Page 30 of Ship of Smoke and Steel

“Your guess is as good as mine.” I match his gaze. “I’m thinking you might have an idea.”

He laughs, and scratches his cheek. “That obvious, am I? I suppose it’s never been my style to conceal my … interest.”

“So, what? You want me to come work for you?”

“Something like that.” For a moment, his eyes roam my body in frank appreciation. “I think we could do a lot for one another.”

“Maybe.” I sip from the drink—just the smell of it burns my nostrils—and stare right back. Zarun is certainly easy to look at, with his curls and his tight, muscular figure. “I don’t pretend to know how things work here, but my understanding is that the Butcher gets a say in that.”

“Unfortunately. The details may take a little time to arrange. It’s just a matter of figuring out what she wants—”

“In that case,” comes an unpleasantly familiar booming voice, “you’re out of luck, Zarun.”

The Butcher. I turn to see her pushing through the crowd, Haia and a half-dozen cronies behind her. Most of the other crew don’t take much pushing, giving the huge woman a wide berth. Her attention is on me and Zarun.

“After all,” the Butcher says as she stomps up to the table, “you were always worthless at figuring out how to please me.”

“It’s just that there’s so much of you,” Zarun says lazily. “I have to admit I kept getting lost.”

“I can see why the skinny blackhair is to your taste, then,” the Butcher says. “She’s hardly a morsel.” One of her hands rests on the hilt of her cleaver-like sword. “Unfortunately, this one is mine. You’ll have to pass the night without another whore. No doubt the dozen you already keep will suffice.”

“She’s wasted in Pack Nine,” he says, unruffled by the Butcher’s crude barb. “Everyone knows you’re just waiting for Ahdron to get himself killed.”

“I don’t see how that’s any of your business,” the Butcher booms.

“If she’s got power enough to kill a blueshell by herself, then maybe it is Council business.” Zarun looks down at his fingernails. “I wonder what Karakoa and Shiara would say about it? After all, you’re supposed to be assigning the fresh meat for everyone’s benefit.”

“You’re welcome to bring it up at the next session,” the Butcher sneers. “Though if you put your faith in those two, you’re going to be disappointed. And until then, Isoka is part of my pack, and subject to my rules.”

“As you say.” Zarun catches my eye, and winks. “We’ll see.”

I’m reunited with Meroe on the way out of the market, but the Butcher’s thugs still surround us. Getting back to Pack Nine’s half-flooded cell involves descending a rickety spiral staircase down through the deck, passing another floor before reaching a rusty metal landing. The staircase continues on, but metal pieces have been layered into a barricade where it descends into the floor, blocking off the lower areas. We tromp through the same dimly lit corridors, splashing through puddles, walls flaky with rust.

“Since you’re obviously fully recovered,” the Butcher says, “you’ll be eager for your next assignment. One of the scavenging packs brought back word of a hammerhead feeding in the Wrecks. All you’ve got to do is find it and kill it. We’ll come for you in the morning.”

I don’t want to give her the pleasure of asking what that means, so I just nod. We reach the door to our cell, and the guard wrenches it open. Haia shoves me roughly inside, and another crew pushes Meroe after me.

“You’re going out tomorrow morning,” the Butcher says, loud enough that it echoes through the room. “Get a good night’s sleep.”

“What?” Ahdron surges to his feet. “Going where? I need—”

“Ask Isoka,” the Butcher sneers. The door slams, and I hear the bar slide into place.

I’m left alone, again, with my pack mates. Ahdron strides over and slams a hand uselessly against the door. Then he turns to me, eyes alight with rage.

“What did she tell you?” he says. “Where are we going?”

“Somewhere called the Wrecks,” I tell him. “She wants us to hunt a hammerhead.”

I don’t know what that means, but Ahdron’s dusky skin pales, and he slams his hand against the door again and spits obscenities in a language I don’t know.

“What’s a hammerhead?” Meroe says. “Is it—”

“Shut your rotting mouth,” he snarls, turning on her. “If I had a real pack instead of this rotting useless…”

Meroe tenses but doesn’t step back. For a moment I think Ahdron is going to hit her, but he just turns away with a bitter laugh and walks off. Meroe looks at me, and I shrug.

“Do you have any idea what the Butcher was talking about?” she says.