I cross the room, raising more dust. Behind the table, there’s a set of shelves, and here the room shows signs of being recently visited. Another set of footprints is visible in the dust, and the ghostly imprints of objects that have been removed. Books, from the look of things.
“What in the rotting Blessed’s name is going on?” The rage bubbles up in me, all at once. I lash out, kicking the old table, and it goes over in a shower of dust and floating spores. The skeleton glares at me, its frozen expression disapproving.
“Now, now,” says the Scholar, from behind me. “That’s not a very nice way to treat poor old Mahjir’s furniture.”
I spin, blades igniting with a crackle-hiss. Before he can take a single step backward, I’m on top of him, Melos energy spitting a half inch from his throat. I watch him swallow.
“Only me,” he says. “Sorry to startle you.”
“What is this supposed to be?” My voice is low and dangerous.
“The Captain’s tower?”
“So where’s the rotting Captain?” I snap. “This bastard has been dead for a century.”
“His name was Mahjir Sepha,” the Scholar says. “I found his journal. He was a nobleman from Jyashtan, who came into his power young. A little mad, I think, if we’re being honest. He’d heard the legends of Soliton and determined to offer himself and some of his mage-blood retainers as a sacrifice.” He gestures at the room. “You can see that he liked to travel in style.”
“And?”
“He set up shop here in the tower. Seemed appropriate, since he wanted to be the ship’s master.”
“He became Captain?”
“He called himself Captain.”
I press the blade closer to the Scholar’s skin. Green lightning arcs to his collar, crackling down his robe. “Start explaining. Was this Mahjir Captain or not? What happened to him?”
“He died. I’m not sure exactly how. Obviously he didn’t write that part down.” The Scholar nods, carefully, to the corpse. “It doesn’t look like it was violent, though. This is just the way he was when I first saw him.”
“So the Captain is dead.” My throat has gone thick, tasting of dust and mold. “That’s what you’re telling me?”
“No, Deepwalker.” The Scholar sighs. “What I’m telling you is that there is no Captain. There never was.”
* * *
“That,” I tell the Scholar, “doesn’t make any rotting sense.”
“Karakoa never told me,” he says, “but I think it was Jarli who came up with the idea. She was the first one to come in here and find old Mahjir. By the time they brought me onto the Council, it was already … tradition.”
“The Council knows? About … this?”
“Of course.”
“Then why—”
“Think about it like this,” he says. “If there’s a Captain, then the officers are merely representatives of a mysterious, all-powerful force. If there isn’t, then they’re just a bunch of high-and-mighty bastards who are unaccountably in charge.”
“It’s all a lie?” My hand is trembling, which makes him flinch. “Just for your convenience?” I shake my head. “That still doesn’t make sense. Does the Council control the angels, then? Who sets the ship’s course?”
“You still don’t get it?” Beads of sweat stand out on the Scholar’s forehead. “The ship runs itself. It goes where it wants. The angels do what they want. None of us, no human, has ever been able to command it or turn it or change one rotting thing.”
“You mean it’s alive?”
“Some of the others think so. Karakoa seems to regard it as a kind of god.” He shrugs. “I’ve seen the Eddica energy that drives it. I told you, it’s a machine, made out of steel and magic. It’s not alive any more than a … a clock is alive, or a waterwheel. It’s just a thing, doing whatever it was built to do.”
For a moment, all I can do is stare. The Scholar coughs uncomfortably.
“If you’re not going to kill me,” he says eventually, “would you mind…”
“Why shouldn’t I kill you?” I force a savage grin. “You lied to me. I took my pack to find the dredwurm because you said you could get me to the Captain, and now you tell me there’s no such thing. Which means Berun died for nothing, so you could have some trinket.” I press closer, and he flinches as crackling energy singes his skin. “Talk fast, Scholar.”
“I have … a plan. To save us. To save everyone. I needed the eye—ah!”
I lower the blade a fraction. “Why not tell me from the start?”
“Would you have believed me?” He’s breathing hard. “You needed to see this. Now you understand.”
