Page 19 of Ship of Smoke and Steel

I sit up and look at him more closely. He’s a couple of years younger than me, with a gauntness that speaks of hard, hungry days. He looks Imperial, though a darker tone to his skin might indicate some Jyashtani blood. His clothes are mostly layered rags.

“Thanks,” I tell him, taking a slower drink. The water is tepid but tastes pure. “I’m Isoka.”

“My name is Berun,” he says. “Most people call me the Coward, though.” He glances past me, at Meroe. “Is she going to be all right?”

“I think so.”

“That’s good.”

He settles a little, coming out of his protective crouch. His eyes are still constantly moving, alert for danger. He reminds me of a rabbit, or a rat.

“Ahdron told me to come answer your questions,” he says, after a moment’s pause. “About Soliton, I mean. I’m sure you’re confused.”

“You’ve been here a long time?”

“Only a year,” he says. “But it feels like longer.”

I nod. All right. I don’t know if I trust this strange boy, but information is information, and I need whatever I can get. I tighten the cap on the canteen and set it aside.

“First question,” I say. “Is this really a ship?”

He nods. “I’ve been up to the deck, once. It’s like being on top of a mountain. You can see forever.”

“Zarun said the angels would stop us if we try to leave. Is that true?”

“Yes.” His voice is very quiet, as though he is worried they might hear. “They’re alive. And they can find you anywhere. If you try to leave the ship, they come after you, and…” He swallows hard.

That might present a problem. I make a mental note that the angels need investigating.

“Who’s in charge? Ahdron said something about a Captain.”

“The Captain runs the ship,” Berun says. “He decides where we go, and he controls the angels. But he only talks to the officers’ council, and they make all the decisions for the rest of us.”

A familiar pattern. Back in Kahnzoka, I’d never spoken to the shadowy bosses who were my ultimate employers.

“Is the Butcher an officer?” I ask.

Another nod. “She’s in charge of the fresh meat. That’s why they call her—”

“I gathered that,” I deadpan.

“Sorry.” He cringes a little.

“It’s—never mind.” I shake my head. “Why are we locked in here? Are they ever going to let us out?”

“The Butcher decides where newcomers should go. The officers each have a clade.” He can see my frown at the unfamiliar word, and clarifies hastily. “That’s like … their household. Servants. But not just servants. People who can do useful things and need protection. Then there’s the packs. Most of the packs owe loyalty to one of the officers, too. They’re the ones who go out into the ship and bring back food. There’s hunting packs and scavenger packs. And then there’s the wilders; they live out beyond the Captain’s law and don’t listen to anyone—”

“Slow down, please.”

“Sorry,” Berun says. His apologies seem to be reflexive. “It’s complicated.”

I don’t need to know the details. The structure is familiar—bosses and gangs, just like in Kahnzoka, or for that matter just like a medieval lord and his knights. The strong rule, and the weak serve in exchange for protection. The oldest way of organizing a society.

I feel a little of my confidence returning. I can work with that.

“What about us? This is Pack Nine, they told me. Are all the packs locked up?”

“No.” Berun speaks quietly again, and he glances nervously over his shoulder. “Pack Nine is on probation. Ahdron used to be one of the Butcher’s lieutenants, but he made her angry somehow, so she stuck him here and sends him the dregs.” He swallows. “There were six of us before the last time we went out.”