“Gladly,” the Scholar says. “Maybe this time you’ll actually listen.”
That doesn’t make Karakoa any happier. They take us to the First Tower, at the corner where Soliton’s side and rear walls come together. I’d expected to be shoved back down in the Drips, where Pack Nine had originally been quartered, but instead there’s a long hallway fitted out as an actual cellblock. Guards open the door to one of four small rooms and gesture me inside. I hear the clatter of bolts and bar after they close it.
As cells go, it’s not bad. Sleeping pallet, chamber pot, water basin. No rats. I’ve paid good money for worse rooms, frankly. I stretch myself out on the pallet, suddenly feeling the exhaustion that’s been hovering somewhere behind me since last night. I haven’t slept since before we went after the dredwurm, and my eyeballs feel like they’ve been wrapped in wool.
For a while, though, I can’t rest.
There is no Captain. There is no Captain. But the Scholar thinks he can control the ship.
Which means, presumably, I should go along with the Scholar, at least until the time comes to stab him in the back.
So why are my instincts screaming at me that something’s wrong?
Why do I feel like he knows more than he should, and he’s telling me what I want to hear?
Does Meroe hate me?
Focus, Isoka.
I open my eyes. There’s a small candle on a shelf, but I haven’t bothered to light it, and no light is seeping through the cracks in the door. But I can see, just barely. A tiny trickle of gray light runs up through one of the walls, pulsing strong and fast. I edge over to it and press my hand against the metal.
“Hagan, are you there?”
It’s a moment before his voice comes. “… weak. Can’t hold … long.”
Rot. I have so many questions, it’s hard to stick to the most important.
“If I get to the Garden,” I say, “will I be able to turn the ship? Avoid the Rot?”
Another pause. “… no. Not enough…” His voice fades, then returns. “… Garden will protect you.”
“Just me?”
“Whoever reaches it.” His voice is strained. “Hurry. It’s…”
He fades away again, the river of gray light dwindling to a trickle, like a dying spring.
“Hagan?”
No answer.
* * *
I don’t remember falling asleep, only waking to a sharp rap on the door. I sit up, head full of fragments of dream.
“Who’s there?” I call out, before I fully remember that I’m stuck in a cell.
“’Tis Clever Jack,” says Jack. “Here to see the business done.”
“Jack?” I shake my head, trying to rouse myself. “What are you doing here?”
“I am charged with escorting you, so you might bear witness and understand. But I must have your word that you will not attempt to escape.”
“My word?” Back in Kahnzoka, I would have rolled my eyes at this, and happily made whatever promise she wanted. For some reason, here it brings me up short. “I … yes, I promise. I won’t run for it.”
“Well and good,” Jack says. “I would hate to have to kill you, but such is the fearsome duty that has been laid on me if you violate your oath. Now, bide a moment.”
There’s a heavy clunk as the bar is removed, and a metal screech as Jack shoots the bolts. I blink against the light from the corridor, which outlines Jack in her hunting leathers. The guards are nowhere to be seen.
“So you’re not breaking me out?”
“Only temporarily, I’m afraid. But I have every confidence you’ll be all right in the end.”
I stand up and stretch. At least the pain in my back has subsided a little.
“Have you heard what happened?” I said.
Jack catches my meaning. “I have. When Zarun made it clear to the Princess he knew the outlines, she confessed everything. I am sorry about Berun.”
“Me too.” I pause again. “And does Meroe … is she all right?”
Jack frowns. “I’m not certain, in truth. But she has emerged from isolation, which is something.”
“Good.” I swallow. “That’s … good.”
“Now come,” she says. “You wouldn’t want to miss the show.”
“Where are we going?” I ask, following Jack out of the cell. To my surprise, she doesn’t turn toward the entrance, but rather farther down the corridor.
“By secret ways, to secret ends,” Jack says. “More precisely, through a gap in the wall to listen at keyholes. Here.”
At the end of the corridor, a panel of scrap metal is bolted to the wall, with a rusted-out section visible behind it. Jack steps up and does something to one of the bolts, and the whole thing swings loose, leaving us looking into a dark space. It’s not quite a corridor—a long, solid-looking beam occupies the top half, so we have to stay crouched after we duck to pass through the hole. Jack leads the way, confidently making a couple of turns, until she stops in a narrow alcove where we can stand up. There’s a slitted grating just above my head, with light shining through.
