Page 71 of Ship of Smoke and Steel

“Of course,” he says, glancing between a frothy blue lace confection and something black that shimmers like ravens’ wings.

“Why are you helping me? Why all of this?”

He looks up at me with a slight smile that doesn’t touch his pale blue eyes. “Oh. A real question.”

“I’m just struggling to understand what you get out of it.”

“Having the Deepwalker associated with my clade helps my prestige,” he says, looking back to the piles.

“But you came to meet me before that,” I say. “Try again.”

“Even at that point, it was obvious you were a superb fighter,” he says. “Any of the officers would be happy to have you.”

“You’ve got plenty of fighters. You haven’t given Thora or Jack their own pack to lead.”

“Thora prefers a more personal role,” he says. “And Jack … is Jack.”

It was hard to imagine the mercurial girl getting anyone to follow her. But I shook my head. “Still. You don’t need me.”

He pauses for a moment, then holds up another dress. Or part of a dress—it’s hard to tell. It’s slashed open in so many places it looks like it was attacked by wolves. Being naked would be more modest.

“Fine,” he says. “Ever since I saw you in the pit, I wanted you in my bed. When I heard you could fight as well, I was sure of it.”

I smile, crookedly, and take a step closer to him. “Please. I’m honest enough with myself that I know I’m not the sort of beauty that turns men’s heads.”

“Maybe not most men.” Zarun’s smile widens. “I have particular tastes.”

I break eye contact for a moment to look down at myself. “You like skinny, gristly girls?”

He puts one finger on my chin and lifts my head up to face him again. “I like girls,” he says, “who can hold their own.”

We’re close enough that I can feel his breath on my face. My heart beats faster, and my chest feels hot and tight. For all that a certain princess has infested my dreams, there’s no denying that Zarun is toothsome, to use the late Ahdron’s word, lithe and lean, dark curls just the right length for me to twist in my fingers, sparkling eyes. And there’s a flush in his cheeks that says his interest is genuine.

But he’s also lying.

I turn away, grabbing a dress at random from the piles. “What about this one?”

I hear him let out a breath, not quite a sigh.

Zarun ends up handing a half-dozen dresses to Feoptera, who looks me over with a practiced eye and says that she’ll see what she can do. We leave the shop before I fully realize that we’re done, back out into the muted sunshine of the Upper Stations, which feels bright after the gloomy interior of the tower. Around us, the market is in full swing, hawkers shouting the virtues of their scavenged morsels to the passing crew.

“So what happens at this Council meeting?” I ask Zarun, as we walk side by side. “Aside from you introducing me to the other officers.”

“The Council will meet in closed session beforehand,” he says, sounding bored at the prospect. “At the reception we’ll talk to the pack leaders and other notables.”

“And what happens in the closed session?”

“We take any decisions that need to be made. Unless there’s instructions from the Captain, of course.”

“Can you bring issues to him, if you need to?”

Zarun shrugs. “I suppose we could, but it almost never happens. The Captain is … not like the rest of us. He controls all of Soliton, not just the Stern, and he’s mostly concerned with where we’ll head and whether the sacrifices are adequate. Dealing with the crew he leaves to us.”

“He could help, though. What if he sent the angels to fight the crabs? Or—”

“He has his reasons,” Zarun says, cutting me off. He gives me an irritated glance. “You won’t get very far asking questions about the Captain.”

“He doesn’t like being questioned?”