Ship of Smoke and Steel

by Django Wexler

  “Something like that,” Meroe says. “When news gets around that the Council has turned on the Deepwalker, after she won her freedom by challenge…”

  “Enough,” Karakoa says. “We will not be murdering a wounded young woman with no justification but our fears. I am not so lost to honor as that.”

  “Then what?” Shiara says.

  “If telling the rest of the crew the truth frightens us so,” Karakoa says, “then we should face the possibility that she is in the right.”

  “You’re taking her side?” Shiara says.

  “Meaning what?” Zarun says. “Go along with this plan? Pack up everyone and hope this Garden is real?”

  “We can barely defend the walls,” Shiara says. “How are we supposed to make it past the Center?”

  “Actually, I’ve thought a bit about that,” Meroe says. She takes out a sheaf of Soliton’s speckled, scraped-down paper, covered in pencil sketches. “Let me show you something.…”

  The arguments go on far longer than I would have liked. Far longer than I have stamina for, in truth. I excuse myself and limp back to my bed while Meroe is still debating with the Council, though it’s clear she has the upper hand. The Scholar accompanies me, leaning heavily on his cane.

  “I hope you know what you’re doing,” he says. “For all our sakes.”

  “So do I,” I mutter.

  * * *

  When I wake up, Meroe is in charge.

  It seems like a few moments between the time I close my eyes and the time I open them, but by the sunlight streaming in through gaps in the deck it’s been at least ten hours. One of Sister Cadua’s young assistants arrives to help me clean up and change my bandages, but my efforts to get any news out of her are thwarted by the fact that she’s clearly in awe, bobbing her head and averting her eyes like I was the Blessed Emperor. Once she’s done, I put on a robe and walk outside—carefully—to find out for myself.

  I have to interrogate a half-dozen hurrying crew until one of them will tell me where Meroe is. People are running back and forth on all kinds of errands, carrying bundles outside or bringing back information. It doesn’t look like we’ve been entirely overrun by crabs, which is a cheering thought. Those who recognize me step out of my way as I limp past, murmuring, “Deepwalker,” with a reverence I find seriously uncomfortable.

  Outside the First Tower, the market has been cleared away, replaced with a bustling camp. At the center is a pile of waterskins, bottles, small kegs, anything that will hold a significant amount of liquid, which is growing by the minute as crew run to arrive with more. There’s cloth, too, in a bewildering variety of colors and shapes, curtains and carpets and clothing of all kinds. Well-armed crew are standing around in groups, and a few small dead crabs are in evidence.

  I find Meroe simply by following the crowd. She’s standing at a table in front of the piles, with the Scholar on one side and Shiara on the other. Spread in front of them is a mess of paper, covered in hasty lists and sketches. A dense ring of people, most of whom I recognize as pack leaders, surrounds the table. I grimace, not relishing the prospect of forcing my way through, but as soon as one of them notices me they step out of the way.

  “Deepwalker,” says a huge iceling, wearing crab-shell armor and a sword nearly as big as the Butcher’s.

  “Deepwalker,” an older woman echoes, her blue-tinted hair flopping over as she inclines her head.

  I blink. What in the Rot am I supposed to say?

  Fortunately, Meroe sees me. She says something to the Scholar, then hurries over, taking my arm in hers and helping me away from the crowd. Behind us, the chaos of shuffling paper and shouted orders goes on.

  “Isoka!” Meroe says. “How do you feel?”

  “In quite a lot of pain, to be honest.” I put one hand to where the bandages bulk under my robe. “But I can walk without bleeding, at least. What’s going on?”

  “Well, you talked the Council into trying for the Garden.” Meroe waves her hand vaguely. “We’ve just been working out the details.”

  “It looks like you’re tearing the town apart.”

  “There were some fights over that at first. Karakoa threatened to cut one of the scavengers in half if he didn’t get out of the way, and that clarified things.” Meroe looks at the piles. “My biggest concern is water. Everyone’s going to have to carry some. At least food shouldn’t be an issue. There’s going to be plenty of crab.”

  I half-smile, thinking this is a joke, then decide it isn’t. “They’re still coming?”

