The Last Page ch-1

by Anthony Huso

  Caliph’s throat thickened.

  “So I thought I’d ask,” the spymaster’s tone was the closest thing to friendly banter Caliph could imagine, “if you’d heard anything about it.”

  “No,” said Caliph. Why am I lying? “But if I do, you’ll be the first to know.”

  Vhortghast studied him another moment then looked away. “Fine.”

  Caliph couldn’t tell whether Vhortghast’s “fine” meant that he knew. Maybe he understood that Caliph wanted the secret kept secret, reading between the lines, understanding that yes, Caliph knew all about the stolen blueprints but that Zane Vhortghast’s job was no longer to ask questions about them. Zane Vhortghast’s job was to ensure the information didn’t leak. Caliph hoped, against serious doubt, that this was the case.

  “You’ve taken a mistress . . .” Vhortghast said it with something between cynicism and bored acknowledgement. “The same girl you were . . . involved with at Desdae?”

  As if you didn’t already know, Caliph thought savagely. He did not respond, a course that had the desired effect, eliciting mild but nervous discomfort in Mr. Vhortghast.

  The spymaster laced his fingers and amended his comment with, “She’s quite a catch.” He then turned to the zeppelin looming behind them. “I’m headed for Tentinil. Tour the field. That sort of thing. I’m sure General Yrisl will want to coach you on some plans.”

  The spymaster’s tacit disdain for the Blue General showed like wood grain through shallow coats of diplomacy.

  “I want you to stay in the city,” said Caliph suddenly. “Help me formulate some ideas regarding Ghoul Court.”

  Vhortghast scowled. “What kind of ideas?”

  “I want to assume control of that borough.”

  The spymaster looked stunned.

  “Your majesty, now is probably not the time to allocate resources—” He stopped. Caliph’s eyes had slashed out like claws. “But I’ll get some men on it.”

  Caliph’s glare shifted from Zane Vhortghast to the seething Iscan skyline.

  “This city will not tolerate a sovereign criminal element. I want to personally oversee Ghoul Court’s submission to law, inspections and regular patrol—just like every other borough. If we’re at war, we can’t afford a safe haven for spies at the very center of our city, wouldn’t you agree?”

  Zane Vhortghast was quick to answer yes.

  Ghoul Court, the age-old cesspool, had been ignored for decades because its problems (while ugly and deplorable) had never seemed to spread. The Court drove fear like a wood splitter into every watchman’s chest.

  Patrols went in organized in boisterous, blundering packs: easily avoided by discreet thieves, smugglers and nascent, highly mobile factions. Usually hard and fast, the raids consisted of fifty or more heavily armed men with a squad of iatromathematiques serving as medics and backup. Such large-scale busts were infrequent and orchestrated mostly to satisfy Travis Whittle.

  But when the raid was over, the watch removed themselves quickly as throngs of shadowy, ragged shapes encroached, congregating in smirchy alleys. Watching. They held pipes and boards driven through with eight-inch nails, swung makeshift weapons in crude but adequate grasps.

  After a raid, the watch was always left with the distinct feeling that it had been tolerated, indulged by some sinister power that oversaw the balance, placated with a victory before being herded slowly and methodically back toward the border.

  Terrified and infinitely outnumbered, the police would stumble toward Lampfire or Maruchine or Murkbell with their prisoners in tow, lugging sacks of contraband and evidence.

  Gasping, they would burst into less formidable streets by Bragget Canal or Seething Lane where the old Vindai brewery crouched. By then, the shapes had vanished like cockroaches into jumbled masonry and sub-floors.

  Zane Vhortghast didn’t object to Caliph’s reasons for cleaning the Court. What he objected to, thought Caliph, was the amount of sheer effort and resources that the job would entail.

  Caliph took a late lunch with Sena in the high tower, watching zeppelins plow the sky. Filthy brown clouds marred the pale expanse over the Iscan Bay like dark spots on the achromous fur of a beast. The sky growled and rumpled with extraordinary speed, its weather promising treachery and destruction.

  Airships glided into hangars. Those still aloft had little hope of landing. They buoyed like spiny fish from the city’s tendrils and headed west, propellers thudding, cutting thick slabs of air, moving out of the storm’s path.

