Ship of Smoke and Steel

by Django Wexler

  Blessed’s rotting balls. Is this how Meroe feels all the time? Is this how Berun felt, when we guilt-tripped him into coming with us, fighting monsters without the benefit of magical armor? I feel like I would go and hide in a dark corner and never, ever come out.

  The Butcher is right. I’m only brave because I’m strong. Take that away and I’m falling to pieces.

  To the Rot with that.

  I dive sideways as we reach the barrier again, the Butcher’s sword whirring over my head. She kicks out, the tooth nicking my leg, but I’m already rolling away. I get back up, breathing hard, my vision starting to swim. Not long left, now.

  But if she thinks I’m going to give up, she’s wrong. I might have been scared, before I gained my power, but I kept going. The scars that mar my skin are a record of beatings, knife fights, frantic scuffles in the dark. Every time, I got back up, standing between my sister and the world that wanted her dead.

  She’s still behind me, somewhere. So is Meroe.

  This rotting monster has to have a weakness. She’s too confident, for one thing. She could have cut me down while I was surprised by her trick, ended this in one strike. But she had to lecture me first, make me understand how badly I’d lost. What else?

  She’s practiced this style of fighting, the slow, brutal cuts, wearing an opponent down until one connects. She’s comfortable with it. When I get in close, she relies on her armor to keep me from doing serious damage.

  —relies on her armor—

  A slow smile spreads across my face.

  The Butcher isn’t the only one who can make the Melos Well do tricks.

  I concentrate as I back away, letting one blade vanish, shortening the other into a vicious spike. Melos energy builds up in my arm, bringing it to an uncomfortable pitch of heat. I hadn’t considered this before—against most human opponents, it would be too dangerous, reducing my reach and leaving me no way to parry. But now—

  —I launch myself forward, before I can think about the consequences.

  The Butcher swings her sword, and it forces me to the side. Her off hand comes up at the same moment, a short jab sparkling with golden Rhema light. I accept the blow, the long tooth punching into my chest under my breast, its edge grating against a rib. I grab the Butcher’s wrist to hold myself in place and swing the spike, aiming for the join between two armor plates on her side. Melos energy screeches against crab shell as I drive it in, punching deep.

  “Ow,” the Butcher says, sounding more annoyed than angry. “You—”

  I release the energy built up in my fist, and she screams.

  Her skin is lit from within for a moment by a flickering green light, bleeding forth through the gaps in her armor. Her wide-open mouth throws an emerald beam, and two more burst out of her eyes. Her muscles lock rigid for a second, keeping her upright, and I stagger back and away. Then, with a clatter of plate, she collapses to the deck.

  The crowd has gone silent. I step forward again, carefully. Under her helmet, the Butcher’s exposed skin has blackened and cracked. Wisps of smoke rise from the gaps in her armor, and the air stinks of burnt meat.

  I blink and look up at the crowd.

  Now what?

  There was something I was supposed to do, something I was supposed to say to all these people. Meroe had coached me, but all the words have fled my mind, draining away with the blood flowing freely from the two holes in my torso. I try to fill my lungs, but all that does is make me cough, and the pain from that drives me to my knees.

  Someone is running across the floor of the Ring. I look up to see Meroe kneeling beside me, halfway to tears already.

  I try to apologize, to tell her that the plan isn’t going to work, but all of a sudden I can’t hear anything because everyone is screaming.

  * * *

  Something big is moving through the crowd. At first I think there’s a fight going on and people are trying to get away from it. Then the crab rises on blue, spindly limbs, towering above the assembled crew. A blueshell. All around the ring, knots of panic and rising screams indicate it isn’t the only intruder.

  After a stunned moment, the air suddenly fills with the flash and bang of flying magic. Bolts of Myrkai fire erupt, washing over the blueshell, blooming in balls of flame on its carapace or missing entirely to burst among the crowd. More screams, the shouting of pack leaders trying to organize a defense, the panicked rush of people determined to get out of the way.

