I’m right about that, at least. Within minutes, Meroe is curled up in her nest, snoring in a genteel, aristo sort of way. I find myself too keyed up to rest just yet, although my muscles still ache from powerburn. I walk down to the shore, marked by a scummy, rusted line on the deck, and look across the half-flooded chamber. The Moron is still sitting on his little island, unmoving. I wonder if he’s asleep.
“Isoka.” Ahdron comes up behind me. “Can I have a word?”
“You’re the pack leader,” I say. “Do you need to ask?”
He snorts and steps up beside me, looking out at the little lake and the Moron.
“He just sits like that all day,” Ahdron says. “Rot-for-brains.”
“He managed to stay out of the blueshell’s way,” I say.
“He’s got a talent for making himself scarce. Is there a Well for that?” Ahdron turns to me, running one hand through his hair. “Rot. Look. I feel like we didn’t get the best start.”
I shrug. “I can’t say the last few days have been a great introduction to anybody.”
“I know you’re fresh meat and you don’t know how things work here,” he says. “But you understand the Butcher’s got me in the doghouse, right?”
“I’d gathered that.” I turn to look at him with affected casualness. “What did you do to make her so angry?”
“It’s not important,” Ahdron mutters, flushing slightly. “The point is that I’m not going to be down forever. Sometime—maybe soon—I’ll get out from under her, and this is going to be a real pack instead of a trash heap.”
“Glad to hear it,” I drawl. “And?”
“Let’s cut the rot,” he says. “I saw what you did to the blueshell. We both know you and I are the only ones here who are worth a damn. I know you’ve got small reason to trust me, but if we can take down a hammerhead then even the Butcher is going to have to take notice. I need your help if we’re going to have a chance.”
“You don’t have to ask for my help, do you? You just give the orders.”
He swears unintelligibly. “I told you, cut the rot. You could have run for it and gotten away easily. I don’t know why you didn’t, but when it comes to the sharp end this time I’m asking you to stand by me again. It’s not going to be easy, but if we pull this off, we can get out of this rotting hole.” He gestures around. “We’ll move up to Middle Deck, poach a few decent pack mates, and get comfortable again. Pick our own battles. What do you think?”
He seems earnest. Excited, even. He wants to get back into the officers’ good graces, and he thinks I’m his ticket. Whether he’s right I don’t know. I’m not sure he understands that the Butcher hates me more than ever.
“If you’re asking whether I’ll fight,” I tell him, “then I’ll fight. But it would help if someone told me what a hammerhead was, and how you kill one.”
“I’ll explain everything,” he says eagerly.
“In the morning.” I yawn, looking out across the water again. The Moron hasn’t stirred. “I think I’d better get some rest, don’t you?”
I feel him watching me as he walks away. He’s no different from Zarun, or Meroe for that matter. Even on a ship full of mage-born, apparently my skill set is unusual enough that everyone wants to take advantage of it.
Which is fine. I can take advantage of them right back.
Everyone on Soliton seems convinced that there’s no escaping the ship. If I assume for the moment that I believe them, that leaves one option to save Tori’s life—figure out how to deliver Soliton to Kuon Naga. The only lead I have is the Captain. I’m going to have to get close to him to find out more, and for that I’m going to need allies. Some of those allies will probably end up with a dagger in the back, of course. That’s the way these things work. I just need to make sure they don’t do the same to me.
* * *
I dream about angels, the twisted, alien shapes that haunt the ship’s rail. In the dream they’re clustered around me, like eager dogs gathering for a treat, except I feel like they’re trying to talk to me. Voices babble at the back of my mind, endlessly, unintelligibly. Someone is shouting in the distance, trying to cut through the chatter, but too far away to hear. The angels bleed gray light, which swirls around me, tiny specks of glowing dust trying to burrow through my skin.
I also dream about Zarun, which is more explicable and considerably more pleasant. I kiss the taut muscle of his stomach while his hands run up and down my back. Zarun, I suspect, would not mind my scars. Unfortunately, this pleasant scenario means I wake up with an itchy, unfulfilled feeling that leaves me badly wanting to rut, or at least find a comfortable spot with some privacy and take care of things for myself. I don’t seem likely to get either, since Ahdron is already shouting for everyone to gather.
