Black Bottle

Chemiostatic power, Caliph knew, was a relic. And the Duchy’s main export, metholinate—which, despite heavy dependence in the north, only reinforced how far behind Stonehold really was by global standards.

What would happen to his country, he wondered, when metholinate finally became irrelevant?

As he watched, a small dark craft dislodged from the belly of Iycestoke’s main ship. It sped toward him and, as it did, he imagined it and the whole conference as key components in establishing Stonehold as a world power. Finally. He was ready to deal and trade with the giants of the south. It had to happen. The north had to change.

Simply watching the tiny craft careen, with grace impossible for northern airships to achieve, reinforced to Caliph that deals had to be made. He did not want to see Stonehold left behind.

The craft approached and disappeared behind the Odalisque’s gasbag. Caliph knew it was docking. He had already been briefed. A chance to make headway was only moments away. He went to the staircase to greet the diplomat and his bodyguard.

Isham Wade came down first. He was shorter than Caliph, stocky and at least twenty years older. His bow tie, like the thick lenses that covered his eyes, rested crookedly, the extremities pointing in happenstance directions. Mr. Wade reached out in proper northern custom while his other hand smoothed down a patchy black beard.

“Hello, King Howl!” At least his handshake was firm, thought Caliph as he gripped Mr. Wade’s hand. “I’ve heard so much about you and your northern kingdom of ice and snow. The undead King, they call you in the south,” he stirred his finger as if in an invisible drink, “perhaps not so flattering,” he chuckled nervously, “but you know that business about you coming back to life and what. Well, the whole world is interested in the Duchy of Stonehold these days. Is it true?”

“Is what true?”

“Did your witch bring you back to life?”

At first Caliph couldn’t understand how this person could be the official diplomat. He had never dealt directly with Iycestoke. But when he pondered the great Iycestokian nation a moment it almost seemed to make sense. The Iycestokian military —the Iycestokian economy—was capable of crushing the Duchy outright. Caliph’s country was a curiosity to them, an enigma behind the impenetrable Healean Range. And so they had sent Mr. Isham Wade, armed with a firm handshake, a gregarious demeanor and an array of crude but pointed questions. He would get to the bottom of everything.

“My policy is not to—”

“Oh.” Mr. Wade nodded sagely, using the northern signs expertly rather than the hand movements of the south. “Of course: not to discuss the event publicly! But I have to ask, later perhaps, off the record and what. You understand.”

“Of course,” said Caliph.

“It is entirely fascinating to finally meet you,” said Wade. “I’m honored.” His eyes flitted behind his speckled lenses, gathering data as he spoke. “Of course they all say that, don’t they? But really. I am.”

Mr. Wade blinked his eyes forcefully which had the effect of squirting the inside of his spectacles with tears. The phenomenon explained a host of dried freckles on each lens.

“I uhm—” Caliph’s passion for the meeting had gone slack. This man was intent on following orders rather than extending a hand to the duchy.

“I’ve arrived at a bad time?” said Wade. “You’re in a meeting perhaps?”

“I do need to take care of some things,” said Caliph, “but we’ll have dinner tonight. I’ll answer all your questions.”

Mr. Wade missed the subtle venom, which was a good thing. “Excellent!” He beamed. “To tell you the truth, I’m completely exhausted. We’ve been at the table all day with other nations and what. You know how it goes—” He made no mention of Caliph’s efforts against the plague and did not ask how things were going up in Sandren. “Is there someplace I could lie down for a while?”

“Of course.”

“Thank you, your majesty. Oh, and by the way, have you heard? We might be forced to have the conference in Seatk’r.”

Caliph dipped his head obsequiously to indicate his helplessness in the matter.

Mr. Wade scratched the back of his neck as if confused. “We’ll talk about it over dinner,” he raised a finger, “after I’ve had my nap.” He grinned.

“Of course.”

“In the meantime here’s a proposal I’d like you to look over. Ticky?”

His use of northern slang did not win him additional points. Caliph took the folder. “Ticky,” he said solemnly. He watched the diplomat shamble off, followed by Mr. Veech: Wade’s silent and impersonal bodyguard.

When they were gone, Caliph handed the folder to Alani who had been present for Wade’s arrival. “I think I need some sleep too,” said Caliph. “Would you be willing to look this over?”

“Of course.” Alani was already thumbing through the folder.

“Thanks.” Caliph retreated to his stateroom and took a brief, startlingly cold shower. He hung Lady Rae’s necklace on a hook inside his narrow closet. Then he stripped off his clothes and opened the window.

Not until a dream shook him awake near midnight and sent him on a blundering quest for the toilet did he realize he had missed dinner. Too tired to lift the lid, he braced himself against the mirror and pissed directly into the sink. A wind had picked up. Just a little. Dark shapes shifted through the windows. The airship rocked gently. He ran water a few seconds to rinse the basin and then retraced the gray shadow land that comprised his stateroom. The window he’d opened had come loose and swung back and forth gently. He walked over and reopened it, all the way, latching it against the wall. Then he fell back across his mattress. For a long time he listened to rain patter against the ship and thought about his speech for tomorrow; where Sena was at; how the doctors in Sandren were holding up.

He imagined a wet, quiet footstep in his room and looked up but knew it was impossible. He had locked the door.

No one was there.

CHAPTER

23

On the sixteenth, morning unfolded, blue as a mountain poppy and Taelin sat in the shade of the Odalisque’s gasbags, fingering her tiny bottle of poison.

She sensed the spymaster was watching her. Not now. But he was watching her. She was sure of it. She wondered what he knew.

She had dragged one of the deck chairs upstairs and positioned it on the cabin roof, overlooking the starboard side. Hidden. Here she could curl up to think.

She was so mad at Caliph for dragging her away from the hospital that she entertained the thought of doing what her father wanted her to do. Not seriously, of course. But she toyed with the notion as a way of feeling powerful instead of feeling what she really felt, which was utterly helpless and misunderstood.

Her wrist itched. She scratched it.

Her father and she had never really gotten along. It was a sad, ugly story that would have bored anyone she told. But her father loved Pandragor. He did what he thought was best for the country. Of that, she was sure. Why then did he want Caliph Howl dead? What did Stonehold have that was so important?

The Odalisque floated on the northern edge of the great congregation of zeppelins. There were so many of them now, some that had arrived at Sandren for the conference, others that had come to find out what was going on. There were airships from the papers. Few of them had a safe place to land. Their huge leisurely shapes, painted bright with sunlight, soothed her. Their slow, cloudlike movement relaxed her into the chair.

Wind drew under the balloon, playing the cables and stirring the scent of grease. Taelin could look down from her position on the cabin roof and see nearly three hundred sixty degrees of mountain, sky and drifting green