It doesn’t help that I’ve been lacking good opportunities to relieve my frustration, either alone or in company. I sleep six inches from Meroe, and while I’ve never been shy of myself, it feels … awkward. I don’t know what she’d think. Certainly I’ve never heard her indulge.
I could, of course, go to the brothel. There’s one aboard ship, run by the Imperial girl I’d seen on the officers’ dais, whose name is Shiara. A few shells of scrip would get me a couple of hours with a pretty boy—or, rot it, a girl, if that’s what I need. But …
But it’s not what I want. I don’t want anyone. I want her.
The trouble is, I don’t know what she wants. Whether she’d laugh at me or hate me forever. And it’s become increasingly obvious that I need her to help me make sense of the tangled mess of Soliton’s politics. I can’t risk my relationship with my most valuable ally over a couple of wet dreams.
Blessed’s rotting balls. Is it something about this rotting ship, or is there something wrong with me?
* * *
I emerge from our room in the loose trousers and green silk tunic I’ve been using for everyday wear. Soliton’s market has plenty of clothing, but the selection is eclectic. Meroe, fortunately, learned to wield a needle and thread in her early years, and she’s managed to alter a few things to a reasonable fit.
She’s sitting with Aifin, while Berun watches and pokes at something on the hearth. Aifin is trying to get some point across, poking the book and then rapidly sketching a character in the air with his finger. Meroe frowns, clearly not getting it but determined to keep trying.
I shake my head. Anyone else would have written the Moron off after a few tries. Leave it to Meroe to keep pushing until she gets through. She shifts a braid away from the long, delicate curve of her neck as she bends over the book, and my heart double-thumps.
Rot, rot, rot. There’s a job to do here, Isoka. Remember Tori and Kuon Naga. The clock is ticking, and it’s not going to stop just because my body has gotten confused.
There’s a knock, a gong-like sound on the metal wall. The front curtain pulls open, and Zarun is standing in the doorway, smiling his shark’s smile. He’s dressed as flamboyantly as ever, in a style I don’t recognize—a swathe of deep blue cloth pinned at one shoulder and hanging to his waist, with the other arm and shoulder exposed. It leaves a lot of nice-looking skin on display, just in case I wasn’t distracted enough.
“Good evening, Isoka,” he says, with a brief nod at the others. “Congratulations on your hunt today.”
Word spreads fast in the small community of Soliton’s crew. I shrug.
“Do you still have time this evening?” he says. “The Council meeting is the day after tomorrow. If you’re going to be presented to the officers, you’ll want to make a good impression.”
People telling me I have to look nice instantly sets my teeth on edge. Unfortunately, he’s right. The Council is the only way to get closer to the Captain.
“They saw me in the Ring, didn’t they?” I say. “It’s hardly being presented.”
He shrugs. “This is more … official.”
“All right.” I stretch, with a show of reluctance, and reach for the string that gathers our stack of scrip.
Zarun waves a hand.
“Please,” he says. “I’ll take care of everything.”
I slip the scrip into a pocket anyway. Zarun’s grin widens a notch, and he gestures to the door. I follow him out through the corridor and into the crowded chaos of the Upper Stations. He leads the way through the streets, toward a section of the market I haven’t visited before.
“So,” he says, falling into step beside me. “Are you getting accustomed to how things work here?”
“More or less,” I tell him. “It’s not that different from back home. I get paid to kill things. Here they just tend to have more legs.”
Zarun chuckles. “That’s what I like about you, Isoka. You’re so refreshingly direct.”
By the way he looks at me, it’s clear that’s not all he likes about me. Fair enough. I’ve snuck a few admiring glances, too.
“These Council meetings,” I ask him, “does the Captain ever attend?”
He shakes his head. “Not since I joined. When we want to see the Captain, we visit him in his tower.”
“When did you join? How long have you been on the ship?”
I’ve picked up enough of Soliton’s etiquette to know this is something of a daring question. Everyone on board, no matter how comfortable they seem in their current circumstances, came from somewhere, and not by choice. We’re all prisoners here, and not everyone is happy to be reminded about it. Fortunately, Zarun only smiles slightly.
