Page 29 of Ship of Smoke and Steel

I pause, shrug.

“She killed it,” Meroe says, to my surprise. “I was there.”

“Sure.” The man snorts. “I’ll tell you what I think. I think you found a dead blueshell and you’re looking to impress everyone your first day aboard. That it, eh?”

He matches my gaze, weaving slightly. Drunk. I wonder how much trouble I’d be in if I just killed him. Probably quite a bit, but I’m still tempted. A quick twist, inside his reach, a thrust to the throat, and that would be the end of it.

Meroe probably wouldn’t like it. No sooner does the thought occur to me than I chase it away. What does it matter what Meroe would like?

I force myself to break eye contact, ceding the stupid pissing contest, and hope that’s enough to placate him. Out of the corner of my eye, I see him take a step forward, and I get ready to kill him after all. Then Jack steps between us.

She’s not intimidating, at least physically. She’s shorter than me, and while my frame might charitably be described as “wiry,” Jack looks like you could break her in half over your knee. But her wide, mad eyes meet the drunk’s, and he recoils like he’d touched a hot coal. Whatever he saw there, it’s gone by the time Jack turns around, grinning and leading me by the hand across the courtyard.

Another woman steps in front of us, and Jack breaks away to jump into her arms. She’s one of the oldest I’ve seen on Soliton, maybe twenty-five, an iceling with broad shoulders and a solid, muscular build. Her long blond hair hangs in a spreading curtain past her shoulders, and her clothes are practical leather, layered with crab shell. There’s a sword at her hip, a short, ugly thing whose grip is stained from long use.

Jack wraps her arms around her neck, and kisses her like none of the rest of us are watching. I blink, startled. Jack presses her thin, androgynous body against the iceling woman’s ample curves, and I find myself looking away, feeling uncomfortable.

It’s not as though I’m unaware of the fact that there are women who like women or men who prefer men. The Blessed One disapproved of such practices, but while that might hold some sway with the nobility in the upper wards, the people of the Sixteenth Ward are too busy trying not to starve to fret much about it. And, judging by the steady trickle of lonely aristos who work their way through our brothels, even high on the hill they don’t pay much heed to the official morality.

Even in the Sixteenth Ward, though, it wasn’t something you did in the open. Even if everyone knew—and everyone always knows, when you’re packed into a tenement so close you can hear every board creak—you didn’t …

Meroe has gone very still, like she’s torn between staring and looking away in disgust. I wonder what they think of this sort of thing in Nimar.

Focus, I tell myself. There’s more important matters to deal with.

Such as Zarun. He’s sitting at the table beside the two women, grinning broadly. His clothes are different from the last time I saw him, but no less garish, maroon trousers and a dark vest sewn with interlocking circles of gold that hangs open across his muscular chest. He raises his eyebrows, then coughs gently.

The older woman pushes Jack away. “Sorry, love,” she says, at the thin girl’s pout. “But we’ve got company, remember?”

“Oh yes!” Jack spins around, beaming again. “This is Isoka, mighty slayer of crabs, and her pack mate Meroe. Isoka, this is Zarun, and his second, Thora.”

“It’s good to meet you,” Thora says, with a half bow. “I’ve heard about what you did. Very impressive.” She gestures to the seat across from Zarun.

“I didn’t know killing the rotting thing would make me so notorious,” I tell her, sitting down. Meroe stands next to me, hands clasped, eyes on the smiling killer on the other side of the table. “I was just trying to stay alive.”

“It’s not just killing the blueshell,” Zarun says. “The Butcher thought she was throwing you to the crabs, putting you in Pack Nine. Now you’ve tweaked her nose quite nicely.” His dazzling grin broadens. “I like that a lot. I have a feeling, dear Isoka, that we’re going to get along.”

He looks at Meroe, then up at Thora. “Perhaps you and Jack could show Meroe around Crossroads. And get us a drink while you’re at it.”

“I—” I begin, but Meroe interrupts.

“That would be fine,” she says, all quiet dignity. “This is such an … interesting place.”

Thora waves to one of the gray-clad children, who takes off for the bar at a run. As Thora and Jack escort Meroe away, the child comes back with a pair of small clay mugs, full of something frothy that smells alchemical. Zarun takes a swallow, and I follow suit, carefully. It tastes like rotten fruit, but there’s a powerful kick that burns my mouth and leaves a trail of numbness all the way down my throat. I force myself not to cough and take another drink. He nods approvingly.

“So,” he says. “Fresh meat, and for your first trick you mouth off to the Butcher. I have to say I’m surprised. Back in the pit I had you figured for the quiet type.”

“Some people just rub me the wrong way.”

“The Butcher rubs everyone the wrong way,” Zarun says, leaning back in his seat. His eyes sparkle with mischief. “Most people are smart enough not to make an issue of it.”

I shrug. He takes another drink and gestures with the glass.

“For some reason,” he says, “she decides not to kill you, and instead sticks you in her punishment pack, under poor old Ahdron. No doubt she hopes that you’ll get yourself eaten, but instead you manage an impressive kill your first time out.”

“Like I said, I didn’t find out it was impressive until later,” I say.

“It’s a hell of a story,” he says. “So where do you think it goes next?”