Black Bottle

into the cargo bay of the Iatromisia.

With ginger motions, Taelin swung herself out of the compartment. No sooner were they clear than the contraption was sent back, deadheading toward the Bulotecus. The gondola soon disappeared into its cargo hold, the cable was released and the Bulotecus reeled it in. The transfer had been impressively quick.

Taelin saw instantly that the Iatromisia was a much different ship from the one she had been on. It’s duralumin beams lay exposed, everywhere: undisguised by rich hardwoods and fancy light fixtures. Its hold was packed with medical supplies and refrigerated cases.

Dr. Baufent guided Taelin upstairs, pausing now to offer help.

“I’m fine,” said Taelin.

When they reached the upper deck a man in a red trench greeted them.

Baufent provided introductions. “This is Anselm. He’s a cretin and if you can stand him five minutes you’ve got a stronger stomach than I do.”

Anselm smiled. “She’s always like that.” He was a Despche: tall and black with large hands and a beautiful face. “Looks like you’re a patient.” He gestured at the crutches.

Taelin laughed in spite of everything that was happening.

“He’s also a womanizer,” said Baufent. Then she marched off, barking at other people as she went.

“Well,” said Anselm, “so you’re our very important passenger—”

Taelin let out one giant exhalation. “If I’m here to be babysat—”

“No, no.” Anselm raised his palms. “We’ll let you have at it. Things sound pretty grim up there. I don’t think we’ll have time to babysit.”

“What are you planning to do?” she said. “If it’s plague—”

“Sounds like it. But this ship is loaded with vaccine. You’ve been vaccinated, yes?”

“No.”

“Hmm. That’s a problem. I’ll have to talk to Baufent about it. Anyway, all of this is good luck. We’re strangely prepared.”

“Yes you are.” She hoped her tone didn’t convey her cynicism too strongly.

“Well,” Anselm’s voice dropped noticeably, “who knows why a witch commissions a full staff of physicians for a political conference.” His eyebrows crawled up his forehead. “But then again, I’m glad she did.”

So it was Sena …

It hadn’t been Caliph at all. Her memory of him from the mission home, helping her up, handing her the glass of water—she felt a sudden, inexplicable pang for the High King. It sprang from the baseless assumption that he was some kind of victim that Sena had duped. Though, in that light, it made him rather shallow, didn’t it?

More likely he had a hand in this unbelievable coincidence.

“The only thing I’m glad about,” she said, picking up her conversation with Anselm, “is that I’m able to help.”

*   *   *

THE Iatromisia began its ascent of the Ghalla Peaks with a dull thudding sound from its gasbags that Taelin did not understand. The ship vibrated. A disturbed tuning fork. But, as long as the craft was going up, Taelin was able to set her unease aside.

They rose vertically with elevator-grace. Taelin felt her ears pop. The bright zeppelins that had surrounded them moments ago fell away.

As she leaned slightly over the aft railing Taelin noticed the Odalisque following them.

The wind was cold here but nowhere near as biting as it had been in Stonehold. She smelled familiar pollens, detected the peculiar woody aromas that emanated from scrub in the Ghalla Peaks. Though it was still winter, the milder climate tantalized. The smells made her dread going back to Isca.

The gray, bird-haunted shadows of the mountain slid past until finally, the ship breached into sunlight, rose over a jagged cornice and lifted several yards above the deserted teagle platform where a pair of mighty black steel arms dripped with cables.

“That’s strange.” Anselm was standing beside her. “The lifts have been running. There should be people…”

“What are those?” Taelin pointed to the streets bordering the platform.

Below, in the shadows of buildings, cautious figures moved.

“Are those people?” Anselm asked.

She had automatically assumed, but doubt crawled through her head now, burdened with his question. There was something about them. Where they stood. And how. They did not walk from place to place as people should have. They hovered. They stood where thieves might stand, or crouch. They moved tentatively. Even though she could not make them out, she saw them as shy hideous things, wreathed in cyclones of trash and unclean air. Taelin felt cold. As the ship passed over, she got a glimpse of one thin figure. It was naked, shimmering and gray. It swayed and tottered through a window as if mortally wounded, then disappeared from sight.

As her eyes scanned the streets, evidence of looting took shape: broken windows and open doors. How could this happen in two days?

A huge shadow darkened the avenues. It alarmed her, reminding her of what had happened at St. Remora. She quickly realized, however, that it was the Odalisque coming up from behind and wondered cynically whether Caliph Howl would be surprised by the scene below. Shielding her eyes as the sun burst around the Odalisque’s skin, she watched its vast shape glide south.

Taelin stared contemptuously until, without warning, the docking spire on the Iatromisia’s undercarriage sank into a socket on the teagle platform and propelled her into a stumble. She braced her palms against the railing and turned her attention back to the huddled streets, scanning for more people.

Nothing moved.

As soon as the ship came to a stop, men in black departed over the railing on thick cords. They swung out into space, chrome blue goggles capturing the sky. The cords trailed up over the gasbags. Taelin watched the men descend like circus actors. They maintained elegant postures until they touched the platform. Then they spread out with their heavy coils; each man pulled his rope through the eyelet of a different cement pylon. They had the ship tied without delay and Taelin heard the cargo elevator buzz to life belowdecks.

She watched physicians and logistical advisors begin flowing out from underneath the zeppelin and leaned out over the railing for a better view as people organized, talked and pointed toward the streets.

“We almost forgot you,” Dr. Baufent said sharply. “I think you’re the only one who hasn’t been poked.” Wrapped around her fingers, a hypodermic loaded with pale blue fluid glittered in the sun.

“Vaccine?”

The doctor gave her the southern sign.

Taelin dutifully rolled up her sleeve. She felt the steel pierce the meat of her shoulder and winced. Dr. Baufent pulled out, swabbed and smiled. “Want a candy?”

A small fracas had been building from below and it now drew their attention over the rail. There was a shout and Taelin saw one of the men in black standing with his feet apart, one hand out, pointing. His other hand rested on the handle of a truncheon that was still holstered against his hip.

For a few moments he seemed to be hallucinating. Nothing happened and the branches at the edge of the platform tossed slowly, rolling with the wind. They hid Taelin’s view of the ground. Another man came to stand beside him and it was then that Taelin realized the physicians and advisors were gone. She heard the elevator coming back up. Maybe they had fled back to the ship?

Clearly the two men below could see something that she could not.

After another moment, both men pulled their truncheons. Three more men ran into sight. These, however, were coming from the edge of the platform, out from beneath the tossing trees, back toward the cargo elevator. Those who had been standing on the platform watching, moved their feet nervously, as if the slab were tilting, as if they couldn’t quite get their balance.

“What’s going on?” asked Baufent. It was a useless question.

Pouring from under the trees, springing and leaping and hopping madly, a crowd of naked forms tumbled onto