  She nods. “Zarun and Karakoa are out at the defenses now. We’ve had to pull people off the walls to give them some rest, so we’re stretched pretty thin.”

  I shake my head. “Is all of this part of a princess’ training, too?”

  Meroe looks surprised. “Of course. A princess of Nimar must be prepared to lead an army in the field, if necessary.” She looks a little embarrassed. “I admit it’s mostly reading and theory on my part. But while I was talking to the Council, it turns out I’m the only one who’s read Anjustius or Gero’s Campaigns, so the others agreed that I should … organize things.”

  They agreed, just like that. I find myself grinning at Meroe. “You’re…”

  “What?” She looks at me, then down at the deck. “I’m sorry I couldn’t consult you, but there wasn’t time—”

  “Please.” I grip her hand. “It’s fine. What in the Rot do I know about putting together an … an army? You’re better off without me.”

  “We’re not, believe me.” Meroe squeezes my hand back. “In fact, now that you’re awake, do you feel up to a short walk?”

  “Where to?”

  “Crossroads. That’s where people are resting. I think it would be good for morale if they could see you.”

  “Good for morale? Why?”

  “You’re the Deepwalker, Isoka.” Meroe lowers her voice. “Most of these people have never left the Stern. Even the hunting packs and scavengers don’t go into the Deeps, or beyond the Center. You’re living proof that it can be done. And you went against the Council because you knew this was coming, and fought the Butcher to convince them—”

  “That’s not true! I didn’t know anything, except what the Scholar had already told them. And I fought the Butcher—”

  “I know that,” Meroe says quietly. “So does the Council. But the rumors have gotten … overheated. At this point, it’s probably best to just let them believe what they need to.”

  Rot. Bad enough that I had to get perforated fighting that monster. Now they’re trying to make me into some kind of saint for it? I shake my head.

  “This isn’t going to work, Meroe. I’m not … what they want me to be. You know. I’m a girl who likes to hurt people, and I’m pretty good at it. That’s all. Not a … a leader, or a savior.”

  Meroe leans closer, putting her head beside mine, her lips to my ear. My skin pebbles to goose bumps at her touch.

  “How do you think I feel?” she says. I can hear the panic in her voice, deeply buried but still there, like lava bubbling underground. “Because I read a few books, they’re treating me like some great general! I am making this up as I go along, and every second I expect someone to stand up and say, ‘Hey, Meroe, you don’t have any rotting idea what you’re doing, do you?’ And then I realize that the reason no one does is because none of them know any better, and I can’t decide which is more terrifying. They ask me to decide things and I do the best I can and people are dying on the walls.”

  I slip my arm around her shoulders, pulling her closer. I can feel her shaking.

  “I’m not what they think, either,” Meroe says, pressed against my chest. “I’m a ghulwitch. If they knew that, they’d have torn me apart by now. But I’m going to keep faking it because I haven’t got any choice, and I need your help.” She looks up, her face close to mine, and my breath catches in my throat. “Please?”

  “Of course.” I put on a shaky smile. “We’ll fool them all together; don’t worry.�
��

  * * *

  Crossroads had also been cleared, its tables and chairs pushed to the edges to leave a broad space. Sleeping pallets and blankets occupy about half of it, covered with exhausted-looking pack members, still in their armor with weapons nearby. The other half is a hospital, with the casualties laid out in neat rows, while Sister Cadua and her people move from one to the next and kneel beside them. Most of the injuries are relatively minor. A few who are worse off groan in pain, or lie ominously still.

  Meroe takes my hand again as we approach, squeezing painfully tight.

  “Some of them are going to have to be left behind,” she whispers. “We’ll carry a few, but the ones Sister Cadua thinks are dying…”

  “Blessed’s balls.”

  “It’s not that many,” Meroe says, desperately. “And some of them may recover before we’re ready to leave.”

  I lower my voice even further. “You could help them.”

  “I tried,” Meroe says, miserably. “Of course I tried. But the power just … wouldn’t come. I’d try to focus, and all I could see was Berun’s face, hear him screaming. I…”

  She trails off, and all I can do is keep squeezing her hand.

