Just the beginning. Rotting wonderful.
There’s food laid out on a great wooden table, and rows of crystal glasses that belonged in a palace somewhere. I fight my way to the center of the scrum and help clear a path for Meroe. Once she arrives, tapping her cane on the deck, I hand her a plate of unidentifiable fried bits and a goblet of something amber. For myself, I take only a goblet.
Whatever the stuff is, it’s surprisingly good, a bit like wine but considerably stronger. I can feel the liquor at the back of my throat as the initial sweetness fades. Meroe sips, and raises an eyebrow.
“Well,” she says. “I could get used to that.”
“Good, isn’t it?” Zarun steps up behind us. For a wonder, he’s dressed less garishly than usual, in a sleek dark green robe that’s almost subdued, matched with a floppy silk hat that hangs rakishly over one ear. “Lots of cities include liquor as part of their tribute, so the scavengers are always bringing back crates of the stuff, but the quality can be a bit hit-or-miss.”
“When did you arrive?” I ask.
“Just now.” He waves a hand. “It wouldn’t do for the Council to be the first ones here.”
Meroe nods. “The most important person always arrives late.”
“Let me make the introductions,” Zarun says. He slips his arm into mine, so smoothly it almost feels natural. “If you don’t mind, Meroe?”
“Go ahead.” I catch Meroe’s gaze, and she mouths, Eyes open. I nod.
I can see the massive form of the Butcher, towering over the crowd. Somewhat to my relief, Zarun leads me in the opposite direction. Another large figure stands at the edge of the ring of light, surrounded by a smaller group of hangers-on. It’s the tall warrior I saw the day I fought Ahdron. He shares the light brown skin and broad features of my former pack leader. I’ve learned that these are characteristic of the people who inhabit what the Empire calls the Southern Wastes, who as far as I know have never been encountered by His Imperial Majesty’s explorers. The far south is notoriously treacherous sailing, with little but sand and snow to make up for the risk of foundering in a sudden blizzard. But Soliton, of course, knows no such hazards, and has scooped up its share of the people who call themselves Akemi.
The circle of courtiers opens up as we approach. The southerner pauses to exchange a lingering kiss with his closest companion, a slight, younger man with a Jyashtani look, before he looks up to greet me. He has handsome, chiseled features, and dark hair braided close to his scalp. He’s dressed in tooled leather, not dissimilar from mine, but accented with small bits of twisted steel threaded onto silk cords.
“Isoka,” Zarun says, “this is Karakoa. He’s the longest serving of our little Council.”
“Deepwalker,” Karakoa says. His voice is a low rumble. “You were impressive in the Ring.”
“Thank you,” I say. There’s a confidence about the man that’s a little intimidating, even for me. I’ve met many braggarts on the streets, but Karakoa has an altogether different air.
“It has been a long time since Soliton had another Melos adept,” he says. When he smiles, his teeth are huge and white. “Your technique is primitive, but you show promise. I look forward to watching your development.” Then, as an afterthought, “If you survive.”
“Thank you,” I say again, and mentally add, I think. “You’ve been on the Council—”
“Almost from the beginning,” he says. “Fifteen years.”
He can’t be more than thirty. I frown as he goes on.
“When I came aboard, Jarli ruled the ship in the Captain’s name. I was the one who convinced her to share power.” He shakes his head. “Now there was an adept. Melos and Rhema both. Deadly as a scorpion and fast as sin.”
“What happened to her?”
Karakoa falls silent, and it’s Zarun who answers. “She died, trying to get beyond the Center.”
“She said there had to be something there, at the other end of the ship,” Karakoa says. “Something more than mushrooms and crabs. Foolishness.”
“Did Jarli introduce you to the Captain?” This feels about as subtle as a brick to the face, but this sort of thing isn’t my strength. “Or did that happen after she … was gone?”
“She introduced me,” Karakoa says, glancing at Zarun.
“Can you tell me what he’s like?”