  Gadriel served an epicurean assortment of exotic cheeses, fruits and breads accompanied by slender glasses of comet wine. While the wind fumbled and creamy tatters of cloud slid around the tower, obscuring the view for moments at a time, Caliph and Sena picked at their food.

  “These came for you,” said Gadriel. He laid a few envelopes on the table before going to build a fire on the hearth.

  Caliph opened the daily totals for what dwindling metholinate still wheezed through Isca’s miserly distribution pipes. A sinking feeling tugged his stomach down into a point of unbearable gravity, like a child pulling on his mother’s shirt. Caliph looked taut, etiolated and shiftless.

  The numbers on the paper, though large, had already condemned the city to the greatest energy crisis it had ever faced.

  Caliph blotted the sudden perspiration that collected on his forehead with the back of his sleeve and chewed his lip fiercely as he stared at the immutable columns. The numbers paralyzed him.

  “What is it?” asked Sena.

  “Gadriel, schedule me a meeting with Sigmund Dulgensen.”

  “Right away, your majesty.”

  Sena scowled as she sipped her wine. “Sigmund Dulgensen? From Desdae?”

  “Yes.”

  “What’s he doing in Isca?”

  Caliph filled her in briefly, omitting sensitive information about crashed zeppelins and stolen blueprints.

  “Better make it tomorrow afternoon,” he said to Gadriel, tossing the paper aside. “At least an hour—maybe two.”

  “Do you still want to meet with the Pplarians?” asked Gadriel.

  “Shit. I forgot about them.”

  Gadriel mused. “I can move them to—”

  Caliph signed no several times. “I can’t put them off. Last thing I need is a bunch of insulted Pplarian ambassadors who think I’m too self-absorbed to—”

  “Pplarians,” cooed Sena. “Did you see Er Krue Alteirz?”

  “Yes. Completely randy. About a pervert with four arms—”

  “They’re on their way from Vale Briar if I recall,” said Gadriel.

  “Yes,” agreed Caliph, “and I don’t doubt that my punctilious neighbor has already filled them with a host of doubts.”

  “Who?” asked Sena.

  “King Lewis. The King of Vale Briar. He’s . . . something else.” Then to Gadriel, “Keep the Pplarians. Schedule Sig whenever you can.” He moved to the next envelope in the stack: an embossed and gilt pouch whose vanilla flap he opened warily, apprehensive of more bad news.

  Inside was an invitation to the Murkbell Opera House, cordially inviting the High King and his lady to a show the following month.

  “How in Burim’s name does gossip travel so fast?”

  “That’s Isca,” Gadriel said, standing up and brushing himself off before the roaring fire.

  “What are these numbers?” Sena had picked up the sheet of paper with the metholinate levels and momentarily scrutinized it before laying it aside.

  She moved from the table to a divan where she crouched, digging her toes down between the cushions and glaring impishly at Caliph while the seneschal inquired what they might want for dessert.

  “Nothing for me, thank you.” Caliph put the invitation back in its envelope and tossed it to Sena. “Do you like opera?”

  She opened it and read the golden script in Hinter.

  “Who’s Mr. Naylor?”

  “The manager of the Murkbell Opera House, my dear,” said Gadriel.

/>   Sena flipped the invitation over with an incredulous look.

  “How does he know about me?”

  “The same way everyone knows about you. Blatherskites and tattlers from West Fen to Growl Mort. But I’ve taken up enough of your time. What would the two of you like this evening? Swordfish? Stuffed game hens?”

  “Steak,” said Sena.

  Caliph’s stomach turned. “Only if you butcher the cow. We have cows here, don’t we?”

  Sena looked at him disparagingly as though he had begun foaming at the mouth. “Caliph, what kind of absurdity—?”

  “No, look, I just want it to be fresh.” He panned his hand before him. “That’s all. Butcher it tonight or I won’t eat it.”

  “Caliph—”

  “Trust me on this—” He glared at her.

  “It’s no problem,” Gadriel assured. “Believe me, my dear. There are far stranger idiosyncrasies than liking a fresh cut of beef. I am only too happy to accommodate this one.” His jovial tone smoothed the ruffled air.