  We’re recognized before long, and crew start flocking around. None of them want to get too close, so we end up in a sort of bubble of clear deck, surrounded by a dense, quiet crowd. Looking around at the faces, I feel close to panic. It’s like—

  Every so often, back in Kahnzoka, someone would come to me as ward boss and just … beg. I’m used to people asking for favors, for business arrangements, or peddling a sob story. But every so often, a petitioner looks at me and I can feel the raw desperation coming off them. No attempt at bargaining or plea for sympathy, just need. The feeling that this is the end of the line, the last chance.

  I grant those petitions, as often as I can. Most of the time, they don’t ask for very much. It’s good for my reputation, and honestly I just get uncomfortable with the way they look at me. Now, as I stand in what used to be Crossroads, every face has that look. Men and women, Imperials and Jyashtani and icelings and Akemi and southerners. Kids—so many kids, boys and girls of twelve or thirteen, more than I imagined. Most of the people I’ve dealt with were part of the hunting packs, who tended to be at least my age, but the officers’ clades and scavengers are full of soft young faces, working behind the scenes. Now they’re here, the children who mop the floors, cook the food, clean the clothes, stained with sweat and blood, staring at me like I’m the Blessed One come again.

  “Isoka,” Meroe whispers. “Say something.”

  “What?” I try a smile, and it ends up as a corpse’s demented rictus. “What am I supposed to say?”

  “Something hopeful.”

  Hopeful. Right. I swallow.

  “Um. Hi.”

  Not a great start. Did my voice always sound like that?

  “I know things aren’t … great. But we’re working on it. Meroe is helping; the officers are helping—”

  I’m babbling. I’m almost glad when a voice from the crowd cuts me off, a young man.

  “Where are we supposed to go?” he says.

  “The Garden,” I say. “We’ll be safe there.”

  “How do you know?” says a stick-thin girl, her arm in a bloody sling.

  “It’s hard to explain,” I say. A ghost told me lacks a certain something as an explanation, I have to admit. “But trust me, we can get there.”

  “Why is the Captain doing this?” a younger girl says. “Why would he steer us into the Rot?”

  I meet her eyes, and immediately regret it. She’s Tori’s age, and she has the same intensity as my sister, the same wholehearted belief.

  What am I supposed to say? That the leaders they’ve all put their faith in have been lying to them for years? That there’s nothing in the Captain’s tower but the skeleton of some mad nobleman? That none of us have any clue what controls the ship, and for all we know it could be taking us to the ends of the world?

  “I don’t know.” The lie burns my throat. If you’d asked me, a month ago, what I would do in a situation like this, I would have told you I’d give them the hard truth. Now, staring at those faces, I can’t do it. It’s one thing to kill someone. It’s another to destroy them. “But the Garden is the only chance we have.”

  “The Garden’s a rotting myth!” someone at the back shouts.

  Mutters rise, on both sides. I hold up my hands and get quiet, for a moment.

  “Look,” I say. “You don’t have to believe me. But at least you should know that I believe it. What would be the point of a lie? It’s not like Meroe and I, or the other officers, are going to send everyone off while we stay behind. Right or wrong, we’re all going to the same place. Either everyone will be safe”—I risk a sideways glance at Meroe—“or we’re all going to die, together. That much I can promise.”

  * * *

  We take things slower on the way back. My wounds are hurting badly from even this modest exertion, burning pain stabbing with every breath and every step. Meroe stays by my side, keeping to my pathetic pace. I grit my teeth to keep from screaming.

  “Some good I did as inspiration,” I say, after a while. “I basically told them we were all probably going to die.”

  “I don’t think you said ‘probably,’” Meroe says, with a slight smile. “And you were honest with them. I think it’s what they needed.”

  “I wasn’t, though.”

  “About the Captain?” She gives a shrug, though I can see it troubles her, too. “Sometimes there’s value in a myth.”

  “A lie, you mean.”

  “It’s not the same thing, exactly.”

