The Last Page

by Anthony Huso

  Between a dark cage and a ramshackle sideboard cluttered with bottles, Miriam adjusted the lamp flame and penned a hasty note in Withil, using miniscule letters to conserve space on the tiny roll. In it, she warned of all she had learned, the implications and the fact that the Duchy had been evacuated. All the Sisters that could, had gone through Menin’s Pass into Miryhr.

  Then she rolled the tiny scroll tightly and pressed it into a leather tube.

  She opened the cage. Its bottom had been lined with yesterday’s newspaper, headlines still shouting with idiot urgency: HIGH KING’S FATHER MURDERED! MISKATOLL TO BLAME!

  Two-thirds of the city had rallied around their new king with news of the assassination. In a twisted political way, his father’s death had been a stroke of luck for Caliph Howl.

  Gently, she lifted the cage’s occupant out into the lamplight. She snapped the tube to a permanent clip around the pigeon’s leg and then removed a hood that kept the bird blind and quiet.

  The pigeon’s head had been altered ruthlessly. Its left eye glowed with green chemiostatic fluid that powered a series of small clockwork devices buried in the creature’s brain. The feathers had been hacked away at the top of the skull; a square patch of bone was revealed, screwed with a little tin.

  Miriam drew a triangular piece of metallic mineral from one of the bottles with a tweezers and set it in a similarly shaped socket in the tin. She pressed it down hard with her thumb until it snapped into place.

  The bird shook its head as though infested with parasites. Some itch in its brain that would never resolve.

  The cruestone would alter the bird’s path; take it to the tower of parliament’s Eighth House, to the rookery of Giganalee’s discreet hand.

  Miriam walked to the window and flung the bird into the night air. The cruestone would goad it; complete a circuit through the cruel device in its head that fired electricity into its brain. It would prevent it from resting. It would whip it relentlessly toward its destination in the Country of Miryhr, tiny wires like fiery worms burrowing into what little consciousness it had left.

  Miriam hoped she had done the right thing; that if the information she had been given was false, her sense of practicality would be recognized and her disregard for hierarchy overlooked.

  If what she had learned was true, only Giganalee could be trusted, only the Eighth House would know what to do. But Miriam understood the risk she had taken.

  In case she had miscalculated, her hopes were false. There would be no lenience for operating behind the Coven Mother even with the good of the Sisterhood in mind. Her conduct would be seen as betrayal and faithlessness to Megan’s rule.

  As Miriam listened to the sound of the pigeon’s wings beat into the filthy night, she turned slowly and began to gather up her things.

  15 U.T. Approximate pronunciation: “! sh !” (! indicates bilabial or dental clicks, epiglottal plosives and other nonstandard sounds).

  CHAPTER 15

  A foreign ambassador, added last minute to Caliph’s itinerary, joined him for dinner. His name was Bjorn Amphungtl and he was from Pandragor.

  Considering Sigmund’s recent disclosure of the solvitriol plans and the death of Caliph’s father just four days ago, Mr. Amphungtl’s timing was extraordinary, like a crow settling on a carcass.

  Despite the surprise, Gadriel had orchestrated, in a matter of eighteen hours, a phenomenal affair, complete with crisped haunches and baked pears. Hooves wreathed in rosemary folded reverently beneath legs dribbling juice.

  Candied fruits capered around bottles of red wine and hot breads added their plumes to the delicious bank of fog.

  It was gorgeously barbaric. The piles of food seemed to have been thrown with force onto the sprawling table, but everything had been arranged to entice and overawe. The silverware was gold, the napkins crimson silk, the plates of ancient Pplarian design.

  On seeing the room, Caliph was reminded of Stonehold’s visceral history. Gadriel directed him toward the highest chair at center, after which all the other guests took their seats.

  The room stilled. Caliph made an impromptu speech welcoming his guests and, as usual, thanked the staff.

  After that, Gadriel spoke the traditional Hinter charm, making several unclear passes over the food with his hands.

  Caliph withheld a smile. The ancient clannish ritual caused Mr. Amphungtl to fidget and glance sideways at his secretary. When the singsong charm came to its traditional boisterous end, everyone except the foreigners added their voices to the final shouted syllable. An echo that faded like thunder from the hall.

