The Last Page (16 page)

Backward by most accounts, the Duchy of Stonehold was a pseudo-feudal monarchy buttressed by a complex aristocracy composed of wealthy merchants, factory owners, artisans and businessmen. It was a cobbled mess of governmental offices and overstated positions. It was five duchies, five kingdoms really. Four lesser kings unified by the High King in Isca, all of which echoed obsolete tribalism: tribalism that stoked the main fires of Stonehold’s nameless hybrid political engine.

Miles away, the industrial yards of Growl Mort and East Murkbell spewed smoke as cohesive as black ink. From the weltering ooze, little golden lights winked and twinkled—all that remained of holomorphic energies poured into furnaces at Vog Foundry and the shipbuilding yards of Bilgeburg.

Caliph turned his back on the phantasmagoric vista and focused once again on the gruff interplay of voices barking all around him.

King Lewis had just said something outlandish and there were whispers from the crowd.

Lewis laid claim to a well-thinned head of hair the color of used engine grease that he combed straight back and a body like a glutted wineskin that slumped in his chair, leaning forward into a dramatic pitch of evening light.

“Mayor Ashlen knows more about war campaigns . . .”

Ashlen Kneads, whose last name had become a pun, sat quietly in the corner ferrying occlusions from his nose to some hidden sticking point beneath his chair.

Another voice, one that Caliph was only recently acquainted with, came from Yrisl Dale, the Blue General and Caliph’s chief military advisor. He too was whispering angrily.

“He is the High King. Show him some respect!”

“Respect? He’s staring off into space . . .” Without looking, Lewis tossed a hand in Caliph’s direction. “The least he could do is pretend we are here!”

Snickers twittered in the assembly, subdued because everyone could see that Caliph was now paying attention.

One of the power players, Prince Mortiman of Tentinil, sat laconically, one foot resting on the seat of a nearby chair, listening to Lewis vent. He wore a cold smile that matched his platinum jewelry.

Lewis continued. “I’ve put off meeting with Pplarian ambassadors for two days because of this.”

“Don’t treat it like it’s nonsense,” the prince chirped. His dark eyes flashed across the room and bored into Caliph’s face with a strange mixture of warmth and aggression. “Why do you think my mother is still in
Tentinil? Saergaeth will turn the zeppelins coming from the Memnaw into war engines! He can turn off our supply of gas like that!” He snapped his fingers. “We’ve seen fires in Bellgrass. There are troops maneuvering and engines massing in the hills north of Newt Lake.” His lips moved like sculpted rubber, perfect and pale.

Lewis snorted. “Saergaeth could be on maneuvers . . . or logging trees for all we know.”

The whole room suddenly exploded. Everyone had an opinion and all of them started coming out at the same time. Cries about proving whether there was a valid threat from Saergaeth clashed with statements that questioned old alliances, loyalty, greed and cowardice.

Through the jungle of bodies, Mortiman continued to stare. Caliph looked away.

One of the burgomasters was saying, “I doubt it, but the Council wants to appear vigilant. Saergaeth is angry the High King’s throne is going to be filled by a boy just out of Desdae. I think he thought he still had a chance of seducing the Council until this week.”

Another burgomaster seated nearby responded and his words echoed in Caliph’s ears. “Well it’s got to be clear to Saergaeth now that he’s not going to be High King. Saergaeth’s diplomacy is at an end.”

Caliph realized now that most of the burgomasters were here, curious to know firsthand how a civil war might affect the economy of their respective boroughs.

Mortiman spoke up. “Does his majesty have a voice?”

The room stilled. Roughly two dozen heads turned expectantly toward Caliph.

“He’s speechless,” said Lewis, starting to look away.

“Maybe,” agreed the prince. “Maybe he’s worrying about his father in Fallow Down, ordered to garrison there with the rest of the fodder.”

What the fuck are you on about?
thought Caliph.

Lewis chuckled. “Forgive him, everyone. He’s still mourning the loss of those witches—”

Despite the Council’s strict mandate that the events in the Highlands remain undisclosed, too many people knew about Caliph’s rescue. And since the Council’s ability to enforce its own will had dissolved along with it, details had invariably leaked.

Caliph knew his moment had come. If he waited a second longer his persona would slip from silent, past mute to join Ashlen Kneads in the rank and file of the dumb. He had to take control of the room. He had to make them understand that he knew he was the king.

But the men around him wore business suits and jewels while Caliph
had come to the meeting in prosaic black. He wore a sweater for the chilly evening air, riding pants and dusty black boots.

“All right,” said Caliph. Lewis stopped, midsentence. The soft, distinct syllables of Caliph’s voice seemed to have more impact than if he had shouted.

The prince was smiling.

“This isn’t a parliament,” said Caliph. “And I don’t know why all of you are talking.”

“Maybe if you—”

Caliph shot a look at the prince who stopped speaking but kept smiling, a sort of silent laughter.

“Saergaeth Brindlestr
m is a hero,” said Caliph. “He’s served this country for almost thirty years. I believe he still wants what . . . he thinks . . . is best for the Duchy . . . and I plan to establish some dialogue with him about that. In the meantime, we are not at war.”