The big warrior purses his lips for a moment. “Not what I expected.”
Someone else is trying to get Karakoa’s attention, so Zarun steers me away. “He’s a good sort, in the end,” he says in a low voice. “A bit … unsubtle, perhaps. But a hell of a fighter.”
“I can imagine,” I murmur. There’s something bothering me, looking out at the crowd, but I can’t put my finger on it.
“Now,” Zarun says. “Where—” His face falls, and he heaves a sigh.
“What’s the problem?”
“The Scholar.” Zarun’s lip twists. “I was hoping he’d stay with his precious books tonight. He usually does.”
“You didn’t seem worried about him the other day.”
“I’m not worried,” Zarun says. “He’s just tedious.” His eyes flick to me. “Incidentally. You didn’t care for the dress?”
I look down at myself with a slight grin. “I thought this was more … me.”
“Do you know, I think I agree with you?” His gaze lingers deliberately. “It’s…”
“Dangerous?”
“Exactly.” He reaches for my midriff and strokes it gently with the backs of his knuckles. “I hadn’t realized these marks went all over. I’d be … interested to examine the rest.”
“Of course you would,” a woman says. “Honestly, Zarun, you call Karakoa unsubtle, but you’re about as delicate as a bull in heat.”
“Shiara.” Zarun turns around, and I turn with him. “How lovely to see you.”
It’s the other person I saw on the platform, the Imperial woman. She’s my age, or maybe even younger, and a spectacular beauty in the classical style: long, slim legs and a narrow waist, delicate features, and night-black hair falling in a torrent nearly to the deck. She’s wearing a dress, not a kizen, and it leaves little to the imagination, baring her shoulders and a deep neckline. Her skin is almost as pale as an iceling’s, and her lips are painted a deep, bloody red.
I may not have Meroe’s facility for learning the lay of the political land, but I’ve heard a bit about Shiara. The other officers won their positions through skill and strength, but she’d taken hers by cunning, beginning as nothing more than a desperate hawker in the market. Careful trading had seen her rise to leader of a scavenger pack, and then beyond. Now her clade included the most successful traders on the ship, not to mention running the only brothel.
Beside her is the Scholar, in his round spectacles. Unlike everyone else, he’s made no effort to dress up for the occasion, and still wears the slightly shabby robe in which I’d last seen him. He nods to me, as though we were old friends, the flickers of the lanterns reflected in his lenses.
“You are a pretty man, Zarun, but somewhat empty-headed,” Shiara says. There’s a playfulness in her tone, unlike the Butcher’s mockery. “Go on. Make your introduction, since it pleases you so.”
“Isoka, this is Shiara,” Zarun says. “She has a wasp’s stinger for a tongue, but she’s not as bad as she seems.”
“Oh, is that how we’re playing?” Shiara steps forward, red lips crooked. “I could tell you stories about him, my dear. But tell me. You were taken from the Empire?”
“Kahnzoka,” I say, cautiously.
“It’s been nearly a year since we left Imperial waters,” she says. “I’m dangerously behind on the latest gossip. Did Princess Ariane ever figure out who the father of her baby was? Is old Barei still alive?”
I can’t tell if she’s putting me on. That sort of story, treating the affairs of the royal family like the twists and turns of street theater, was everywhere in Kahnzoka’s taverns and winesinks, lowborn getting a bit of their own back by gawping at the antics of their betters. I’d never paid much attention, since the tales changed with the teller and had little bearing on anything that mattered.
Zarun, apparently, agreed with me. “Why not just make up your own story, Shiara?” he says. “It’ll have just as much relevance.”
“Knowing it’s real always adds a certain something,” she says. “Come on, Deepwalker. What’s the latest?”
“You’re asking the wrong person,” I say. “I never kept track of all that who’s-sleeping-with-whom stuff.”
Shira makes a disappointed pout. “Well. At least you’ve stirred things up a little around here. I’ve been so bored lately.”