Page 82 of Ship of Smoke and Steel

The conversation, of course, is about the dredwurm. The hunt for the creature has stretched on longer than I expected, but Jack says this is normal—just finding a dredwurm is hard enough, let alone killing one. Hunting packs are flooding the lower sections of the Stern, looking for the telltale holes torn in the deck plates, and along the way cleaning out the crabs that cross their path. There’s talk of expanding the Middle Deck and the Drips, pushing the barricades outward to incorporate freshly cleared areas into the “civilized” part of the ship.

The gossip is all about who’s found fresh signs, who’s been hurt, who brought home a good kill. I listen with only half an ear as Meroe and I tuck into mushroom-and-crab pies, seasoned with some spice brought back by a scavenger. It’s hot enough to make my eyes water, and tasty enough that I send off for a second helping.

“Aifin,” I ask Meroe, as she guzzles water, “you really think we should bring him out on a hunt with us?”

“He volunteered,” she said. “After he quizzed me about Soliton. I think he’s desperate to fit in.” She shakes her head. “Imagine how lonely he must have been.”

He thought he was in hell. If that’s what hell is like, count me glad we Imperials don’t have such a thing.

“Well,” I say. “We’ll have to see how strong he is. I’ve never worked with someone who used Rhema before.”

Meroe nods. “He and I should both be able to come along soon.”

“You’re sure?” I glance at her cane.

“I think so. It feels much stronger.” She stomps her foot and grins. “Practically good as new.”

Frankly, I’d rather Meroe stay behind. It would be one less thing to worry about, but she’d never permit it. Princess or no princess, she doesn’t want to be coddled.

“And Berun’s been making good progress with Thora,” Meroe says.

“Speaking of progress.” I lower my voice. “Any luck?”

“Not much.” She looks irritated. “People don’t write anything here. All the books are from sacrifices. There’s no records that I’ve been able to find.”

“I don’t think the scavengers have brought back a printing press yet.”

Meroe snorts. “Most of the people I’ve talked to don’t understand why I would care what happened twenty years ago, much less further back than that.”

“But you haven’t found anyone old enough to remember?”

She shakes her head. “No. The Scholar was right—there’s no one who’s been on board longer than Karakoa.”

“There were people here, though. Scavengers find old gear all the time. So what happened to them?”

“Maybe they just died out?” Meroe says. “It takes a lot of effort to keep the crabs out of the Stern. Maybe they broke through, and everyone died.”

“Maybe.” But I find it unlikely. A settlement of ordinary people might be wiped out by crabs, but a town full of mage-bloods?

“Isoka…” Meroe hesitates. “It’s definitely strange, but are you sure this is the right thing to be asking questions about? I thought we were trying to find the Captain.”

“The two fit together,” I say. “If the people on the ship were wiped out somehow, what happened to the Captain? Did he die, too? If he did—”

“Then someone on board eventually became the new Captain.” Meroe nods. “That makes sense.”

“The succession is the important part,” I say. “If we can figure that out…”

I trail off. We’ve always left the most important part of the plan unstated, as though speaking it aloud would make it clear how silly it is. But it’s there: one of us has to become Captain, if such a thing is possible.

I’ve told Meroe that this is my plan for getting us off the ship. If it’s the angels that stop people from leaving and the Captain controls the angels, then the Captain and anyone close to him must be able to leave.

I’d be the first to admit that it’s not a great plan. But it’s what I’ve got, until we get more information. The problem is, the only people who know anything about the Captain aren’t talking.

We get our second helpings, and I happily dig in. Jack is talking to Attoka about how the romantic adventures of a mutual friend are going—not well, apparently—and I find my attention drawn to a conversation at the next table, where some of the less senior pack members have gathered.

“And you believe it?” one boy says, with a thick Jyashtani accent. “Nobody can remember this happening before, but we asked the Captain and ‘everything’s fine; everyone just carry on.’” He snorts.

“You think the Captain doesn’t know what’s happening?” a girl beside him says.