Black Bottle

needed to manipulate the situation now, which was rapidly spinning out of control. Specks struggled to lift the heavy tray.

“Specks, I don’t think—let me help you, baby.”

“I’m not a baby,” said Specks. “I can get it.”

Taelin reached out to help but the cook fanned his hand. “Please,” he said. “You’re not allowed to touch the High King’s tray.”

“Oh, I’m sorry, I just…”

“I got it!” Specks almost yelled at her.

“Specks, you’re going to drop it—” She moved her body into the tray in an effort to tip it from his hands. The cook grabbed her.

“What are you doing?” he said.

“I’m sorry. I’m not feeling well. I’m sorry. I’m sorry…”

Specks floated from the kitchen without saying a word. All his concentration was focused on keeping the tray level in his hands.

*   *   *

TAELIN went back to her room. She paced frantically, hysterically. Shit, shit, shit. What have I done?

She fell into her bed, dizzy, gasping.

When she came up for air, a small girl was standing at the foot of her bed. Taelin yelped in surprise but the child was lovely. Scrumptious as a steaming muffin. All butter and blueberries. The girl smiled. She glowed in the sunshine as she held out a little metal flask, perfectly vertical, shining between her thumb and fingers.

“An angel of Nenuln,” Taelin whispered. “You came to poison me. For what I’ve done.”

“No,” said the little girl. “This is a sacrament. You need to drink it.”

Taelin laughed. She took the tiny flask and flung herself back into her bed. “Thank you. Thank-you-thank- you—”

She unscrewed the cap.

The smell of sugary mint washed over her. She recognized the smell.

“Drink it,” said the girl. “You’re sick. This will help a little.”

Taelin’s stomach pitched. Tears flooded her eyes. With trembling fingers she patted her pockets, searching for the demonifuge Caliph had returned to her. Oh. That’s right. It was around her neck.

She touched it, cool and repellant, bright and golden as a far-off star. It moved under her fingers, stirring softly.

“Nenuln is hungry,” said the girl. “She’s been sleeping all this time.”

Taelin shook her hand fiercely, up and down: yes, yes, yes. She put the metal flask to her lips and drank the shuwt tincture. She felt the demonifuge move against her breasts.

The taste and the sensation made her roll over and put her face in her pillow.

“The witches put a puslet in your head,” said the girl. Taelin’s face was buried. The girl’s voice was changing. “The tincture will burn its residue out. I need you to be clean.”

“I want to be clean.” Taelin sobbed into her pillow. I need to be a clean vessel for Nenuln.

“You will be,” said Sena.

“Oh gods.” Taelin felt the bed tip beneath her. She rolled off onto the floor. The tincture was working. “Help me,” she whimpered. She looked up. Where the blond girl had been standing, instead she saw the High King’s witch. Taelin expected a look of wicked amusement on Sena’s face but there was none.

Sena crouched down. “I’m sorry,” she said. “But you’re coming with me. I need your help.”

“I’ll never help you. You murderer. You—”

“You’re a murderer now, Taelin.” Sena’s words shoved a cold stone down Taelin’s throat. Taelin choked on the startling truth. “And you’re going to help me.”

Then the tincture’s dreadful visions washed over her and Taelin felt her body slip away.

*   *   *

CALIPH had summoned Isham Wade to an early lunch. He and Mr. Veech showed up looking rumpled, tired and suspicious. Caliph welcomed them curtly into the Bulotecus’ small dining room, which was generally used only in cases of bad weather. Indeed, the wind was picking up.

But this was to be a private meeting without the interruption of servers.

The three men sat down.

“And how are you this morning, King Howl?” Isham looked at the table. There was no food.

Just then, the doors opened. A guard held the door for Specks, who floated in holding a tray. Wind shook the windows.

“I’m not well,” said Caliph. Beyond the open door were several more armed Stonehavian soldiers, ready to barge in at the slightest disturbance. Caliph saw Isham Wade glance at them nervously.

“I don’t feel quite so comfortable on this ship anymore, King Howl.” Isham turned back and cleaned his glasses on his shirt.

“Nor do I,” said Caliph.

Specks floated up and slid the tray onto the table.

“I believe you’re passing information to your country’s—to the Iycestokian military,” Caliph said. “And frankly, Mr. Wade, I’m weighing what I should do with you. Seriously.”

Isham’s face reddened. “I think I’ve made it clear to you, King How—”

“I don’t really think you appreciate the gravity of your situation,” said Caliph.

Mr. Veech stiffened visibly in his chair.

Isham Wade stood up from the table. “I’m sorry, your majesty, but I’m afraid I’ve lost my appetite.” Mr. Veech stood up with him.

“You’re not leaving this room until we get some things sorted,” said Caliph. He rose and moved with the other two men toward the room’s bank of port-facing windows, which allowed diners to sit at the bar and look out at the scenery while they ate. Beyond the large glass panes, the desert slid by and the wind howled.

“Fine,” said Mr. Wade. “I have been in communication with my government, but I hardly think that’s irregular considering that I am here against my will—”

“Untrue. I gave you the option—”

“Of getting off in Seatk’r,” Isham barked. “That’s not really an option, is it?”

“You told me there were Iycestokian ships on their way,” Caliph said. “They could have picked you up—”

“King Howl, may I ask you a question?”

“Go ahead.”

Isham Wade leaned on the bar with both arms. “Do you know why I boarded this ship?”

“I think we both know it had to do with Stonehold’s solvitriol capabilities. But I don’t think that matters anymore. The only thing that matters now is what happened in Sandren.”

Isham blinked his eyes behind his thick lenses. “Actually Iycestoke didn’t send me to talk about solvitriol power at all.”

Caliph scowled. “Then why?”

“You didn’t look at the proposal I gave you?”

Caliph had forgotten all about it. “I gave it to my spymaster.”

“I see. And he didn’t mention—”

“He didn’t mention it because he’s dead! He died in Sandren!”

One of the sentries poked his head into the room. Caliph made a sign that everything was fine; the man saluted, hefted his gas-powered crossbow and let the door swing shut.

Caliph noticed that Specks had not left the room. He was sitting down at the table, listening intently to what was going on. “Specks, I’m sorry but can you take the tray back to the kitchen? We’re going to skip lunch.”

“Yes, your majesty.”

Specks lifted the tray and left the room.

When he was gone, Isham Wade scratched his beard thoughtfully. “I’m sorry about your spymaster.”