Ship of Smoke and Steel

by Django Wexler

  “Forgive me if I don’t know the procedure,” I tell him. “Are we supposed to bow?”

  “Go and rot,” he says, jaw clenched.

  “You don’t have to do this,” I say. “This is your chance to get out from under the Butcher’s thumb for good. What did she offer you to kill me?”

  He glances up at the officers. “We had an agreement,” he says. “And you stabbed me in the back.”

  “Forgive me if I’d rather not spend my life working for someone who wants me dead.” I yawn, stretching my arms over my head. “And I haven’t stabbed you anywhere. Yet.”

  “So rotting cocky.” His right hand clenches tight, and wisps of smoke rise from between his fingers. “Is that how you got chosen as a sacrifice? Mouthed off to the wrong person?”

  “More or less.”

  “Ahdron, leader of Pack Nine.” One of the officers stands up, the big warrior, his voice booming across the ring. “Isoka Deepwalker. Are you ready?”

  Ahdron nods, tightly. I give a nonchalant wave.

  “The challenge is recognized by the Captain and the Council,” he says. “The victor will be the new pack leader. The winner will accept the loser’s surrender, and show mercy.” He raises a hand, then lets it fall. “Begin.”

  I’m not expecting any mercy from Ahdron. Killing me would please the Butcher, and I’m certain he’s eager to curry favor. And, all bluster aside, I’m having doubts.

  I’ve spent my life fighting. Half the time, that alone is enough of an advantage. Most people, even criminals and thugs, avoid violence if they can help it, unless it’s against people who can’t fight back. When you go up against a gang of street toughs, you can see in their eyes who the real hard men are, and who’s spent their time kicking people while they’re down.

  Ahdron has the look. He’s done this before. And, in a crucial way, he’s more experienced than I am. On Soliton, everyone’s a mage-blood, and if he’s not bluffing, Ahdron’s even faced Melos users before. I’ve never fought anyone with their own Well before, much less an adept.

  Some things are obvious, though. I have to stay close to him. If he opens the range, he can throw fire at me until my armor overheats and I have to choose between being cooked by powerburn or Myrkai flames. In close, if he has to face me with an ordinary sword and shield, my blades and armor should give me an advantage. I hope.

  I ignite my blades with a crack-hiss, and Melos green shimmers across my body, earthing itself in crackling lightning on the deck. To my surprise, Ahdron doesn’t back away to gain distance, or even go for his sword. Instead, he flexes the fingers on his right hand and drops into a crouch. A ball of flame appears in his palm, the air around it shimmering with heat haze.

  First move to me, then. I come in fast on his unshielded right side. He releases the fireball as soon as I move, and it impacts on my arms as I bring them up to block. A wash of heat ripples across my armor, but it’s nothing serious. More dangerous is the fact that for a moment he’s hidden from view by the flash and smoke, and when I come out the other side he’s shifted stance, leading with his shield.

  I swing my left-hand blade at his head, a wide, slow stroke he can see coming a mile away, then shift my balance at the last minute and punch out with the other blade, going for his belly. If he’d bought the feint, it would have run him through, but he’s too good for that. He ducks, letting one blade slash over his head, and takes the second blow on his shield. Energy screeches against steel as my blade slides off in a shower of sparks and crackling green lightning. I spin past and away, but not before he reaches for me with his empty right hand. I get a brief glimpse of white-hot fire—

  There’s a moment of blinding heat and exquisite pain. I’m not certain if I scream.

  Blessed’s rotting balls, that hurts.

  Between blinks, I’m on the deck, curled up on my side, wild discharges of green Melos power arcing and sputtering all around me. Ahdron is standing over me, his hand still glowing, gouts of smoke rising from it. The air smells like scorched metal.

  “I told you I’d fought your kind before,” Ahdron says. “You didn’t believe me. I knew you wouldn’t. Too cocky by half, all of you Melos types.” He closes his fist in a puff of smoke. “Your armor may stop a bolt of fire, but up close, I can make things a lot hotter.”

