“Of course,” Karakoa says, into the silence, “the Captain’s reasons are his own, and we do not question them. But he assures us that the disruption will be short-lived. Our regular stops will resume soon.”
“In other words,” the Butcher says, “try not to panic like a flock of rotting chickens! There’ll be more fresh meat and more sacrifices to scavenge soon enough. Just keep your heads down and keep hunting.”
Mutters from the pack leaders. They don’t sound happy.
“Speaking of hunting,” Zarun says, ignoring the glance of pure loathing the Butcher directs at him. “I imagine you’ve heard that Pack Twelve lost two men looking for blueshells six levels down from the Drips. One of my packs went looking for the bodies, and found what was left of them.” He pauses. “It wasn’t a blueshell that got them. It was a dredwurm.”
The name means nothing to me, and Meroe looks confused, too. But there’s a sigh from the crowd, a sort of collective intake of breath that indicates it’s very significant indeed.
“It cannot be allowed to run loose, and that means a Grand Hunt,” Zarun says. “The Council hereby makes this offer: whatever pack brings us the eye of the dredwurm can claim any boon within our power to grant, in addition to the usual bounty of scrip.” He beams at us. “I expect quick results, my friends.”
* * *
With that announcement, the party seemed to be over. There was a brief crush as the assembled pack leaders looted what was left of the food and drink, and then a general movement in the direction of the stairs. I stick by Meroe’s side and wait as they disperse. Eventually, Jack appears, looking a bit sweatier and more disheveled than before, and gives us a grave bow.
“I trust that you enjoyed yourselves?” she says. “These audiences are the closest thing Soliton has to a social scene, not counting Shiara’s occasional debauches.”
“It was … interesting.” I glance at Meroe, who nods agreement. “Jack, what’s a dredwurm?”
“Ah, yes.” Jack’s eyes light up. “A truly legendary beastie, the king of crabs, risen from the Deeps. Or so we’re told.” She shrugs. “Each one looks different, but they’re all strong enough to break through the decking and tunnel wherever they like. They’re impossible to keep out with walls and guards, so the only option is to destroy them whenever they show their fangs.”
“And the eye?” Meroe says.
“That’s what makes it a dredwurm. Every one of the monsters has a single crystal eye, and the Council is bound to collect them for the Captain. Hence the bounty. Whoever takes the beast can name her price.” She grins. “Zarun will try for it, you can be certain. If you ask nicely, he’ll let you take part and we’ll all split the reward.”
Meroe and I exchange looks, and I can tell our thoughts are running on similar lines. If the Captain himself wants these eyes—
“But that’s for later,” Jack says. “Back to the cage, friends! Time to leave the angels to their silence and descend back to the world of mortals.” She winks at me, looking a little tipsy, even for Jack. “Thora will be waiting.”
17
I sit opposite Aifin, with a writing slate and some crumbly, chalk-like stuff on the table between us. He watches me with bright, intelligent eyes. I’ve never looked at him up close before; while his skin is as dark as a southerner’s, his features are more Jyashtani.
“His progress has been amazing,” Meroe says. She’s standing at my shoulder, holding her cane but not putting any weight on it. She’s still cautious of her leg, though Sister Cadua says it should nearly be back to full strength. “I’ve tutored him a little bit, but once he got the basics he started going through every book he could get his hands on. Go ahead, ask him something.”
It’s hard to imagine this is the boy we used to call the Moron, when he’s so obviously keenly alert. I clear my throat, then feel stupid for doing so and pick up the chalk instead. Carefully, I write out: “My name is Isoka,” in simple block letters.
He nods, takes the slate, and scribbles in a rough but readable hand: “M. tells me about you. Says you are leader of…”
He taps the chalk against the slate, thinking. I take it back and write: “Pack. Like wolves.”
“Pack,” he writes. “Yes. To fight monsters.”
I wipe the slate clean with my sleeve and start again. “Yes. We fight monsters, to get food to eat.”
“I will fight,” he writes, smudging the letters with his eagerness.
“Before, when Ahdron was leader, you didn’t fight.”
He taps the word “Ahdron” and shakes his head. I gesture, indicating a tall young man, and eventually he gets the idea. He writes: “Did not understand. So long without understanding. No one reads my words here. Could not read yours.”
“You could have made us understand, couldn’t you?” I gesture at my tongue and my ears, to demonstrate.
He gives an uncomfortable shrug. “Tried. Others didn’t listen. Hurt me. Stopped trying.” He hesitates, then adds: “Thought I had died, and in hell.”
“May I?” Meroe says. When I hand her the chalk, she writes: “Who taught you to read your language? How did you get here?”
Aifin wipes the slate again. “Father taught me. Loved me, even though broken.” He taps his throat. “But Father died. Uncle wants rid of useless mouth. Sell to slaver for monster ship.”
So many on Soliton have some variant of the same story. For all her cruelty, what the Butcher told Meroe wasn’t wrong.
“We’ll practice sometime soon,” I write. “So you can show me what you can do.”
Aifin nods enthusiastically. He holds up one hand, and for a moment it’s outlined in golden light, his fingers moving so fast they’re a blur.
“Rhema,” I say aloud, surprised. The Well of Speed is relatively rare. Picking up the slate again, I write: “That will be useful.”
Aifin nods again. A curtain shuffles in the back, and Jack emerges with a flourish. “Dinnertime! Are you lot coming to the Crossroads?”
“Isoka and I will,” Meroe says, before I can say anything. She takes the chalk and puts the question to Aifin, who shakes his head. “And Berun is still shopping.”
“Thora is still snoring, so the three of us will have to make do.” Jack strikes a heroic pose, like an explorer pointing the way. “Onward!”
I don’t grumble. But Meroe has become adept at reading my expressions, and she rolls her eyes at me as we follow Jack down the corridor.
“Eating dinner in public is hardly torture,” she says. “It’s good to get to know people.”
“Getting to know people is your department. I handle cutting them into pieces, remember?”
“You’re the pack leader. And the Deepwalker. Like it or not, that means you’ve got a role to play.”
I make a face, but the truth is this argument is mostly for show. Meroe makes much of the small talk anyway, so all I have to do is nod along. And the food is usually better, though you never quite know what you’re going to get.
I have to admit, as we emerge from the tower and start threading our way through the market, that living on Soliton is starting to feel almost normal. The mix of people from every country on the planet no longer seems odd; when I get back to Kahnzoka, it will be strange to be surrounded by so many Imperials. I’ve gotten used to the haphazard clothes, the weird mix of primitive makeshift tools and luxury goods from the scavengers. I’m even coming to appreciate the differences between breeds of mushrooms, and know where the best meat comes off a crab.
I’m losing my edge, in short. Getting comfortable. At night I close my eyes, listening to Meroe’s soft breathing, and try to think about Tori. I try to picture what Naga will do to her if I don’t return.
It should be all I think about. But I keep getting distracted. Just now, I’m watching the way Meroe’s hair bounces as she walks, the sway of her hips.
Rot, rot, rot. Stay focused, Isoka.
* * *
When I first visited the Crossroads, it seemed like chaos. Now that I know what to look for, it’s still chaos, but organized chaos, if that makes any sense. The tables are roughly divided into clades, with pack leaders and important clade members drifting toward the center, and the rest surrounding them. There are no emblems for the clades, no explicit symbols, but it’s not hard to tell who’s who after a while. The Butcher’s people, for example, wear more trophies than anyone else, forever covering even their everyday clothes with bits of crab shell. Karakoa’s fighters wear plain, unadorned clothing, following the example set by their leader, whereas both men and women in Shiara’s clade seem to have some kind of competition to see who can wear the most jewelry.