Black Bottle

black ruff with tiny irisated markings. It glared at her. Eyes, dark as blood; the curve of its long ibis-like beak, white—softening into blue near the skull. The creature seemed to know to stand quietly so that she could use an extractor to pull the cruestone from its skull.

Taelin swallowed and picked up the tool. She approached slowly, wary of the sharp beak that resembled one half of a pair of ice tongs. The thing shrieked at her, revealing the pale pink interior of its mouth, urging her to hurry.

Taelin steeled herself and untied the bundle from its leg: a message and a hood. She secured the hood first. An eyelet at the top of the skull allowed her to pluck the cruestone out. Freed from the fire, the creature shook its head again.

Taelin’s heart was pounding, not from the ferocity of the messenger but from the seal on the golden tube.

Palmer’s voice trembled. “Is that … is it uh…?” He was pointing toward the seal.

“Yes.” She felt breathless.

It was the seal of the High King.

“Fuckin’ ticky,” Palmer mewled.

She opened the golden tube and pulled out a single sheet of paper. Affixed to the bottom was a gem that would undoubtedly send the bird back whence it had come. Taelin read the few words on the page and felt her entire body flush with a mixture of pride … and fear.

Madam,

His Majesty, High King Caliph Howl, welcomes you to the Duchy of Stonehold. It would please the crown to acknowledge your recent charitable efforts here in Isca City with a token of his gratitude this evening at St. Remora at thirteen o’clock.

Please feel free to use the enclosed cruestone in order to confirm or decline at your earliest convenience.

Drown Vicunt,

High Seneschal, Isca Castle

Taelin’s knees, despite the reason for her coming to Stonehold, promptly gave out. She sat down in a wooden chair, clenching the note as if it had been delivered by Nenuln herself.

She worried that Sena was behind this but Palmer interrupted her thoughts.

“Lady Rae?” he whispered. “Lady Rae? Is they shuttin us down? Is that what it says?”

Taelin made the hand sign for no.

“He’s coming,” she said, looking at Palmer’s pale, wasted face, which hung in astonished folds like a wet sock back in the shadows of the volucroria. “He’s coming here. Tonight.”

*   *   *

“YOU’LL want an engineer,” said Alani.

“Sig.”

“Sigmund Dulgensen?” Alani clarified.

“There’s only one Sig. He’ll come. He owes me. He owes me for the rest of his natural life.”

Alani wrote the name on his ledger. “Anyone else?”

Caliph tugged his lower lip. “I don’t think so.”

“I suggest we bring Lady Rae,” said Alani, “from the Church of Nenuln.” Dappled, snowy light danced through the office windows and played across the spymaster’s unsmiling features.

Caliph chuckled. “Why? And why would she agree to come with us?”

“Because I have it on good authority that her reason for being in Stonehold isn’t to assist the poor.”

“She’s a spy then?”

“Worse. An idealist.”

“I’m an idealist.”

“Hardly.” Alani’s scoff was brusque. His sharp features peered against the light, out into the city. “Lady Rae isn’t fond of Sena or the fact that there’s a temple in her name.”

Caliph steered his thoughts away from Sena. “So this Lady Rae is here because she’s upset over some crazies worshiping my—?” He wondered why the daughter of an attorney general had nothing better to do with her life.

“Precisely,” Alani cut in. “Did you know she had an audience with Sena last Day of Charms?”

“Sena does a lot I don’t know about.”

“The priestess left the castle looking flushed. What intrigues me is why Sena granted her the appointment.”

“I don’t know,” said Caliph. “But if she’s here because she hates Sena, why would we want to invite her —”

“We don’t care about her on that level,” said Alani. “We care about how we appear to the south and what they print. I’m sure if you make a donation to her church tonight … she’ll see you in person of course in the best possible light … and then I’ll invite her to accompany us tomorrow. Not only will she feel obligated, but I’m sure she’ll also view it as an opportunity to go another round with Sena and perhaps this time get the upper hand.”

“Not very subtle.”

“Subtle enough. Did you know she spent time in a mental ward?”

Caliph raised his eyebrows. “How do you know she’s free for a visit tonight?”

“I’ve already made arrangements.”

Caliph grunted. “You know I don’t like it when you—”

“Yes. I know.” Alani’s lips formed an immaterial pout.

Caliph couldn’t help smiling. Just slightly. “I’ll trust you on this. Whatever edge you can get us with the Pandragonians, I’ll happily take.”

Alani inclined his head slightly, tucked his ledger under one arm and quietly left the room.

*   *   *

WORD of Taelin’s efforts with the poor had fueled a hot controversy. After all, St. Remora was in Lampfire Hills. This wasn’t Maruchine, or Thief Town. Outside of the little cavities of decay along Knife Street and Seething Lane, Lampfire Hills was an upscale borough. Critics were already blaming her for luring unsavory elements out of Winter Fen’s slums and into the proper neighborhoods of Heath Street. Others decided it had become chic for the upper crust to stroll down and serve food at the shelter.

That the High King was willing to publicly recognize and support her efforts clearly meant that he wasn’t worried about criticism. Even the squatters took pride in scrubbing the church anew, with the understanding that the supreme leader of the duchy would be arriving today: to see them.

Taelin expected them to utter slurs but, to her surprise, not one of them did. In fact, she began to understand that they did not blame the crown for their lives. Rather they blamed themselves and, in Palmer’s case at least, thought of it as a personal choice.

Early in the afternoon, Taelin reread the message.

She still didn’t trust it. This was not Pandragor and Sena Iilool was certainly not her friend. She sorted through her larder for ideas, pulled out a can of freeze-dried berries and sighed. He won’t eat. But I have to put out a spread … something for his bodyguards at least. She guessed there would be journalists and ambrotypists and city watchmen by the dozen.

Slightly after noon she began to notice that the whole of Knife Street between Mark and Heath was barricaded off.

His motivation must be purely political.

She couldn’t imagine Caliph Howl taking a sincere interest in Nenuln’s church. Not that it mattered. She wasn’t going to take his money, even if he offered any. What would a “token of his gratitude” consist of, anyway? She tried not to think about it. Besides, she could afford her current expenses better than she could afford to be financially obligated to the entity she had come here to depose.

Tonight was going to be her stage with litho-slides and editorials; her chance to politely decline his assistance and tell the press what Nenuln’s church was really about.

*   *   *

BY half past twelve, winter hurled night at the city and the sunset transformed icicles on St. Remora’s eaves