Page 76 of Ship of Smoke and Steel

“How in the Rot can you keep them all straight? And don’t tell me any princess ought to be able to do it.”

She giggles. “My sister Vera used to forget the names of the High Council. It made Father so mad I think she was doing it on purpose.” She shakes her head. “I suppose I’ve always had a knack for it.”

“I feel like a monster in a menagerie,” I say. “They all just want to stare at me.”

“Let them.” She puts her hand on my shoulder. “You’re doing fine, Isoka.”

“I’m not getting us any closer to what we need.”

“This is just the beginning. The officers will be here soon, I think.”

Just the beginning. Rotting wonderful.

There’s food laid out on a great wooden table, and rows of crystal glasses that belonged in a palace somewhere. I fight my way to the center of the scrum and help clear a path for Meroe. Once she arrives, tapping her cane on the deck, I hand her a plate of unidentifiable fried bits and a goblet of something amber. For myself, I take only a goblet.

Whatever the stuff is, it’s surprisingly good, a bit like wine but considerably stronger. I can feel the liquor at the back of my throat as the initial sweetness fades. Meroe sips, and raises an eyebrow.

“Well,” she says. “I could get used to that.”

“Good, isn’t it?” Zarun steps up behind us. For a wonder, he’s dressed less garishly than usual, in a sleek dark green robe that’s almost subdued, matched with a floppy silk hat that hangs rakishly over one ear. “Lots of cities include liquor as part of their tribute, so the scavengers are always bringing back crates of the stuff, but the quality can be a bit hit-or-miss.”

“When did you arrive?” I ask.

“Just now.” He waves a hand. “It wouldn’t do for the Council to be the first ones here.”

Meroe nods. “The most important person always arrives late.”

“Let me make the introductions,” Zarun says. He slips his arm into mine, so smoothly it almost feels natural. “If you don’t mind, Meroe?”

“Go ahead.” I catch Meroe’s gaze, and she mouths, Eyes open. I nod.

I can see the massive form of the Butcher, towering over the crowd. Somewhat to my relief, Zarun leads me in the opposite direction. Another large figure stands at the edge of the ring of light, surrounded by a smaller group of hangers-on. It’s the tall warrior I saw the day I fought Ahdron. He shares the light brown skin and broad features of my former pack leader. I’ve learned that these are characteristic of the people who inhabit what the Empire calls the Southern Wastes, who as far as I know have never been encountered by His Imperial Majesty’s explorers. The far south is notoriously treacherous sailing, with little but sand and snow to make up for the risk of foundering in a sudden blizzard. But Soliton, of course, knows no such hazards, and has scooped up its share of the people who call themselves Akemi.

The circle of courtiers opens up as we approach. The southerner pauses to exchange a lingering kiss with his closest companion, a slight, younger man with a Jyashtani look, before he looks up to greet me. He has handsome, chiseled features, and dark hair braided close to his scalp. He’s dressed in tooled leather, not dissimilar from mine, but accented with small bits of twisted steel threaded onto silk cords.

“Isoka,” Zarun says, “this is Karakoa. He’s the longest serving of our little Council.”

“Deepwalker,” Karakoa says. His voice is a low rumble. “You were impressive in the Ring.”

“Thank you,” I say. There’s a confidence about the man that’s a little intimidating, even for me. I’ve met many braggarts on the streets, but Karakoa has an altogether different air.

“It has been a long time since Soliton had another Melos adept,” he says. When he smiles, his teeth are huge and white. “Your technique is primitive, but you show promise. I look forward to watching your development.” Then, as an afterthought, “If you survive.”

“Thank you,” I say again, and mentally add, I think. “You’ve been on the Council—”

“Almost from the beginning,” he says. “Fifteen years.”

He can’t be more than thirty. I frown as he goes on.

“When I came aboard, Jarli ruled the ship in the Captain’s name. I was the one who convinced her to share power.” He shakes his head. “Now there was an adept. Melos and Rhema both. Deadly as a scorpion and fast as sin.”

“What happened to her?”

Karakoa falls silent, and it’s Zarun who answers. “She died, trying to get beyond the Center.”

“She said there had to be something there, at the other end of the ship,” Karakoa says. “Something more than mushrooms and crabs. Foolishness.”

“Did Jarli introduce you to the Captain?” This feels about as subtle as a brick to the face, but this sort of thing isn’t my strength. “Or did that happen after she … was gone?”