It’s not as though I’m unaware of the fact that there are women who like women or men who prefer men. The Blessed One disapproved of such practices, but while that might hold some sway with the nobility in the upper wards, the people of the Sixteenth Ward are too busy trying not to starve to fret much about it. And, judging by the steady trickle of lonely aristos who work their way through our brothels, even high on the hill they don’t pay much heed to the official morality.
Even in the Sixteenth Ward, though, it wasn’t something you did in the open. Even if everyone knew—and everyone always knows, when you’re packed into a tenement so close you can hear every board creak—you didn’t …
Meroe has gone very still, like she’s torn between staring and looking away in disgust. I wonder what they think of this sort of thing in Nimar.
Focus, I tell myself. There’s more important matters to deal with.
Such as Zarun. He’s sitting at the table beside the two women, grinning broadly. His clothes are different from the last time I saw him, but no less garish, maroon trousers and a dark vest sewn with interlocking circles of gold that hangs open across his muscular chest. He raises his eyebrows, then coughs gently.
The older woman pushes Jack away. “Sorry, love,” she says, at the thin girl’s pout. “But we’ve got company, remember?”
“Oh yes!” Jack spins around, beaming again. “This is Isoka, mighty slayer of crabs, and her pack mate Meroe. Isoka, this is Zarun, and his second, Thora.”
“It’s good to meet you,” Thora says, with a half bow. “I’ve heard about what you did. Very impressive.” She gestures to the seat across from Zarun.
“I didn’t know killing the rotting thing would make me so notorious,” I tell her, sitting down. Meroe stands next to me, hands clasped, eyes on the smiling killer on the other side of the table. “I was just trying to stay alive.”
“It’s not just killing the blueshell,” Zarun says. “The Butcher thought she was throwing you to the crabs, putting you in Pack Nine. Now you’ve tweaked her nose quite nicely.” His dazzling grin broadens. “I like that a lot. I have a feeling, dear Isoka, that we’re going to get along.”
He looks at Meroe, then up at Thora. “Perhaps you and Jack could show Meroe around Crossroads. And get us a drink while you’re at it.”
“I—” I begin, but Meroe interrupts.
“That would be fine,” she says, all quiet dignity. “This is such an … interesting place.”
Thora waves to one of the gray-clad children, who takes off for the bar at a run. As Thora and Jack escort Meroe away, the child comes back with a pair of small clay mugs, full of something frothy that smells alchemical. Zarun takes a swallow, and I follow suit, carefully. It tastes like rotten fruit, but there’s a powerful kick that burns my mouth and leaves a trail of numbness all the way down my throat. I force myself not to cough and take another drink. He nods approvingly.
“So,” he says. “Fresh meat, and for your first trick you mouth off to the Butcher. I have to say I’m surprised. Back in the pit I had you figured for the quiet type.”
“Some people just rub me the wrong way.”
“The Butcher rubs everyone the wrong way,” Zarun says, leaning back in his seat. His eyes sparkle with mischief. “Most people are smart enough not to make an issue of it.”
I shrug. He takes another drink and gestures with the glass.
“For some reason,” he says, “she decides not to kill you, and instead sticks you in her punishment pack, under poor old Ahdron. No doubt she hopes that you’ll get yourself eaten, but instead you manage an impressive kill your first time out.”
“Like I said, I didn’t find out it was impressive until later,” I say.
“It’s a hell of a story,” he says. “So where do you think it goes next?”
“Your guess is as good as mine.” I match his gaze. “I’m thinking you might have an idea.”
He laughs, and scratches his cheek. “That obvious, am I? I suppose it’s never been my style to conceal my … interest.”
“So, what? You want me to come work for you?”
“Something like that.” For a moment, his eyes roam my body in frank appreciation. “I think we could do a lot for one another.”
“Maybe.” I sip from the drink—just the smell of it burns my nostrils—and stare right back. Zarun is certainly easy to look at, with his curls and his tight, muscular figure. “I don’t pretend to know how things work here, but my understanding is that the Butcher gets a say in that.”
