Page 68 of Ship of Smoke and Steel

“I know,” Meroe says patiently. “The officers take care of it is all anyone will tell me.”

“Personally?” I can’t imagine the Butcher fetching the Captain’s towel or cooking his crab juice.

“I don’t know.” Meroe sighs. “But I think Zarun is still our best chance.”

Our clade leader has been a frequent guest, eager to check up on his latest acquisitions. His interest in me, specifically, is obvious, both because the crew is still abuzz with talk of the Deepwalker and for … other reasons. Lately, he’s renewed his invitation to find me something to wear for the Council meeting.

“I don’t like relying on him so much,” I mutter.

“We’re not relying on him,” Meroe says. “We’re using him.”

I can’t help but smile. “I’m rubbing off on you.”

“Please.” She grins back. “Princesses can be as ruthless as gang bosses, believe me.”

“I believe you.” I rub my eyes, trying to get my heart to slow down before a flush shows in my face. That smile. Rot.

“He said he’d come by tonight,” Meroe says. “Go out with him. See what you can find out.”

“If you say so.” I sigh. “Let me change clothes, then.”

Meroe nods. “I’m going to keep working with Aifin.”

She gets her crutch under her and makes her laborious way out of the room. As the curtain falls behind her, something slams against the metal wall beside me and I hear a moan, followed by a string of unfamiliar profanity and heavy breathing.

The thing is … I mean …

Rot it. The thing is, under other circumstances, I would have happily returned Zarun’s unsubtle interest. He’s handsome, with a touch of the exotic by Kahnzoka standards, and the suggestion of corded muscle under the loose shirts he wears makes me want to investigate more thoroughly. He’s dangerous, of course, and a murderer, but I can hardly complain about that. But.

But …

But it has become clear to me, through a couple of sleepless nights and several extremely explicit dreams, that it isn’t Zarun I want to rut. It’s Meroe hait Gevora Nimara, with her bright grin, her quick laugh, her thick, heavy braid. Her smooth, dark skin, the curve of her hip, the quick smile on her soft lips.

I’ve never wanted someone so badly. I want to kiss her; I want to feel her hands on me; I want to nip at her throat and hear her gasp like—

Well, like Jack is gasping in the next room, as Thora does whatever Jack keeps asking her not to stop doing.

It doesn’t help that I’ve been lacking good opportunities to relieve my frustration, either alone or in company. I sleep six inches from Meroe, and while I’ve never been shy of myself, it feels … awkward. I don’t know what she’d think. Certainly I’ve never heard her indulge.

I could, of course, go to the brothel. There’s one aboard ship, run by the Imperial girl I’d seen on the officers’ dais, whose name is Shiara. A few shells of scrip would get me a couple of hours with a pretty boy—or, rot it, a girl, if that’s what I need. But …

But it’s not what I want. I don’t want anyone. I want her.

The trouble is, I don’t know what she wants. Whether she’d laugh at me or hate me forever. And it’s become increasingly obvious that I need her to help me make sense of the tangled mess of Soliton’s politics. I can’t risk my relationship with my most valuable ally over a couple of wet dreams.

Blessed’s rotting balls. Is it something about this rotting ship, or is there something wrong with me?

I emerge from our room in the loose trousers and green silk tunic I’ve been using for everyday wear. Soliton’s market has plenty of clothing, but the selection is eclectic. Meroe, fortunately, learned to wield a needle and thread in her early years, and she’s managed to alter a few things to a reasonable fit.

She’s sitting with Aifin, while Berun watches and pokes at something on the hearth. Aifin is trying to get some point across, poking the book and then rapidly sketching a character in the air with his finger. Meroe frowns, clearly not getting it but determined to keep trying.

I shake my head. Anyone else would have written the Moron off after a few tries. Leave it to Meroe to keep pushing until she gets through. She shifts a braid away from the long, delicate curve of her neck as she bends over the book, and my heart double-thumps.

Rot, rot, rot. There’s a job to do here, Isoka. Remember Tori and Kuon Naga. The clock is ticking, and it’s not going to stop just because my body has gotten confused.

There’s a knock, a gong-like sound on the metal wall. The front curtain pulls open, and Zarun is standing in the doorway, smiling his shark’s smile. He’s dressed as flamboyantly as ever, in a style I don’t recognize—a swathe of deep blue cloth pinned at one shoulder and hanging to his waist, with the other arm and shoulder exposed. It leaves a lot of nice-looking skin on display, just in case I wasn’t distracted enough.

“Good evening, Isoka,” he says, with a brief nod at the others. “Congratulations on your hunt today.”