  After he had left the room Sena turned to Caliph with a kindly-explain-yourself expression on her face.

  “Trust me. You won’t eat a piece of meat in this town unless it’s been raised and slaughtered right here in the Hold.”

  “Why in Emolus’ name—?”

  “I don’t want to talk about it. I don’t want to fight. Just please—”

  She relented and curled close to him, looking again at the sheet of numbers. He hadn’t seemed to want to discuss them. Under the yellow storm light, a sudden gale pounded the tower and droplets like glittering topaz stippled the glass.

  “Fine,” she whispered with mock sardonicism, cupping her hand over his crotch. “I could use some fresh meat.”

  The next day was the nineteenth of Hlim. Caliph met the Pplarians in the castle aviary where vast windows framed a rain-drenched and glutted city view. Enormous bunches of vegetation coiled against the glass, rising like blackened pythons from the floor.

  A patio near the windows allowed the visitors to marvel at the sinister horned towers of Gilnaroth clawing out of Barrow Hill. East of them, the distant ornate town homes of Blkton dissolved into streamers of incense pouring out of Temple Hill.

  When they threw their vision across the miles, the Pplarians found smoking skeletons in Ironside’s shipyards, sparked by the desultory stars of remote chemical welders. Beyond that, the dwindling brown piles of variation in Bilgeburg and Thief Town interfused with far-off Murkbell in a sort of sepia twilight near the wharves.

  As Gadriel entered with a tray of refreshments, a zeppelin surfaced like a whale over Barrow Hill, skin painted to advertise malted cereal. A flock of blackbirds covered its spines.

  “Have you seen Er Krue Alteirz?” asked one of the three Pplarians at the table in slightly broken Hinter. He took his striking violet-blue eyes off the airship and glared hospitably at Caliph.

  The Pplarian’s name was Kl. Even seated at the table he seemed to tower, wrapped like his fellows in a traditional ksh and, despite the balmy weather, clad in loose heavy robes of dark, perfumed, yak fur.

  Kl had very short blond hair that covered his milk-white scalp like peach fuzz. All three of them were tall and slender.

  “I have,” said Caliph. “It was very interesting. I understand that the villain is based on historical—”

  “Yes,” Kl took over, “the sorcerer, he . . . came out of the west . . . long ago. It is a true story . . . originally. Made grand by opera.” He laughed as though something were very funny.

  Caliph smiled. “Your people have a great history.”

  In unison the Pplarians gave a strangely charmed reciprocal smile that twisted their mouths oddly. Caliph had spoken in White Tongue.

  Kl leaned forward. “You sound like my younger brother when you speak our language! How much do you know?”

  “I studied a bit at college in the Kingdom of Greymoor,” Caliph explained.

  The Pplarians nodded their heads.

  “You must have learned from a Pplarian,” said Kl. “Your sound is very natural.”

  “I learned from a man named Gilban Tosh. He lived in the Pplar for many years.”

  “Yes.” Kl nodded. “I have heard of him.” He drew one of the tall purple drinks from the tray and sipped it. Overhead, crows and orchid-colored rylfs disturbed the air, flitting furtively through stiff tendrils of unnerving vegetation. Gadriel had left the room.

  Kl’s first councilor was also his wife. She looked almost exactly like her husband except her eyes were piercing lavender and her bosom stretched the scintillating fabric of her ksh.

  “How do you feel about your uncle?” she asked with straightforward curiosity that she seemed to find perfectly appropriate.

  “Yes,” said Kl, “we are very curious about him.”

  Caliph inhaled deeply and wondered, What in Emolus’ name has Lewis been telling you?

  “My uncle was not a popular man for many good reasons. I don’t think about him. It’s a shame the people of this country had to be terrorized while he was High King.”

  Kl’s wife looked deeply empathetic.

  “You poor boy.”

  “Nâsa,” her husband scolded her mildly, “he is the High King. He does not need our sympathy.”

  “It’s fine,” said Caliph. “I have to deal with the past, just like everyone else.” He offered them a sincere favoring look. “How was your stay in Vale Briar?”

  “Lovely,” said Nâsa. “Though your subordinate Lewis is not to be trusted.” She seemed unaware of how her statement changed the dynamic of the conversation.