  The blueshell stalks forward, clawed arms rising and falling, already tinged with blood. The mass of sword-tipped tentacles at its mouth stretches out, slashing and skewering, lifting bits of torn flesh to be consumed. I see a boy rolling on the ground, clutching at the stump of his arm, moments before the tentacles descend and silence him for good. One big claw grabs a younger girl, lifting her screaming into the air. She lashes out desperately with her Xenos Well, twisting waves of shadow battering the monster, but its grip tightens inexorably. She shudders and goes limp, spine bent at an unnatural angle, and her sorcery fades away as the crab feeds her into its whirling razor-sharp tendrils.

  I look up at Meroe, who is staring around with wide eyes. “Help—” I cough, which sends me into a whimpering ball of pain. Teeth clenched so hard they’re about to crack, I force myself to grab her hand. “Help me up.”

  “Isoka?” Meroe looks down at me. “Gods, stay still! You’re bleeding—”

  “Help.” I swallow. “We have to help.”

  She shakes her head, and reaches down to put my arm over her shoulder. “We have to get you out of here.”

  I’m too tired to argue. Too tired, in fact, to get very far. We manage to stumble a few steps past the Butcher’s steaming corpse, and then my legs give out, and I slump back to the deck. The blood that patters to the metal is a deep, rich red. I stare at it, fascinated, as the puddle starts to spread.

  “Isoka!” Meroe’s voice is a shriek, but it rings hollowly in my ear. “Get up. You have to get up.” I feel her arms around me, trying to lift me, but she’s not strong enough. It hurts, when she tries to move me. I want to tell her to stop, to just let me rest awhile, but I can’t force the words out.

  The blueshell enters the Ring, moving with quiet, eerie grace. Most of the crowd is gone, now, leaving a few hastily organized defenders. They surround the thing with swords and spears, splashes of Myrkai fire and Rhema speed. Blood leaks from it in a few places, but as I watch it lunges forward, claws clacking. A big iceling man is picked up and hurled through the air like a rag doll, crashing to the deck a hundred yards away. An Imperial woman with a long spear stands her ground, stabbing at the crab’s mouth, but its tendrils wrap around the weapon and yank her closer. One long blade-tentacle slashes her open from crotch to breastbone, spilling her guts in a gory mass. The crab steps gently over her still-twitching body, coming in our direction.

  “Meroe.” My voice is a croak. “Run.”

  “No.” She bends closer, to whisper in my ear. “Hold on, Isoka. I’m going to heal you.”

  I remember Berun, screaming. I feel Meroe’s hands grow warm on my arm, the energy coiled inside her, ready to burst forth. I can feel her hesitate, trying to force the power out and hold it back, pushing and pulling on the door at the same time.

  It won’t work. She can see that as well as I can, and no words are necessary. She leans forward, wrapping herself around me, putting her body between me and the crab.

  “It’s all right.” I’m not sure if I mean it. I’m not sure if she can hear me.

  There’s a flash of green.

  Zarun stands only a few feet away. His elaborate, immaculate outfit is splashed with blood in several colors, and his hair is sopping with the stuff. But none of it seems to be his, and he’s ringed in a crackling, writhing aura of Melos power. The crab swings its claw down, a strike with the weight of a falling boulder behind it. Zarun meets it head on, throwing up his arm, a circular shield of Melos energy flickering into being and holding the crab at bay with spitting arcs of light
ning. Irritated, the blueshell brings its other claw up, and Zarun throws out his other hand. Bands of pale blue Tartak force wrap around the huge limb, holding it in place.

  “Any minute now, you muscle-bound idiot!” Zarun shouts, above the snap-hiss of magic and the shouting all around.

  Karakoa comes up behind him, at a run. He’s at the center of a storm of Melos power, too, his hands held together to grip a long, curved energy blade, like a two-handed sword but impossibly thin. He skids to a halt under the blueshell’s claw, weapon humming. After a moment’s pause, the crab rears back, but its claw stays in place, severed at the joint. Zarun lets it drop, spinning wildly on the deck and spewing dark blood. Karakoa pivots, lunges, and slashes the long blade through the blueshell’s second claw, which falls away as easily as an autumn leaf. Zarun lets his shield disappear, and his arms sprout blades like mine. Together, the two of them move in.