“Unfortunately. The details may take a little time to arrange. It’s just a matter of figuring out what she wants—”
“In that case,” comes an unpleasantly familiar booming voice, “you’re out of luck, Zarun.”
The Butcher. I turn to see her pushing through the crowd, Haia and a half-dozen cronies behind her. Most of the other crew don’t take much pushing, giving the huge woman a wide berth. Her attention is on me and Zarun.
“After all,” the Butcher says as she stomps up to the table, “you were always worthless at figuring out how to please me.”
“It’s just that there’s so much of you,” Zarun says lazily. “I have to admit I kept getting lost.”
“I can see why the skinny blackhair is to your taste, then,” the Butcher says. “She’s hardly a morsel.” One of her hands rests on the hilt of her cleaver-like sword. “Unfortunately, this one is mine. You’ll have to pass the night without another whore. No doubt the dozen you already keep will suffice.”
“She’s wasted in Pack Nine,” he says, unruffled by the Butcher’s crude barb. “Everyone knows you’re just waiting for Ahdron to get himself killed.”
“I don’t see how that’s any of your business,” the Butcher booms.
“If she’s got power enough to kill a blueshell by herself, then maybe it is Council business.” Zarun looks down at his fingernails. “I wonder what Karakoa and Shiara would say about it? After all, you’re supposed to be assigning the fresh meat for everyone’s benefit.”
“You’re welcome to bring it up at the next session,” the Butcher sneers. “Though if you put your faith in those two, you’re going to be disappointed. And until then, Isoka is part of my pack, and subject to my rules.”
“As you say.” Zarun catches my eye, and winks. “We’ll see.”
* * *
I’m reunited with Meroe on the way out of the market, but the Butcher’s thugs still surround us. Getting back to Pack Nine’s half-flooded cell involves descending a rickety spiral staircase down through the deck, passing another floor before reaching a rusty metal landing. The staircase continues on, but metal pieces have been layered into a barricade where it descends into the floor, blocking off the lower areas. We tromp through the same dimly lit corridors, splashing through puddles, walls flaky with rust.
“Since you’re obviously fully recovered,” the Butcher says, “you’ll be eager for your next assignment. One of the scavenging packs brought back word of a hammerhead feeding in the Wrecks. All you’ve got to do is find it and kill it. We’ll come for you in the morning.”
I don’t want to give her the pleasure of asking what that means, so I just nod. We reach the door to our cell, and the guard wrenches it open. Haia shoves me roughly inside, and another crew pushes Meroe after me.
“You’re going out tomorrow morning,” the Butcher says, loud enough that it echoes through the room. “Get a good night’s sleep.”
“What?” Ahdron surges to his feet. “Going where? I need—”
“Ask Isoka,” the Butcher sneers. The door slams, and I hear the bar slide into place.
I’m left alone, again, with my pack mates. Ahdron strides over and slams a hand uselessly against the door. Then he turns to me, eyes alight with rage.
“What did she tell you?” he says. “Where are we going?”
“Somewhere called the Wrecks,” I tell him. “She wants us to hunt a hammerhead.”
I don’t know what that means, bu
t Ahdron’s dusky skin pales, and he slams his hand against the door again and spits obscenities in a language I don’t know.
“What’s a hammerhead?” Meroe says. “Is it—”
“Shut your rotting mouth,” he snarls, turning on her. “If I had a real pack instead of this rotting useless…”
Meroe tenses but doesn’t step back. For a moment I think Ahdron is going to hit her, but he just turns away with a bitter laugh and walks off. Meroe looks at me, and I shrug.
“Do you have any idea what the Butcher was talking about?” she says.
“Only that it’s probably bad news,” I tell her. “Come on, let’s see if they’ve left us anything to eat.”
It turns out there’s half a bucket of crab juice, still as delicious as ever in spite of being only lukewarm, and most of a loaf of stale bread, plus canteens of freshwater. We eat in silence. I spot the Moron, out on one of the little islands, sitting cross-legged with his eyes closed. Berun doesn’t seem to be around. No doubt hiding somewhere.
