Engines and werewolves

Chapter 51

Another woman steps in front of us, and Jose breaks away to jump into her arms. She’s one of the oldest I’ve seen on Soliton, maybe twenty-five, an iceling with broad shoulders and a solid, muscular build. Her long blond hair hangs in a spreading curtain past her shoulders, and her clothes are practical leather, layered with crab shell. There’s a sword at her hip, a short, ugly thing whose grip is stained from long use.

Jose wraps her arms around her neck, and kisses her like none of the rest of us are watching. I blink, startled. Jose presses her thin, androgynous body against the iceling woman’s ample curves, and I find myself looking away, feeling uncomfortable.

It’s not as though I’m unaware of the fact that there are women who like women or men who prefer men. The Blessed One disapproved of such practices, but while that might hold some sway with the nobility in the upper wards, the people of the Sixteenth Ward are too busy trying not to starve to fret much about it. And, judging by the steady trickle of lonely aristos who work their way through our brothels, even high on the hill they don’t pay much heed to the official morality.

Even in the Sixteenth Ward, though, it wasn’t something you did in the open. Even if everyone knew—and everyone always knows, when you’re packed into a tenement so close you can hear every board creak—you didn’t …

Marvel has gone very still, like she’s torn between staring and looking away in disgust. I wonder what they think of this sort of thing in Nimar.

Focus, I tell myself. There’s more important matters to deal with.

Such as Olite. He’s sitting at the table beside the two women, grinning broadly. His clothes are different from the last time I saw him, but no less garish, maroon trousers and a dark vest sewn with interlocking circles of gold that hangs open across his muscular chest. He raises his eyebrows, then coughs gently.

The older woman pushes Jose away. “Sorry, love,” she says, at the thin girl’s pout. “But we’ve got company, remember?”

“Oh yes!” Jose spins around, beaming again. “This is Victoria, mighty slayer of crabs, and her pack mate Marvel. Victoria, this is Olite, and his second, Thora.”

“It’s good to meet you,” Thora says, with a half bow. “I’ve heard about what you did. Very impressive.” She gestures to the seat across from Olite.

“I didn’t know killing the rotting thing would make me so notorious,” I tell her, sitting down. Marvel stands next to me, hands clasped, eyes on the smiling killer on the other side of the table. “I was just trying to stay alive.”

“It’s not just killing the blueshell,” Olite says. “The Butcher thought she was throwing you to the crabs, putting you in Pack Nine. Now you’ve tweaked her nose quite nicely.” His dazzling grin broadens. “I like that a lot. I have a feeling, dear Victoria, that we’re going to get along.”

He looks at Marvel, then up at Thora. “Perhaps you and Jose could show Marvel around Crossroads. And get us a drink while you’re at it.”

“I—” I begin, but Marvel interrupts.

“That would be fine,” she says, all quiet dignity. “This is such an … interesting place.”

Thora waves to one of the gray-clad children, who takes off for the bar at a run. As Thora and Jose escort Marvel away, the child comes back with a pair of small clay mugs, full of something frothy that smells alchemical. Olite takes a swallow, and I follow suit, carefully. It tastes like rotten fruit, but there’s a powerful kick that burns my mouth and leaves a trail of numbness all the way down my throat. I force myself not to cough and take another drink. He nods approvingly.

“So,” he says. “Fresh meat, and for your first trick you mouth off to the Butcher. I have to say I’m surprised. Back in the pit I had you figured for the quiet type.”

“Some people just rub me the wrong way.”

“The Butcher rubs everyone the wrong way,” Olite says, leaning back in his seat. His eyes sparkle with mischief. “Most people are smart enough not to make an issue of it.”

I shrug. He takes another drink and gestures with the glass.

“For some reason,” he says, “she decides not to kill you, and instead sticks you in her punishment pack, under poor old Andre. No doubt she hopes that you’ll get yourself eaten, but instead you manage an impressive kill your first time out.”

“Like I said, I didn’t find out it was impressive until later,” I say.

“It’s a hell of a story,” he says. “So where do you think it goes next?”

“Your guess is as good as mine.” I match his gaze. “I’m thinking you might have an idea.”

He laughs, and scratches his cheek. “That obvious, am I? I suppose it’s never been my style to conceal my … interest.”

“So, what? You want me to come work for you?”

“Something like that.” For a moment, his eyes roam my body in frank appreciation. “I think we could do a lot for one another.”

“Maybe.” I sip from the drink—just the smell of it burns my nostrils—and stare right back. Olite is certainly easy to look at, with his curls and his tight, muscular figure. “I don’t pretend to know how things work here, but my understanding is that the Butcher gets a say in that.”

“Unfortunately. The details may take a little time to arrange. It’s just a matter of figuring out what she wants—”

In that case,” comes an unpleasantly familiar booming voice, “you’re out of luck, Olite.”

