When a hunting pack brings down large prey, we report where we left the bodies to one of the clades, who send out a scavenger pack to drag them back to safety. In return, the clade leader gives the pack etched bits of crab shell called scrip, which work more or less like ordinary money. Money without gold or silver in it still seems strange to me, but no stranger than everything else on Soliton.
Pack leaders are free to choose their own targets, based on reports from scavengers and other hunting packs. When two groups want to hunt the same prey, the Council decides, either awarding it to one or ordering them to work together. The Council seems to decide everything, in fact. Berun told me the Captain doesn’t stick his nose in everyday life much, but as far as I can tell he doesn’t intervene at all, except for occasionally sending the angels on mysterious tasks of his own.
There’s not much everyone agrees on about the Captain—that he’s a man, that he lives in a tower that sticks up from the deck near the stern of the ship, and that he controls the angels through some means no one understands. He seems to have been here longer than anyone else; at least, no one I’ve talked to came aboard before him. Other than that, though, there’s almost nothing.
It’s frustrating, because aside from my investigation of the Captain and how he controls the ship, things have been going well for a change. For all that Zarun sent them to spy on me, Thora and Jack can handle themselves, and between us we’ve been able to bring down enough prey that we have plenty of scrip for food and enough left over for furnishings. Our rooms, which I’ve learned are in a place called Tower Five, have grown steadily more comfortable. Mostly this is Meroe’s doing, since her leg keeps her out of the daily hunts.
When we return home, she’s sitting on the floor in the common room, which is now equipped with several more chairs and a thick carpet. The Moron is sitting opposite her, cross-legged, and there’s a book open on the floor between them. I blink at the sight of the Moron—who, as far as I know, has never responded to any attempt at communication—pointing eagerly at the book, while Meroe stares intently.
“What’s this?” Jack says. “Has the Princess managed to tame the savage beast?”
“He’s not a beast,” Meroe snaps. “Or a moron.” She catches sight of me and grins. “Isoka! Come and see!”
I drop my pack in the corner and flop down beside Meroe, and Berun quietly follows suit. Thora and Jack retreat to their room. Probably to rut; I swear, I’ve known dogs in heat that are more restrained than those two.
“Welcome back,” Meroe says, a little belatedly. “Is everyone okay?”
“No problems.” Aside from my encounter with Hagan. Thinking about it makes my palms itch. I’ll tell Meroe about it, but later, once I’ve figured out how to explain. Which may be a while.
“Good,” Meroe says, and turns back to the Moron. “I’ve figured it out. Finally.”
The boy is staring down at the book in deep concentration, dark brown skin furrowed. He taps it again, looking at Meroe, and she holds up a hand for him to wait.
“He can read?” I say.
“I tried writing messages to him,” Berun says. “He never seemed to understand anything.”
“Because you didn’t use the right language,” Meroe says.
“He’s Jyashtani, isn’t he?” Berun says.
“He’s a little dark for a Jyashtani,” I say. “I thought he was from the Southern Kingdoms.”
“He’s technically Jyashtani,” Meroe says. “But Jyashtan is a big place. The people we usually think of as Jyashtani are from the north, where the capital is. Their empire rules the south, too, but there are a lot of peoples there who speak their own languages.” She grins. “And, in this case, use their own system for writing. Look.”
I examine the book. The letters are, indeed, unrecognizable, strange square glyphs instead of the thin-lined characters of Imperial. Jyashtani use the same script we do, I think. I hadn’t known there were others.
“This is a book from … well, I don’t know exactly where,” Meroe goes on. “The point is he can read it. And so can I, a little.” She shakes her head. “He’s deaf and dumb, I think. Can you imagine being dumped in here and not being able to hear or make anyone understand you?”
I look at the boy, who meets my eyes with a calm, curious gaze. “I’m amazed he’s still alive,” I say.
Meroe nods. “His name is Aifin. I may be pronouncing that wrong. I’m not exactly sure what language he speaks, only that it uses these Fertani characters. I’m going to have to see if there are any more books in the market.”
