Black Bottle (36 page)

“—so he died from wounds … sustained from the creature that was attacking King Howl,” Miriam summed up.

The story attained a certain level of credence based mostly on the fact that Caliph was still alive. Caliph had little choice other than to believe the account. He could remember nothing about the actual event.

Since the government of Seatk’r was being uncooperative, the
Odalisque
climbed back to Sandren. It scouted the area. The monsters in the city seemed to have slunk off. The
Odalisque
retrieved what bodies had not been eaten and returned to report. The Pplarian airship, it seemed, was still in Sandren, waiting for the High King.

I don’t like it, Alani would have said. Caliph could almost hear the spymaster whisper in his ear. Baufent had yet to examine the body and confirm cause of death.

The spymaster’s death was a great black anvil that crushed through all of Caliph’s other crises and sat dead center; immovable.

It kept going through his head over and over,
how can Alani be dead?

“Your majesty. We
need
to talk,” whispered Mr. Wade.

“Listen! I will meet with you when I am … when it is appropriate,” said Caliph. “And right now it is
not
appropriate.”

The crowd hushed at his outburst.

Mr. Wade’s meaty face was flushed, probably with anger. Caliph didn’t care.

He turned to the witches and gestured curtly for them to continue. Miriam started talking but all Caliph could think was,
What is wrong with my head?

“I’m sorry to interrupt,” said Mr. Veech, “but we arrived late. What were your names?”

The witches reintroduced themselves.

Each of them was improbably attractive and athletic, as if selected from a beauty pageant: Anjelique Breckenshire, Gina Dingo and Autumn Solburner. Miriam Yeats seemed to be their leader. All of them had thin scars around their necks as if they had survived an attack with piano wire.

Caliph felt cold but Autumn’s voice interrupted his thoughts. She was an erogenic copper-headed saucebox with bizarre black accents dyed into her hair. “Of course you can trust us. We saved your king’s life.”

Had someone asked a question?
I need to focus!
Caliph thought.
Mother of Emolus my head hurts.

“Here are the facts,” said Caliph, turning to the witches. “We were attacked on the twelfth by your organization, over Mirayhr. We lost good men and women that night.” Caliph saw a glance pass between Autumn and Miriam.

Miriam looked at Caliph calmly. “Your ship was attacked in an effort to prevent the thing that happened this morning—from happening. All those people in all those zeppelins didn’t have to die. We’re after Sena Iilool, just like you are.”

The words cut Caliph deeply because the witches’ actions seemed supportable. Was it true? Had he been on the wrong side? Had the attack on his airships by the Shradnae Sisterhood been justified?

Everyone on the rear deck knew that the four women had leapt from Sandren, falling on some mathematical parachute of wind. They had risked themselves to save Caliph’s life.

“You know it’s true,” said Miriam. “The only people you lost that night were the people that stood between Sena and our operatives. She lost the book that night.”

Isham Wade perked up.

“Yes,” said Caliph. “Thankfully it’s safe.” Caliph noticed how Mr. Wade’s eyes settled on him from behind his thick lenses.

Miriam scowled. She seemed to wait a moment and gauge what game he was playing. After a moment she narrowed her eyes and said, “Yes. But now we need to stop her. I believe you feel the same way, don’t you King Howl?”

“Yes. Yes I do.”

He did feel that way. But what he wanted more than anything was for Alani’s face to reappear, refrain from smiling as it always did and offer the essential wisdom he needed to navigate this truce with the Shradnae witches.

The scars around their throats were circumstantial at best but he had his suspicions. Despite all that, like it or not, Miriam was right. Sena
had
to be stopped. And how was he supposed to do that without real holomorphic power on his side? He needed them.

Caliph bounced his hand in the air to underscore his agreement. “We’ll go after her. Together.”

He turned to the captain. “Any word from Seatk’r?”

“None, your majesty.” The captain’s son hovered in his father’s shadow, listening intently to everything going on. Specks’ little armband ticked and a drop of blood hit the floor.

Caliph turned his thoughts back to the patients and physicians that had vanished from the tent hospital.

