Page 55 of Ship of Smoke and Steel

“They’re all just corridors, so they’re easy to block off with doors and barricades. But the rooms are smaller and the ceilings are lower, so everyone would rather live up here if they can afford it.”

I smile, just a little, because it reminds me of home. The Sixteenth Ward, crammed in along the shoreline and breathing the stink of rotting fish, with the rest of the wards stacked up above it one after another, all the way up to the Imperial Ward on the breezy summit of the hill. If the Emperor could have devised a way to build the higher wards directly on top of the lower ones, no doubt it would have made things easier.

“Here we are,” Thora says. Where two streets cross, there’s a hole in the deck, and a stairway leading down. “Your pack’s quarters should be right down there; take the first left and look for a door. If you get lost, just ask around.”

“Thanks.”

She looks down at me, considering. “Zarun’s not as bad as he seems, you know.”

“Five minutes after I arrived, I watched him cut a little girl’s head off.”

Thora winces. “He can be … harsh. But he rewards loyalty with loyalty. If you prove you’re trustworthy, he’ll always back you up.”

“I’ll keep that in mind,” I say.

“I still want to hear what happened in the Deeps,” she says. “Come find me, and I’ll buy you a drink. I suspect a lot of other people will, too.”

“I’ll take you up on that,” I say. “The story’s not as exciting as you’re probably hoping, though.” Because I’m certainly not telling them about Hagan.

“Add a few flourishes, then.” Thora smiles again. “Good luck, Deepwalker.”

The name makes my skin prickle, but I just nod cordially. Thora turns away, back toward Zarun’s quarters.

It occurs to me that, for the first time, I’m free in the “civilized” part of Soliton. No one is escorting me or dragging me anywhere or locking me in, and part of my mind urges me to run for it. Find somewhere to hide, disappear, gather information until I’m ready to make a move.

These are well-honed instincts from years on the streets, but they’re almost certainly wrong. Soliton just isn’t big enough for these kinds of tactics to be effective. The ship itself is huge, of course, but the crew here in the Stern can’t be more than a few thousand people. You can’t hide in a place like that, where everyone knows everyone else at least by reputation. It makes me feel horribly exposed, deprived of the anonymizing crowds of the city streets that I could wrap around myself like a comforting blanket.

Besides, I don’t have time to take things cautiously. And when Meroe wakes up—

As though in answer to my thoughts, a few people on the street are staring openly at me. One says something to another in a language I don’t speak, but I catch the word “Deepwalker.”

Spectacular.

I trot down the stairs, two at a time. The Middle Deck is where I was first brought to see the Butcher, I realize, a maze of metal corridors opening on to rooms of various sizes. I turn left, as instructed, and walk quickly down an empty hallway to a curtained doorway. I hesitate at the threshold; am I supposed to knock?

From inside, someone short-cuts my dilemma. “Isoka? Is that you?”

I push the curtain aside. The room is smaller than the cell we were in previously, but in much better shape, with no standing water or rotting carpets. Sleeping mats are set against one wall, a low table with cushions in the center, and a few heavy clay jars stand by the door. Other than that, it’s empty, bare metal floor and walls. I suppose Ahdron hasn’t had the time to decorate.

In the back, a doorway leads off to a smaller room, blocked by another curtain. The pack leader is nowhere in sight, but Berun is at the table and the Moron is sitting cross-legged in one corner, in much the same position he used to sit in on the little island.

“Isoka!” Berun gets up. “I heard they found you, but…”

“Yes,” I confirm wearily. “I’m still alive.”

“They told us Meroe is at Sister Cadua’s,” Berun says, anxiously. “Do you know—”

“I haven’t seen her, but I heard she’ll be all right.”

“Thank the Blessed.” He swallows. “What … what happened to your face?”

The blue marks. Rot. Time to lie.

“It’s fine,” I tell him. “I hurt myself in the fall. We found a mushroom that helped a bit, but it left these marks behind.” I offer my arm, where another line of curlicues wraps around my biceps.

“It’s … interesting,” he says. “I’m glad you’re all right.”

“Thanks.” My patience for Berun isn’t particularly strong at the moment. “Where’s Ahdron?”