There are a surprising number of books on Soliton. The various ports think they make good sacrifices, I guess. For the most part, the crew don’t have much use for them.
“Well. It’s good to meet you, Aifin,” I say, and then feel stupid because of course he just keeps staring. “Meroe, could I speak to you alone for a moment?”
“Of course.”
“I’ll get dinner started,” Berun says. There’s a small hearth in one corner, below a convenient rust hole in the ceiling. I’m almost used to the smell of the dried mushroom they use in place of firewood.
I help Meroe to her feet, and she slips the crutch under her arm. Berun and the Moron—Aifin—have been sharing one of the three bedrooms, and Thora and Jack claimed another. That leaves the last for me and Meroe. We found sleeping mats in the market—they sleep properly in Nimar, apparently—and she’s added other odds and ends. A few books stand in a pile beside her bed, next to a bowl of beaten gold and a small collection of charms made from parts of crabs.
“How’s the leg?” I ask, as the curtain closes behind us.
“Itchy,” Meroe says. “But it shouldn’t be long before I can walk at least a little. Sister Cadua’s remedies really do work wonders.”
Meroe herself, of course, can literally work miracles, but I let the irony of that pass. She doesn’t like to be reminded of what she is, and if we’re being completely honest neither do I.
“Any luck today?” I ask.
She crutches to her sleeping mat and lowers herself onto it. “No. Nobody knows anything.”
“That they’re willing to say.”
“In that case, they’re very good liars.” Meroe sighs. “I don’t understand.”
In the couple of weeks since we moved into Tower Five, Meroe has been helping me dig up information on the Captain. More accurately, she’s been doing the digging, while I chop unfortunate crabs into pieces. She’s become well versed in the ins and outs of Soliton society remarkably quickly, but the Captain himself remains elusive.
“It doesn’t make sense,” I say. “Someone has to bring him food, clean his rooms, warm his bed. There has to be something.”
“I know,” Meroe says patiently. “The officers take care of it is all anyone will tell me.”
“Personally?” I can’t imagine the Butcher fetching the Captain’s towel or cooking his crab juice.
“I don’t know.” Meroe sighs. “But I think Zarun is still our best chance.”
Our clade leader has been a frequent guest, eager to check up on his latest acquisitions. His interest in me, specifically, is obvious, both because the crew is still abuzz with talk of the Deepwalker and for … other reasons. Lately, he’s renewed his invitation to find me something to wear for the Council meeting.
“I don’t like relying on him so much,” I mutter.
“We’re not relying on him,” Meroe says. “We’re using him.”
I can’t help but smile. “I’m rubbing off on you.”
“Please.” She grins back. “Princesses can be as ruthless as gang bosses, believe me.”
“I believe you.” I rub my eyes, trying to get my heart to slow down before a flush shows in my face. That smile. Rot.
“He said he’d come by tonight,” Meroe says. “Go out with him. See what you can find out.”
“If you say so.” I sigh. “Let me change clothes, then.”
Meroe nods. “I’m going to keep working with Aifin.”
She gets her crutch under her and makes her laborious way out of the room. As the curtain falls behind her, something slams against the metal wall beside me and I hear a moan, followed by a string of unfamiliar profanity and heavy breathing.
The thing is … I mean …
Rot it. The thing is, under other circumstances, I would have happily returned Zarun’s unsubtle interest. He’s handsome, with a touch of the exotic by Kahnzoka standards, and the suggestion of corded muscle under the loose shirts he wears makes me want to investigate more thoroughly. He’s dangerous, of course, and a murderer, but I can hardly complain about that. But.
But …
But it has become clear to me, through a couple of sleepless nights and several extremely explicit dreams, that it isn’t Zarun I want to rut. It’s Meroe hait Gevora Nimara, with her bright grin, her quick laugh, her thick, heavy braid. Her smooth, dark skin, the curve of her hip, the quick smile on her soft lips.
I’ve never wanted someone so badly. I want to kiss her; I want to feel her hands on me; I want to nip at her throat and hear her gasp like—
Well, like Jack is gasping in the next room, as Thora does whatever Jack keeps asking her not to stop doing.