Black Bottle

Alani snapped a leash to the device just as their ride flew in.

A small capsule with one pilot, a glowing orange gasbag and an array of directional fans swept over the deck. The pilot got them boarded, dog included, just as the sun slipped into a violet bruise behind the mountain.

The capsule lifted off, making Caliph’s stomach pitch. It ferried them through the chilly evening toward Bablemum’s great Quadrivium.

They arrived at thirteen o’ five, stepping out onto the airship’s impressive brass-like deck. The sound of music and the smells of indulgence seemed highly inappropriate considering the circumstances.

Perhaps it’s cultural, Caliph thought. Perhaps there’s too much of Stonehold in me. Too much of the grim Naneman. He tried not to pass judgment as a pair of men in ecru flight suits with copper goggles and velvet guns greeted him on the platform.

Their boots and pants were smudged with grease indicating they might have done actual work during the day. One of them stroked his gun as if he were holding a pet, letting the fur trail between his fingers.

“King Howl.” The two men escorted Caliph toward the light. Alani followed three steps behind, leading the watchdog. They were guided through an open doorway, into a double-decker lounge with crisp clean lines and crisp clean women. Singular scarlet lilies with black freckles emerged from slender vases like fireworks and a metholinate fireplace bubbled on a hearth that made no attempt to simulate anything organic.

The space was lit with cool white light gushing from various fixtures. A mood, neither too dim nor too bright, sprang from the crystalline radiance of the bar. The furnishings seemed to be brass. Caliph doubted this considering the weight such objects would add to an airship.

“Here they come,” whispered Alani. The spymaster ignored the looks of disgust associated with the blood- dripping dog.

Caliph plucked a stemmed drink from a tray. While an ominous group of men closed in, he took a sip and eyed them.

There was a harpist playing near the bar and a naked woman lay on her back not far away, painstakingly detailed in brightly colored paint. She lay perfectly still, each of her nipples covered with a bright red lily and another pinched between her legs. She was a small-breasted creature, which helped with her duty as a buffet table: her abdomen and chest were laden with leaves that had been piled with artful, bite-sized slices of raw fish: pink and white and red.

“Your majesty,” said one of the looming men.

Caliph gave them his best smile.

“High King Howl!” chimed another.

Some of them extended hands. Some did not. It was not southern custom to shake. Caliph shook the hands offered and introduced Alani.

“By the Eyes … what is that thing?” One of the men was looking at the dog.

Alani made a brief explanation, which Caliph still found embarrassing. It might be cutting edge in Stonehold, but he doubted the south had need of such crude mechanisms. While Alani explained, Caliph noticed how old his spymaster looked: more like a doddering relative than an elite bodyguard. It was hard not to feel ashamed in these surroundings.

One of the men laughed. “A watchdog? King Howl doesn’t trust us.”

Caliph kept his chin up. “Alani might be overly protective, but he takes good care of me.”

“Yes. You’re famous,” said the man. “Or I should say infamous. You’re the Alani from Ironwall, aren’t you? We tried to sign you on in Pandragor.” The man was laughing but his eyes were shrewd.

“I’m not from Ironwall,” said Alani. “And I don’t believe we’ve done introductions yet.”

“So we haven’t, so we haven’t.”

Several names passed revealing the men to be mostly lesser officials.

“Would you like some fish, King Howl?”

The men turned to the living buffet table and took their time, lecherously filling their small plates. As they did, Alani leaned forward and whispered in Caliph’s ear. “There’s the grand arbiter.”

Caliph looked up and spied a man on the second floor who leaned heavily on an art deco railing. The man was robed in white fur—trimmed with black. He had yellowish flabby-looking skin and deep-set eyes. His jowls swayed as he spoke somberly with the man next to him.

Caliph looked down, re-engaging with the men around him. “So. Do we know what’s happened to Sandren?”

“We do not,” said a thin overly tan gentleman with white hair who had suddenly appeared. He had a ragged mouth that looked like a badly healed knife wound.

“It’s excellent to finally meet you,” said Caliph. He recognized Emperor Junnu immediately as his adversary, the man at the head of the mighty Pandragonian Empire, the same man who had sent Nuj Ig’nos two weeks ago into the north to burden Caliph with the solvitriol accord.

Caliph disliked how the southerners did business. Maybe that too was the Naneman in him. In the north, if you disliked someone, you threw a spear at his head … or at least nowadays told him point blank to get off your property.

But the southerners spent their taxes on naked women and body paint and rare fish. They invited you to the party and probably to their estate in the spring while slipping poison into your cocktail.

“It’s excellent to meet you as well,” Emperor Junnu was saying. His red mouth performed antics that passed for cordial happiness. “Any revisions to the accord?”

“None so far.” Caliph smiled broadly.

“That’s good,” said Junnu. “You wouldn’t believe what we pay for document preparation in Pandragor.” Caliph decided the evil blue twinkle in Junnu’s eyes was for real.

“So … Sandren?” Caliph asked again.

“We don’t know for certain,” said one of the other men. “But there have been some reports of illness along the south edge of the Great Cloud Rift. People that flew out of Sandren have gotten other folks sick. We’re a bit alarmed. It might just turn into an epidemic.”

Another man added to the story. “Moved a hundred miles in one day. People sick from Nwodus all the way up to the edge of the capital now.” He tapped his finger on the railing leading down to the dance floor. “But we think it came here first.”

“Here meaning Sandren,” said Caliph.

“That’s right.”

“So has anyone been up? To Sandren?” Caliph asked.

“We sent some reconnaissance teams,” said Junnu. “We’re waiting to hear back.”

“When are you due—to hear back?”

“It’s only been four or five hours.”

“You know, I brought a medical ship,” said Caliph.

“I’d heard that,” said Junnu. “That’s extraordinary.”

“Yes. It was … not really my idea. But it seems fortunate now. Maybe I could go up. See if I can help.”

“A charitable notion,” said Junnu. “No one’s going to stop you.”

“What about the schedule for the conference?”

Junnu raised his glass. “We’ll have to postpone it a bit. See what’s really going on up there. But don’t think you’ll get out of speaking.” He smiled and the other men laughed.

“Are you kidding?” Caliph said. “I slaved over this speech. If I don’t give it, all that heartburn Nuj Ig’nos caused me will be for nothing.”

Junnu raised his glass. “To north-south relations!”

Everyone toasted.

The emperor’s face was bright as a cherry with good-natured mirth but faded quickly. “You know, King Howl, your speech is the number one reason I’m here. It’s going to be a critical night—for both the north and the south.”

Caliph tilted his head. “You’ve set some high expectations.”

“Oh, I’m the perpetual optimist, King Howl. I have no doubt we’re on the edge of solving our differences.”