Black Bottle

“What are you reading?” asked Specks.

She didn’t answer. Taelin felt her eyes fill up with tears. Her hometown was not far south of Sandren and she had friends and relatives in the city-state. She covered her mouth with her hand. Her family had summered there almost every year while her father did contract work for the urban praetors. She couldn’t believe this was happening.

Her eyes scoured the editorial for details.

A one-line barb regarding the political fortuitousness of Stonehold’s medical ship fell just short of suggesting a full-blown conspiracy. When she saw her own name, listed among the High King’s retinue, she felt the indelicate implications.

She didn’t care. She was here because of the vision, because a great black smoking locomotive had burst from her chancel wall. Her goddess had spoken to her. And Taelin was determined not to let the High King’s witch escape.

Perhaps this was part of it. Part of her purpose.

“Don’t cry,” said Specks. “You want to see what I made you?”

“Yes I do.” Taelin tore herself away from the paper and wiped her eyes. She smiled when she looked at him. He was so thin and small. No more than a floating skeleton that couldn’t get enough to eat.

“’Kay. Hold on.”

“Hurry,” she teased. “I can’t wait.”

“Rot’s guarding it. It’s in my backpack.” He turned around. “Can you get it out?”

“Of course.” She reached in and took out a piece of thick paper folded into squares. “Is this it?”

“Yep.” Specks grabbed it from her and quickly unfolded it. On the sheet he had drawn a sarchal hound made up mostly of head and teeth. “You can name him anything you want,” said Specks. “I drawed it cuz I have rot and all you have is that necklace.”

“Thank you,” said Taelin.

“You’re welcome.” His smile was ear to ear.

“I’ll name him Speck.”

Specks laughed. “You can read your paper now,” he said.

“Oh, can I? Thank you.” She made like she was going to poke him in the stomach and he drifted backward, giggling.

Taelin looked back down at the paper where Mr. Wintour, the editor, was pointing out that the symptoms of the disease nearly matched those described a year ago, when Isca—the capital of Stonehold—had had a similar outbreak. It had been publicized in the south: how a plague-ridden borough had been ruthlessly corralled and burned. Isca had managed to contain it by force and cruelty. It had been one of the things that helped cement Taelin’s resolve against the Stonehavian government.

Mr. Wintour went as far as to suggest that Stonehold might be the only country with a viable vaccine.

Taelin put the paper down, pulled her crutches up under her armpits and lurched off across the starboard deck, ignoring the crewman that had just arrived to ask if she wanted something to eat. Specks floated after her.

“Where are you going?” he asked.

“I don’t know.”

Several hundred yards away she could see the medical ship floating. Tiny red-coated figures moved back and forth on its decks.

It didn’t sit right.

Taelin scowled at the zeppelin. Why would Caliph Howl bring a floating hospital to an international conference? Even if he was a complete hypochondriac, a few doctors on staff would have made better sense.

“Miss Rae?”

“Hello. I’m Dr. Baufent.” Taelin recognized her immediately as the physician who had handed her the crutches. She was short, middle-aged and looked stubborn as a tree stump. She extended her hand. Taelin shook. She could tell Baufent’s hair had once been auburn but only traces of that color stained a boyish cut of nearly uniform marsupial-gray. “We haven’t much time. His majesty wants me to escort you to the Iatromisia … assuming you’re willing to pose for lithos that show how Pandragor and Stonehold are working together to battle the plague. If not, I’ll simply tell him that you declined. No one’s going to force you, dear.”

She said dear, but Taelin sensed no warmth. Her inflection of majesty established that she also held no special love for the High King.

Taelin made the affirmative southern hand sign at the same time she bobbed her head in a circular up and down pattern: a result of surprise and confusion mixed with yes!

“Let me get my things. Will a day bag be enough?”

The doctor said that it would.

Taelin swung her body around and nearly crashed into Specks. “Oh, I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay. Are you going?”

“Yes. I have to go up and see if I can help the people in Sandren. They’re in trouble. They’re sick. They need doctors.”

“Are you a doctor?”

“No. But there might be other things I can do.” She reached out and tussled his hair. “Don’t worry. I’ll bring Speck with. And then I’ll be right back.”

Specks didn’t say anything as she poled herself back to her room. She dug her newly stamped papers out of her luggage and stuffed a sack with some money and a change of clothes.

Feeling disheveled and sick and defiant of both, she emerged and saw Baufent in the hall who beckoned to her with tightly controlled impatience.

Taelin propelled herself after the stocky woman who neither acknowledged nor waited on her injury. They descended a metal staircase to the airship’s hold and Taelin, after managing the stairs on her own, caught up to the doctor who was already standing near an open slide door. A gust of fresh wind caused Baufent to squint.

Taelin heard a bang and saw a cable fire from a gun just above the gaping doorway. Its end leapt out toward the Iatromisia. Why are they firing on their own ship? But the cable missed the Iatromisia by yards. Its end snapped violently to the weighted end of a corresponding cable, which had been the real target. It hung vertically beneath the other ship. There had to be some kind of electromagnet or a holomorphic attractor because the two cables joined with such force that they partially entangled and sent whiplash waves rolling in both directions all the way to the hangar doors.

Taelin watched as the cable on the Iatromisia was reeled in until the line from the Bulotecus sagged between the two ships, connecting cargo hold to cargo hold. Taelin wondered how difficult it was for the captains to maintain the slack. Maybe it was automated.

Dr. Baufent prodded her physically by grabbing hold of one of the crutches. “This way, dear.”

Behind them, a kind of small gondola hung from the ceiling of the hold. It featured large glass windows, cramped seating and a single door which opened courtesy of a man Taelin had not previously noticed. The doctor shooed her to get in.

“Would you stop?” Taelin said.

Dr. Baufent showed no embarrassment. “I’m sorry, but we’re in a rush. They’re waiting on you.”

“Well then I should have had more notice.”

“I agree,” said Baufent. “You should take that up with Caliph Howl.” She climbed in next to Taelin.

The man shut the door and, like it or not, both women were forced to cuddle. Taelin heard some kind of mechanism engage and the gondola ratcheted forward, following a groove in the ceiling. When it came to the maw of the slide door an arm extended up, gripped the cable and then …

Taelin felt the carriage swing free. They rocked for a few adrenalized moments before a motor whirred to life and some contraption beyond Taelin’s view began gobbling up the thick thread of metal, spitting it out behind them, moving them quickly down the line.

Taelin worked the edges of her necklace nervously the entire time.

When they reached the nadir, the little motor coughed a bit but ground on, pulling them up the incline and