Ship of Smoke and Steel (The Wells of Sorcery #1)(19)
But now it’s too late. I’ve challenged her authority, and she can’t let that stand.
“She may not know what her Well is, that’s all,” I say, trying for diffidence. “Some people don’t find out until they’re much older.”
“So rotting what?” the Butcher says, stalking closer.
“So she’s not lying to you, and there’s no sense in beating her to death.”
Her voice rises to a bellow. “What makes you think you get a say?”
“I just wanted—”
Her arm comes around. I know the backhand is coming, and it’s hard work to keep my Melos armor suppressed, to let her hit me. My head rings with the impact, and the shark’s tooth slashes my cheek open, letting a warm trickle of blood roll down to my chin.
I have to do that, have to let her get her own back, show me who’s boss. She can’t afford to look weak, not in front of everyone. I’ve seen this story a hundred times.
“And you?” the Butcher hisses. “What’s your Well, rotscum?”
I step back and ignite my blades. The ropes around my wrists fall away as the energy sears through them, and I raise my hands, green power crackling. There’s a hush among the gathered crew, broken only by the hiss of writhing magic.
“I see,” the Butcher says. “Melos. I should have known. It rots the brain, makes you think you’re invincible.” Her lips curl into a snarl. “Are you going to fight us all?”
I shake my head and let the blades fade away. My cheek stings, but I don’t touch it, just hold the Butcher’s gaze. I may not understand people, but I understand this, the play of threat and counterthreat. She’s a bully, which means she’ll back away from strength and be merciless in the face of weakness. But she also has to keep up appearances with her people. I’m trying to show her I’m not a pushover without forcing her to prove herself by slapping me down.
I can see her going through this, too, the calculation in her eyes. She knows I took the blow when I didn’t have to. Knows that if she pushes me too far, forces me into a fight, it’s not going to be a bloodless beating. She’s not stupid, in spite of her brutish appearance. Another thing I learned on the streets of the Sixteenth Ward—just because someone looks like an ogre doesn’t mean you can assume they haven’t got brains as well.
“I think I know just the place for you,” she says, then looks at Meroe’s still form. “For both of you, since you’re such good friends. Pack Nine needs fresh blood, doesn’t it, Haia?”
An iceling girl sitting in a nest of cushions, whippet thin and bald as an egg, gives a broad, nasty grin. “I’d say so. Yes, I certainly would.”
Laughter spreads among the crew, the nasty chuckling of people who know you’re not in on the joke. I try not to react. Blood drips off my chin.
“Very well. You two are assigned to Pack Nine.” The Butcher gestures, and several of her crew move to lift Meroe and surround me, hands on their weapons. I note that they keep a respectful distance, now. “Show them the way.”
6
Another trip through endless metal corridors. This time we’re definitely moving downward, descending several flights of stairs. At first some of the hallways are lit by hanging lanterns, but they disappear as we descend, and the stains and rust become more prevalent. Sometimes parts of the wall or floor have fallen away entirely, leaving holes into dark rooms. There are more mushrooms, bigger than I’ve ever seen. Brackish water drips down the walls and stands in puddles.
There’s a lantern sitting on a wooden table, an oasis of light in the darkness. Two crew sit beside it, guarding a heavy metal door with a thick wooden bar. They lift the bar as we approach, and our escorts carry Meroe inside, gesturing for me to follow.
It’s a large room with a high ceiling, and a shaft, far overhead, lets in a small measure of daylight. Dawn must have come outside. The floor is half-covered in water, like a miniature lake, complete with a pair of small “islands” thrusting up out of the murk. On the dry side, there’s a small collection of carpets and cushions pulled into a messy nest.
Waiting just inside the doorway is a tall, gawky young man with long copper-colored hair. I can’t place his looks—his skin is light brown, darker than an Imperial’s but paler than most Jyashtani, and while his features have an Imperial cast, they’re thicker, with wide cheekbones. He has blue eyes, like the icelings, and wears weathered, practical clothes. He looks at me first, interested, and then his face falls when he sees Meroe.
“What’s this?” he says.
Haia, the bald girl who led our escort, answers with a sneer, “Fresh meat.”
“What’s wrong with that one?” the young man says.
“Mouthed off to the Butcher,” says one of the crew carrying her. He and his companion drop her awkwardly onto a carpet with a thump.
“Now you’re back up to strength,” Haia says. “After dinner, you’re going out.”
“You’ve got to be rotting kidding me,” the young man says. “With this lot?”
“Don’t work, don’t eat,” Haia says. “You know the Captain’s law.” She gestures to the rest of the crew. “Come on.”
The young man stares after them in sullen silence as they troop out. Then he turns on me, looking furious. I’m still in the calm, disconnected world of violence and threat assessment.