We do, though in the case of the Moron it’s clearly more because Ahdron is holding our breakfast bucket than for any respect for the pack leader’s orders. Ahdron sets the bucket and a couple of loaves of bread in front of us, and starts to talk while we dip our bowls. Meroe sits beside me, and I catch her looking at me uncertainly. She doesn’t say much, for once. Berun sits as far as possible from Ahdron, shoveling bits of crab into his mouth between nervous looks up at the pack leader. The Moron eats in beatific silence, apparently ignorant of everything spoken.
“The Butcher wants us to hunt a hammerhead,” Ahdron says. “Obviously that isn’t easy. She knows where one’s been feeding, which takes care of the first problem, but that leaves the issue of killing the rotting thing.” He shakes his head. “Normally you need a whole set of beaters, a Tartak adept to hold the monster down, and someone to carve a way through its thick skull. We’ve got … us. But we haven’t got a rotting choice if we want to eat, so we’re doing it.”
Berun has frozen. “We can’t kill a hammerhead. Is she crazy?”
“I think she knows exactly what she’s doing,” I say.
Meroe shoots me a look. Berun tosses his bowl aside and starts to get up, and Ahdron’s voice cracks like a whip.
“Coward! Sit down and shut up. You’re part of this, and if you try to run off gods help me I’ll burn you alive. Understand?”
Berun sits, white-faced. The Moron, having finished his breakfast, sets his bowl down and wanders back to the shore. He plunges easily into the water, swimming out to his island in a few quick strokes.
“Obviously he’s not worth anything,” Ahdron says. “But Coward, you’re Tartak. So we need you on this one.”
“I’m n … not strong enough,” Berun says, looking at the floor. “I’m only a talent. I c … can’t hold a hammerhead.”
“You can rotting well try,” Ahdron says.
“Meroe saved you from the blueshell,” I tell him. “Now’s your chance to return the favor.”
“I didn’t…” Berun looks at Meroe, then back at the floor. “I’m sorry. I don’t mean to be … I’m just not strong enough, that’s all.”
“We’re not going to be able to do it the usual way,” Ahdron says. “We’re going to have to get it to come to us, instead of flushing it out with beaters. Meroe, that’s your job.”
“How?” Meroe says.
“By being bait,” Ahdron says. “When we start seeing signs the hammerhead is close, you’ll cut yourself and make some noise. That’ll bring it out, sure as winter.”
“I don’t—” I start, but Meroe interrupts.
“All right,” she says. “Then what?”
“Then Coward here holds it. It doesn’t have to be for long; a few seconds will do.” He leans down and sketches an elliptical shape on the deck, then puts a couple of dots in the middle. “The only way to kill a hammerhead is to hit the heart or the brain. But they’re both too far inside to get to easily. So Isoka, I want you to go for the legs instead. Damage enough of them and we’ll slow it right down. Then I can take my time and blast it apart. May not make the best steaks for the officers, but they can go rot.”
“It won’t work,” Berun moans. “I told you, I can’t hold it.”
“Would you shut it?” Ahdron closes his fist, which ignites with a whoomph. “I swear, I’m going to—”
“Let me talk to him,” Meroe says. “Please.”
Ahdron glares at Berun, but he nods. Meroe takes the boy’s trembling hand and leads him away, speaking to him in a low voice. Ahdron rolls his eyes and starts on his own breakfast, ripping one of the tough loaves of bread in half.
“So, the hammerhead,” I ask him, “does it have claws like the blueshell, or tentacles, or what?”
Ahdron shakes his head. “Just a mouth. A big, wide mouth, full of tiny, sharp teeth.” He rips a hunk off the bread and chews with some difficulty. “Rotting gods. Would it kill them to bring it to us fresh?”
“What do they make bread out of, anyway?” I tear a chunk from the loaf. “It can’t be flour.”
“Mushrooms,” he says. “There’s a kind you can grind up like grain.”