Page 70 of Ship of Smoke and Steel

“Of a sort. The best of the scavenger’s finds aren’t laid out in the street.” Zarun gives me the shark’s smile again. “And you deserve the best, Deepwalker.”

“Who’s there?” says a voice from inside. It sounds like a little girl.

“Zarun, and a guest.”

There’s the sound of muttering, and the door creaks open. A girl of thirteen or so, slim and dark-skinned, stands in the doorway in a baggy, oversized dress. She yawns ostentatiously.

“Another girl, Zarun?” she says. “You were just in last week. What happened to Ralya?”

“Ralya is well,” Zarun says. “Though we have, regrettably, parted ways. But this is Isoka Deepwalker.”

“Deepwalker.” The girl leans forward, rising onto her toes to study the blue lines across my face. “Hmm. Is it true?”

“What, that I survived the Deeps?” I give another shrug. “It’s true. Though I’m not the only one. Meroe was with me.”

“Ah, but one of you walked out carrying the other,” Zarun says. “Isoka, this is Feoptera, queen of scavengers.”

“I told you not to call me that,” Feoptera snaps. “It makes me sounds like a vulture or a hyena. And I’m not anybody’s queen.”

“Forgive me,” Zarun says, giving me an amused glance. “Just a young lady with exquisite taste.”

“Your price is getting higher by the minute,” Feoptera says. “Come inside before you talk it up beyond your means.”

She stalks away, and we follow. The metal corridor is lined with junk, so tight we sometimes have to squeeze past sideways. There are metal sheets, rusted at the edges, piles of dried mushrooms, and large fragments of crab shell. In and among these products of Soliton are bits of salvage: cups and plates, furniture, crates and boxes, wine bottles. Open doorways lead into rooms crammed with even more stuff.

“So what is it this time?” Feoptera says over her shoulder. “Jewels? Perfume?”

“Something for Isoka to wear to the Council meeting.”

“Ah, yes.”

The girl stomps into a room on her left. Several tables take up most of the space, and makeshift shelves line the walls. Every inch of horizontal surface is covered with fabric, a galaxy of brilliant colors and glittering adornments. There’s silk, and Jyashtani lace, and a hundred other materials I couldn’t hope to identify. A lamp in the corner gleams off cloth of gold and sparkles from precious stones.

I can’t help but let out a low whistle. On Soliton, I know, bits of pretty cloth aren’t as valuable as a nice set of tools or a fine blade, but back in Kahnzoka the contents of this room would buy Tori’s estate several times over. Old instincts make my palms itch.

“Take your pick,” Feoptera says. “Try not to damage anything.”

She stalks out, with one last glare at Zarun.

“She doesn’t seem to like you very much.” I say, in low tones.

He chuckles. “Feoptera is very fond of me. You should see the way she treats people she really doesn’t like.”

“And…” I gesture around at the mounds of finery, feeling a little helpless. “What do people wear to these Council meetings?”

“It’s less that there’s a specific standard,” he says, running his fingers over a long black silk dress. “It’s more that we like there to be a sense of occasion. Here, hold this.”

I take the wisp of fabric he hands me. He looks at us together for a moment, shakes his head, then takes it back and sets it aside.

It turns out this is only the beginning. Zarun digs through the heaps, pulling out garment after garment. Some of them are familiar to me—Imperial kizen and Jyashtani robes—while others are more exotic. Dresses with wire stays, to spread one’s skirts across half a room, and slim, slitted sheets that would barely qualify as underwear back in Kahnzoka. Elaborate lace confections, dripping with gleaming gems, and loose-woven fabric in an overlapping pattern of colorful threads.

Soliton had visited every city with a harbor and fine clothing was apparently a popular sacrifice. The collection stretched back in time, too—I could see double-fastened kizen of the kind that only grandmothers now wore. It was a remarkable collection of frippery, and I couldn’t help but marvel at the waste of it all. Every one of these dresses represented days, probably weeks, of labor, all to give some fine lady a way to impress her friends for an evening.

Rotting aristos.

Zarun sorts through the piles, holding garments up to me like I was a paper doll, then rooting around for new ones. I fidget uncomfortably while he works.

Eventually, out of awkwardness more than anything else, I say, “Can I ask you something?”