Zarun gives her a look I can’t interpret, and Shiara sighs. She’s turning to leave when something catches my eye. She’s wearing a necklace, a long silver chain with a chunk of metal on it. It’s dull and a little rusted, unlike the rest of her jewelry, and it seems to be a piece of something larger. Both ends are a filigree of tiny hairs, hanging loose, like an old, frayed rope.
That’s not what captures my attention, though. Something is moving inside the metal, tiny points of soft gray light slowly churning in an endless spiral. They’re barely visible in the glow of the lanterns, but I’m certain it’s the same light I’ve seen in Soliton’s support pillars, the light that seemed to gather around the angel and shape itself into Hagan.
Is she wearing a piece of the ship? But there’s scrap metal everywhere and I’ve never seen anything similar.
“Isoka, dear. You’re welcome to keep staring, but after a certain point I usually charge a fee.”
“Sorry.” I blink and look away, and find myself locking eyes with the Scholar, who is watching me intently. Shiara smiles, this time with a nasty edge, and slips off into the crowd.
Zarun touches my arm. “Did I miss something?”
“Just … the wine. Or whatever it is. It’s been a while since I had any.”
“I think that means you need a bit more,” he says.
“Not just yet.” I look around for Meroe, surreptiously pulling myself free of Zarun’s grip. “Do you—”
“Do you think I could have a moment?” It’s the Scholar, stepping forward, his cane rapping sharply on the deck.
“I suppose,” Zarun mutters. “I will have another glass of wine, at least.”
He turns back toward the table, leaving me at the fringe of the crowd with the Scholar. We look at each other in silence for a few moments, until I start to feel awkward.
“You wanted to talk to me,” I prompt.
“I did,” he says.
“If you want the story of what happened in the Deeps, this probably isn’t the best time.”
“It’s not,” he agrees. “I’ll have it later.” He pauses again, holding up a hand just as I open my mouth to speak. “I’m considering,” he says, “the best approach.”
“The best approach to what?” He’s starting to remind me of Jack, although a bit less excitable.
“You talked to Karakoa.”
“I did.”
“And you asked him about when he joined the Council.” Apparently he’d been listening. “What did he say?”
“That he helped found it, fifteen years ago.” I frown at him. “You must know this, right?”
“Did he tell you,” the Scholar goes on, ignoring me, “what Soliton was like fifteen years ago?”
“No. Other than that someone named Jarli was in charge.” I was starting to see Zarun’s point.
“One woman, ruling in the name of the Captain. Ruling over a single clade of perhaps … a hundred people?” He shrugs. “I arrived not long after, you see. Though it was years before I was admitted to the Council.”
“All right. So what?”
“At the time we had barely begun to secure a single tower in the Upper Stations. Now we have nine, and they’re nearly full.”
I recall the ride up in the cage, the endless darkness. “There’s plenty of room.”
“Not the point,” he snaps.
“Please get to the point.”
“One hundred people then,” he says. “How many now, do you know?”
“I don’t—”
“One thousand three hundred twenty-one,” he cuts in. “Not counting any deaths that haven’t been reported yet. I keep track.”
“Good,” I manage, “for you.”
“Which means a little more than eighty people added as sacrifices per year. Net of deaths, of course.”
The tickle in my mind from earlier is back. “And not counting any children.”
“No children on Soliton.”
“What?”
“Women can’t conceive on the ship.” He gives a tight smile. “It just … doesn’t happen.”
At some level, it made sense. I hadn’t seen any babies or expecting mothers, and as far as I could tell there were no ghulwitches to provide family planning. But …
“Why not?”
“Good question.” He looks over my shoulder, at the rest of the crowd, and sneers. “They’re not fond of asking questions. But think a little harder. Eighty people added per year. Which means?”
I speak slowly. “What were things like a few years before Karakoa came aboard?”
“Death rate is high. Few survivors. Hard to say. But another good question.”
“Hang on,” I say. “Soliton has been going around for centuries. And there were people here a lot longer than twenty years ago. I saw a village in the Deeps.…” I trail off, as he stares at me with interest. “It was a ruin. But it had been there a long time.”