“A little, at any rate.” With a sigh, I dismiss the blade and let my hand drop. The Scholar heaves a sigh of relief. “You said the Council knows. And the Council offered the bounty for the dredwurm’s eye. So why did you need me to get it for you?”
“The rest of them don’t understand what the eyes are. There are all sorts of legends about them, but the one the officers believe is that the dredwurm’s eye will let you command an angel.”
“Will it?”
“Possibly. The eye is a focus for Eddica power. If you or I used it, we might be able to take over an angel, but the possibilities go so much deeper than that. We could change the course of Soliton itself.”
“You told the Council,” I guess, “and they don’t believe you.”
“Of course they don’t. Even if they did, they wouldn’t risk it. The last two eyes that have fallen into their hands they’ve destroyed.”
“Why?”
“The Council works because the clades are in balance,” he says bitterly. “What do you think would happen if one of the officers had an angel on his side?”
“All right.” My anger has faded a little. “So you needed someone to get to the eye who wouldn’t just hand it over to the Council, and I’m the perfect idiot who volunteered.”
“You’re the Deepwalker,” he says. “I hoped you would be strong enough. But it’s more than that. If I’m going to make this work, I need your help.” He steps closer, his fear apparently forgotten. “You can touch Eddica more deeply than I can. You have a better chance of being able to use the eye.”
“To turn the ship away from the Rot.”
He nods. “We’re still sailing east. We don’t have much time.”
“And what is that going to take, apart from the eye?”
“The … mechanism that controls the ship is buried deep,” he says. “We can’t reach it from here. But there is a place where it can be accessed. I’ve tried to … map the currents, you might say, the flows of energy. Beyond the Center, close to the Bow, there’s—”
“The Garden.” My voice is a whisper.
“What?” The Scholar steps closer again. “How do you—”
“That’s the place, isn’t it?”
“I … think so.” His speech is getting faster as he gets excited. “Some of the old books talk about it. Mahjir mentioned looking for it in his journal. It’s supposed to be full of food, water, everything people need. But sealed, against the crabs and the Rot.”
“Sealed? So it would protect us, even if we couldn’t change course?”
He shrugs. “Legends scribbled by dead men. Who knows? But no one has ever been able to find it. Or at least if they have, they haven’t written down how.”
I think of Hagan, his urgent warning.
“I may be able to get us there,” I say, slowly. “But I need to talk to someone first.”
“Then we should go,” the Scholar says. “Now! I will prepare a team for the journey, and you will do … whatever you need to do. The sooner we leave, the better chance we’ll have.”
“That won’t be necessary,” a deep voice says from the outer room. The Scholar turns, and swears in Jyashtani. Karakoa is standing in front of the stairs, arms crossed. Zarun lounges beside him, one eyebrow delicately arched. “You’ll be coming with us, Deepwalker.”
21
“Don’t,” the Scholar hisses to me, “do anything—”
He cuts off, but I get the drift. Stupid. Violent. Such as killing these two and making a run for it.
There was a time when I’d have considered it. But I’ve seen Zarun fight, and I doubt I could take him and Karakoa together. And, unlike back in Kahnzoka when I was cornered by the Immortals, I have something to lose. If I die here, Tori dies with me, and Meroe as well if the Scholar is right.
So this time, I let them take me. It turns out to be the right move. Zarun is no fool, and there are a dozen armed crew waiting nervously outside the entrance to the Captain’s tower.
“I’ll work this out,” the Scholar says. “Don’t worry.”
We’re not bound and gagged, but the circle of guards marks us clearly as prisoners. We descend via the cage, in carefully managed shifts so I’m never alone. I’m honestly impressed—the Ward Guard in Kahnzoka would have given me a dozen chances to slash someone’s throat and make a run for it by now. Zarun catches my eye and smiles, as though it’s all one big joke, but Karakoa’s expression is grim.
“So what happens now?” I ask, when we’re on the deck.
Karakoa shakes his head. “It has yet to be decided. For the moment, you will be detained.” He glares at the Scholar. “And you will explain your actions to the Council.”