Page 14 of Ship of Smoke and Steel

—“skin left on the bones—”

—“my baby you can’t have her; she’s mine to eat—”

“Blessed One.” I haven’t had much use for prayer in my life. But now I squeeze my eyes shut and beg. “Blessed One and all the heavenly hosts.”

Another screech, thankfully banishing the voices. The cage swings sideways, and I open my eyes in time to see the edge pass underneath me. I’m over a flat surface, now, what I can only assume is the deck of the ship, though it looks like more metal. At the edge of my vision, the gray lights swirl, and something moves. Something big. My heart hammers.

Then there’s darkness below me again. An opening in the deck, ragged edged, like a wound. The cage descends with another screech, the hideous statues passing out of sight. There are walls all around me, now, and I realize I’m being lowered into a pit.

The bottom of the pit is lit by actual lanterns, their wan glow welcome after the weird gray half-light. I can see dim shapes around the edges, crouching in the shadows. The cage comes to a halt about a foot above the deck, swinging slowly back and forth and spinning on its chain. I look around and guess there are a half-dozen people, but none of them seem to want to get close.

“Someone let the lakath out!” a voice shouts, from above me. It’s a man’s voice with a heavy accent I can’t place. As the cage spins, I see one shape detach itself from the wall and come toward me. A young woman, about my age, with very dark skin and tightly braided hair. Her eyes are wide with fear, but she comes forward with slow, deliberate steps, and grabs the cage to stop its spinning. She struggles for a moment with the rusty bolt, then gets it free, and the cage door swings open with a squeal. The woman takes several quick steps back, with the air of someone who has just unleashed a wild beast.

I edge out of the cage and take a deep breath as soon as I’m standing on solid ground. My stomach lurches a little before settling down. It’s hard to believe that I’m on a ship—the metal deck under my feet feels steady as bedrock. I wonder, again, if Naga has played some kind of trick on me.

Focus, Isoka. I draw a slow breath, let it out, pushing back against the fear. Whatever those things were up above, they’re not down in the pit with me. I look around at my new companions. The girl who freed me wears a strange outfit, a long green dress in a style I’ve never seen, with asymmetric silver bands around her arms. She’s not an Imperial—by her skin, I’d guess she was from the Southern Kingdoms, about which I know almost nothing. What she’s doing in Kahnzoka harbor I have no idea.

Behind her, in the corner of the room, a large young man in rough leather stands in front of a girl in a kizen. The girl is younger than me. The boy has a fresh bruise on his forehead and a split lip. He looks like a low-ward brawler, a type with which I’m intimately familiar. He’s sizing me up the same as I’m doing to him, and when our eyes meet, he bristles, like a dog’s hackles rising.

Another young woman in the next corner, huddled in on herself. Her cheap, colorful wrap and gaudy makeup mark her as a streetwalker, one of the lowest rungs on the city’s tawdry ladder of prostitution. Her garments are torn, and her makeup is smudged with blood where she’s been beaten. Completing the group, in the last corner, is a scrawny boy with flyaway hair and threadbare clothes. He looks on the edge of panic.

Not a dangerous group, I assess. The southerner is an unknown, and the brawler could try something. The other three don’t seem like a threat. Then I remember Naga telling me that they only send mage-born to the ship, and change my mind. If these are the latest sacrifices, which seems likely, then they can all touch the Wells. Which means I can’t afford to ignore any of them.

I raise my hands, and attempt a smile. My heart is still beating hard against my ribs.

“Hello.” Because, really, what in the Rot do you say at a time like this?

The brawler cuts me off, stepping forward and pointing with one hand, the girl clinging to the other.

“Are you the one who brought us here?” He has a thick low-ward accent. “Where in the stinking Rot are we? What do you want with us?”

“I didn’t bring you here,” I tell him. “I just—”

“Don’t rotting lie to me!” he roars.

“She came down in the cage,” the southerner says, her voice very soft but distinct. She speaks fluent Imperial with a lilting accent. “I think she was brought here like the rest of us.”

“Then—” the young man begins. He’s interrupted when the cage rises again, the screech and rattle of its mechanism drowning all speech. It passes upward, out of sight. A lantern appears, high overhead, and then several more. I can see the square room we’re in has walls about fifteen feet high and above that is a metal catwalk with a railing. There are people up there, dozens of them, but the lanterns are aimed down at us, so they’re nothing but faceless shadows. I hear laughter and shouting I can’t understand.

The streetwalker starts to cry. I turn in a circle, shielding my eyes against the lights. There’s something that looks like a ladder, hanging from the catwalk, but not quite low enough to grab with a running jump. I glance at the brawler, thinking that I might be able to make it if I stood on his shoulders, but that’s as far as my plan gets.

Someone jumps from the catwalk. He falls fast, and then magic crackles and flares around him, the pale blue of Tartak, the Well of Force. It halts him in midair a few inches off the ground, and then he drops lightly onto his toes.

He has the copper skin and dark, curly hair of a Jyashtani, with high, sharp cheeks and shockingly blue eyes. I guess he’s a few years older than me, perhaps twenty, with an athlete’s build. His costume is outlandish, even by foreign standards. Jyashtani traders in the market usually wear loose white robes with tight black skullcaps, but this young man has cream-colored silk trousers embroidered with a blue-and-green design, a broad red sash at his waist, tied in an elaborate knot on his hip, and a dark shirt that doesn’t fit, half-exposing one shoulder. There’s a sword at his belt, a straight-bladed Jyashtani weapon. His hair hangs loose, longer than any Imperial man would wear it, brushing the nape of his neck.

“Greetings,” he says. His Imperial is good, but not perfect, with the classic Jyashtani rasp. “Welcome to Soliton. My name is Zarun. I’m going to explain a few facts to you, so pay attention. You’ll be here the rest of your lives.”

5

Zarun looks at me first, then at each of the others in turn. I wonder if he’s assessing them for danger like I did. Certainly he doesn’t show any fear. His lips are slightly quirked, as though he finds us vaguely amusing.

“Where in the name of the Blessed is Soliton?” the brawler says.

“Soliton is a ship, not a place,” Zarun says, turning to face him. “And you are all now part of its crew. The Captain is in command, and the officers, including me, carry out his orders. You, in turn, carry out ours.” His smile broadens. “Is that understood?”

“To the Rot with that.” The brawler steps forward, shaking off the grip of the girl behind him. “You’re going to let us off right now.”

“Oh, I don’t advise trying that,” Zarun says. “You saw the things at the rail when you were brought on board? We call them angels, and they serve the Captain. They take a dim view of crew trying to leave.”