  No rotting kidding. But I’m not as badly wounded as he seems to think. My armor did stop the blow, even if the powerburn hurt like the Blessed’s own cattle brand. Ahdron hasn’t fought a Melos adept as strong as I am. I lie still a moment longer, blades sputtering and arcing to the deck. He takes a step closer.

  “I’m not going to ask you to surrender,” he says, too quietly for anyone but us to hear. “But lie still and I can make this quick.”

  Unfortunately, he’s not stupid. Before he bends down to jam that white-hot fist into my face, he puts his boot on my arm, and he keeps his shield in front of him. That reduces my options, but he’s still clearly not expecting me to be able to move. I swing my free arm low, under the rim of his shield, and the blade chops into the meat of his leg with a crackle and a smell of burning flesh. He shouts and stumbles back, and the injured leg gives way underneath him, sending him to one knee. I roll away, gaining distance.

  Pulling myself to my feet brings a fresh wave of pain from my side, and I blink away tears. He gets up at the same time, teeth gritted, clearly hurt but still able to stand. I raise my blades, staring at him through a field of crackling green.

  “Surrender?” I force a smile.

  “Rotting … bitch,” he hisses, through clenched teeth.

  I take this as a no. He raises his free hand and unleashes a gout of flame, Myrkai power washing over me. My armor flares, but it’s mild compared to the concentrated heat he can deliver up close, a distraction rather than an attack. I charge, swinging left to get out of the blast, and he turns to meet me shield first. I lash out with one blade, then the other, Melos power leaving blackened streaks on the metal and notches in the rim. When he tries to counter, open hand darting forward full of white-hot flame, I step back and slash down, and he has to retreat to avoid losing his fingers.

  For long seconds, we dance like this, my blades hacking at his interposed shield, him trying to get a hand on me without getting it chopped off. His power may be vicious, but it means he lacks reach, and we’re briefly at a stalemate. I become aware, for the first time, of the sound of the crowd, a vast, ocean-like roar of cheers, screams, and curses. As we circle, the officers come into view, the Butcher watching with a sneer, Zarun regarding us calmly over folded hands.

  Ahdron backpedals, pelting me with small bursts of fire, hoping to wear me down. I bull through them, trusting my armor. Between the washes of fire and smoke, I watch him. I watch his feet, the way he drags his leg, and when the time is right I lunge.

  He takes one strike on his battered shield, but I aim the other low, and he has to give ground. But he’s off balance, and when he puts his weight on his bad leg it folds. He goes down hard, shield ringing against the metal of the deck, and he’s wide open.

  Step forward, reach down, thrust, and twist. The easiest thing in the world. I’ve already begun the motion when something catches my eye, movement in the stands, a familiar face forcing her way to the edge of the ring. Meroe.

  Berun is beside her, but in that instant all I can see are Meroe’s eyes, wide as a cat’s at night. I hear her voice in my head.

  “You’ve done that before, haven’t you?”

  “What?”

  “Killed people.”

  I see Shiro’s face. The girl who’d been unlucky enough to be in Firello’s when I came calling, begging through her tears. Hagan’s last look at me, his trust.

  I see myself through Meroe’s eyes. Monster.

  I don’t pause for long, but it’s long enough. Ahdron fights through and lets loose with another blast of flame, blinding heat raging all around me. I have to back away, gasping for breath, the pain from my armor rising to bone-deep agony. I can’t kee
p this up much longer.

  “Surrender,” I manage. Now I’m the one gritting my teeth.

  Ahdron, somehow, is getting back to his feet. Blood drenches his calf, and he’s limping, but he’s still up. He can see me weakening.

  “Go rot,” he says.

  The crowd is screaming, and my armor crackles and sparks. Through it all, I hear her calling my name.

  “Isoka!” Meroe’s voice is hoarse. “Isoka!”

  I lock eyes with Ahdron.

  So I’m a rotting monster. It’s not like I didn’t know that already.

  I come at him again, as his hand blazes white fire. A descending slash with my right-hand blade and he raises his shield to meet it. I bring the other blade around, and he twists to intercept that, too—

  —and I let the blade vanish. I grab the jagged rim of his shield, green lightning shimmering and crawling as my armor touches the metal. I pull, hard, and he takes a stumbling half step forward, hopping on his good leg. Too close. I shift left, inside his guard, and as he tries to lean back and get his shield between us I bring the other blade up, an underhand blow that punches the spike of Melos power into his ribs. Then I spin away, fast and smooth, because he’s still flailing with his white-hot palm.

