Ship of Smoke and Steel (The Wells of Sorcery #1)(21)

“You’ve been here a long time?”

“Only a year,” he says. “But it feels like longer.”

I nod. All right. I don’t know if I trust this strange boy, but information is information, and I need whatever I can get. I tighten the cap on the canteen and set it aside.

“First question,” I say. “Is this really a ship?”

He nods. “I’ve been up to the deck, once. It’s like being on top of a mountain. You can see forever.”

“Zarun said the angels would stop us if we try to leave. Is that true?”

“Yes.” His voice is very quiet, as though he is worried they might hear. “They’re alive. And they can find you anywhere. If you try to leave the ship, they come after you, and…” He swallows hard.

That might present a problem. I make a mental note that the angels need investigating.

“Who’s in charge? Ahdron said something about a Captain.”

“The Captain runs the ship,” Berun says. “He decides where we go, and he controls the angels. But he only talks to the officers’ council, and they make all the decisions for the rest of us.”

A familiar pattern. Back in Kahnzoka, I’d never spoken to the shadowy bosses who were my ultimate employers.

“Is the Butcher an officer?” I ask.

Another nod. “She’s in charge of the fresh meat. That’s why they call her—”

“I gathered that,” I deadpan.

“Sorry.” He cringes a little.

“It’s—never mind.” I shake my head. “Why are we locked in here? Are they ever going to let us out?”

“The Butcher decides where newcomers should go. The officers each have a clade.” He can see my frown at the unfamiliar word, and clarifies hastily. “That’s like … their household. Servants. But not just servants. People who can do useful things and need protection. Then there’s the packs. Most of the packs owe loyalty to one of the officers, too. They’re the ones who go out into the ship and bring back food. There’s hunting packs and scavenger packs. And then there’s the wilders; they live out beyond the Captain’s law and don’t listen to anyone—”

“Slow down, please.”

“Sorry,” Berun says. His apologies seem to be reflexive. “It’s complicated.”

I don’t need to know the details. The structure is familiar—bosses and gangs, just like in Kahnzoka, or for that matter just like a medieval lord and his knights. The strong rule, and the weak serve in exchange for protection. The oldest way of organizing a society.

I feel a little of my confidence returning. I can work with that.

“What about us? This is Pack Nine, they told me. Are all the packs locked up?”

“No.” Berun speaks quietly again, and he glances nervously over his shoulder. “Pack Nine is on probation. Ahdron used to be one of the Butcher’s lieutenants, but he made her angry somehow, so she stuck him here and sends him the dregs.” He swallows. “There were six of us before the last time we went out.”

Pieces fall into place, the cruel laughter of the Butcher’s crew, her nasty smile. She’s assigned me to a bunch of screwups, at the lowest rung of the social hierarchy, the equivalent of a trash-picker gang in Kahnzoka. A clever solution to the problem of what to do with me, once I’d challenged her authority.

I want to ask what he means by “went out” and what it is the packs actually do to find food, but Meroe shifts and groans. The movement startles Berun, who pulls back into a crouch, staring at her.

“I … I’ll…” He swallows, looking between us, then gets to his feet. “I’ll find some more water. For her. I’ll be back.”

Given the speed with which he darts off, I find that unlikely. I wonder what it is about Meroe that frightens him. She blinks muzzily, touching the bandage on her cheek, and tries to sit up. I put a hand on her shoulder to keep her in place for the moment.

“Easy. Give it a minute.” I watch her eyes for a moment—they’re red-brown, the color of freshly fired clay—and make sure they focus properly. “Do you want some water?”

Meroe nods fractionally, and I bring up the canteen. She gulps, swallows, and lets out a long breath.

“I guess I’m not dead,” she says.

“How do you feel?”

“Like I was trampled by a … a…” She waves her hands vaguely. “A zousan. A big gray animal. There’s no word for it in Imperial.” She chuckles weakly, then winces, putting a hand to her stomach. “Okay. No laughing for the immediate future.”

“I think you’re going to be all right,” I tell her. “No broken bones that I could find.”

“That’s a lot better than I expected,” she says. “What happened?”

“You talked back to someone you shouldn’t have.”

“I remember that.” Meroe pulls herself up slightly. “I mean what happened afterward?”

“I convinced the Butcher she was better off not killing you.”

“You did?” Meroe raises one eyebrow, looking at the bandage on my cheek. “I’m sorry I missed that.”

“It wasn’t that impressive.”