Page 133 of Ship of Smoke and Steel

Eddica energy is all around me, here. The whole Garden is thick with it. He has to be able to hear me.

Meroe grabs my arm. “The doors,” she says. “Look. See where they fold?”

I follow her pointing finger. On the Garden wall, steel is folded up like a paper fan on either side of the huge doors. I imagine that metal flexing, straightening, blocking the entrance. She’s right; she has to be right. There has to be a way to close them. But there are no pulleys and cranks, nothing to grab on to, and the steel sections must weigh tons.

Everything on this ship operates by Eddica power. I try reaching out for the doors, as I reached out for the dredwurm, but there’s nothing there to twist, no flow of energy.

“There has to be something. Hagan!” I turn around, wildly. “Close the rotting doors!”

There’s a tug at my chest, as though someone had yanked on the thread anchored there. For a moment, I hear Hagan’s voice in my ear, thick with pain and distortion.

“Isoka, he’s here. You have to help; I’m trying, but I can’t get out—”

It vanishes, abruptly.

Oh, rot. Oh, rot rot rot.

“Meroe, I have to find the Scholar.”

“What?” She turns to me. “Why?”

“No time. Just trust me.”

“I—” She shakes her head. “Of course I trust you. Go!”

I run, back toward the line. Karakoa is standing just inside the doorway, but the rest of the hunters are beginning to edge away. A few have already run into the Garden. I told them they’d be safe here, didn’t I? I can’t blame them for believing it.

“Hold here!” I try to shout over the sound of battle, and I can barely hear myself. “You have to hold here!”

I skid to a halt beside Karakoa. Thora, Jack, and the rest of the vanguard are gathered around, looking uncertain. The big Akemi looks down at me, blade purring softly in his hands.

“This is the Garden?” he says. I can hear the doubt in his voice.

“This is the Garden,” I say. “I’m going to get this door closed, and then the crabs will be locked out. But you have to hold here until I can. If they get in, it’s not going to matter!”

For a moment, I think he’s going to argue. His jaw moves from side to side, as though trying to crack a nut in his teeth. I notice for the first time that he’s wounded, bloody cuts in several places on his arms and legs and the telltale scorch marks of powerburn on his shoulders. None of it seems to slow him down. Zarun, a few paces away, tries to get up off his knees and fails. He’s bleeding, too.

Karakoa nods.

“Go,” he says. “We will hold here, as long as we can.”

“Thank you—” I start to say, but he’s already raised his voice into a bellow that cuts through the shouts and blasts like a trumpet.

“Stay at the door! Do not let them pass!”

The hunters who’d drifted away jerk to a halt, as though someone had tugged on their leashes. The vanguard who’d accompanied me throw themselves into the fight as well. With a narrower area to defend, they have a chance, even with thinned numbers. Karakoa wades forward, blade slashing, and Zarun finally clambers to his feet. His shirt hangs open, and there’s a bloody slash across his chest, washing his light brown skin with gore.

“I’ll be back,” I tell him.

He nods, too. I can’t tell if its belief or resignation on his face.

I turn and run.

My first thought is to find someone who’d seen the Scholar, but the thread of gray energy in my chest is still tugging. It’s changed direction, leading not toward the center of the Garden, as before, but off to the side. Playing a hunch, I follow it, the springy grass unfamiliar under my feet after so much time walking on steel and mushrooms.

Along the edge of the big circular chamber, there’s a staircase, hard to see from a distance. It ascends in a curve, following the wall, and passes through the fake sky. The thread leads me to the bottom, and I pound up it, boots clanging on grated metal steps.

Above the sky, there’s a metal ceiling. The stairs cut through it, and onto another level. Instead of grassland, there’s forest, overgrown tree trunks stretching away as far as I can see. Something chitters from the canopy overhead. A fat raindrop lands on my arm.