Halfway through her second helping of crab juice, Meroe drops the bowl and swears. I look up to find her clutching her hands together, eyes squeezed tightly shut.
“Are you all right?” I say.
“It hurts, is all,” Meroe says. “I’ll live.”
I look at her hands, and remember her grabbing the sword-tentacles of the blueshell, pushing them away as blood ran down her palms. The twisted place in my chest gives a twinge, like a cracked rib.
“It’s probably time to change those bandages,” I tell her. “Do you have any fresh ones?”
She nods, uncertainly. “Sister Cadua’s people gave me a bag. Over here.”
I pick up some canteens and follow her back among the nest of carpets. There’s a hollow space where it looks like she’s been sleeping, with the blood-spattered dress I’d first seen her in lying crumpled beside it. She produces a bag of reasonably clean linen strips, and I gesture for her to sit down. I kneel in front of her, and start untying the strips that bind her palms.
She winces as I work, looking over my head. After a while she says, “I thought you were angry at me.”
“Why would you think that?”
“Because of what I said about Zarun.”
“I’m not angry.” The knot is tight, and I’m tempted to just slash it with a Melos blade. Instead, I tease it gently apart. “I just wanted you to understand. I’m not—”
“A good person,” Meroe says wearily. “You mentioned.”
“It’s more than that. Where I come from, the streets of Kahnzoka, it’s not so different from this.” I get the knot untied, and unwind the tight linen strip. “I had to hurt people to survive there, and I’ll have to hurt people to survive here.”
“It doesn’t bother you?”
“No. Grow up the way I did and it wouldn’t bother you, either.” The last of the bandage is stuck to her skin with dried blood, and I grab one of the canteens. “This is probably going to sting.”
She hisses as I pour the water over her, still looking resolutely away. Once it’s softened a little, I peel the bandage off, then clean the wound with more freshwater. It looks better than I was expecting, a nice clean cut, not too deep and no signs of festering. I wrap it in a fresh bandage and get to work on the other hand.
“So what about me?” Meroe says.
I pause for a moment, and look up to find her staring at me. “What about you?”
“What am I supposed to do?” she says. “To survive. I can’t fight like you can, obviously.”
I look down again. “Plenty of people can’t. They manage somehow.”
“Ahdron thinks I’m useless.” Her tone is perfectly cheerful. “Should I ask him to kill me and be done with it? Or should I ask you?”
“I’m not going to kill you,” I growl. She’s making fun of me.
“Why not? I’d rather get it over with quickly than have some monster eat me.”
“You’re not useless.” I peel the second bandage away and wash her slashed palm. “You just have to learn to be a little more pragmatic.”
“Pragmatic. I like that.” She laughs. “Not evil, just … pragmatic.”
“Just stay close to me,” I mutter, as I tie the bandage up again. “I’ll keep you alive.”
“How generous of you.” She flexes her fingers with a grimace. “But if you’re not a good person, you must want something from me. What is it, I wonder?”
“I told you I have my reasons.”
Meroe stands up, abruptly. “There’s one more.”
“What?”
“Bandage.” She pats her side. “I can’t reach the knot. Can you help?”
“Oh. Sure.” I step back. “Who did these in the first place?”
“Berun,” she says. “I got him to talk to me, a little. He knows a lot about this place.”
“He…”
I pause. Meroe has nimbly undone a set of buttons at the back of her dress, and now she shuffles her arms out of it. It’s still belted, so the top flutters down to hang like an extra layer of skirt, leaving her naked from the waist up. Another bandage runs from under her left arm up around her neck.
She’s not as shapeless as she seemed in that ill-fitting dress. And … toothsome, Ahdron had said. I glance over my shoulder to make sure he’s not watching. When I turn back to her, she’s looking at me with a curious smile on her face.
“What?”
“Nothing.” She tugs at the bandage, arching her back. “Here.”