  But my eyes are closing. I have time to think that I’m going to have to get him to teach me to do that, and then darkness engulfs me, sucking me under like thick, black oil.

  24

  “You’re luckier than you have any right to be,” Sister Cadua says. “This one bled like a bastard, but it only tore the muscle. I’ve put some fellspike powder in with the bandage, so it shouldn’t fester.” She draws a needle through my flesh, purses her lips in satisfaction, and bites the end of the thread before tying it off. “The other one got caught in the rib and missed your lung, or we wouldn’t be having this conversation.”

  “I’ll try—ow!” She gives me an uncharitable grin as she finishes the knot with a tug. “I’ll try to get stabbed a little less next time.”

  “Good. We’re a little swamped at the moment.”

  Meroe, sitting at my side with my hand held tight in her lap, says, “Thank you, Sister Cadua.”

  “You’re welcome, dear.” The Jyashtani woman smiles at her. “Remind this stubborn girl that if she tries fighting anytime soon, those are going to open right up again.”

  “I’ll do my best,” Meroe says, with a dark glance at me.

  Sister Cadua leaves and there’s a knock at the door. We’re in the First Tower again, a significantly nicer part of it than my old cell. It looks like someone’s bedroom, hastily repurposed as a hospital. Several sets of sheets have been sacrificed to make bandages and towels.

  “Come in,” I manage. Meroe pulls the bedsheet up to cover my bare torso, swathed in bandages, before the the door opens.

  The Scholar looks none the worse for wear, his cane tapping, but his features are drawn. When you go around prophesying doom, I suppose it’s something of a mixed blessing to be proved right. He looks over his shoulder and closes the door behind him.

  “It’s good to see you so…” He waves a hand vaguely. “Alive.”

  “Doesn’t mince words, does he?” Meroe says.

  “Not that I’ve noticed.” I shift, wincing at the pain. “What’s happening?”

  “The packs have retaken the walls,” the Scholar says. “Crabs are still coming, but a little slower now.”

  “How did they get over the walls in the first place?” I say.

  The Scholar shrugs. “Nobody expected every crab in the Stern to come at us at once. I’ve never seen anything like it.”

  Blessed’s balls. Hagan had warned me there was no time left.

  “It’s the Rot,” I tell the Scholar. “It’s … doing something to the crabs. Egging them on.”

  He frowns at me. “It’s a theory. But we’re still hundreds of miles off.”

  “Which means it’s going to get worse. You wanted to know what happens to everyone? This is it.”

  He swallows, and straightens up. “If that’s true, then it’s already too late.”

  “Maybe not.” I glance at Meroe. “We have to get to the Garden.”

  “That’s what I came to ask you. You and I can set out at once—”

  “Not you and me,” I say. “All of us. The whole crew. I don’t know if it’s possible to turn the ship, but even if it is, it’s obviously too late for that. The Garden will protect us.”

  “How can you possibly know that?” he snaps.

  “You have your sources, and I have mine,” I say.

  He snorts. “Even if I believed you, what then? Move everyone the length of the ship? It can’t be done.”

  “I think it can,” Meroe says. “I’ve been … planning.”

  “Regardless,” I say, “it’s not your decision. Tell the Council I need to talk to them.”

  “They’re not going to want to listen,” the Scholar says.

  I exchange another glance with Meroe. “They’re not going to have a choice.”

  * * *

  The Council’s meeting room is more impressive from the other side of the grate. A big, ornately carved wooden table practically fills it. We arrive well before the others, so Meroe has time to help me to a seat, hovering protectively beside me. The Scholar takes his position with bad grace, hands tight on the head of his cane.

  The others come in, one by one. Shiara is in yet another silk kizen, this one green and black, with a pattern that puts me in mind of a poisonous spider. Her lips and nails are colored to match. Zarun has managed to change, but there are still traces of crab blood in his curls and on his skin. Karakoa wears a full suit of wooden armor, a weird, insectile helmet held under one arm.

  “Deepwalker,” he says. “Congratulations on your victory.”

