right.
But I digress.
I am also a monster in a very physical way, a decayed hand writing in the jungle. To say that I chose this would be overstatement. Many who wind up in situations from which there is no escape do so not out of choice, which implies a logical assessment of pros and cons, but out of a lack of insight. Wisdom is not imparted equally.
Wouldn’t you agree, Sslia?
What I am is consequence. In the same manner that my humanity was taken from me and I became something else, so soon … soon … what I am now will be taken again, and I will make an old transition.
I can no longer use shuwt tinctures to inhabit the bodies of young girls as I once so enjoyed doing. My veins no longer flow with blood. But sometimes I cut myself as I used to, in order to make certain. Then I wonder if I am really in a ruined stone house at the jungle’s edge—waiting for the end.
Caliph checked his chemiostatic watch. He guessed he had time for a little more and dutifully followed Sena’s note to the next log.
The terrible beauty of the Last Page has long been prophesied. But who believes in prophecy these days? The churchgoer hoping for validation in his lifetime? Hoping for some great sign to appear; for his enemies to be burned? The churchgoer and the sadist are indistinguishable. Anyone with a serious mind toward the future must cast Yacob Skie’s scrolls aside, ignore prophecy and get on with the business of progress.
It is hard to fault the pragmatist since Yacob Skies’s words are difficult to understand.
But there was a time when men were more than men. When they were nearly gods they harkened to subtle things. Men are simple creatures now, as if they have poured all the complexity of themselves into their diversions and their machines. Now they understand only the simplest emotions. Lust, indignation and fear. These are the things that steer their nations. Even love has become too subtle for them to grasp.
This is why I have been seeking the evolutionary key ever since I escaped the destruction of the gardens at Jorgill Deep. It is not the evolution of machines that will save us, but the evolution of ourselves.
We must tear these otiose bodies down and knit new flesh to new bones. We must find our way back to the secrets of Gringling skins and the fields of Ahvelle. The key is there, compressed in a string of numbers. Transformation is essential. We need to become like Them.
Which was why I fled the garden on shuwt tinctures and alit in the bones of my desert princess. In exchange for my immortality, I gained the chance to discover the secrets of the Yillo’tharnah, to find a way out of Their inescapable trap.
When my desert princess waned I found a new vessel. And a new one after that. And in such manner I have compiled my research and scoured the continent for the
For years I screamed from the jungle at Them to let me find, to let me become the Last Page. I decorated myself in bonnets and bracers and plastrons of intricate design. I have worn platinum wires over every inch of my body and, in the end, resorted to white tattoos.
But then
And for reasons that will likely ever remain opaque to me, They chose her, put the book into her hands and cut her up with Their lovely designs. And so she will be, by necessity, my enemy and my partner, traveling through everlasting night. She cannot be rid of me. She smells me at her lover’s throat—like smoke. She chases me away and thinks to bargain with her compliance. But what real choice does she have? She knows what is coming. The numbers belong to me. There is only one sane choice she can make.
So, I will bide my time, the thing in the corner that mewls and begs for scraps, the wastrel that importunes another night inside her skin—so warm!
But this is not me. These things are far beneath me. I am not a dead queen beneath the sands. I am not Arkhyn Hiel. And I was never Nathaniel Howl. I am Gringling. I am a Writer and Eater of Time.
Caliph’s eyes froze over his uncle’s name. He put the book down. Instantly terrorized. The crazy journal entries had become personal. He got up and strode across the cold echoing vestibule to the bright doorway where his men still hissed and bellyached over the map.
“Where is Sena?”
They shook their heads.
The vestibule’s front doors cracked open, letting in gloomy daylight along with the spymaster. Alani crossed the room swiftly. “Sigmund Dulgensen has arrived.”
The messenger bird had travelled quickly and the
“Good. Can you show him where the pumps are? I’m actually reading something at the moment. Tell Sig I’ll catch up with him as soon as I can.”
“Of course.”
Caliph wanted to go looking for Sena. He wanted to ask about his uncle’s name and about Arkhyn Hiel.
Caliph started up the vestibule’s staircase but was turned back by one of his own sentries. Sena hadn’t gone that way, he was told, and the sentry’s position marked the edge of the secure zone.
Torn between the book and the more practical obligation of seeing to Sig, Caliph decided he had better go with the latter.
The instant he set his feet in the direction of the chemical pumps two bodyguards materialized. He exited the palace with them in tow, moving through a side door that deposited all three of them on a cement landing where the pink-gray of morning wrapped Caliph in a chill.
Immediately on the right, a mortared pit lined with steps led down. They ended at a rusting door set in the brickwork, fringed with moss. Stenciled High Malk warned away unauthorized personnel. Caliph’s soldiers had used bolt cutters on the padlock and the door was already ajar.
Inside, small white bulbs illuminated the well-greased blackness. Dials and pipes and valves riddled a cave- like space without clear dimensions. Echoing from its center came the deep yet somehow boyish baritone of Sigmund Dulgensen. “Look, that’s
Caliph rounded a huge staple of pipe and almost ran into his old friend’s backside.
“Whoa! How ya doin’, Caph? I won’t shake your hand.” Sigmund’s huge frame was draped in coveralls. An ambiguously colored turtleneck peeked from his collar. His hands were slippery and black.
Caliph patted him on the shoulder. “You came up to save us?”
“Fuck yeah. They rushed me right up. It’s no wonder you’re in desperate straits with this guy.” He poked a meaty finger toward the man rummaging in the cabinet.
“How are things going?” asked Caliph.
“I mean … that guy couldn’t piss straight without using both hands.”
“I meant down below.”
“You mean the carnival of souls?” Sigmund scratched the side of his neck, making a black mark. “I don’t know. More ships showed up this morning flying flags from Bablemum and another out of Pandragor. It’s a fuck-sick mess if you ask me. Just about everyone with a crown is floating around Skaif.”
“You’re not bored down there, then?”
“Nah. That little guy that floats around keeps me company. Cute kid.”
“Specks.”
“Yeah.”
“I’m sorry I pulled you out of Isca for this.”
“Are you kiddin? It’s only what? Sixty degrees warmer down here? You think I’m goin’ back?” He never looked directly at Caliph as he spoke, fiddling with valves, crawling under pipes and foisting his great bulk into impossible crannies on all sides of the machinery. “How’s Sena?”
“Good.”
“That’s good. Can you hold this? I can’t reach my pocket.” He was wedged deep between wall and pipe but
