Page 125 of Ship of Smoke and Steel

Meroe is going over some kind of plan with Shiara and the Scholar. I sit with my back to a support pylon, my breath ragged. I should eat something, but the thought is nauseating.

We don’t have a “camp” in any real sense of the word. No tents, no fires, just a mass of people stretched out on a hard metal deck. Myrkai adepts conjure a few lights. Some people chew on dried meat or mushrooms, but most are too tired to eat.

The rest of my pack have drifted in nearby. Jack, her dapper suit torn and bloodied, lies with her long limbs curled into a tight ball, her head in Thora’s lap. The iceling woman has a hand on her partner’s shoulder, stroking her with gentleness surprising for her size. Aifin sits down beside me, sweat running freely down his face. He takes a long swig from his canteen, then looks over at me.

I gesture, You okay?

He blinks, reaches for the slate that hangs at his belt, then thinks better of it and just gives an exhausted shrug.

I’m drifting into a doze when someone else sits down opposite. It’s Zarun, looking more haggard than I’ve ever seen him, dark bags under his eyes as though he’s taken a beating in a bar brawl. I watch him through hooded eyes, and wait for some banter, a superior grin, or a not-terribly-subtle double entendre. But he just stares at me, until I stir slightly.

“What?” I say.

“Your princess,” he says. “She doesn’t stop, does she?”

“Not that I’ve seen.”

“Freeze and rot.” He lets out a long sigh. “I don’t think I’ve ever been so tired.”

A week ago, he would have added except after our lovely evening together, of course, or something similar. I hesitate, then say, “Your packs have been doing well.”

He nods, bleakly. “Did you know Ghelty? About your age, five foot tall and skinny as a twig, but rot, what a fighter. She was right in front of me, fighting a scuttler, and a blueshell came up behind her. I shouted something, but she just … missed it. Too tired. Rotting thing cut her to bits. I killed it afterward, but what good does that do?”

“I’m sorry,” I say, and somewhat to my own surprise I mean it.

“Meroe was right,” he says. “She made the right decision, and people are dying anyway.”

“Believe me.” My chest feels tight. “She knows.”

“Ghelty used to dance,” he says. “She was such a proper little thing, most of the time, but if you got a couple of drinks into her she’d dance, and it was—”

“Can I ask you something?” I say, hoping to change the subject.

“What?”

“That … shield you make, with your Melos power. How do you do that?”

“It’s not hard,” he says. “Just try to picture the armor opening out, like a flower. It takes a lot of energy, though.”

“Did someone teach it to you?”

“Jarli.” He shakes his head. “God, I wish she was here.”

“Did she teach Karakoa the sword he uses?” I raise my hand. “Half the time my blades just scratch the surface of crab shell, but he cuts right through it.”

“Good trick, isn’t it?” Zarun grins, and looks like his old self for a moment. “He’s a Myrkai talent, you see. Never uses it to throw fire around, but he spreads that energy through his Melos blade. The heat helps it cut clean.”

I’d never heard of two Wells being combined like that, even in people who could use more than one. Though it wasn’t much help to me, since I didn’t have even a touch of Myrkai.

“Glad he’s on our side.”

“Me too.” He cocks his head. “Are you angry with me? For using you against the Butcher?”

“I probably should be, but I’m too tired. Are you angry with me for stealing your dredwurm’s eye?”

“Let’s call it even.”

“I did seduce you.”