The Butcher. I turn to see her pushing through the crowd, Helen and a half-dozen cronies behind her. Most of the other crew don’t take much pushing, giving the huge woman a wide berth. Her attention is on me and Olite.

“After all,” the Butcher says as she stomps up to the table, “you were always worthless at figuring out how to please me.”

“It’s just that there’s so much of you,” Olite says lazily. “I have to admit I kept getting lost.”

“I can see why the skinny blackhair is to your taste, then,” the Butcher says. “She’s hardly a morsel.” One of her hands rests on the hilt of her cleaver-like sword. “Unfortunately, this one is mine. You’ll have to pass the night without another w***e. No doubt the dozen you already keep will suffice.”

“She’s wasted in Pack Nine,” he says, unruffled by the Butcher’s crude barb. “Everyone knows you’re just waiting for Andre to get himself killed.”

“I don’t see how that’s any of your business,” the Butcher booms.

“If she’s got power enough to kill a blueshell by herself, then maybe it is Council business.” Olite looks down at his fingernails. “I wonder what Karakoa and Shiara would say about it? After all, you’re supposed to be assigning the fresh meat for everyone’s benefit.”

“You’re welcome to bring it up at the next session,” the Butcher sneers. “Though if you put your faith in those two, you’re going to be disappointed. And until then, Victoria is part of my pack, and subject to my rules.”

“As you say.” Olite catches my eye, and winks. “We’ll see.”

I’m reunited with Marvel on the way out of the market, but the Butcher’s thugs still surround us. Getting back to Pack Nine’s half-flooded cell involves descending a rickety spiral staircase down through the deck, passing another floor before reaching a rusty metal landing. The staircase continues on, but metal pieces have been layered into a barricade where it descends into the floor, blocking off the lower areas. We tromp through the same dimly lit corridors, splashing through puddles, walls flaky with rust.

“Since you’re obviously fully recovered,” the Butcher says, “you’ll be eager for your next assignment. One of the scavenging packs brought back word of a hammerhead feeding in the Wrecks. All you’ve got to do is find it and kill it. We’ll come for you in the morning.”

I don’t want to give her the pleasure of asking what that means, so I just nod. We reach the door to our cell, and the guard wrenches it open. Helen shoves me roughly inside, and another crew pushes Marvel after me.

“You’re going out tomorrow morning,” the Butcher says, loud enough that it echoes through the room. “Get a good night’s sleep.”

“What?” Andre surges to his feet. “Going where? I need—”

“Ask Victoria,” the Butcher sneers. The door slams, and I hear the bar slide into place.

I’m left alone, again, with my pack mates. Andre strides over and slams a hand uselessly against the door. Then he turns to me, eyes alight with rage.

“What did she tell you?” he says. “Where are we going?”

“Somewhere called the Wrecks,” I tell him. “She wants us to hunt a hammerhead.”

I don’t know what that means, but Andre’s dusky skin pales, and he slams his hand against the door again and spits obscenities in a language I don’t know.

“What’s a hammerhead?” Marvel says. “Is it—”

“Shut your rotting mouth,” he snarls, turning on her. “If I had a real pack instead of this rotting useless…”

Marvel tenses but doesn’t step back. For a moment I think Andre is going to hit her, but he just turns away with a bitter laugh and walks off. Marvel looks at me, and I shrug.

“Do you have any idea what the Butcher was talking about?” she says.

“Only that it’s probably bad news,” I tell her. “Come on, let’s see if they’ve left us anything to eat.”

It turns out there’s half a bucket of crab juice, still as delicious as ever in spite of being only lukewarm, and most of a loaf of stale bread, plus canteens of freshwater. We eat in silence. I spot the Moron, out on one of the little islands, sitting cross-legged with his eyes closed. Belvia doesn’t seem to be around. No doubt hiding somewhere.

Halfway through her second helping of crab juice, Marvel drops the bowl and swears. I look up to find her clutching her hands together, eyes squeezed tightly shut.

“Are you all right?” I say.

“It hurts, is all,” Marvel says. “I’ll live.”

I look at her hands, and remember her grabbing the sword-tentacles of the blueshell, pushing them away as blood ran down her palms. The twisted place in my chest gives a twinge, like a cracked rib.

“It’s probably time to change those bandages,” I tell her. “Do you have any fresh ones?”

She nods, uncertainly. “Sister Cadua’s people gave me a bag. Over here.”

I pick up some canteens and follow her back among the nest of carpets. There’s a hollow space where it looks like she’s been sleeping, with the blood-spattered dress I’d first seen her in lying crumpled beside it. She produces a bag of reasonably clean linen strips, and I gesture for her to sit down. I kneel in front of her, and start untying the strips that bind her palms.