Page 130 of Ship of Smoke and Steel

Meroe looks at her hands. “I’m not going to shout from the rafters about it. But … gods, Isoka, this is what I want. My father can go to the Rot.”

I lean in and kiss her. For a moment, I think we’re going to start all over again, but with an effort Meroe pulls herself away.

“They’re waiting for us,” she says.

“Rot.” I sigh. “If we survive—”

“Indeed,” Meroe says. “Let’s survive.”

Meroe had stuffed the outfit I’d worn to the officers’ audience into the bottom of her bag. I change into it now, leaving my half-shredded, bloodstained things behind. Tightening the straps, I take deep breaths, reveling in the sensation of stretching without pain. This time, there aren’t even marks on my skin to show where the wounds had been.

Of course, as Meroe said, it’s possible we’ve just gotten lucky. Just because her powers have saved me twice doesn’t mean they won’t turn me into a bloated monstrosity the next time. I can’t get careless.

Still, I feel good. Great, even, the mad charge of the healing blending into postcoital satisfaction and a night’s rest, leaving me with a bouncy energy. Once I’m dressed, I ignite my blades, listening to them part the air with a soft hiss, and feel the heat from my armor. I dismiss one blade, and try envisioning an opening flower on that arm, as Zarun recommended. To my surprise, it works. The armor dims around the rest of my body, leaving me with a round shield of green light. I practice shifting back and forth several times, but it already feels natural.

I wonder if, had the Immortals caught me young, they’d have taught me these tricks in the Legions. In the Sixteenth Ward, the raw power of being a Melos adept had always been enough. Only on Soliton had I realized how much there could be to learn about a power that had always felt instinctive. If we survive, I have practicing to do.

If we survive. Like Meroe said, let’s survive.

The officers are surprised to see me at the morning council. Zarun and Karakoa both sport bandages, and I recognize the smell of Sister Cadua’s powerburn poultices. The Scholar looks gaunt, his cheeks hollowing out, his cane tapping nervously. Shiara seems untouched, her lip paints and makeup still perfect, but underneath even she is showing the strain.

“We’re almost there,” I say, as I join their circle. “But there’s a lot of crabs in the way.”

The Scholar’s eyes widen. He can see the thread of intangible gray energy that spools out from my chest, leading into the darkness of the Center. He stares at me for a moment, and I raise an eyebrow.

“That’s certainly good to hear,” Shiara says. “Morale has … not been good.”

“I know,” I tell her. “I’ll be joining the vanguard today.”

“You seemed pretty badly hurt yesterday,” Zarun says. “Though I hear your actions were quite heroic.”

I tap my face, the blue lines. “I heal fast, it seems.”

“Indeed.” Zarun’s eyes are unreadable.

“In that case,” Karakoa says, “I recommend that I take rear guard. We are spread very thin.”

I glance at Meroe, who has come up behind me. She nods.

“If there’s anyone not in the hunting packs who can touch Sahzim,” she says, “I’d like to gather them just behind the vanguard. They should be able to tell us if any more crabs are hiding under the bridges.”

Everyone nods in approval. Wielders of Sahzim, the Well of Perception, were usually scavengers rather than hunters, but this was a good way to use their talents.

“We should move as soon as we can,” Meroe says. “We’re not sure how much ground there is left to cover.”

“I’ll get my people started,” Zarun says.

The others disperse to their various tasks. I give Meroe a grin as she goes back among the column, then turn to Zarun, who is watching me with what looks like concern.

“What?” I ask him.

“You’re certain you’re all right?” he says. “It’s not going to do morale any good to have the Deepwalker collapse from blood loss in the middle of a fight.”

“I’m fine,” I say.

“If you say so.” He stretches, wincing. “I wish I was. It’s been a long time since I had to push this hard.”

For a moment, I feel guilty. Meroe can’t help everyone. Even if she could, half of them would probably go into hysterics at the thought of being touched by a ghulwitch, and she’d end up getting lynched.