The Last Page (44 page)

Her memory fogged with feelings that pulled her mouth into an amazed and contented smile. Caliph was nowhere to be seen.

White marble flooded the floor. The four-poster bed she had slept in was carved from cherry wood with tall spindles at every corner. In the center of the room a gleaming enameled tub stood steaming on short recurved legs. It crouched like a fat cat above a plush colorful rug.

Several wardrobes, a desk and a chest all sat at attention. They were crafted from imported woods, carved laboriously and stained deep red tones. On the walls, tapestries of inestimable value curled with the outside air.

Leaning back, she gazed up at the ceiling which comprised a vaulted affair whose ribbing floated from pillars in the four corners and met at a recessed oval where some artisan had done a fresco in the dome. It showed a cherubic youth with black wings descending from a sunlit cloud aiming a bow at an innocent-looking rabbit. Archaic lettering around the fresco read in Hinter,
there is purpose in death.

Her journey had certainly been worth it. She had walked lines to an abandoned cromlech on a low hill amid fog-draped mountains. Surrounded by dark, worn-down stones and brambles, she had used her sickle knife to cut her way through.

Relying on road signs and other travelers for directions, she had taken a road south and after walking several days she had finally come to Isca.

She had seen it in the distance: the mighty wall, the city pouring smoke. Blue-gray worms from a hundred chimneys had bent beneath the castle spires, everything caked in evening light.

Inside the city, a sea of people had sloshed against walls and buildings. Sena had been surprised at the chill twilight brought and the women in long coats who wore next to nothing underneath, showing skin and multiple belts around tightly circled hips. Shouting boys had torn through the crowd, dragging dead things on strings attached to poles. A gypsy with a beard had scowled and offered her toothpaste from a tray just before a huge man pushed past, nearly shoving her into a lamppost.

Sena had seen shops for tobacco and unicycles and soap. Mechanized cars and strange creatures moved through tunnels in the walls. Metal boxes on pulleys carried regular deliveries on wires strung across the street. Clotheslines garroted gargoyles. Iron strangled brick. Windows slid up and down like teeth. People screamed and bartered and talked about war.

A door opened somewhere and Caliph stepped out from behind one of the tapestries, breaking her reverie. She heard him thank a servant and shut the door. In his hand, he carried a copper kettle that he emptied directly into the tub.

“Plumbing problems,” he said and looked around the room as though making sure everything met with his approval before coming to stand somewhat shyly near the baseboard.

“I thought you might want a bath. No one knows you’re here.” He glanced at the ceiling where she was still looking at the fresco. “Yet.”

“What did you do to me?” She climbed from the sheets and walked shamelessly to the tub.

Palms up, silent, he felt suddenly uneasy, almost bashful.

“I don’t even remember what you like for breakfast. I don’t know if you’re staying. I don’t know . . .”

His words trailed off and he walked to the window. From behind he heard her slide into the water.

“I didn’t come here just to have breakfast,” she said lightly.

“What then?”

“Caliph, you think too damn much. You always have. Relax. I’m here. I came here for one reason. You.”

Her words surprised herself. She sank up to her neck. “Nice scar, isn’t it?”

Caliph came over and sat down by the tub. “What do you mean?”

“My scar. You didn’t notice it last night?” She pulled herself up so he could see.

He put his finger on the pink line.

“I missed you.”

“I could tell.” She grinned. “I didn’t expect treatment like that. Thought you might even throw me out. You’ve got better things to do now than think about me.” Suddenly she sat up straight. “Where’s my pack?”

“I put it over there.” He pointed to where it hung on the back of a chair. N
s lay sleeping on the seat. She slipped down again until her chin touched the water, feeling relieved.

“So—” Caliph tried to start any kind of conversation, “nearly two, two and a half years now.” He nodded. “I came looking for you and found your cottage. I guess that’s where the scar came from?”

“You would have followed me to Eloth, wouldn’t you? You found the note.”

Caliph felt hot with embarrassment. He hated that he felt so syrupy over her. It had never been the same for her. Never sloppy. These feelings were supposed to be gone, dead with time. But their revival was wonderful, sweet, heady, almost dizzying and lined every inch with fear.
What if she goes away again?
He felt half-tricked, half-cheated at his own enamoredness.