  Ahdron stays on his feet for a couple of breaths, weaving like a drunk. His eyes find mine again, and there’s nothing in them but bewildered pain, as though he doesn’t understand how this happened. Then he coughs, and blood coats his teeth and dribbles down his chin. He falls, first to his knees and then facedown on the deck, and goes still.

  I take another step back, letting my armor fade, the air wonderfully cool on my superheated skin. My breath is ragged, and my side feels like it’s been shredded, but I manage to turn to face the officers’ box. I can’t find Meroe in the crowd anymore.

  The rage on the Butcher’s face is easy to see. The Imperial girl smiles and licks her lips, as though she’s seen something appetizing. The big warrior, who’d spoken to start the duel, gets to his feet.

  “Isoka Deepwalker. Your challenge has been witnessed.” He nods, gravely. “Pack Nine is yours.”

  * * *

  For once, I manage to stay on my feet after a fight, though it’s a near-run thing.

  Whatever custom kept the crowd out of the Ring while the fight was in progress apparently doesn’t apply once it’s over, because the spectators vault the wall and crowd around. The air is full of excited shouting in a dozen languages, young crew in the outfits of the officers’ clades mixing with scavengers and civilians. Objects were changing hands—bits of dyed crab shell, collected on long strings. Money, I realize, or what passes for it here. Of course they were betting on my life or death.

  A group of younger girls pushes their way through the crowd to Ahdron’s body. Once they lift it, people make way for them. His blood patters to the deck as they bear him away, and one arm dangles limply. I wonder what they’ll do with him.

  “Isoka!”

  I have only a moment to brace before Meroe is on top of me, wrapping her arms around me and pulling me close. I feel hypersensitive, as though every nerve in my body had been scraped raw. There’s pain from my burns, the dull ache of exhaustion in my muscles, the twinges from old bruises. The slam of my heart against my ribs, slowing down from its galloping pace, and the rasp of breath in my lungs. Meroe, pressed tight to me, the frizz of her hair on my chin, the shape of her body against my own. The smell of blood, sweat, and burnt flesh.

  She must have said something, because the next thing I know she’s peering at my face in concern.

  “Isoka, can you hear me? Do you need to go to Sister Cadua?”

  “I’m all right.” I can barely hear myself over the noise of the crowd. They’re all around me but hesitate to come too close, leaving me and Meroe in the middle of a small, empty space. “Are you…”

  She nods. I notice for the first time that she’s leaning on me to stay up, her broken leg still splinted. Berun is standing at the edge of the circle, holding a leather-topped crutch.

  “I think we need somewhere to sit down,” I tell her.

  But where do we go now? I crane my head, looking for the officers’ platform and trying to find Zarun. The chairs are empty, except for the Jyashtani boy with the glasses, who’s watching the crowd with an amused expression. I spot the big warrior talking to some crew, but the others are lost in the mob. There’s no sign of the Butcher.

  “Fresh meat no longer!” Someone steps into the circle. It’s Jack, tall and slim, wearing a fey grin. “Isoka Pack-Leader, now. Isoka Deepwalker. And beautiful Meroe, of course.” She bows. “Zarun has sent me to fetch you from this mess, if you require fetching.” She cocks her head. “Do you? Or would you rather bask in your glory a little longer?”

  “I’ve basked plenty,” I tell her, and Meroe nods agreement. She reaches out to Berun, who hands over the crutch. I stay close behind her, ready to grab her if she falls, but she’s surprisingly adept.

  Jack moves her hands like she’s parting a curtain, and the crowd opens up in front of her, the crew once again giving her a wide berth. She laughs delightedly and leads us down the narrow corridor.

  “Make way!” she says. “Make way for the fearsome Deepwalker and Clever Jack!”