Many of them had managed to escape the flawless, as Miriam called the monsters. The surviving Stonehavians had fled down the teagle system into Seatk’r—an event that had gone unnoticed in the chaotic aftermath of what could only be termed
the erasure of the conference.

“I can’t believe they won’t let the
Odalisque
moor,” said Dr. Anselm.

The government of Seatk’r wanted nothing to do with the Stonehavian airships, a fact that complicated the situation with the doctors and patients that had used the teagle system and were now stranded on the ground.

“Here’s what we’re going to do,” said Caliph. “Tell the
Odalisque
to come in. It’s going pick up the remaining patients and ferry them back to Stonehold along with anyone who doesn’t need to go after Sena. I assume that will be most everyone.”

“They’re not going to let us moor,” said the captain.

“Oh, they will,” said Caliph. “Seatk’r’s run by little more than a robber baron. He won’t get in our way. Not today.”

He turned to the captain and his few soldiers and gave them instructions. Then he, along with two bodyguards and Miriam Yeats took the lift down to the ground.

The ride was tense. This was in strict violation of the local government’s orders. They were supposed to be leaving, not disembarking.

As the cage opened Caliph was immediately accosted by six ragged-looking policemen from the ghetto’s ethically questionable municipality.

“You not allowed to get off,” one of them barked. His Trade was rough.

Caliph smiled broadly and walked up to the man, clearly the group’s leader based on the blue armband. “I understand. Can I talk to you for a minute?”

“We have orders. We don’t harbor you here.”

His use of
harbor
was chilling.

Caliph imagined the news hitting Mirayhr first, then Pandragor. Information about what had happened would spread quickly to Wardale, Waythloo, Greymoor and Iycestoke. Airships were already coming. Caliph didn’t know from where. But he knew his vessels were the targets. It would happen soon.

He kept smiling.

“I know, I know.” He raised his palms. “But,” he tried to get a word in edgewise against the man’s complaints, “but just … can we please step over here? Yes, this way. Thank you. I just want a quick word. That’s all.”

“We don’t harbor you,” the man said again. He was dirty. Poor. Clearly he took his responsibilities seriously.

“I understand. But I have people that need medical attention. We just need to pick them up. Then we will go.”

“No. You don’t moor here. You must go now.”

“We want to go now. We just need to pick up our friends. They came down on the gondolas. They’re right across the street there.” He gestured to the motley crowd gathered in the grass-striped shade of a large tree whose bark was worn shiny and covered with paint, presumably from loitering gangs. Doctors and patients peered across the street at him, looking anxious. They had been corralled by other policemen. Some of the patients were still on wheeled beds. Desperation and fear glistened on their faces. That they had not been taken to a proper jail told volumes about the way Seatk’r functioned.

“No. You don’t get off you ship.”

“I’m already off my ship. Can I please go talk to them?”

“Absolutely not.”

“All right, look, I have money.”

“No, no, no, no, no…”

“I can pay you.”

“Get back on you ship. Now!” The nose of the policeman’s bing-gun rose slightly. Caliph was unarmed. “All right.” He lifted his hands slightly. “All right, look. Will you just look at them? They need help. They’re hurt.”

“I don’t care. Get on you ship.”

“Okay, I’m getting on my ship. You see it up there? Yes?”

“Yes. Go up.”

“You see it?”

“Yes.”

“You see the guns?”

The policeman stopped. His pale blue eyes registered the slender shapes shadowing the
Bulotecus
’s undercarriage. They were moving. Aiming at his men. A
bewildered
fear filled his face. How could he have missed them? That must have been what was running through his head. He opened his mouth and started to scream at his fellows.

Caliph reached out and gripped the muzzle of the weapon. He pushed it up just as it popped like a champagne cork, right between his fingers. Men were screaming. Caliph’s other arm swung over the back of the officer’s neck, pulling him in tight, face to chest.

“Call them off! Call them off!” said Caliph.

The man was yelling in Ilek, which Caliph recognized but couldn’t understand. Caliph’s chest, however, had the undesirable effect of muffling the man’s voice.

From the
Bulotecus,
Caliph heard the gun turrets adjusting. He looked up. The cannons were aimed.