  Mr. Amphungtl jumped a little; then offered a pained smile. The amount and presentation of the food seemed to confuse him. He was new and probably sent as political fodder in case something went wrong. He looked to his neighbors for direction and figured out soon enough that it was a help-yourself affair that required a certain amount of forward behavior.

  After dinner, Caliph and Mr. Amphungtl retreated to the east parlor for ice cream and brandy where the Pandragonian’s uncertainty was set aside along with dessert.

  “We know you have them.” One of the key phrases that Caliph realized he would take away from this discussion. It became clear that Mr. Amphungtl’s doubtfulness had been left at the dinner table. Now Caliph watched the ambassador’s dark eyes glitter, noticed how softly the Pandragonian man smiled when he said, “We’re just looking for a way to have a peaceful, low-profile resolution . . . and of course we need extradition of the thieves.”

  Caliph thought about turning the blueprints over. He didn’t need them. The only problem was that if he did that, Pandragor would have proof of the crime. And if he failed to turn Sigmund and David over . . . to extradite them . . . the Iscan Crown would appear to be harboring criminals.

  Caliph didn’t like Mr. Amphungtl’s supercilious smile. It reminded him of college, of a certain professor at college who had smiled the same way when he had held a grade over Caliph’s head. It was a smile that said, “I’m one up on you, boy . . . and there’s nothing you can do about it.”

  In the end, it was loyalty that determined Caliph’s response. He couldn’t turn Sig and David over. He just couldn’t.

  “I’m sorry,” said Caliph, “that your country lost its blueprints. I’m also sorry that I’m unable to help.” Caliph watched the smile crumble, piling up at the bottom of the ambassador’s face as a reconstituted frown. It felt good to toss a pebble into Amphungtl’s glassy disdain and see the angry ripples spread out under his face.

  It also felt like a huge political mistake.

  Sena traveled from Crow’s Eye to Null Hill.

  She was accompanied from all directions by a throng of black ghostly shapes that crossed roads at night, heading unerringly for the heavy, thick-walled buildings of Skellum whose tiny panes of glass twinkled dissolute and golden. By the fifth, all of them had reached the ancient town.

  Sena arrived midmorning and went straight to parliament, passing an enormous sledge newt tethered at the gates. It hissed while its collection of slippery black eyes glinted in the sun.

  From there, she passed into the garden where statues swam amid white rosebushes. Large sapphire-tinted butterflies nuzzled the blooms and fornicated indiscriminately.

  Sena saw a woman in a lavish costume wandering the yard. On her head was an incredible crown that started as a band at the back of her neck and rose behind her ears, completing its loop at the very top of her forehead. Blades of deep blue metal fanned back as stylized feathers, spreading like an array of ornate knives. The front of the thing sloped down into a graven mask accented with bits of lapis. It obscured everything but her eyes from the cheekbones up.

  Haidee had been in the Sixth House only weeks ago; now she was wearing the ceremonial headgear of the Seventh. She returned Sena’s greeting in Withil. “Clea’s bird brought word that you had gone to Sandren rather than Tue. What happened?”

  Sena dropped Ns, sensing that perhaps something was wrong. The cat immedia
tely began chasing butterflies.

  Sena had known Clea would inform on her and had been constructing a feasible lie based on the Sisterhood’s existing paranoia. “I was following a lead. I think it was the Cabal.”

  “Really?” Haidee was looking at Sena’s hair. Sena had dyed it black.

  “It washes out. I needed to cut a low profile getting out of Sandren.”

  “Yes . . . I think we’ve all heard about the stonemason’s body. That’s amusing, the Seventh House using that kind of street thief charlatanry? Why not just carve your eyes?”

  Sena snorted. She didn’t like Haidee’s cool smile or the way she carried herself: perfectly erect under the extraordinary costume.

  “I don’t blame you,” said Haidee.

  “What?” Sena looked startled.

