The Last Page

gruth and Bim

11:40 Hazel Nantallium of Os Sacrum

12:00 General Yrisl . . .

The list went on. Caliph checked his watch. It was a quarter past ten. He shuffled through the remaining papers and digested what he could.

At 10:35 he strapped his chemiostatic sword around his waist, left the parlor and entered the royal study precisely on the half hour. The burgomasters of Growl Mort, Murkbell and Bilgeburg were waiting for him, chairs tugged together in a tight fraternal chevron as though huddling for warmth. They stood up the moment he entered.

Caliph shook their hands.

After obligatory pleasantries they all sat down, the burgomasters in their stiff velvet-padded chairs, Caliph at an enormous polished desk.

The burgomasters seemed paradoxically nervous and, at the same time, self-assured. Caliph supposed they had a shrewd agenda that Simon Stepney had failed to advance back in Hlim when he brought the ugly little factory—which had not been melted into sling bullets but been miraculously retrieved by Gadriel from whatever box into which it had been tossed and placed for the hour with expert and subtle ingenuity on the High King’s desk. It sat prominently beneath a lamp, partially hidden from his guests.

Despite its presence, all three of the burgomasters looked, in a serene and well-disguised way, deeply rankled at being here. It must have been at the top of their minds that Caliph Howl had executed one of his best friends less than two weeks ago for treason. They minded their manners.

Caliph watched them. They outnumbered him. On their side were many years of experience buttressed by very high opinions of themselves. They would present their case, make their demands and force the High King to deal with their concerns. Holomorphic aberrations had not been kind to industry and time (for them) was running out.

Caliph stroked the brass nailheads on his armrest. For an eternity it seemed, he waited.

Bejamin Ngruth cleared his throat.

“Your majesty. The . . . fungal outbreak . . . at Vog Foundry is only the beginning of my associates’ and my troubles. Business has gone slack in the face of the war. Everyone is either demonstrating or spectating or off stationed in western Tentinil.”

Caliph interrupted his momentum.

“Where’s Jaeza?”

The last of the big industrial boroughs’ burgomasters had not shown up.

Bejamin Ngruth looked annoyed. Simon Stepney smiled as though pained. He gesticulated faintly as if pulling cobwebs from the air. “She had—prior engagements, your majesty. Though of course this was the top priority for her, an emergency, I’m afraid . . . came up.”

Bejamin Ngruth agreed and rummaged in an oxblood attache.

“Yes, she did however send her regards and apologies as well as this memo expressing her unanimity.”

He laid a crisp, white, notarized sheet of parchment on the desk in front of Caliph.

“Unanimity?” Caliph asked. “In what?”

Bejamin smiled and adjusted his silver spectacles. His hair was greased back in gleaming sandy bands. He forged on bravely.

“Your majesty, we haven’t disclosed this quarter’s profits yet, but we’re vicinal to bankruptcy. If the sluggish prewar economy and holomorphic chaos doesn’t get us, frankly the city’s flat pollution tax will.”

Caliph looked hard at the other two burgomasters.

“Pollution tax? That’s what this is about? Does Ben speak for all of you?” Quick nods and muttered affirmations followed.

Caliph didn’t pause. He had done his research and was ready for this.

“Ben, forgive me, but you’re being terribly imprecise. Vog Foundry has survived wartime economies before. What you’re really telling me here is that you can’t manage your business.”

Timothy Bim let air out through his nose.

“Your majesty, with all due respect, if the four main industrial boroughs go down . . . so goes Isca.”

“So this is a genuine crisis?” Caliph asked.

The burgomasters assured him that it was.

“I disagree. If it was a real crisis I don’t think I’d have a piece of paper sitting on my desk. I think Jaeza Tal would be here. I also disagree that Isca City is so devoid of hardworking people that twenty-two boroughs will be dragged under by the managerial incompetence of four. That’s what you’re suggesting. That the fate of the majority is somehow inextricably intertwined with the fate of half a dozen executives?”

Bejamin Ngruth remained tenacious.

“Your majesty, we have a large debt both to the Independent Alliance of Wardale and the Free Mercantilism of Yorba for holomechanical resources and raw materials that were shipped to us this spring—”

“That’s an inventory issue.”

“Of course it’s an inventory issue.” Simon nearly lost control. “Our inventories were decimated by giant mushrooms, among other things!”

“What is it, Simon?” asked Caliph. “Is it the prewar economy? The pollution tax? Or the giant mushrooms? What do you want from me? You want me to bail you out?

“Gentlemen, I appreciate your industry’s integral role in our economy but changing a tax law for businesses that can’t keep themselves afloat is not going to help Isca survive. This is a difficult time, for all of us.” He saw Simon open his mouth to speak and raised his hand. “Please . . . no more about the giant mushrooms. I know that’s not your fault. I’m sure we can get you some aid for the disaster but I have no intentions of adjusting the pollution tax based on the current economy.”

Caliph leaned forward, his voice unflustered, his eyes poised and cool.

“You are shrewd businessmen, gentlemen. I’m not going to rub your tummies or offer you a toddy. It is up to you to ensure your factories survive. I don’t expect you’ll ever again track up my office with this kind of panhandling. Is there anything else?”

The burgomasters stammered a bit and dug in their attaches but came up empty-handed.

The meeting was over and Caliph guessed he had forged several new enemies. He didn’t really care. With all the shit on my plate, he thought, they can eat a little too.

Unfortunately, the worst news was just around the corner.

He endured a meeting with Hazel Nantallium, who was the bishop of Hullmallow Cathedral. She reeked of sweet incense and painted her face in a manner that indicated coquetry was not without her jurisdiction.

Over the course of sixty minutes (which was twenty beyond what Gadriel had scheduled her for) she tried to persuade Caliph to allow his name to be added officially to the church records. She offered him everything from a plaque with his name on it bolted to the pulpit, to a flirtatious glimpse of her inner thigh with the not-so-subtle hint that more explicit possibilities existed.

To be able to say that the High King was a member of the congregation would give Hullmallow Cathedral the kind of official authority it had enjoyed on and off through the past several centuries if and whenever they had been able to convert a High King.

Caliph graciously and repeatedly declined.

With a terse smile, Hazel left and Caliph hurried off, late for his meeting with the Blue General.

Yrisl brought the bad news.

“It’s true,” he said. “What the papers have been saying about the worm gangs. Something is seriously fucked.”

Caliph sighed. “Please. I have a long day scheduled. Just say something useful that I can understand.”

“A wagon full of bodies was dumped behind Teapetal Wax last night. They were carved up with traditional gang sigils. Some journalist caught it on a litho-slide. We confiscated it and took him in for questioning but . . . the wagon was marked. The men who dumped the bodies . . . they . . . were police.”