  Caliph tried to maintain his calm, pleasant demeanor.

  “Really? Why do you say that?”

  The second councilor, another woman named Vtî, gestured with slow grace toward Ironside’s harbor.

  “He keeps ships from Mortrm.”

  “You are different than we heard,” said Kl. “Your subordinate said you had a charmed tongue that hid a wrathful heart. I enjoy these bird gardens.”

  He looked overhead at shadowy forms darting near the glass.

  “We do not have such things in the Pplar. Your cities are amusing. I always think that you must be very afraid of being out of doors.”

  Nâsa smiled, her lavender eyes intense.

  “King Howl would find our country no less strange. Isn’t that right?”

  Caliph demurred. “I’m sure it’s breathtaking.” He wanted to get back to the topic of King Lewis but didn’t know how. The Pplarians’ manner of speech made him feel like he was still trying to communicate with them in White Tongue.

  “It is,” affirmed Kl as though feeling the need to stress an otherwise empty compliment about his homeland. “The giant yak,” he touched his robe, “wanders the snowy waste.” He talked with his fingers, indicating a vast expanse of land. “Have you ever been to our country, King Howl?”

  Caliph had studied Pplarian society. It revolved around large nuclear families—the most important element of their government. They were fiercely tribal and loyal but there was little fighting between the tribes. He also knew them to be extremely brilliant with technology. The way Kl talked, it sounded like they all lived in huts around campfires. Caliph knew that wasn’t the case.

  Once, long ago, the Pplarians had attempted to enslave the Nanemen, driving strange ships across the Dunatis like ivory water beetles.

  Despite their advanced technology, it had ended badly for them.

  The Nanemen had chased them back, had stood in the hills below the Healean Range and by their eyes and tongues hurled the heads of fallen Pplarian warriors into the sea. The rumbling echo of their war howls still trembled in the mountains.

  Stonehold was not a gentle place.

  Slowly the war had scabbed over, healed by medicines and ointments, amethysts and silver. Traders had bridged the gap, obliterating years of bloodshed with commerce and goodwill balanced on a slippery stack of money.

  “No,” said Caliph. “I have neve
r been to your country. Perhaps one day. If I survive this war.”

  Nâsa reached out and touched Caliph’s hand comfortingly.

  “It is a difficult time for you. We know. But we will acknowledge this new government in Isca. We will acknowledge the throne of Caliph Howl.”

  “Yes,” said Kl. “You are a good heart, like family. We cannot send you help in this war, but perhaps there are weapons we have that you could use. Not much, but we will send you some.”

  Caliph felt disoriented by the strange metaphor, as though he had just been adopted without his knowing it.

  “That is very kind of you. I will accept whatever help my friends can spare.”

  “It is not much,” Kl said again as if not wanting to inflate Caliph’s hopes. “But it is some.”

  Caliph’s mouth dropped open in horror.

  Something had wriggled beneath the Pplarian’s ksh. Kl noticed and drew his dark furs together like a woman startled by a man staring at her cleavage. Caliph didn’t know what to say.

  Nâsa patted him reassuringly on the back of the hand. Her eyes looked crazed despite the gentle expression on her face.

  “It happens sometimes,” she said. “It’s a throwback to the old days, when the blood was cleaner, when we had mingled less with your kind. Don’t worry, Caliph Howl, it was not your fault.”

  Kl stood, still holding his robes together. He forced a pained, embarrassed smile.

  “She is right, King Howl. Do not worry. I will send some weapons. I like you much better than your subordinate Lewis—and these bird gardens are . . . remarkable.” His violet-blue eyes nearly glowed.

  The meeting ended suddenly as the three Pplarians rose, bidding him good-bye in White Tongue.

  Caliph stood and walked them to the door where Gadriel had been waiting. As the High Seneschal took over, escorting the foreign dignitaries back through the castle, Caliph’s mind replayed what he had seen.

  The ksh was a one-piece strip of fabric several yards long that, when worn correctly, fashioned a suit of sorts, winding around the chest, over the shoulders and down the back to complete in a kind of brief underwear tied at the hip with a tassel. It was from beneath the single band of bright cloth that covered Kl’s upper chest that Caliph had seen the strange movement.