Page 72 of Ship of Smoke and Steel

“He doesn’t care a bit, as long as he’s obeyed. But there’s no point in asking about things nobody understands.”

“I don’t know about that,” another voice says, with a thick Jyashtani accent. “In my experience, those are the only really important questions.”

I look up to find another group approaching us. At the head is the Jyashtani I saw on the officers’ podium, with the round glasses that reminded me of Naga. He has the light brown skin of northern Jyashtan, dark, curly hair long enough to be a bit shaggy, and he wears a modest robe. He has a silver-headed walking stick in one hand, and as he comes closer I notice his right leg drags behind his left, foot sticking out at an odd angle.

Beside him, enormous even without her crab-shell armor, is the Butcher. She’s wearing civilian clothes, a leather vest and trousers stitched together from a patchwork of oddly colored pieces. Without a helmet on, her surprisingly curly blond hair hangs in a loose tail at the back of her neck. She glowers at everyone, but her face darkens considerably on her sighting Zarun, and then goes positively stormy when she sees me with him. Behind her are a half-dozen crew, including the bald-headed Haia.

“My esteemed colleagues,” Zarun says, making a little bow.

“The fop,” the Butcher rumbles. “And the famous Deepwalker everyone finds so precious. What a lovely pair.” Her lips twist. “Has he bent you over a bench yet, or are you still just sucking his dick?”

“Now, now,” Zarun says. “Just because you no longer have access to my bed—”

“Not that he can manage much else,” the Butcher says, looking down at me. “If he finds the right place to stick it, you can count yourself lucky.”

I admit I have a hard time imagining the Butcher rutting with Zarun. She’s a head taller than him and easily twice his weight, her limbs wrapped with slab-like muscle, with a neck like an ox and breasts like overgrown summer melons. She seems like she would crush anyone not built to her own heroic scale.

“I believe you know the Butcher,” Zarun says, ignoring her. “And this young man we call the Scholar.” Zarun puts a hand on my shoulder, with a possessive air. “I’m bringing Isoka to the Council meeting for formal introductions.”

“Lovely,” the Butcher snaps. “I’m sure we’ll all enjoy making conversation with your whore.”

Zarun’s hand tightens on my shoulder, as if in warning. It’s unnecessary—it’s clear that making trouble here would be counterproductive, and in any event I’m used to people insulting my virtue, even if they’re usually men I’m about to kill. It’s amazing how many people, in the face of a cold-blooded killer, think the worst thing they can say about her is that she spreads her legs. So I keep up a smile, because I know it will annoy the Butcher. She stomps past us, brushing deliberately too close, and her crew follows suit.

“I look forward to getting a chance to speak with you, Deepwalker,” the Scholar says, inclining his head. “I’ve been hoping to interview you about what you saw in the Deeps.”

“The Scholar is the one who likes to ask questions about Soliton,” Zarun says. “The rest of us put up with him because he occasionally comes back with something useful.”

“I putter,” the Scholar says modestly. “There’s so much that’s beyond our understanding. I’ve always thought—”

“Scholar!” the Butcher roars over her shoulder. “Hurry up, if you want your rotting piece of junk.”

“Another time,” the Scholar says, with a smile. He nods again and hobbles off after the Butcher and her crew.

“Is it true?” I say quietly. “You and her?”

“Hard to picture?” Zarun grins at me. “The truth is that I used her, to get where I am today. She didn’t take it well.”

“Apparently.”

“You wanted to know why I’m helping you?” He nods in the Butcher’s direction. “It’s because she hates you. You made her look weak and foolish when you came aboard, and every inch you rise is a twist of the knife in her back. She never could get over a grudge.”

“So you’re helping me out of spite?”

He laughs. “Don’t be silly. I don’t hold grudges.” He turns back to me and flashes his dazzling smile again. “Hate makes people stupid. If this keeps up, sooner or later she’ll make a mistake. And then…”

He gives an eloquent shrug, and turns away.

The package from Feoptera arrives that evening, couriered by a breathless young man whose eyes go wide at the sight of the Deepwalker. I wave him away with a sigh and retreat to my room, where I’d been recounting my conversation with Zarun and the Butcher to Meroe.

“The last thing he said, about the Butcher,” she asks as I re-enter. “Do you believe it?”

“I’m not sure. It sounded more plausible than the rest.” I toss the package down beside her and sit on my sleeping mat. “They obviously have a history.”

“Does he hate her as much as she hates him?”

I shrug. “If he does, he hides it well.”

“Then what’s the endgame? Why does he need to damage her?”