“Indeed.” He cocks his head. “I like you, Isoka Deepwalker. You have the air of someone who asks questions.”
There’s a long drumroll, drowning out conversation for a moment. The Scholar bangs his cane on the deck and bows.
“That,” he says, “is my cue. You must come and visit me, I think. We can … ask questions. In the meantime, I’ll leave you with one.” He waves his cane at the crowd. “Apart from the children, what’s missing?”
He stalks away before I can answer, twisted foot dragging. I watch him go, hardly sure what to think. He seems half-crazy. But …
I think back to Kahnzoka, to crowds like this one. Men and women, children and adults, rich and poor. The fish market, where they all came together. Old men sitting in doorways, telling tales to a crowd of street kids. Old women, bent double under the weight of a load of fish, still capable of a shocking turn of speed.
Karakoa might be thirty. A few others I’d seen look a touch older, but not much. No one past that.
People come on board as teenagers. The Captain and the angels wouldn’t accept anyone younger or older, or so I’d been told. So if someone had been brought on board fifteen years ago and they’d been nineteen, that would make them thirty-four today. The math works out.
No one in this crowd, no one I’d met on Soliton, can date from much before Karakoa arrived. Some people die, of course, but … everyone?
What in the Rot is happening on this ship?
* * *
I manage to find Meroe, still waiting by the table of food, working her way through a plate of fried … things with evident relish.
“Do you have any idea what those are?” I ask her.
She shrugs, mouth full. “’ey’re goo’.” I roll my eyes, and she swallows. “Did you find anything?”
“Maybe.” I’m still not sure what to make of the Scholar. “I’ll tell you later.”
The drumroll sounds again, and the crowd goes quiet. A couple more lanterns come alight, revealing the officers standing in a line between the pair of massive, motionless angels. The Butcher waits with her arms crossed, looking uncomfortable and even larger than usual next to the petite Shiara. Karakoa and Zarun seem more relaxed. Off to one side is the Scholar, leaning on his cane.
“Is he an officer or not?” I ask Meroe.
“He’s on the Council,” she says, “but he doesn’t have his own clade or any hunting packs. The others keep him around because he’s useful.”
“Fellow sacrifices,” Karakoa booms, and there’s a ripple of laugher. “Thank you for joining us. As always, we are honored by your trust, and the Captain’s.” He glances in either direction at his fellow officers. “We will come to the point. There have been … irregularities, as I’m sure you’ve all noticed. Scholar, would you summarize?”
The Scholar steps forward with a click of his cane. “Our last stop was in Kahnzoka. We haven’t gotten any fresh meat since then, and Soliton has been staying mostly out of sight of land. Our speed has increased, too.” He gestures to his left. “Somewhere off that way is Cape Wall.”
I hear Meroe’s breath catch, and I lean close to her. “What does that mean?”
“Cape Wall is halfway down the Southern Kingdoms,” she says. “Well south of Nimar. We’re more than a thousand miles from Kahnzoka.”
A thousand miles. I can’t even visualize that distance. The Sixteenth Ward is a bit more than a mile from end to end, long and skinny as it crams against the waterfront. I try to picture a thousand of them, laid one after the other. It’s easy to forget that Soliton moves at all when I’m belowdecks; now I feel the wind on the back of my neck, and shiver.
A stray thought, infuriating but true: no wonder Kuon Naga wants this ship. Big enough to carry an army, faster than anything with sails, impervious to the unreliable wind and the waves. No arrow or siege engine could do more than scratch its metal hull. Forget some border squabble with Jyashtan. Control Soliton and you could rule the world.
People in the crowd have started shouting back, a confusing jumble of accents and languages. The gist is clear enough, though.
“What’s going on?”
“Why has the Captain changed course?”
“Where is he taking us?”
The Butcher steps forward, her voice a roar. “Shut up and listen!”
The crowd quiets again. Karakoa says, “Believe me, we heard your concerns, and we share them. Naturally, we petitioned the Captain.”
Now the hush is so quiet I can hear the whistle of the breeze, like when the priests intone the sacred names of the Blessed One.