“It will be … eight years, now?” He looks up at the ceiling, where the sun slants in through rusted holes. “I think. It can be hard to keep track, in here.” He glances back at me. “Did they tell you I’m a Jyashtani prince?”
“I may have heard that somewhere, but I didn’t believe it.”
“You’re wiser than most, then,” he says. “My father was a prince of Harzashti. And my mother was a weed picker’s daughter. When I became an embarrassment, Soliton provided a convenient solution.”
If I’m right about his age, he wouldn’t have been more than twelve at the time. Hell of a place for a child to get dumped. “And the Council?”
“That came later. I built a successful hunting pack, won the respect of my fellow crew, and eventually…” He spread his arms. “You’re full of questions today, Deepwalker.”
“It’s sinking in that I’m really going to be staying here,” I ad-lib. “Seemed like I should learn the ropes.”
“You’ve made a good start, at least. I hope Thora and Jack have been helpful.”
“They have.” It was true, though I’m sure they also provided Zarun with regular reports. “Thora has been training Berun, too.”
“Thora is extremely reliable,” Zarun says. “And your princess? Is she recovering?”
“She is.” I don’t particularly want to discuss Meroe. “Where exactly are we going?”
“In here.”
He gestures down an alley, which leads to a side door into a nearby tower. There’s no sign, and I look around curiously as he walks up and knocks.
“This is a shop?” I say.
“Of a sort. The best of the scavenger’s finds aren’t laid out in the street.” Zarun gives me the shark’s smile again. “And you deserve the best, Deepwalker.”
“Who’s there?” says a voice from inside. It sounds like a little girl.
“Zarun, and a guest.”
There’s the sound of muttering, and the door creaks open. A girl of thirteen or so, slim and dark-skinned, stands in the doorway in a baggy, oversized dress. She yawns ostentatiously.
“Another girl, Zarun?” she says. “You were just in last week. What happened to Ralya?”
“Ralya is well,” Zarun says. “Though we have, regrettably, parted ways. But this is Isoka Deepwalker.”
“Deepwalker.” The girl leans forward, rising onto her toes to study the blue lines across my face. “Hmm. Is it true?”
“What, that I survived the Deeps?” I give another shrug. “It’s true. Though I’m not the only one. Meroe was with me.”
“Ah, but one of you walked out carrying the other,” Zarun says. “Isoka, this is Feoptera, queen of scavengers.”
“I told you not to call me that,” Feoptera snaps. “It makes me sounds like a vulture or a hyena. And I’m not anybody’s queen.”
“Forgive me,” Zarun says, giving me an amused glance. “Just a young lady with exquisite taste.”
“Your price is getting higher by the minute,” Feoptera says. “Come inside before you talk it up beyond your means.”
She stalks away, and we follow. The metal corridor is lined with junk, so tight we sometimes have to squeeze past sideways. There are metal sheets, rusted at the edges, piles of dried mushrooms, and large fragments of crab shell. In and among these products of Soliton are bits of salvage: cups and plates, furniture, crates and boxes, wine bottles. Open doorways lead into rooms crammed with even more stuff.
“So what is it this time?” Feoptera says over her shoulder. “Jewels? Perfume?”
“Something for Isoka to wear to the Council meeting.”
“Ah, yes.”
The girl stomps into a room on her left. Several tables take up most of the space, and makeshift shelves line the walls. Every inch of horizontal surface is covered with fabric, a galaxy of brilliant colors and glittering adornments. There’s silk, and Jyashtani lace, and a hundred other materials I couldn’t hope to identify. A lamp in the corner gleams off cloth of gold and sparkles from precious stones.
I can’t help but let out a low whistle. On Soliton, I know, bits of pretty cloth aren’t as valuable as a nice set of tools or a fine blade, but back in Kahnzoka the contents of this room would buy Tori’s estate several times over. Old instincts make my palms itch.
“Take your pick,” Feoptera says. “Try not to damage anything.”
She stalks out, with one last glare at Zarun.
“She doesn’t seem to like you very much.” I say, in low tones.
He chuckles. “Feoptera is very fond of me. You should see the way she treats people she really doesn’t like.”