Page 120 of Ship of Smoke and Steel

“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.”

“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.