The Last Page

“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.”

“Nasa,” 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 Nasa. “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?”