The Last Page

The second councilor, another woman named Vti, 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.”

Nasa 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 never been to your country. Perhaps one day. If I survive this war.”

Nasa 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.

Nasa 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.

The fabric had undulated suddenly and something small and freakish had clawed its way into view. A tiny humanlike arm, no bigger than a caterpillar, topped by an infant’s graceless clutching hand. It was white and rubbery, the size of Caliph’s pinkie. Flailing. Twisting free of the ksh’s tight bindings. Squirming for an instant like a grub whose tail had been sutured to Kl’s left serratus anterior.

Then Kl had drawn his robes together, perfuming the air, hiding the mutant limb under layers of heavily scented yak fur.

Caliph stood in the shadowy aviary, listening to winged things rustle through the plants, staring out the vast windows flecked with dry urine and birdlime.

The zeppelins prowled over Ironside, ubiquitous and sullen. He listened to his breathing, smelled the ammoniacal fumes of the birds.

“Well,” he whispered to himself. “That went well—I think . . .”

The meeting with the Pplarians had been much briefer than Caliph anticipated; it left him plenty of time to meet with Sigmund Dulgensen.

He took the Byun-Ghala from its new home in the hangars off the zeppelin deck and plowed east over Temple Hill, passing the delicious smell of the malt house to the south.

In Ironside, hulls rose like whalebones from outspread keels as workers reinforced the wood with steel. Chemical welders sparkled amid the shadowy strakes and stanchions and partially plated bulkheads.

Men crawled through a jungle of beams and cables, black as the steel they worked, feverish to outfit warships in case Saergaeth attacked by sea. They ignored Caliph’s zeppelin as it neared a mooring mast over the Glossok warehouses.

From here, Caliph could see the huge lacy arches of the aqueducts that ringed the bay. He left the airship for the military labs secreted in Glossok. A body of armed men wearing barbuts and black leather armor accompanied him.

He met Sigmund, who had gotten word the High King was on his way, in an observation room overlooking the factory floor. Caliph ordered everyone else out.

“How’s old Caph holdin’ up?” Sigmund grinned. His hands were black and slippery past the elbows.

“I’m holding up.”

“And the funeral?” asked Sigmund.

“They cremated him in Fallow Down,” said Caliph. His voice was thick and monotone. “They flew him in on a zeppelin. He’s sitting on the mantle in the grand hall. I guess I haven’t wanted to deal with it yet. I tell myself I’m too busy.”

Sigmund sighed and nodded softly while looking at his shoes.

“But that’s not why I’m here.”

Sigmund looked up. “I hope I ain’t fired.”

Caliph chuckled. “No . . . no, but I . . . I’ve been doing some thinking. I want to give you another chance to explain this solvitriol stuff to me. Please tell me you haven’t told anyone about the blueprints.”

Sigmund’s face, despite layers of carbon and grease, had already lit up like a welder’s torch. “Fuck no. I ain’t told a soul. What do you want to know?”

“We’re running out of metholinate. Saergaeth’s cut our supply from the Memnaw and we’re . . . well, I guess