Page 91 of Ship of Smoke and Steel

“I’m not used to flirting,” I say, honestly. “Back home, when I wanted a boy, I’d usually say something along the lines of, ‘Hey, let’s go upstairs and rut.’”

“Subtle.”

“At least it keeps things honest.”

“To honesty.” He raises his glass, and I follow suit. “Is that why you haven’t come before this? Because I was beating around the bush?”

“You were clear enough. I was…” I pause, and sip the wine, which I’ve been too nervous to taste. It’s good, actually. “Until now, I needed your help too badly.”

“Until now? I am still master of this clade.” His smile disarms the comment.

“Now I feel like we have a mutual understanding.”

“We’re using each other, in other words.”

“Exactly. I needed to be sure you had a use for me other than in bed. In my experience, that doesn’t lead to reliable partnerships.”

“Reliable partnerships,” he says, smile widening. “Oh, I like you, Isoka. You are a cold little reptile, aren’t you?”

“It’s kept me alive.”

He leans closer. “You never let personal feelings get in the way?”

“Of staying alive?” I snort. “Do you want to know how many people I’ve had to kill because a personal feeling made them do something stupid?”

“I wonder if your total is higher than mine,” he says. “Honestly, I haven’t kept track. It feels like there’s one in every batch of fresh meat.” He frowns. “There was someone like that in yours, wasn’t there? I made an example.”

“An idiot. And then his sister.”

He doesn’t even remember. Why should he? He’s a monster.

Like me.

“Ah, yes.” He looks back down at the wine bottle, half-empty already. “Well, Deepwalker. Let me speak your language. Would you like to go into the other room and rut?”

“I thought you’d never ask.” I make my voice a low growl.

In a few moments, we’re kissing, his hands on me and mine on him, trying to stumble back toward the doorway without pulling apart. We lurch off course, and my back slams into the wall hard enough to sting. He presses his palms against my shoulders, pinning me there, and kisses my neck down to my collarbone. My fingers curl in his hair.

There’s nothing wrong with what I’m doing. Not with the rutting, anyway. It’s not like Meroe and I have said anything to each other, made any promises. I’m within my rights to dally with a pretty boy, to kiss him as thoroughly as I wish, to let his hands creep up under my leather top, feeling the tightness in my chest, the heat sinking down through my belly. To pull him through the doorway at last, back to the bed.

And, when my eyes are closed, if I’m thinking about darker skin, a softer body with a different shape, thick dark hair, and clever fingers …

There’s nothing wrong with that, either, I suppose.

It would be poetic justice to say that, for all his handsome face and obvious self-regard, Zarun made for an indifferent lover. Truthfully, though, he was attentive and patient, and by the time we were finished I lay comfortably beside him on the silk sheets, sweaty and satisfied. He had his head against my shoulder, one arm thrown over my breasts, and I stared at the ceiling and waited while his breathing deepened into the steady rhythm of sleep.

Sister Cadua really does have a mushroom for everything. This one, she assured me, makes for a gentle potion when dissolved in wine. Just enough to make you drowsy, and ensure a good, uninterrupted night’s sleep once you’ve dozed off.

That’s all I need. When I’m sure Zarun is well and truly dreaming, I slip out from under him. A lantern is still burning in the other room, and by its dim light I wriggle into my clothes. I carry my boots in my hand, padding barefoot and silent through the carpeted suite, around the corner, and into the curtained-off room.

As I suspected, there’s a desk covered in papers. Running a clade takes work, just like the street gangs of Kahnzoka. There are notes on outstanding scrip, bills from the other officers, all written on little slips of scraped-down, recycled paper still spotted with old ink.

In the center of this mess is a rough set of maps, an eye-twisting jumble that I just recognize as the Stern. Much of the area is blank, unknown except for a few tentative pencil marks, especially on the lower levels. Passages twist and turn in a complex three-dimensional maze, with rusted-out walls and floors adding extra opportunities for confusion. Someone has attempted to impose some order on this disaster, numbering the levels and assigning labels to a grid. Coordinating a search.

As I’d hoped, the information I need is obvious. The map on the top of the pile has a section clearly marked, annotated with reports from the scouting pack. Fresh holes in the deck and half-eaten crabs—sure signs that the dredwurm is nearby.

I pause long enough to make sure I can find the place, then replace the papers I’d disturbed, I hope close enough that no one would suspect I was there. Padding out again, I glance at the bedroom, reassured to find Zarun still sprawled and snoring. I put my boots on and slip out the door.