The Last Page

“It’s the kids,” said Zane. “They can’t find you in the lobby. I promised them treats.”

Alani nodded toward the door. “Unchain it and you die.” His voice was so matter-of-fact the meaning of the words seemed hard to recognize—a threat like poison dissolved in wine.

Zane understood.

This was someone on par with his level of thinking, his level of planning. A peer. He almost felt flattered to be entertaining a guest like this. He opened the door and looked down into Dotty’s face.

“Mister—”

“Get out of here,” said Zane. “If you knock again, I’ll take a kitchen knife and cut your little hand off.” He shut the door. When he turned around he saw Alani going through the stack of papers on his table, nidus still aimed in his direction.

In the same instant, several things happened all at once.

Zane dove and grabbed a chair. He lifted it like a body shield and charged his adversary. The nidus went off with a concussive hiss and multiple popping sounds.

Heavy pointed pins of steel filled the air, tearing through wood and fabric and plaster.

Zane Vhortghast screamed.

The nidus fell to the floor.

One of the chair legs caught Alani in the chest.

Knives flashed.

The older man moved with astonishing speed. Though aching and winded from the blow to his ribs, he quickly divested Mr. Vhortghast of his knife.

The spymaster was in no condition to fight. Already torn where the nidus’s scores of missiles had caught him in the shins and elbows and shoulders, perforating his flesh wherever the chair had been unable to protect him, Zane hurled himself toward the open window. He rolled out onto the fire escape and slid down the metal steps, fumbling in his own blood.

Alani winced the moment he tried to follow. The chair had bruised something inside. He stopped and watched the former spymaster stumble into an alley and peal away through the slums of Gorbur Dyn.

The old assassin paused to catch his breath. He had suffered many similar injuries during his long career. He knew how to wrap his ribs. He picked up the papers on the table and left the stolen nidus behind.

Now, he thought, we’ll see if Caliph Howl was worth all this trouble.

CHAPTER 28

Two days later the hot weather broke suddenly with a crack of thunder. Lightning stumbled over rooftops, through revolving voluted gears while the gutters slithered with mating things.

Alani told Caliph almost everything. He found that he was well remembered from the train platform in Crow’s Eye and gained an immediate audience. He made it clear that Peter Lark and Zane Vhortghast were interchangeable names, watched carefully as Caliph paged through the notes he had salvaged from Zane’s apartment. The papers Sena had taken from Zane’s office rested in a second pile. Together it was enough to be useful.

The new High King wasn’t giddy. He talked little. When he spoke, he didn’t make puerile exclamations, or ask pleadingly what they were going to do. Instead, he sorted through the papers without a word, separating them into different categories. It was a wealth of incrimination, a fragmented, fortune-forging plan that had spiraled beyond Zane Vhortghast’s control.

Lightning seared the sky just beyond the window, splashing harsh light into Alani’s eyes. The paneled walls vibrated in rumbling aftermath.

“It looks like we may be in trouble here,” said Caliph.

Alani reached into his vest and pulled out a pipe. He lit it; the flame sizzled and flared under his cupped hand. He nodded but did not speak.

“Tell me again why I find myself the beneficiary of your . . . services,” Caliph said.

Alani lingered before answering. He looked out at the rain. In the south, he knew that warm dry weather was probably baking the land, even at night, gently. His aging skin and bones remembered that southern climate with longing. But everything about the north resonated with him: the shortening season, the turning of the wind each fall.

And the snows . . .

Stonehold was the end of the world, far from the endless summers of the south. People were real here. They knew what it was to lay up stores, to watch the mountains for an early frost. Such a wonderfully haunting landscape, Alani thought. So filled with life because the season of death was only ever a season away.

“I have a vested interest in the Duchy of Stonehold,” Alani said softly after the interminable pause.

Caliph indicated with casual, friendly ease that Alani’s answer was not good enough, that he needed more in order to believe.

“I was born here.” Alani invested each word with soft-spoken meaning.

Caliph frowned. “A broom.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“A broom,” said Caliph. “That’s what belongs in your hands. You were a janitor at the High College. You nearly caught us in the stables at Desdae.”

Alani smiled and watched the memory spread like light across the High King’s face. “Correction, Mr. Howl, I did catch you. And it’s good of you to remember.”

“That was the last time,” said Caliph. “That was what made me steal the clurichaun.”

“I know,” said Alani.

Caliph sat back, stunned. “I can’t believe I couldn’t remember your face.”

“You were preoccupied. Under stress, the memory tends to slip.”

“I took a caning because of you.”

“A clever political move. I was impressed.”

“So you didn’t work for Zane?”

“No. I had a private interest in you. Four years as a janitor, watching you finish school? That should convince you of my interest in the Duchy.”

“But why?”

“Because I’d heard about you. I came to check in on the future ruler of my beloved country . . . to see if you stacked up.”

“And if I hadn’t?”

Alani waved his hand. “You did. Which is why I wanted you on the throne. I still do . . . but you seem to be at a disadvantage for the moment, and I think I can help.”

“You told the Iscan Council where to find me. That’s why a zeppelin showed up in the Highlands of Tue. And that started my problems . . . with the witches.”

“No, your majesty. You are to blame for your problems with witches. Not me. If the zeppelin hadn’t shown up, I think you might have stayed in that pasture . . . permanently.”

Caliph considered for a moment, then made the sign for yes. “Fair enough. Maybe you did save my life. Now tell me how you intend to help . . . and . . . I want details.”

“Well, your majesty. As I’m sure you’re aware, Bjorn Amphungtal is still in the city.”

Caliph tugged his lower lip. “Okay, but I’m sure the blueprints have left the Duchy by now.”

“Which doesn’t concern us anymore,” said Alani. “You have your own set. You don’t need them. The blueprints aren’t our problem anymore.”

“Then what’s our problem?”

“Our problem is Pandragor getting involved in our civil war. Vhortghast knew about solvitriol power. He wanted it for the Duchy. And he manipulated you into starting a program by staging an energy crisis.

“But he didn’t want war with Pandragor. My guess is that he thought you were too