Page 79 of Ship of Smoke and Steel

“One thousand three hundred twenty-one,” he cuts in. “Not counting any deaths that haven’t been reported yet. I keep track.”

“Good,” I manage, “for you.”

“Which means a little more than eighty people added as sacrifices per year. Net of deaths, of course.”

The tickle in my mind from earlier is back. “And not counting any children.”

“No children on Soliton.”

“What?”

“Women can’t conceive on the ship.” He gives a tight smile. “It just … doesn’t happen.”

At some level, it made sense. I hadn’t seen any babies or expecting mothers, and as far as I could tell there were no ghulwitches to provide family planning. But …

“Why not?”

“Good question.” He looks over my shoulder, at the rest of the crowd, and sneers. “They’re not fond of asking questions. But think a little harder. Eighty people added per year. Which means?”

I speak slowly. “What were things like a few years before Karakoa came aboard?”

“Death rate is high. Few survivors. Hard to say. But another good question.”

“Hang on,” I say. “Soliton has been going around for centuries. And there were people here a lot longer than twenty years ago. I saw a village in the Deeps.…” I trail off, as he stares at me with interest. “It was a ruin. But it had been there a long time.”

“Indeed.” He cocks his head. “I like you, Isoka Deepwalker. You have the air of someone who asks questions.”

There’s a long drumroll, drowning out conversation for a moment. The Scholar bangs his cane on the deck and bows.

“That,” he says, “is my cue. You must come and visit me, I think. We can … ask questions. In the meantime, I’ll leave you with one.” He waves his cane at the crowd. “Apart from the children, what’s missing?”

He stalks away before I can answer, twisted foot dragging. I watch him go, hardly sure what to think. He seems half-crazy. But …

I think back to Kahnzoka, to crowds like this one. Men and women, children and adults, rich and poor. The fish market, where they all came together. Old men sitting in doorways, telling tales to a crowd of street kids. Old women, bent double under the weight of a load of fish, still capable of a shocking turn of speed.

Karakoa might be thirty. A few others I’d seen look a touch older, but not much. No one past that.

People come on board as teenagers. The Captain and the angels wouldn’t accept anyone younger or older, or so I’d been told. So if someone had been brought on board fifteen years ago and they’d been nineteen, that would make them thirty-four today. The math works out.

No one in this crowd, no one I’d met on Soliton, can date from much before Karakoa arrived. Some people die, of course, but … everyone?

What in the Rot is happening on this ship?

I manage to find Meroe, still waiting by the table of food, working her way through a plate of fried … things with evident relish.

“Do you have any idea what those are?” I ask her.

She shrugs, mouth full. “’ey’re goo’.” I roll my eyes, and she swallows. “Did you find anything?”

“Maybe.” I’m still not sure what to make of the Scholar. “I’ll tell you later.”

The drumroll sounds again, and the crowd goes quiet. A couple more lanterns come alight, revealing the officers standing in a line between the pair of massive, motionless angels. The Butcher waits with her arms crossed, looking uncomfortable and even larger than usual next to the petite Shiara. Karakoa and Zarun seem more relaxed. Off to one side is the Scholar, leaning on his cane.

“Is he an officer or not?” I ask Meroe.

“He’s on the Council,” she says, “but he doesn’t have his own clade or any hunting packs. The others keep him around because he’s useful.”

“Fellow sacrifices,” Karakoa booms, and there’s a ripple of laugher. “Thank you for joining us. As always, we are honored by your trust, and the Captain’s.” He glances in either direction at his fellow officers. “We will come to the point. There have been … irregularities, as I’m sure you’ve all noticed. Scholar, would you summarize?”