  Some victory. I’m full of holes. I shrug.

  “Ordinarily, this would be when we would come to some kind of … accommodation. But,” he goes on, “I’m afraid we don’t have time for negotiations at the moment. People are dying on the walls as we speak.”

  “A hammerhead brought down a whole section near the Fourth Tower,” Zarun says. His bravado is dulled by exhaustion. “I’ve never seen them attack the barricades like that.”

  “We’re still hunting down all the little ones that got through,” Shiara says.

  “I appreciate all of that,” I say. “But I need you to listen to me. This isn’t going to get better. It’s the Vile Rot that’s driving the crabs crazy, and the closer we get the madder they’re going to be.”

  The three of them exchange looks. Karakoa turns to the Scholar.

  “Is this true?”

  “It’s … possible,” the Scholar says. He looks sour. “Isoka isn’t willing to share the source of her information, so I can’t say for certain. But I have always guessed that approaching the Rot would be dangerous.”

  “They surprised us,” Shiara says. “But we’ve beaten them back. If they keep coming, we’ll keep killing them.” She shrugs. “Eventually they’ll run out of crabs.”

  Zarun shakes his head, wearily. “There’s no end to them. Soliton is huge, and for all we know it’s packed with crabs from bow to stern. My packs are already getting tired.”

  “I agree,” Karakoa says. “This can’t go on forever. I suggest we retreat to the Drips. The tunnels are more defensible.”

  “We won’t be able to hide behind barricades,” I say. “You just told me a hammerhead broke through. If we’re packed tight in a tunnel, that would be a disaster!”

  “Besides,” Zarun says, “what happens when the dredwurms come after us?”

  “So, what?” Shiara turns to me. “We give up? Cut our own throats?”

  There’s something different about them, all three of them. They’ve always been fractious, proud, quick to snap at one another. Now they’re afraid. They can all see what’s happening, even if they don’t want to admit it.

  “We take the crew forward,” I say. “To the Garden.”

  Shiara snorts. “The Garden’s as much a myth as the Captain.”

  “She is correct,” Karakoa says. “Jarli went looking for the Garden. If anyone could have found it, it was her.”

  “She didn’t know the way. I do.” I hope.

  Zarun glances at the Scholar. “You believe this?”

  “Again, I have no pro
of,” he says. “But I think it’s worth investigating.”

  “Which is why I offered to let you two try,” Shiara says. “Instead, she chose to kick the table over, at what turns out to be the worst possible time. Some of the Butcher’s packs are already fighting each other.”

  “There isn’t time to investigate,” I say. “There isn’t time for anything. We have to go now.”

  They’re all staring at me now, even the Scholar. I take a deep breath, feel a sharp pain as it pulls at my stitches.

  “Isoka,” Zarun says. “You have to know we can’t.”

  “That’s too much risk for a single throw of the dice,” Karakoa says.

  “I’m not asking you,” I say. “You’re right; this isn’t a negotiation.”

  “Excuse me?” Shiara says. “You may have escaped execution, but you’re not—”

  “Meroe?” I interrupt.

  “There are two options here.” She stands up, with a smooth smile on her face. “First, the Council can agree with us, and we’ll present a united front. Or, second, once we’re done here Isoka and I go outside and start telling everyone the truth. The Captain is a lie, the ship is headed for the Rot, and the only way to safety is reaching the Garden.”

  “What makes you think they’ll believe you?” Shiara says.

  “They’ll believe the Deepwalker,” Meroe says. “Who was caught in the Captain’s tower. Who killed a dredwurm. Who fought the Butcher and won.”

  There’s a long moment of silence. I can see the three of them working it out, and coming to the same conclusion. They look at one another.

  “Or,” Zarun says slowly, “we can make sure you don’t walk out of here.”

  “Don’t be stupid,” the Scholar says.

  “It’s not stupid,” Shiara says. “She’s threatening the Council.”

  “I have made a few friends,” Meroe says. “They’re expecting me. If I don’t show up, there’s a letter they’re supposed to open.”

  “Let me guess,” Shiara says. “It says that the evil Council has imprisoned or murdered you.”