There’s a flash of green.
Zarun stands only a few feet away. His elaborate, immaculate outfit is splashed with blood in several colors, and his hair is sopping with the stuff. But none of it seems to be his, and he’s ringed in a crackling, writhing aura of Melos power. The crab swings its claw down, a strike with the weight of a falling boulder behind it. Zarun meets it head on, throwing up his arm, a circular shield of Melos energy flickering into being and holding the crab at bay with spitting arcs of lightning. Irritated, the blueshell brings its other claw up, and Zarun throws out his other hand. Bands of pale blue Tartak force wrap around the huge limb, holding it in place.
“Any minute now, you muscle-bound idiot!” Zarun shouts, above the snap-hiss of magic and the shouting all around.
Karakoa comes up behind him, at a run. He’s at the center of a storm of Melos power, too, his hands held together to grip a long, curved energy blade, like a two-handed sword but impossibly thin. He skids to a halt under the blueshell’s claw, weapon humming. After a moment’s pause, the crab rears back, but its claw stays in place, severed at the joint. Zarun lets it drop, spinning wildly on the deck and spewing dark blood. Karakoa pivots, lunges, and slashes the long blade through the blueshell’s second claw, which falls away as easily as an autumn leaf. Zarun lets his shield disappear, and his arms sprout blades like mine. Together, the two of them move in.
But my eyes are closing. I have time to think that I’m going to have to get him to teach me to do that, and then darkness engulfs me, sucking me under like thick, black oil.
24
“You’re luckier than you have any right to be,” Sister Cadua says. “This one bled like a bastard, but it only tore the muscle. I’ve put some fellspike powder in with the bandage, so it shouldn’t fester.” She draws a needle through my flesh, purses her lips in satisfaction, and bites the end of the thread before tying it off. “The other one got caught in the rib and missed your lung, or we wouldn’t be having this conversation.”
“I’ll try—ow!” She gives me an uncharitable grin as she finishes the knot with a tug. “I’ll try to get stabbed a little less next time.”
“Good. We’re a little swamped at the moment.”
Meroe, sitting at my side with my hand held tight in her lap, says, “Thank you, Sister Cadua.”
“You’re welcome, dear.” The Jyashtani woman smiles at her. “Remind this stubborn girl that if she tries fighting anytime soon, those are going to open right up again.”
“I’ll do my best,” Meroe says, with a dark glance at me.
Sister Cadua leaves and there’s a knock at the door. We’re in the First Tower again, a significantly nicer part of it than my old cell. It looks like someone’s bedroom, hastily repurposed as a hospital. Several sets of sheets have been sacrificed to make bandages and towels.
“Come in,” I manage. Meroe pulls the bedsheet up to cover my bare torso, swathed in bandages, before the the door opens.
The Scholar looks none the worse for wear, his cane tapping, but his features are drawn. When you go around prophesying doom, I suppose it’s something of a mixed blessing to be proved right. He looks over his shoulder and closes the door behind him.
“It’s good to see you so…” He waves a hand vaguely. “Alive.”
“Doesn’t mince words, does he?” Meroe says.
“Not that I’ve noticed.” I shift, wincing at the pain. “What’s happening?”
“The packs have retaken the walls,” the Scholar says. “Crabs are still coming, but a little slower now.”
“How did they get over the walls in the first place?” I say.
The Scholar shrugs. “Nobody expected every crab in the Stern to come at us at once. I’ve never seen anything like it.”
Blessed’s balls. Hagan had warned me there was no time left.
“It’s the Rot,” I tell the Scholar. “It’s … doing something to the crabs. Egging them on.”
He frowns at me. “It’s a theory. But we’re still hundreds of miles off.”
“Which means it’s going to get worse. You wanted to know what happens to everyone? This is it.”
He swallows, and straightens up. “If that’s true, then it’s already too late.”
“Maybe not.” I glance at Meroe. “We have to get to the Garden.”
“That’s what I came to ask you. You and I can set out at once—”
“Not you and me,” I say. “All of us. The whole crew. I don’t know if it’s possible to turn the ship, but even if it is, it’s obviously too late for that. The Garden will protect us.”