“We are at war,” said the prince, “or might as well be. Saergaeth isn’t going to stop until he’s sitting on your throne. I really thought you’d be clever enough to grasp that.”

Caliph looked directly at the prince. “Would you like to apologize now or later?”

The room collectively caught its breath.

Mortiman simpered, “Your majesty . . . this really isn’t the place . . .” His smile was insincere and his tone glib. “Besides, without me . . . Saergaeth will lay siege to Isca by autumn.”

The crowd waited, watching as Caliph found his words.

“Assuming that were true, you’d be dead or conquered by then. It’s not really in your interest to advise me on what follows, is it?”

The crowd gasped.

Everyone knew what Caliph meant. The notion that Mortiman was more of a queen than a prince was old news. Likewise, the fact that Saergaeth held the prince in contempt on account of his preferences had been widely recognized for years. But that Caliph was brash enough to expose Mortiman’s posturing with artillery based on such sensitive trivia actually seemed to impress many of the more reptilian burgomasters.

Mortiman had no real choice in his allies. If he wanted to stay Prince of Tentinil he had to side with Caliph Howl.

Caliph hardened his gaze but tempered his voice with genuine sincerity. “I don’t want to alienate you. I respect your doubts . . . in me. If you didn’t have doubts, it would mean somehow that you didn’t care about Stonehold. But don’t ever speak to me like that again.”

“Majesty—” Yrisl whispered.

“You advise me,” Caliph raised his palm, “never interrupt me.” He let the same hand he had raised fall slowly to rest on the pommel of his sword—it was the only weapon allowed in the chamber and a solid reminder of his unquestionable power in this place.

The Blue General of Isca raised his eyebrows and fell silent.

Caliph stood up and faced the assemblage. “I’m well aware I’m not the king many of you wish I was. I’ve had no opportunity to stand in the shadow of a real king and watch him work. But I have spent the past eight years learning about Stonehold. Learning about you.

“I have a sound grasp of this city’s laws and I know there are a host of outdated, still-viable punishments able to be handed down for insulting a High King.”

He smiled softly as the audience went pale. They were gauging now, how they could explain away the hasty remarks, cast their unforgivable sauciness in a better light by adding meaning and rationale after the fact.

“I’m insulted.

“But I’m also patient.” He looked at the prince. “If any of you doubt me, I respect that. I will earn your trust. I will secure Stonehold’s future. And I will do that, hopefully, by not choosing war. I will not
choose
war. If war comes, that will be Saergaeth’s choice.”

After the silence ebbed in, Lewis was the first to speak. “Forgive me, your majesty.” He bowed slightly and began to clap.

Whether they felt he deserved it or not, everyone else followed suit.

After that, the meeting broke up. Whispers slithered between the burgomasters but by and large Caliph had come out on top. At a different time or place his words might have turned the same audience against him.

But this had been a critical moment. Caliph knew that Stonehold needed a decisive leader. With less unified military power than most northern countries, the High King of Stonehold had to exude power from his pores. He could not flinch in the face of overwhelming or unknowable odds.

He heard the whispers but in their own draconian way he sensed that the burgomasters were pleased. Yrisl had warned him beforehand that many of them were dreading this audience, distressed by the possibility of a meeting with an academic milquetoast fresh from Desdae’s idealistic lecture halls.

Everyone was crowding toward the door, drawn down a series of staircases and passageways by an alluring smell that propagated from the kitchen. The Blue General met them at the exit and fed them the usual lies for good measure.

“Everything will be answered in due time. We’ll call you back once
this [completely absurd, fatuous] meeting has been assessed and compared with intelligence reports from the field.”

Caliph listened to them go. When the room was nearly empty, Yrisl approached him.

“I’m not sure about how you handled that. We needed to cement Lewis and Vale Briar as an ally. This is a war, your majesty . . . no amount of diplomacy is going to save us and calling Saergaeth a hero . . .”

“He is a hero,” said Caliph. “His popularity north of Tentinil approaches legend. He’s protected the people near the Glacier Rise better than any High King.”

Yrisl sighed. “Well, two percent of the region where your hero lives is comprised of military. That means eight thousand airborne, engineers and regular army. If he musters from Gadramere and Mort
rm he’ll have a legion over that. Vale Briar has to be solid with us!”

Caliph nodded. “I’m sorry for jumping on both of you,” he looked at the prince who had stayed behind and was listening intently, “in front of everyone.”

Yrisl’s eyebrows levitated.

Mortiman looked hungry. “Nonsense. You did exactly what you should have. I was just glad you had it in you.”

“Oh? And what did I have
in
me?”

“You showed those fickle bastards that you don’t give a shit about etiquette when you are forced into a fight. You fought dirty. More importantly, you won. I like that and so do they.”

Caliph looked at the floor. “Thank you . . . but . . . none of this is the issue. I’m the issue. If it wasn’t for me, there wouldn’t be a threat. I wonder if we held some kind of election, found another way to turn the crown over to Saergaeth.”