Page 122 of Ship of Smoke and Steel

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.