“Call them off!” Caliph shouted.

The man screamed in Ilek again, repeating something over and over. Caliph watched the policemen pause. They saw the cannons. Their terror was obvious. They dropped their weapons on the ground.

“All right, you’re going to let go of this.” Caliph tugged on the bing-gun. The officer let go.

Caliph snapped the weapon away. The officer stood up, hair and lapels rumpled. He looked angry and frightened, eyes darting between Caliph and the
Bulotecus.

“It’s all right. They’re not going to fire. We just want our friends. Tell them to come over.”

Overhead, the
Odalisque
was motoring into position.

Things started running smoothly. The airship docked, the lift came down and people from the ground started boarding. Those on beds went first. Meanwhile the crews got sorted.

Based on the likely fact that warships were now coming for him, Caliph wanted to send the patients toward Stonehold on the slightly faster
Odalisque.
The more heavily armed
Bulotecus,
though not the ideal chase ship, would at least give him a fighting chance if he was engaged while pursuing Sena.

A mysterious set of polarized emotions went through him. Love. Disillusionment. Hard toxic lust left over from the dream. Longing and anger. He stuffed them.

The ships were loaded, the crews were ready and the situation on the ground was deteriorating. More municipal forces showed up just as Caliph ordered both ships to depart.

The
Odalisque
carried most of the physicians—Dr. Anselm included—the patients and some of his remaining soldiers. Its sleek dark shape turned north, heading for home.

Caliph felt a strange twinge at its departure. It had been Sena’s ship, built for her. It was going to Stonehold. He didn’t know exactly what that represented. Maybe nothing. All he knew was that he didn’t know where he was going or what Sena was doing, or whether his goal of surviving the summer was still achievable.

Dr. Baufent, despite her protest, had been assigned to the
Bulotecus.
She stood fuming only a moment on the port deck, watching the
Odalisque
leave. Then, in a businesslike manner, she said, “I’d better go check on Lady Rae.”

The plan was to deliver the priestess to Pandragor at the earliest convenience. She had been through enough and after raiding the medical chests like an addict, Caliph was worried she would quickly turn into a liability. Best case scenario was that she might serve as some kind of peace offering.

Sig had stayed by choice, Wade and Veech also. The Iycestokians’ decision seemed odd at first but in reality what else could they do? Mr. Wade could either sail to Isca or he could stay in Seatk’r and risk his treatment with the enraged municipality.

Caliph went over the new crew list that the copilot had just put into his hand.

After checking it, he stood on the deck for a while, watching his ship climb the Ghalla cliffs for what he hoped would be the final time.

Sandren’s copper domes and terra-cotta walls welled up over the shade-raked stones, glowing in the intense torrent of sunlight. And there, above the city-state, the white Pplarian ship still hovered, exactly where they had left it.

The pilot adjusted and the
Bulotecus
powered toward it. Caliph saw Sena’s ship nose forward, easing away from them.

As he expected, she wasn’t running.

She was leading him.

Where?

CHAPTER

28

The wind was cold and Caliph didn’t suppose this would end soon. He went to his stateroom for his coat before returning to the deck. From there he watched the ship buck up around the great horns of the Ghalla Peaks and ride southward over the precipices, surfing a waterfall of clouds.

The vertigo spun Caliph’s head like a top as he stared into the incomprehensible and ancient beauty of the south for the first time.

The Valley of Nifol was shaped like a grain scoop. It flared out to the east reaching nearly a hundred miles broad before its smooth green ribs dried against the arid jumble of Tibiun: the Stonelands. As the valley passed the choke point of the Ghalla Peaks, it funneled westward, dropping into the depths of the Great Cloud Rift.

Sixteen leagues across and two hundred long, the Rift separated north from south. Nifol flowed into the Rift, a mighty green river of vegetation that cascaded over the ruinous floor of Nurak Din
21
.

To the west, Caliph could see the Valley of Nifol’s misty extremities, where Sandren’s orchards and vineyards and farms soaked in the moisture that drained into the canyon. A pang went through Caliph that he could not stop to greet one farmer in particular.