Page 54 of Ship of Smoke and Steel

“Fine.” I don’t like taking gifts from Zarun, but it can’t be helped. Between my blood and the crabs’, my old outfit had gotten a bit foul.

“And…” He hesitates, still looking at me. “I’m not sure if you had the chance to look in a mirror, on your adventure, but…”

This confuses me for a moment, until I remember the marks. I touch my face, where I know the blue lines criss-cross my skin, though it feels no different under my finger.

“I’m aware,” I tell him.

“They suit you, I think.” He grins. “I look forward to hearing the story of exactly how you acquired them.”

I stare at him pointedly until he leaves. Once the door is closed, I kick off the blanket and get to my feet, stretching and wincing as my muscles pop. My skin is clean, which brings up the unpleasant image of someone washing me while I was unconscious. I thrust that thought aside and kick open the chest to find a set of trousers, a tooled leather vest, and underclothes, along with my old boots, now washed and brushed. The vest has a low scooped neckline and is a little more decorative than I like, but it’s a hell of a lot better than nothing.

There’s a silver ewer of water on the table, and a chamber pot underneath it. After making use of first the one and then the other, I’m feeling considerably more comfortable, and ready to think a little harder about Zarun’s offer. I knock at the door, and it’s opened by a young Imperial boy in a similar outfit. He bows and directs me through a larger room, where several mismatched chairs are set in a half circle. Zarun sits in one, and Thora and Jack share another, the slight Jack sitting half on Thora’s lap. Two more chairs are occupied by people I don’t know. Flunkies of Zarun’s, I assume.

“Welcome,” he says, waving a hand but making no offer to find me a place to sit. “You look much improved, I must say. Your resilience is remarkable.”

“I’ve often been compared to a cockroach,” I deadpan.

“A very pretty cockroach,” Jack says dreamily. “I like the blue. It’s a good look for you, Deepwalker. Ow,” she adds, as Thora knuckles her on the head in warning. “Just stating a fact.”

“Have you considered my offer?” Zarun says.

“What about the rest of Pack Nine?” I don’t want to give away that it’s mostly Meroe I’m concerned about, though I suspect Zarun can guess.

“Ahdron is Pack Nine’s leader, and he’s still pledged to the Butcher,” Zarun says. “So they stay with her.”

Is it my imagination, or is there a hint of expectation there? “What if he wasn’t leader?”

Zarun shrugs, his expression all false innocence. “If Pack Nine were to get a new leader, through a formal challenge, then in theory that leader would be free to choose an allegiance or stay independent. In practice, independence is … difficult.”

“Why’s that?”

“’Cause if you don’t have anyone backing you up,” Jack says, “there’s nothing to stop the Butcher from sending a pack round to break your legs if you don’t swear service.”

“Fine.” I lock eyes with Zarun. “And if I were to swear allegiance to you?”

“Then I suppose I would be obligated to exert my influence on behalf of my new pack,” Zarun says. His eyes twinkle.

I grit my teeth for a moment. I would rather not be in debt to Zarun, but it looks like on Soliton, like on the streets of Kahnzoka, trying to live without a patron is futile. Zarun is currently the best candidate in a field of one. At least pack leaders have some status, so I’ll be better off than if I simply joined his clade. And Meroe and the others will be safe.

I can always betray him later.

Pack Nine, they tell me, has been moved to quarters on the Middle Deck. Thora escorts me outside to provide directions. Zarun’s clade lives in one of the nine square towers that define the limits of the Upper Stations, according to Thora generally considered the most desirable real estate on the ship.

Once we go outside, smaller buildings are packed in tight, edged by the same street market I saw the last time I was here. The ceiling is high above, and I can see a cloudy night sky through the rusted-out gaps.

“So why is this the place to live?” I ask her, as she leads me through the crowd. “This ship is so big every person here could build a palace with room to spare.”

Thora smiles at me. She has a kind face, for an iceling, ringed by stray blond curls. Like many of the northerners, she’s enormous, a full head taller than me and broader in the shoulders than most Imperial men. Among the icelings, the Butcher must count as merely oversized instead of gigantic.

“You’ve seen the rest of the ship by now. More of it than anyone else, actually, if the stories are true. The problem isn’t lack of space; it’s keeping the crabs out.” She points into the middle distance, beyond the nearest row of shacks. “See the wall?”

It takes me a moment. It’s a ramshackle thing, uniform only in its ten-foot height, made out of metal plates, pieces of crab shell, broken planks, and whatever else came to hand. At first I’d taken it for the back of another line of houses.

“That keeps the crabs out?” I ask.

“The smaller ones. The hunting packs intercept anything bigger.” She gestures at the huge square towers, arranged in a regular grid. “Originally we only defended the space between four of those, in the corner of this deck. Five years ago, the Council decided to expand the wall to nine. Someday we’ll have enough manpower to push it out again.”

“What about the Middle Deck and the Drips?”