Our hands are tied behind our backs, and we’re led out of the pit by a hidden door, escorted by at least a dozen armed people. The crew of Soliton are a mismatched bunch, drawn from every nation I’ve ever heard of and quite a few I haven’t, men and women both, all young. Perhaps half are Imperials or Jyashtani, but there are a surprisingly large number of icelings, people from the Ice Kingdoms to the north of the Central Sea. They’re all large and broad shouldered, with blond or brown hair and pale, almost colorless eyes. It’s no wonder the first Imperial explorers thought they were ice spirits. Too uncivilized to trade in Kahnzoka, they survive on whaling and piracy.
There are four of us left: the streetwalker, the boy who stinks of piss, the southern girl, and me. My wrists chafe against the scratchy rope as we walk through an endless series of corridors, the way lit by lanterns carried by the crew. It feels more like an insect warren than a ship, every surface made of metal, streaked with rust. Here and there, something grows from the walls, irregular flat discs like shelf mushrooms, but the crew hurries us onward before I can take a closer look. They seem to know where they’re going, but by the third or fourth junction I couldn’t have found my way back to the pit for all the gold in Kahnzoka.
In spite of Zarun’s brutality, I’m perversely feeling a little better than I was in the cage. Brutality I can handle. There’s still a great deal I don’t know about this ship—if it is a ship; I can’t quite believe it—but there’s some kind of society. We’re not simply going to be devoured by monsters. I’m accustomed to dealing with people who use casual violence to make their points. Naga, the rotsucker, was probably right—working my way from gutter rat to ward boss prepared me for this.
Not that it’s going to save him, when I get back to Kahnzoka. He’s going to wish that he’d done what Zarun did, and taken me seriously.
Finally, we arrive at a door, jury-rigged out of wood scraps to fit into a metal hatchway. One of the crew knocks, and it opens from the inside. The space beyond has the feel of a barracks common room, with cushions, empty wine bottles, and dirty plates scattered everywhere. Weirdly, the cushions are made of fine fabric, battered with use but clearly very expensive. Some of the plates, chipped as they are, are gold-inlaid china, finer than anything in use at Tori’s house in the Second Ward. I can see a statue of the Blessed One, his hand raised in the traditional benediction, made from silver with flashing blue stones for eyes; it would buy a tenement building in the Sixteenth Ward, and it’s being used to weigh down scraps of paper.
The crew in the room, perhaps two dozen of them, pause what they’re doing as we’re led inside. Several games seem to be in progress, cards and dice and stranger things I can’t identify. My attention, however, is drawn to the woman getting to her feet at the far end of the room.
It would be difficult for her not to draw attention. She’s an iceling, and enormous even by iceling standards, a head and a half taller than me and at least twice as broad. The way she’s dressed makes her look even bigger, swathed in rough leather and fur, with chunks of yellowing bone sewn in. The top half of a crab’s claw, too big to have come from any crab I’d ever seen, adorns each of her shoulders. Her hair is twisted into thick, greasy dreadlocks, all tied back together, and the pale skin of her face is patchy with angry red blotches. She wears a thick, square sword at her side that looks more like an enormous meat cleaver.
This, I assume, is the Butcher.
“I thought I smelled fresh meat,” she says. Her Imperial is atrociously accented, as though she were gargling rocks. She adds something in another language, and the lounging crew laugh. The sound reminds me of the baying of hounds. “Is this all they’ve brought?”
“Zarun had to put two down,” one of the women who brought us says.
“And they call me a butcher,” the Butcher says, to another laugh. “He ought to just hand them over; we’d whip them into shape.”
“Zarun believes in the power of making an example,” the woman says.
Something passes between her and the Butcher, some mutual animosity. I can feel the division between the crew who came with us and those in the room, like two gangs working on the same job while keeping a wary eye on each other.
“Well,” the Butcher grunts. “It’ll have to do.”
She comes over to us, her footfalls loud on the metal deck. The boy must have pissed himself again, because a fresh wave of stench rolls over us, and the Butcher wrinkles her nose.
“Freeze and rot,” she says, glaring at him. “Right. What’s your Well?”
He blinks, eyes flicking back and forth.
