Page 67 of Ship of Smoke and Steel

“He’s not a beast,” Meroe snaps. “Or a moron.” She catches sight of me and grins. “Isoka! Come and see!”

I drop my pack in the corner and flop down beside Meroe, and Berun quietly follows suit. Thora and Jack retreat to their room. Probably to rut; I swear, I’ve known dogs in heat that are more restrained than those two.

“Welcome back,” Meroe says, a little belatedly. “Is everyone okay?”

“No problems.” Aside from my encounter with Hagan. Thinking about it makes my palms itch. I’ll tell Meroe about it, but later, once I’ve figured out how to explain. Which may be a while.

“Good,” Meroe says, and turns back to the Moron. “I’ve figured it out. Finally.”

The boy is staring down at the book in deep concentration, dark brown skin furrowed. He taps it again, looking at Meroe, and she holds up a hand for him to wait.

“He can read?” I say.

“I tried writing messages to him,” Berun says. “He never seemed to understand anything.”

“Because you didn’t use the right language,” Meroe says.

“He’s Jyashtani, isn’t he?” Berun says.

“He’s a little dark for a Jyashtani,” I say. “I thought he was from the Southern Kingdoms.”

“He’s technically Jyashtani,” Meroe says. “But Jyashtan is a big place. The people we usually think of as Jyashtani are from the north, where the capital is. Their empire rules the south, too, but there are a lot of peoples there who speak their own languages.” She grins. “And, in this case, use their own system for writing. Look.”

I examine the book. The letters are, indeed, unrecognizable, strange square glyphs instead of the thin-lined characters of Imperial. Jyashtani use the same script we do, I think. I hadn’t known there were others.

“This is a book from … well, I don’t know exactly where,” Meroe goes on. “The point is he can read it. And so can I, a little.” She shakes her head. “He’s deaf and dumb, I think. Can you imagine being dumped in here and not being able to hear or make anyone understand you?”

I look at the boy, who meets my eyes with a calm, curious gaze. “I’m amazed he’s still alive,” I say.

Meroe nods. “His name is Aifin. I may be pronouncing that wrong. I’m not exactly sure what language he speaks, only that it uses these Fertani characters. I’m going to have to see if there are any more books in the market.”

There are a surprising number of books on Soliton. The various ports think they make good sacrifices, I guess. For the most part, the crew don’t have much use for them.

“Well. It’s good to meet you, Aifin,” I say, and then feel stupid because of course he just keeps staring. “Meroe, could I speak to you alone for a moment?”

“Of course.”

“I’ll get dinner started,” Berun says. There’s a small hearth in one corner, below a convenient rust hole in the ceiling. I’m almost used to the smell of the dried mushroom they use in place of firewood.

I help Meroe to her feet, and she slips the crutch under her arm. Berun and the Moron—Aifin—have been sharing one of the three bedrooms, and Thora and Jack claimed another. That leaves the last for me and Meroe. We found sleeping mats in the market—they sleep properly in Nimar, apparently—and she’s added other odds and ends. A few books stand in a pile beside her bed, next to a bowl of beaten gold and a small collection of charms made from parts of crabs.

“How’s the leg?” I ask, as the curtain closes behind us.

“Itchy,” Meroe says. “But it shouldn’t be long before I can walk at least a little. Sister Cadua’s remedies really do work wonders.”

Meroe herself, of course, can literally work miracles, but I let the irony of that pass. She doesn’t like to be reminded of what she is, and if we’re being completely honest neither do I.

“Any luck today?” I ask.

She crutches to her sleeping mat and lowers herself onto it. “No. Nobody knows anything.”

“That they’re willing to say.”

“In that case, they’re very good liars.” Meroe sighs. “I don’t understand.”

In the couple of weeks since we moved into Tower Five, Meroe has been helping me dig up information on the Captain. More accurately, she’s been doing the digging, while I chop unfortunate crabs into pieces. She’s become well versed in the ins and outs of Soliton society remarkably quickly, but the Captain himself remains elusive.

“It doesn’t make sense,” I say. “Someone has to bring him food, clean his rooms, warm his bed. There has to be something.”