“How did it go? Your search for that book?”

Her eyes lit up. She whispered even though there was no one else in the room.

“I have it. It’s here.”

“What happened at the cottage?”

A knocking sounded from the door behind the tapestry. “Your majesty?” a servant’s voice called from just outside.

“Don’t come in, I’m bathing,” Caliph shouted.

“Majesty,” Sena whispered playfully. “Do I have to call you ‘majesty’ too?”

“Shh—” Caliph scolded.

She rolled her eyes. “They can’t hear us.”

Caliph stood up and rummaged through his wardrobe.

“I’m not so sure about that. Regardless, we have to find some clothes for you.”

“What’s wrong with mine?”

“As difficult as it may prove to be, we need to make you look like a serving boy. The last thing I need is added scandal.”

“Sorry to inconvenience you.” She splashed.

Caliph turned toward her. “You know I didn’t mean it like that. It’s political bullshit, nothing else.” He stopped and frowned. “How in Emolus’ name did you get inside?”

Sena’s lips puckered at one corner. “You opened the door.”

Caliph snorted. “I mean the grounds. No holomorphy?”

She shrugged. “Maybe . . . just a little.”

“Then maybe you could get out the same way you got in. I mean, I can get you some breakfast first—”

His tongue was moving faster than his mind. He came up short.

“Thanks. I’ll just eat and,” she waved her hand around, “banish myself.” But her voice sounded far from offended. “What are you worried about? You’re the High King. You can make love to whomever you wish.” She turned over in the water and beckoned him with a finger. “You don’t really think I could pass for a serving boy, do you King Howl?”

He walked slowly back to the tub.

“It could be done, I think.” His voice sounded as though he were actually thinking about it. “It would take some work.”

Sena’s soapy hands reached up for his ruffled lapels. She pulled him down. The water in the tub rose suddenly, flowed over the lip and wet the tasseled carpet all the way through to the floor.

After her bath, and another session on the High King’s bed, she got dressed. Caliph threw a huge hooded cloak over her and escorted her from the castle.

She could tell his charade fooled no one and guessed he wasn’t the first king to ferry women. When she was safely on the city streets, he told her he would meet her at a stone marker south of West Fen beyond the city walls.

His plan was bizarre and ill-thought, something completely unnatural coming from him. “I can’t have you just show up in the castle. I’ll escort you out and then meet you someplace. Then I can bring you back in.”

But she didn’t argue. He wanted her. That much was clear. And for the time being that was all that mattered. She took a cab to West Gate and left the city, following Caliph’s directions.

Without the urban sprawl, Isca framed a new world of mountains and bogs and land by the sea. It brought back memories of her childhood in Tenwinds. Her crotch ached pleasantly. She climbed a low green tor west of Isca, again following directions, waiting for Caliph to show up. While she waited, she tossed the possibility of being honest around in her head the way N
s played with prey.

For an instant she thought about telling Caliph the truth.
But what was the truth?
And how could she tell him if she didn’t know?

She quickly set the idea aside. The formula for unlocking the
C
srym T
explicitly said that his blood must be stolen.

She paced back and forth near the stone of Mizraim, waiting for Caliph, arguing internally.

She had never felt this way before. But was it real? Or was she simply deceiving herself, forging false feelings for Caliph in an attempt to find a rare ingredient?

No, she thought, this is love. Mawkish and ridiculous and inutile. Her hopes soared. An ampoule was not so much. Caliph would not die from it. But it must be stolen. And at the right time.

She had to wait. Wait for autumn.

But she felt it now!

She kicked the stone of Mizraim in her frustration, worried that her feelings might fade with the leaves. She began to panic, tempted once more to regard the strange ingredients as mundane superfluities unrelated to the true mathematical workings of the spell. As the temptation rose, so did a gibbering madness at the back of her head, a cold upwelling that quickly swept the notion away.

She had not come for Caliph. She had come for the book. When she had met him in the library that first night in Desdae he had sent shivers through her. She had decided later, after verifying the recipe several more times, that he was the one for the equation—if she ever found the grimoire.