“It’s not a hard question,” the Butcher growls. “What can you do?”
“M … Myrkai,” the boy says, in a tiny voice. “It’s Myrkai. But I’m not v … very strong. I swear.”
Like me, he’s probably spent his whole life hiding the fact that he’s mage-born. Admitting it in front of strangers isn’t easy.
The Butcher snorts. “Give him to Strom,” she says over her shoulder. “She’ll see if there’s anything worthwhile buried in there.”
One of the Butcher’s crew grabs the boy’s arm and drags him away, ignoring his yelps. The huge woman turns to the streetwalker, who stares up at her with red-rimmed eyes.
“And you?” the Butcher says.
“Tartak,” she says. “But I’m only touched.”
“Hmph.” The Butcher looks the woman up and down. “Can you fight?”
“No.” The streetwalker squares her shoulders. “I’m a prostitute.”
“And not ashamed of it, I see,” the Butcher says. “Officers’ hall for this one, see if anyone wants her for their clade.” Her face splits open, showing brown teeth. “I just might make an offer myself.”
I can see the fear on the girl’s face, but she keeps her back straight as she’s led away. The Butcher stalks to the southerner, looming over her.
“Right,” she rumbles. “Well?”
“I don’t have one,” the southern girl says. “I’m not mage-born—”
The Butcher’s hand whips around hard, hitting the girl’s cheek with a crack. She stumbles backward, hand rising to her face. It comes away covered in blood—the Butcher has something sharp on the back of her glove, a white wedge that might be a shark’s tooth.
“I am…” The southerner straightens, and she looks up at the Butcher, ignoring the blood running down her cheek.
“I am Meroe hait Gevora Nimara, First Princess of Nimar.” Her throat works as she swallows hard. “My presence here is some sort of mistake. My father, the King of Nimar, will—”
The Butcher’s other hand cracks across her jaw, an open-handed slap that makes the girl reel backward. She steadies herself, looks up again.
“The King of Nimar,” she repeats, staring right at the Butcher. “And he will reward you handsomely for my return. I will persuade him to forgive any offense you might have given me”—she touches her bloody cheek—“in return for your service.”
Oh, Blessed. It’s brave and honest and utterly, completely stupid. I tense for what I know is coming, but the girl, Meroe, doesn’t move a muscle until the Butcher’s fist slams into her gut with the force of a sledgehammer. She doubles over, folding up around the blow, and the Butcher grabs her hair to keep her from falling.
“First of all,” the huge woman says, “you never lie to me. If you weren’t mage-born, the angels would have torn you apart the moment you came on board. Second of all, no one rotting cares who your daddy is, and he sure as ice isn’t going to protect you now. I’d give good odds he was the one who sent you here.” She looks around at her crew. “We’re all rejects on Soliton. The ones they wanted to get rid of.” There’s a chorus of assent, and some jeers. The Butcher turns back to Meroe. “If you’re here, that means you’re a reject, too. The sooner you accept that, the longer you’ll survive. Not that I’d give odds on you living very long in any case.”
Meroe’s lips work, but she can’t draw a breath. The Butcher hauls her upright.
“Now tell me,” she says, spittle flying into the southern girl’s face. “What is your Well?”
“I don’t…” Meroe’s voice is a wheeze. “I don’t have—”
The Butcher hits her again, and this time lets her collapse, following up with a kick to the midsection. Meroe has gone still, and the Butcher is winding up again.
“You’ll kill her.” I don’t realize I’ve spoken until the words are out of my mouth.
The Butcher freezes, then turns slowly toward me.
“And what’s it to you,” she says, quietly, “if I do?”
Nothing. It’s nothing to me. If I’m going to survive on Soliton long enough to escape, I need to start making allies. This is only going to antagonize this woman, questioning her in front of her underlings. It may also get me beaten to a bloody pulp.
But now it’s too late. I’ve challenged her authority, and she can’t let that stand.
“She may not know what her Well is, that’s all,” I say, trying for diffidence. “Some people don’t find out until they’re much older.”
“So rotting what?” the Butcher says, stalking closer.
“So she’s not lying to you, and there’s no sense in beating her to death.”
Her voice rises to a bellow. “What makes you think you get a say?”
“I just wanted—”