  Haidee clarified. “I don’t condone your flagrant abuse of the Sisterhood or your disregard for coven law but I don’t blame you for feeling the way you do. It would have been hard all those years, standing in her shadow, having her correct your every move, having to live up to some unattainable mark. Still,” her chin dipped indicating a mild reproach was on the way, “I think your lifelong rebellion against Megan is childish—no matter what was done to your mother. Megan didn’t—”

  “You can stop there.”

  “All I’m saying is that Megan acted indiscriminately—”

  “You’re right. Setting your friend on fire is pretty fucking indiscriminate, isn’t it?”

  “I’m sorry,” said Haidee. “I should have said impartial. Coven law protects us . . .”

  Sena whirled. “What are we doing? Why do we need to be protected? What is our goal anyway? Kill off or seduce anyone with the ability to challenge or discover us? For what? What are we preparing for?”

  “We empower women—”

  “Oh gods, stow that shit! I’m so sick of our diagrams of self-actualization at the expense of others. You and I both know the Sisterhood’s philosophies are just a means to an end. What is it? What is Megan planning?”

  “If you had been around more . . . instead of . . . mucking about in the Highlands of Tue, you might already know.”

  “I was doing research.”

  “You were supposed to be spying.”

  “What is Megan doing?”

  Haidee’s smile leaked across her face, serene and supercilious. “Preparing for war.”

  “With whom? The Duchy of Stonehold?”

  “The Wllin Droul, you artless scut. Don’t you know anything anymore? You and I used to talk before you left for Desdae with that foot-licking wine peddler from Sandren. Megan may be naïve enough to believe that you didn’t give him something in return for your tuition but I’m not. She might even call it pårn if she found out—”

  “Which would be correct . . . if it were true. I haven’t seen him since I graduated. He was nothing to me.”

  “So you’re saying you went to school for the Sisterhood’s benefit? Pårn is for the good of the whole not for the good of the one. Megan should have seen through you long ago—”

  “And why is that?” asked Megan.

  Both girls whirled. The Shrdnae Mother stood within arm’s length, curiously obscured until that very instant, positioned at an angle just outside peripheral vision. Haidee went white. Sena simpered.

  But her simper deteriorated instantly when she saw the look on Megan’s face. Like the look of a pet hound, Sena had expected familiarity regardless of Megan’s mood. But this was something else, the look of an animal that had unexpectedly turned on its owner: quiet, uncertain and lethal.

  The Shrdnae Mother wore a ceremonial robe. It was much simpler than the attire of the Seventh House because Megan, even as Coven Mother, resided only in the Sixth. Her robe’s shoulders did not curl up but the fabric had been stitched with shiny threads of metallic blue in an arabesque pattern. Hemmed in black satin, the sleeves fell partly past her wrist, making her fingers look like paws.

  Haidee did not try to make excuses. Her apology came quickly and with convincing sincerity. Sena said nothing.

  Megan took a drink of something brown and iced and set the glass on the portico railing. She walked toward Sena and embraced her rigidly, leaving an unspoken question floating in her eyes.

  “So nice to see you, Mother,” Sena cooed.

  Megan plucked Ns from where the cat crouched, licking butterfly guts, and began stroking him as if he were hers. “I can’t believe the mess you made, Sienae.”

  “The Cabal—”

  “Shht—not here.” Megan glared. She touched Sena’s hair like a granger examining blight.

  “You grow away, Sienae. It’s not good to live outside the Circle as long as you have.”

  Megan set Ns down.

  “It’s temporary. It comes right out.”

  Megan snorted. “At least it isn’t blue or purple or whatever they dye it in the city these days.” Megan clucked. “Sienae, you would look charming if you had no hair at all.”

  “Thank you, Mother.”

  Haidee rolled her eyes.

  Megan moved back to her sweating drink.

  “Come with me, Sienae.”

  Her request dismissed Haidee at the same time it left Sena no other choice. Sena saw hatred crawl beneath Haidee’s lovely cheeks.

  Megan opened a door off the portico and ushered her into a complex of chambers, cool and dim as a cave.

