“Sure.” The man snorts. “I’ll tell you what I think. I think you found a dead blueshell and you’re looking to impress everyone your first day aboard. That it, eh?”
He matches my gaze, weaving slightly. Drunk. I wonder how much trouble I’d be in if I just killed him. Probably quite a bit, but I’m still tempted. A quick twist, inside his reach, a thrust to the throat, and that would be the end of it.
Meroe probably wouldn’t like it. No sooner does the thought occur to me than I chase it away. What does it matter what Meroe would like?
I force myself to break eye contact, ceding the stupid pissing contest, and hope that’s enough to placate him. Out of the corner of my eye, I see him take a step forward, and I get ready to kill him after all. Then Jack steps between us.
She’s not intimidating, at least physically. She’s shorter than me, and while my frame might charitably be described as “wiry,” Jack looks like you could break her in half over your knee. But her wide, mad eyes meet the drunk’s, and he recoils like he’d touched a hot coal. Whatever he saw there, it’s gone by the time Jack turns around, grinning and leading me by the hand across the courtyard.
Another woman steps in front of us, and Jack breaks away to jump into her arms. She’s one of the oldest I’ve seen on Soliton, maybe twenty-five, an iceling with broad shoulders and a solid, muscular build. Her long blond hair hangs in a spreading curtain past her shoulders, and her clothes are practical leather, layered with crab shell. There’s a sword at her hip, a short, ugly thing whose grip is stained from long use.
Jack wraps her arms around her neck, and kisses her like none of the rest of us are watching. I blink, startled. Jack presses her thin, androgynous body against the iceling woman’s ample curves, and I find myself looking away, feeling uncomfortable.
It’s not as though I’m unaware of the fact that there are women who like women or men who prefer men. The Blessed One disapproved of such practices, but while that might hold some sway with the nobility in the upper wards, the people of the Sixteenth Ward are too busy trying not to starve to fret much about it. And, judging by the steady trickle of lonely aristos who work their way through our brothels, even high on the hill they don’t pay much heed to the official morality.
Even in the Sixteenth Ward, though, it wasn’t something you did in the open. Even if everyone knew—and everyone always knows, when you’re packed into a tenement so close you can hear every board creak—you didn’t …
Meroe has gone very still, like she’s torn between staring and looking away in disgust. I wonder what they think of this sort of thing in Nimar.
Focus, I tell myself. There’s more important matters to deal with.
Such as Zarun. He’s sitting at the table beside the two women, grinning broadly. His clothes are different from the last time I saw him, but no less garish, maroon trousers and a dark vest sewn with interlocking circles of gold that hangs open across his muscular chest. He raises his eyebrows, then coughs gently.
The older woman pushes Jack away. “Sorry, love,” she says, at the thin girl’s pout. “But we’ve got company, remember?”
“Oh yes!” Jack spins around, beaming again. “This is Isoka, mighty slayer of crabs, and her pack mate Meroe. Isoka, this is Zarun, and his second, Thora.”
“It’s good to meet you,” Thora says, with a half bow. “I’ve heard about what you did. Very impressive.” She gestures to the seat across from Zarun.
“I didn’t know killing the rotting thing would make me so notorious,” I tell her, sitting down. Meroe stands next to me, hands clasped, eyes on the smiling killer on the other side of the table. “I was just trying to stay alive.”
“It’s not just killing the blueshell,” Zarun says. “The Butcher thought she was throwing you to the crabs, putting you in Pack Nine. Now you’ve tweaked her nose quite nicely.” His dazzling grin broadens. “I like that a lot. I have a feeling, dear Isoka, that we’re going to get along.”
He looks at Meroe, then up at Thora. “Perhaps you and Jack could show Meroe around Crossroads. And get us a drink while you’re at it.”
“I—” I begin, but Meroe interrupts.
“That would be fine,” she says, all quiet dignity. “This is such an … interesting place.”