  I don’t quite get it, but I don’t want to argue. The streets are empty of vendors and hawkers, the stalls crushed or ransacked in the aftermath. Dead crabs lie here and there, scorched by Myrkai fire or cut to pieces.

  “What happened to Aifin and the others?” I ask, ashamed I hadn’t thought of it before now. Some pack leader I am.

  “They’re all right,” Meroe says. “Aifin has been helping with my scavenging work. Thora and Jack are with Zarun at the walls.”

  “Oh. That’s … good.” In truth, I feel numb, distant. “When are we leaving?”

  “Tomorrow morning,” Meroe says. There’s a slight tremble in her voice. “I wish we could do more to prepare, but if the crabs keeping coming…” She trails off.

  “You’ve done everything you can,” I say, quietly. “I don’t think anyone could have done better.”

  “It’s not enough,” she says.

  It will never be enough. Not for her. That’s what makes me want to wrap myself around her and keep her safe from the world. But Meroe is not like Tori, to be kept in blissful ignorance of the blood at the foundation of her fake, beautiful life. She understands.

  She doesn’t want me to keep her safe. She just wants me to help, to try to be as good as she is.

  Rotting Blessed, I want to kiss her.

  25

  By morning, there’s still not enough water, not enough food, not enough medicines or boots. But we’re leaving anyway, because there’s no time left.

  The beginning is the trickiest part, a classic disengagement in the face of the enemy in a manner (Meroe tells me) straight out of Gero’s Campaigns. Everyone gathers together in the shadow of the First Tower, except for the bare minimum of fighting crew needed to hold the walls. Seven or eight hundred people, battered and dirty already, some of them injured. They pick up improvised packs, filled with a little bit of food, a little spare clothing, and as much water as they can carry and still stagger.

  Zarun and Karakoa are still leading the defense, so Shiara and the Scholar assist Meroe in getting the column moving. Pack leaders fan out, taking to the edges of the crowd, making sure no one shirks their burden or gets left behind. Carts would make this easier, even without horses to pull them, but carts would never manage the spiral steps. So everything has to go on someone’s back, or not
at all.

  The youngest scavengers act as runners, darting off into the abandoned city to get messages to the walls. As the column moves off, heading away from the First Tower toward the Center, the fighting packs have to fall back to join it, but not so quickly that we all drown in a horde of crabs. It’s a delicate piece of timing, and I feel completely useless, walking next to Meroe and trying to ignore the pain of my wounds. She listens to returning messengers and gives them answers, telling pack leaders to move in ten minutes, or twenty, or to hold out for more instructions.

  She manages it, somehow. The hunting packs come hurrying back to join the column, exhausted and bloodstained. I catch sight of Jack, still somehow with a spring in her step, and she gives me a jaunty wave as she bounces beside Thora. Meroe assembles them into a rear guard, protecting the column as it winds its way through the Upper Stations.

  The crabs are coming. We’ve blocked off the stairs down to the Middle Deck and the Drips, but once the packs retreat from the walls there’s nothing to stop the monsters from wandering into the city. A few of them charge the rear guard, where Myrkai fire and Tartak force take them apart. I can see blueshells clinging to the First Tower, brightly colored in a shaft of sunlight, and a swarm of scuttlers working its way over Crossroads.

  I don’t have to look at Meroe to know what she’s thinking. Not everyone joined the column. A handful were too hurt to walk; Sister Cadua had left each of them with a knife, for the crabs or for themselves. More had simply refused to leave, including several of the Butcher’s old packs. They’d holed up in the towers, or down in the Drips, determined to fight. Watching the crabs swarm across the city, I don’t think anyone has any illusions that we’ll be seeing them again.

  Eventually, the head of the column reaches the barricaded door that marks the boundary between the Stern and the Center. Here the crew contracts to a dense huddle, reorganizing. I see Zarun and Karakoa for the first time since the Ring, particolored with the gore of a dozen types of monster. The two of them and the strongest of the hunting packs wait while we dismantle the barricade. I stand with Meroe, Shiara, and the Scholar by the door, listening to the sound of fighting behind us. The crabs are silent, as always. It’s the humans who blast them with fire, throw them against the deck with a clatter, or scream in agony.