  Outside the Ring, we reach clear streets and Jack directs us to the tower where I’d first awoken. I’m expecting to return to the chambers where I met Zarun, but we go in a different door, and then through a curtained doorway off a long corridor. It leads to a large, nearly empty room, with three more doorways at the back. A rickety wooden table and a pair of elaborately carved chairs are the only furnishings.

  “Where are we?” I ask Jack, when she turns and spreads her arms in a grand gesture.

  “Why, the quarters of the illustrious Pack Nine!” she says. “Only the best for the latest and most deadly of Zarun’s hunters.”

  “Quarters here?” Berun says, from behind us. “In the Upper Stations?”

  “As I said,” Jack said. “Zarun is a generous master.”

  “I thought…,” Meroe says, looking at me.

  “I’ll explain in a minute.” I look at Jack. “It’s done, then? Between Zarun and the Butcher?”

  She nods. “Yes, I believe it is. My master can tell you more. I’ll go and find him, if you don’t mind. He asked to be summoned when you were comfortably ensconced.” She turns to Berun, then back to me. “I understand there is one more member of your merry company?”

  “The Moron,” I say.

  “Don’t call him that,” Meroe says.

  I shrug, uncomfortably. “I don’t know his real name.”

  “I’ll go get him,” Berun says. “There’s some things I want to pick up.”

  “Well and good!” Jack practically skips to the door, taking Berun by the arm. “We shall all reunite anon.”

  There’s a moment of silence after the two of them slip out.

  “‘Anon’?” I shake my head. “Who talks like that?”

  “She’s certainly … colorful.” Meroe carefully lowers herself into one of the chairs, leaning her crutch against the table. I take the other chair, gratefully. My side twinges, and I wince. She frowns. “Are you sure you’re all right?”

  “It hurts,” I say, with a shrug. “I’ll live. But what about you? I left you with Sister Cadua—”

  “I think I woke up about a minute after you left,” Meroe says. “Sister Cadua wanted to keep me in bed, but Berun let slip that you were fighting someone, and I couldn’t just…” She shakes her head and takes a deep breath. “I had to see.”

  “I’m sorry I wasn’t there.”

  “Isoka, please. When I woke up I was honestly shocked I wasn’t dead.” Her voice goes quiet. “You dragged us out of the Deeps.”

  “Where I would have died, if not for you.”

  “I—” She grins. “All right. Let’s just agree that we made a good team.”

  “Fair enough.” I find myself fighting a grin of my own. I can still see Ahdron’s
puzzled face, feel his shudder as I ran him through. I’m still a monster, and my side rotting hurts. But Meroe is smiling at me.

  “So what happened with the Butcher and Zarun?” she says. “Why were you fighting Ahdron?”

  My grin vanishes. I take a deep breath and explain, as best I can—Zarun’s rescue, and the deal he offered. My counteroffer, and his terms.

  “Why?” Meroe says. “What’s so important about being leader of Pack Nine?”

  My hands tighten, gripping my trousers. “I wasn’t going to leave you for the Butcher.”

  “Oh.” Meroe looks down at the table.

  “I didn’t—” I swallow. I keep seeing myself through her eyes, bloodstained and brutal. “I didn’t want it to work out this way. I hoped Ahdron would give in without a fight. I thought—” I shake my head. “Sorry. No excuses.”

  “I…” Meroe hesitates. “I can’t say that I liked Ahdron. But I didn’t ask you to kill him for me.”

  “I know.” My stomach roils, like I’m about to vomit. “I told you I’m not a good person, Meroe. This is what I do. I hurt people.”

  There’s a long pause.

  “I don’t blame you,” Meroe says. “I … don’t want people to get hurt. But sometimes there’s no other way. My father told me that, once.” She’s smiling again, a sad smile full of old pain.

  “I’m still going to get us both out of here,” I tell her. “Trust me.”

  She meets my eye. “I do.”

  There’s the sound of footsteps in the corridor outside, and a moment later Zarun enters, with Thora and Jack behind him. He gives a little half bow, blue eyes sparkling.

  “Forgive me if I don’t get up,” I tell him.

  “Of course,” Zarun says. “You’re the champion of the hour. And it was well fought, I must say. I knew you were tough, but I had no idea you were such an artist.”