Thora waves to one of the gray-clad children, who takes off for the bar at a run. As Thora and Jack escort Meroe away, the child comes back with a pair of small clay mugs, full of something frothy that smells alchemical. Zarun takes a swallow, and I follow suit, carefully. It tastes like rotten fruit, but there’s a powerful kick that burns my mouth and leaves a trail of numbness all the way down my throat. I force myself not to cough and take another drink. He nods approvingly.
“So,” he says. “Fresh meat, and for your first trick you mouth off to the Butcher. I have to say I’m surprised. Back in the pit I had you figured for the quiet type.”
“Some people just rub me the wrong way.”
“The Butcher rubs everyone the wrong way,” Zarun says, leaning back in his seat. His eyes sparkle with mischief. “Most people are smart enough not to make an issue of it.”
I shrug. He takes another drink and gestures with the glass.
“For some reason,” he says, “she decides not to kill you, and instead sticks you in her punishment pack, under poor old Ahdron. No doubt she hopes that you’ll get yourself eaten, but instead you manage an impressive kill your first time out.”
“Like I said, I didn’t find out it was impressive until later,” I say.
“It’s a hell of a story,” he says. “So where do you think it goes next?”
“Your guess is as good as mine.” I match his gaze. “I’m thinking you might have an idea.”
He laughs, and scratches his cheek. “That obvious, am I? I suppose it’s never been my style to conceal my … interest.”
“So, what? You want me to come work for you?”
“Something like that.” For a moment, his eyes roam my body in frank appreciation. “I think we could do a lot for one another.”
“Maybe.” I sip from the drink—just the smell of it burns my nostrils—and stare right back. Zarun is certainly easy to look at, with his curls and his tight, muscular figure. “I don’t pretend to know how things work here, but my understanding is that the Butcher gets a say in that.”
“Unfortunately. The details may take a little time to arrange. It’s just a matter of figuring out what she wants—”
“In that case,” comes an unpleasantly familiar booming voice, “you’re out of luck, Zarun.”
The Butcher. I turn to see her pushing through the crowd, Haia and a half-dozen cronies behind her. Most of the other crew don’t take much pushing, giving the huge woman a wide berth. Her attention is on me and Zarun.
“After all,” the Butcher says as she stomps up to the table, “you were always worthless at figuring out how to please me.”
“It’s just that there’s so much of you,” Zarun says lazily. “I have to admit I kept getting lost.”
“I can see why the skinny blackhair is to your taste, then,” the Butcher says. “She’s hardly a morsel.” One of her hands rests on the hilt of her cleaver-like sword. “Unfortunately, this one is mine. You’ll have to pass the night without another whore. No doubt the dozen you already keep will suffice.”
“She’s wasted in Pack Nine,” he says, unruffled by the Butcher’s crude barb. “Everyone knows you’re just waiting for Ahdron to get himself killed.”
“I don’t see how that’s any of your business,” the Butcher booms.
“If she’s got power enough to kill a blueshell by herself, then maybe it is Council business.” Zarun looks down at his fingernails. “I wonder what Karakoa and Shiara would say about it? After all, you’re supposed to be assigning the fresh meat for everyone’s benefit.”
“You’re welcome to bring it up at the next session,” the Butcher sneers. “Though if you put your faith in those two, you’re going to be disappointed. And until then, Isoka is part of my pack, and subject to my rules.”
“As you say.” Zarun catches my eye, and winks. “We’ll see.”
* * *
I’m reunited with Meroe on the way out of the market, but the Butcher’s thugs still surround us. Getting back to Pack Nine’s half-flooded cell involves descending a rickety spiral staircase down through the deck, passing another floor before reaching a rusty metal landing. The staircase continues on, but metal pieces have been layered into a barricade where it descends into the floor, blocking off the lower areas. We tromp through the same dimly lit corridors, splashing through puddles, walls flaky with rust.
“Since you’re obviously fully recovered,” the Butcher says, “you’ll be eager for your next assignment. One of the scavenging packs brought back word of a hammerhead feeding in the Wrecks. All you’ve got to do is find it and kill it. We’ll come for you in the morning.”