Page 33 of Ship of Smoke and Steel

“With the bandages,” I grind out. “Any more help.”

“No.” Meroe pauses. “If you go work for Zarun—”

It’s obvious what she wants to ask. What about me? She’s using me, for the protection I can provide, just like everyone else. It doesn’t make me angry. Everyone uses the people around them, as best they can—the way I used Hagan and Shiro, the way my bosses used me, the way I’ll use Zarun. That’s just the way the world works.

“What?” I say, when she stays silent.

“Nothing,” she says. “Never mind.”

I snort. “Go get some sleep, Princess. You look like you need it.”

I’m right about that, at least. Within minutes, Meroe is curled up in her nest, snoring in a genteel, aristo sort of way. I find myself too keyed up to rest just yet, although my muscles still ache from powerburn. I walk down to the shore, marked by a scummy, rusted line on the deck, and look across the half-flooded chamber. The Moron is still sitting on his little island, unmoving. I wonder if he’s asleep.

“Isoka.” Ahdron comes up behind me. “Can I have a word?”

“You’re the pack leader,” I say. “Do you need to ask?”

He snorts and steps up beside me, looking out at the little lake and the Moron.

“He just sits like that all day,” Ahdron says. “Rot-for-brains.”

“He managed to stay out of the blueshell’s way,” I say.

“He’s got a talent for making himself scarce. Is there a Well for that?” Ahdron turns to me, running one hand through his hair. “Rot. Look. I feel like we didn’t get the best start.”

I shrug. “I can’t say the last few days have been a great introduction to anybody.”

“I know you’re fresh meat and you don’t know how things work here,” he says. “But you understand the Butcher’s got me in the doghouse, right?”

“I’d gathered that.” I turn to look at him with affected casualness. “What did you do to make her so angry?”

“It’s not important,” Ahdron mutters, flushing slightly. “The point is that I’m not going to be down forever. Sometime—maybe soon—I’ll get out from under her, and this is going to be a real pack instead of a trash heap.”

“Glad to hear it,” I drawl. “And?”

“Let’s cut the rot,” he says. “I saw what you did to the blueshell. We both know you and I are the only ones here who are worth a damn. I know you’ve got small reason to trust me, but if we can take down a hammerhead then even the Butcher is going to have to take notice. I need your help if we’re going to have a chance.”

“You don’t have to ask for my help, do you? You just give the orders.”

He swears unintelligibly. “I told you, cut the rot. You could have run for it and gotten away easily. I don’t know why you didn’t, but when it comes to the sharp end this time I’m asking you to stand by me again. It’s not going to be easy, but if we pull this off, we can get out of this rotting hole.” He gestures around. “We’ll move up to Middle Deck, poach a few decent pack mates, and get comfortable again. Pick our own battles. What do you think?”

He seems earnest. Excited, even. He wants to get back into the officers’ good graces, and he thinks I’m his ticket. Whether he’s right I don’t know. I’m not sure he understands that the Butcher hates me more than ever.

“If you’re asking whether I’ll fight,” I tell him, “then I’ll fight. But it would help if someone told me what a hammerhead was, and how you kill one.”

“I’ll explain everything,” he says eagerly.

“In the morning.” I yawn, looking out across the water again. The Moron hasn’t stirred. “I think I’d better get some rest, don’t you?”

I feel him watching me as he walks away. He’s no different from Zarun, or Meroe for that matter. Even on a ship full of mage-born, apparently my skill set is unusual enough that everyone wants to take advantage of it.

Which is fine. I can take advantage of them right back.

Everyone on Soliton seems convinced that there’s no escaping the ship. If I assume for the moment that I believe them, that leaves one option to save Tori’s life—figure out how to deliver Soliton to Kuon Naga. The only lead I have is the Captain. I’m going to have to get close to him to find out more, and for that I’m going to need allies. Some of those allies will probably end up with a dagger in the back, of course. That’s the way these things work. I just need to make sure they don’t do the same to me.

I dream about angels, the twisted, alien shapes that haunt the ship’s rail. In the dream they’re clustered around me, like eager dogs gathering for a treat, except I feel like they’re trying to talk to me. Voices babble at the back of my mind, endlessly, unintelligibly. Someone is shouting in the distance, trying to cut through the chatter, but too far away to hear. The angels bleed gray light, which swirls around me, tiny specks of glowing dust trying to burrow through my skin.

I also dream about Zarun, which is more explicable and considerably more pleasant. I kiss the taut muscle of his stomach while his hands run up and down my back. Zarun, I suspect, would not mind my scars. Unfortunately, this pleasant scenario means I wake up with an itchy, unfulfilled feeling that leaves me badly wanting to rut, or at least find a comfortable spot with some privacy and take care of things for myself. I don’t seem likely to get either, since Ahdron is already shouting for everyone to gather.