“How can you possibly know that?” he snaps.
“You have your sources, and I have mine,” I say.
He snorts. “Even if I believed you, what then? Move everyone the length of the ship? It can’t be done.”
“I think it can,” Meroe says. “I’ve been … planning.”
“Regardless,” I say, “it’s not your decision. Tell the Council I need to talk to them.”
“They’re not going to want to listen,” the Scholar says.
I exchange another glance with Meroe. “They’re not going to have a choice.”
* * *
The Council’s meeting room is more impressive from the other side of the grate. A big, ornately carved wooden table practically fills it. We arrive well before the others, so Meroe has time to help me to a seat, hovering protectively beside me. The Scholar takes his position with bad grace, hands tight on the head of his cane.
The others come in, one by one. Shiara is in yet another silk kizen, this one green and black, with a pattern that puts me in mind of a poisonous spider. Her lips and nails are colored to match. Zarun has managed to change, but there are still traces of crab blood in his curls and on his skin. Karakoa wears a full suit of wooden armor, a weird, insectile helmet held under one arm.
“Deepwalker,” he says. “Congratulations on your victory.”
Some victory. I’m full of holes. I shrug.
“Ordinarily, this would be when we would come to some kind of … accommodation. But,” he goes on, “I’m afraid we don’t have time for negotiations at the moment. People are dying on the walls as we speak.”
“A hammerhead brought down a whole section near the Fourth Tower,” Zarun says. His bravado is dulled by exhaustion. “I’ve never seen them attack the barricades like that.”
“We’re still hunting down all the little ones that got through,” Shiara says.
“I appreciate all of that,” I say. “But I need you to listen to me. This isn’t going to get better. It’s the Vile Rot that’s driving the crabs crazy, and the closer we get the madder they’re going to be.”
The three of them exchange looks. Karakoa turns to the Scholar.
“Is this true?”
“It’s … possible,” the Scholar says. He looks sour. “Isoka isn’t willing to share the source of her information, so I can’t say for certain. But I have always guessed that approaching the Rot would be dangerous.”
“They surprised us,” Shiara says. “But we’ve beaten them back. If they keep coming, we’ll keep killing them.” She shrugs. “Eventually they’ll run out of crabs.”
Zarun shakes his head, wearily. “There’s no end to them. Soliton is huge, and for all we know it’s packed with crabs from bow to stern. My packs are already getting tired.”
“I agree,” Karakoa says. “This can’t go on forever. I suggest we retreat to the Drips. The tunnels are more defensible.”
“We won’t be able to hide behind barricades,” I say. “You just told me a hammerhead broke through. If we’re packed tight in a tunnel, that would be a disaster!”
“Besides,” Zarun says, “what happens when the dredwurms come after us?”
“So, what?” Shiara turns to me. “We give up? Cut our own throats?”
There’s something different about them, all three of them. They’ve always been fractious, proud, quick to snap at one another. Now they’re afraid. They can all see what’s happening, even if they don’t want to admit it.
“We take the crew forward,” I say. “To the Garden.”
Shiara snorts. “The Garden’s as much a myth as the Captain.”
“She is correct,” Karakoa says. “Jarli went looking for the Garden. If anyone could have found it, it was her.”
“She didn’t know the way. I do.” I hope.
Zarun glances at the Scholar. “You believe this?”
“Again, I have no proof,” he says. “But I think it’s worth investigating.”
“Which is why I offered to let you two try,” Shiara says. “Instead, she chose to kick the table over, at what turns out to be the worst possible time. Some of the Butcher’s packs are already fighting each other.”
“There isn’t time to investigate,” I say. “There isn’t time for anything. We have to go now.”
They’re all staring at me now, even the Scholar. I take a deep breath, feel a sharp pain as it pulls at my stitches.
“Isoka,” Zarun says. “You have to know we can’t.”
“That’s too much risk for a single throw of the dice,” Karakoa says.
“I’m not asking you,” I say. “You’re right; this isn’t a negotiation.”
“Excuse me?” Shiara says. “You may have escaped execution, but you’re not—”