  Statuettes stood in nubile poses, gazing across music rooms or onto languid staircases that flowed like syrup from the second floor. A terror bird’s head was mounted on one wall. Most of its skull was a six-pound beak, rosy pink fading into dirty white. Fleshy blue skin ringed a set of glassy golden eyes. Sena plopped down in a stuffed chair beneath the trophy.

  “How was your trip?” asked Megan.

  “Abominable. Muggy—”

  “I thought you had a horse . . .”

  There was a squat iron canister on the floor fitted with tubing and a tight lid. A chemiostatic cell supplied power. It hissed as Megan unlatched the lid and scooped out a glass full of ice. She poured Sena one of the tall cinnamon drinks and topped it with a straw.

  Sena accepted the glass and sipped it greedily, making a fourth of it disappear before she answered.

  “I did.”

  Megan frowned. “You cleaned up after yourself according to Clea but really . . . Sienae . . . what were you doing in the Halls?”

  “Are they looking for me?”

  “They were. We provided several thousand gryphs and one night’s pårn to the chief constable, I think you know him, last name Hews. He’s not an easy man to bribe but he’s been aching for this girl we placed a year ago, Autumn? We knew his taste and were hoping to use her for something more sensible. What got into you?”

  “It was the Cabal.”

  Megan raised her eyebrows. “Of course it was! Clea checked. Gavin bore the mark!”

  Sena was momentarily stunned by the detail, fearful and embarrassed that she hadn’t checked Gavin herself and simultaneously grateful that the facts supported her fabrication.

  “Why did you go to Sandren?”

  “To close my bank account.”

  “Why didn’t you tell me?”

  “Gods, Mother! You know how you are! You didn’t even let me get my clothes when you dragged me out of college! But it’s my money! I earned it. I wanted it.” She pretended to sulk.

  Megan softened. “Maybe you’re right . . . but then what in Emolus’ name were you doing in the Halls?”

  Now it got tricky. “I overheard Gavin, talking about a meeting with the Cabal. It was supposed to happen there, in the Halls. I thought I was doing the right thing.”

  “Do you know what the meeting was about?”

  “Something about the book.”

  Megan scrutinized her for a moment. “Tell me how it went wrong.”

  “It was my fault. I didn’t think I’d have to kill him. I didn’t plan ahead. I made a false step. He heard me, turned around . . . we never made it t
o the meeting.”

  “The Seventh House doesn’t make false steps, Sienae.”

  “Well, I’m sorry. I’m not exactly that kind of operative, am I? It was my first time.”

  Megan drummed her fingernails against her glass. Sena knew it was no excuse. She knew the Sisterhood couldn’t tolerate this kind of blunder, especially from an Ascendant.

  Megan’s expression remained soft. “With the Wllin Droul hunting us, we have to be careful. There’s no telling who to trust.”

  Sena put her drink down. “If they’re such a problem, why not focus on them? Why go to war with Stonehold?”

  “War? Who said anything about war?”

  “Haidee.” It wasn’t exactly what Haidee had said, but Sena enjoyed stirring the pot.

  Megan snorted. “It’s not a war. It’s a transumption hex. Pandragor’s negotiations with Stonehold have failed. I shouldn’t be telling you this, but the Pandragonian Empire isn’t paying us for this. It’s an exchange of services. They’ve agreed to help us with the Wllin Droul . . . help us locate the book.”

  Sena tensed. Wouldn’t you die, she thought, to know I’ve already found it! It’s sitting in my pack six feet in front of your nose!

  “What’s a transumption hex?”

  Later that night when Sena had wriggled into the doll-like allure of the Seventh House’s ceremonial dress, painted her eyes black and her lips red and pulled the sepaled mask over her head, she sauntered into Deep Cloister with a mounting sense of dread, ignoring the propositioning looks she received from her Sisters.

  She had hidden the Csrym T carefully. She knew her belongings could be rifled at any moment.

  The great hypostyle of Deep Cloister sat inside the enormous courtyard made by parliament’s wings. Deep Cloister was a circular collection of pillars holding up a slightly conical roof.

  Sena wove inward through the columns. They were positioned in such a way that no clear line of sight extended to the interior and even daylight choked after forty yards.