I step close to her, untying the knot at her shoulder. Her breath tickles my cheek. When the linen comes free, I peel it off, stopping when it starts to stick to the wound, a long, curved gash under her arm and onto her back.
“Lean forward,” I tell her.
She obeys, and I step behind her and pour more water from the canteen. It trickles across her deep brown skin, and I see muscles tense in her shoulders. When it soaks the injury, she hisses through her teeth.
Her skin is so beautiful, smooth and perfect. I think of the scars on my own body, a hundred little trophies from a hundred little battles. Faded, now. Since I learned to control my Melos armor, I haven’t taken many scars, at least not where it shows. But my hands are still rough and callused, and my bloody history is written on my skin for anyone to see.
Meroe will have at least one scar to match mine, when this wound heals. The thought tugs at me in a way I don’t like, as I rinse the injury and wind a fresh bandage.
“What did Zarun want?” she says, unexpectedly. “If you don’t mind my asking.”
“I don’t mind.” I shake my head to clear it. “I’m not entirely sure. I think he wants me to work for him—be part of his clade, I suppose it would be.” I pause to tie off the bandage. “He may also want to rut me. I’m not sure how serious he was about that.”
“To—” Meroe looks over her shoulder at me. “Really?”
“Like I said, I don’t understand everything.”
“And you’re … considering his offer?”
“For the moment, I don’t think it matters. The Butcher showed up and the two of them got into it.” I shrug. “If Zarun can help, it won’t be until after this assignment, at least.”
“But if he can help, you’d take it?”
I feel myself flushing a little, and it makes me angry. “The Butcher seems to be trying to get us killed. I’d rather not spend more time under her thumb than I have to.”
“Even if it means crawling into Zarun’s bed?”
“I have rutted far worse men than Zarun,” I tell her, “for far less.”
“Oh.” Her voice is small. “I … didn’t know.”
“Don’t look so rotting shocked.” I turn away from her. “And do your rotting dress up, unless you want the boys to come stare at you with your tits hanging out.”
“Sorry.” There’s a hasty shuffling of cloth.
“Did you need anything else?”
“What?”
“With the bandages,” I grind ou
t. “Any more help.”
“No.” Meroe pauses. “If you go work for Zarun—”
It’s obvious what she wants to ask. What about me? She’s using me, for the protection I can provide, just like everyone else. It doesn’t make me angry. Everyone uses the people around them, as best they can—the way I used Hagan and Shiro, the way my bosses used me, the way I’ll use Zarun. That’s just the way the world works.
“What?” I say, when she stays silent.
“Nothing,” she says. “Never mind.”
I snort. “Go get some sleep, Princess. You look like you need it.”
* * *
I’m right about that, at least. Within minutes, Meroe is curled up in her nest, snoring in a genteel, aristo sort of way. I find myself too keyed up to rest just yet, although my muscles still ache from powerburn. I walk down to the shore, marked by a scummy, rusted line on the deck, and look across the half-flooded chamber. The Moron is still sitting on his little island, unmoving. I wonder if he’s asleep.
“Isoka.” Ahdron comes up behind me. “Can I have a word?”
“You’re the pack leader,” I say. “Do you need to ask?”
He snorts and steps up beside me, looking out at the little lake and the Moron.
“He just sits like that all day,” Ahdron says. “Rot-for-brains.”
“He managed to stay out of the blueshell’s way,” I say.
“He’s got a talent for making himself scarce. Is there a Well for that?” Ahdron turns to me, running one hand through his hair. “Rot. Look. I feel like we didn’t get the best start.”
I shrug. “I can’t say the last few days have been a great introduction to anybody.”
“I know you’re fresh meat and you don’t know how things work here,” he says. “But you understand the Butcher’s got me in the doghouse, right?”
“I’d gathered that.” I turn to look at him with affected casualness. “What did you do to make her so angry?”
“It’s not important,” Ahdron mutters, flushing slightly. “The point is that I’m not going to be down forever. Sometime—maybe soon—I’ll get out from under her, and this is going to be a real pack instead of a trash heap.”
Ship of Smoke and Steel Page 10