“What’s in there?” I ask.
Jack lays a finger to her lips and speaks in a whisper. “The Council’s private chambers. They will begin their deliberations soon.”
My eyes narrow. “Zarun sent you, didn’t he?”
Jack shrugs, but she looks very pleased with herself.
“Why?” I ask. “What does he want me to hear?”
“Listen, and find out.”
It’s not long before voices filter back into the wall. It takes me a few moments to sort them out—Karakoa’s deep bass, Zarun’s pleasant tenor, the Butcher’s drawl, and Shiara’s crisp, unaccented Imperial. And, of course, the now-familiar voice of the Scholar. It was maddening not to be able to see, though. It felt like watching a stage play from behind the curtain.
BUTCHER: This isn’t like you, Scholar. I knew you were mad, but this is rotting reckless, too.
SCHOLAR: When catastrophe is imminent, inaction is reckless. I have to act because you all refuse to do so.
KARAKOA: We’ve heard your reports. But there is still plenty of time for Soliton to turn south before it reaches the Rot.
SCHOLAR: You have no idea how much time there is, and neither do I. No one knows how far beyond the shores of the island the influence of the Rot extends.
SHIARA: If, in fact, it extends at all. The ship may sail past in perfect safety.
BUTCHER: We’re not here to have this rotting argument again. We’re here because you did something stupid.
KARAKOA: Indeed. Showing the Deepwalker the truth of the Captain’s tower was … unwise.
SCHOLAR: I need her help to save us all. Apologies if that broke the rules.
KARAKOA: They exist for a reason. The myth of the Captain keeps order among the crew.
SCHOLAR: Why? So that everyone can die in an orderly fashion?
SHIARA: You’ve been awfully quiet, Zarun.
BUTCHER: For rotting once.
ZARUN: Apologies. I’ve been thinking.
BUTCHER: For rotting once.
KARAKOA: Enough. Have you come to any conclusions?
ZARUN: I must say I am inclined to think the Scholar, while he should have informed us, had the right idea.
BUTCHER: What?
KARAKOA: Explain.
ZARUN: The Deepwalker is a unique figure.
BUTCHER: My frozen arse. She’s a rotten piece of gutter quim—
ZARUN: She killed a dredwurm with a pack of four. How many of you would have taken less than twenty to that fight?
SHIARA: That just proves she’s a fool.
ZARUN: I think that, in the long run, we will have to admit her to the Council. So the Scholar’s sharing the secret with her is … premature, but not a catastrophe.
SCHOLAR: There is no rotting long run. Have none of you been listening?
BUTCHER: And I’d freeze my tits off before I let that bitch on the Council. One is bad enough.
SHIARA: He has a point.
KARAKOA: Enough! You all know the penalty for transgressing the Captain’s tower is death. I am in favor of applying that penalty. Rules must be respected. What do the rest of you say?
BUTCHER: I want the bitch’s severed head to shove down my toilet and piss on.
SHIARA: I …
ZARUN: Rare to see you uncertain.
SHIARA: The Deepwalker’s popularity is troublesome. I worry that executing her may lead to discontent.
ZARUN: My vote is to enlist her, not kill her.
KARAKOA: That means we are divided. What if she challenges?
There’s a spate of rapid whispering, what sounds like Shiara and the Scholar, too low for me to hear. I turn to Jack.
“What does he mean, challenge? Like when I challenged Ahdron?”
Jack nods. “If the Council are divided on a punishment, you’re entitled to challenge for your life. If no one is willing to face you, you go free.”
Small chance of that.
ZARUN: I certainly won’t face her.
SHIARA: Nor I.
KARAKOA: I admit I am … reluctant. Perhaps we should reconsider—
BUTCHER: To the Rot with that. I’ll rotting fight her, if you’re all such frozen cowards.
ZARUN: You’re certain? We all know she’s quite powerful.
BUTCHER: Don’t make me laugh, you miserable prick. I’ll kill her with one hand jammed up my arse, and have enough left for you, too, if you want some.
SHIARA: Karakoa, we need to speak. In private.