakoa’s voice booms across the Ring, and the spectators quiet. “You stand accused of trespass in the Captain’s domain. Since the Council is divided as to your punishment, your challenge has been accepted. Do you still assert your innocence?”

  “I do,” I say, as loud as I can. If everything goes according to plan, I’ll be asserting more than that.

  “Then we will see if the Ring proves your case.” He sits back in his chair. “Begin.”

  I ignite my blades with a crack-hiss, familiar energy coursing down my arms. The Butcher is raising her sword, but it’s too heavy and she’s too slow. I’m already dodging around her left side, one blade swinging, the other on guard against a sudden lunge.

  I’m expecting a trick, waiting for one. But the blade connects, slashing across her crab shell armor in a spray of green energy, leaving a scorched, smoking path. Where two plates join, I feel it slip through and bite into flesh, and as I dance away I can see blood blooming on her flank.

  “Ooh,” the Butcher says, turning to face me. She has her huge sword held in front of her now, as though its weight were nothing. “That stings.”

  She’s still smiling, and I can see why. This could be a problem. Her vulnerable spots are well protected, and she’s so big that I’ll have a hard time doing lethal damage unless I can get to her face or throat. Meanwhile, on the one hand, if I get tagged by that sword, it’s going to hurt, armor or no armor.

  On the other hand, staying out of the way of the huge blade shouldn’t be difficult. And she’s still human. If she’s bleeding, she’ll go down eventually.

  Golden light shimmers around her, as though she were briefly outlined by an invisible sun. Rhema, the Well of Speed. When she moves, she’s faster, though not as blurringly fast as Aifin. Touched, like Jack warned me, rather than a full adept. I give ground for a few steps, getting a feel for her speed and reach. She swings the cleaver blade back and forth, a steady, rhythmic attack that cuts the air with a thrum. It’s easy to predict, and I dart forward as she goes into the backswing, aiming my blade at her leg.

  She can’t get the sword around in time, but she slashes at my chest with her off hand, using the tooth like a punch dagger. My blades slam into her armor, and crab shell breaks with a crack. The Butcher grunts as Melos power leaves a long, bleeding line on her thigh. At the same time, her tooth skitters across my body, repelled by shimmering armor. I feel the impact as a line of heat, warm but tolerable.

  I come to a halt a few yards away from her, and she turns to face me, big sword whirling in front of her. She’s wearing a thoughtful expression.

  “You’re as good as everyone says.” She nods, as though acknowledging me. “A full Melos adept.”

  “You’re welcome to give up, assuming that’s allowed,” I tell her. “I’m not really clear on the rules.”

  “Oh no.” She chuckles. “You’re going to be begging me to kill you quick. I’m just going to have to show off a little, that’s all.”

  She comes forward, cleaver-sword flashing in a dangerous figure eight. Again, I go for her unguarded side, moving around her before she can turn. This time I aim for her shoulder, hoping to slip my blades under the plate there. Her off hand comes up again, and I have a moment to register that there’s a shimmering aura around it, a halo of magical energy that matches the crackling green of my armor. Suspicious, I abandon my attack, darting back, and get far enough out of range that her fingers barely brush against my stomach.

  There’s a brilliant flash, and crack like the world’s largest branch breaking. Heat rolls over me. For a moment I can’t see, my vision full of flaring afterimages. Green lightning crawls across my body, earthing itself in long arcs to the deck.

  The kick comes out of nowhere, slamming into my stomach. Even with the Melos armor, it would be enough to knock me off my feet, with all the Butcher’s weight behind it. I go limp, letting it carry me, ready to hit the deck and roll—

  —but the Melos armor doesn’t flare. There’s no crackle of green fire or spray of lightning. Just a thump of bone-cracking impact, and an abrupt spike of pain.

  I don’t even notice when I hit the deck, skidding across it to sprawl on my back. The world spins around me, the sound of the crowd an oceanic roar in my ears. Every breath is an agony, not the familiar pain of powerburn but something sharp and nauseating.

  Rot, rot, rot. Get up, Isoka.

  I raise my head, expecting to find the Butcher bearing down on me, but she’s still several yards away, propped on the hilt of her oversized sword. I force myself to roll onto one shoulder, gathering my legs under me. Blood gushes from my midsection, splashing across the deck. I put my hand to my stomach and find a neat hole in my leathers and the flesh beneath, torn skin hot against my fingers. The Butcher has one of those sharp, triangular teeth on her boot, too, and it’s now dyed red.

  She makes no move to attack as I shakily regain my feet, one hand still pressed against the wound. Once I’m up, she straightens, stretching her shoulders and heaving that monster sword into the air again.

  “Bit of a shock, isn’t it?” she says, conversationally. “Not used to having holes punched in you.”

  I close my eyes, concentrate. My blades shimmer to life with a crackle, but the warmth that my armor should conjure doesn’t follow. When I open my eyes again, the Butcher is holding up a closed fist, wreathed in sparking green energy.

  “Won’t work,” she says. “Not until I let go. I never had enough control in Melos to protect myself, but I learned this trick from a Jyashtani boy. Interference, I think he called it.” Her grin turns vicious. “How do you like being mortal, you rotting bitch?”

  Then she comes forward, sword swinging, trailing the golden light of Rhema as she moves with preternatural speed. I back up, dodgi
ng, not daring to parry a blade that heavy. Every move tears at the hole in my stomach, the leather around it now sodden with blood. I can barely think through the pain.

  When we reach the edge of the Ring, I have to do something or get backed into the barrier. The Butcher is coming at me with big sideways swings, all power and no finesse. I slip in behind one, feinting low and then jabbing one blade right at her face. She takes the feint strike on her thigh, Melos energy crackling over armor, and blocks the high strike with her off hand. As I spin away, she pulls back, and the tooth on her gauntlet leaves a long cut along the length of my arm. Fresh pain blooms, and blood spatters the deck.

  “Getting a little weary?” she says, watching me sway. She slaps the spot on her thigh where I cut her and grins. “I can keep this up all day.”

  She’s rotting right. Even if I could trade cut for cut with her, I’ll drop long before she does. Sooner or later I’ll be slow enough that she’ll catch me with that sword, and without armor one hit would cut me in half.

  I’m backing up again, staying out of range. Something roils in my gut, around the pain, that’s so unfamiliar it takes me a moment to identify.

  It’s fear. It’s been a long time since I was afraid in a fight. I’m suddenly aware of my body, not just as an instrument for delivering death, but in all its horrible fragility, its soft skin that parts so easily beneath a blade, its bones that break under pressure. There had been a moment, when the hammerhead had me pinned, but then it had been do-or-die. Now I’m faced with this grinning monster, and I’m practically running away, feeling thick, hot blood squirt between my fingers.

  I feel like I’m twelve years old again, before my powers came to me, when all I had to defend me and Tori from the next slaver or rapist was a two-inch knife and whatever strength an underfed kid could muster. We were always, always running. In my dreams, we were cornered by laughing shadows.

  I try to force myself to move. To fight, rot it. But the Butcher’s blade whirrs, and the razor teeth on her armor gleam, and I fall back.