chaff. Sena’s white ship did not deviate. It tracked straight for it. An evening star headed for the horizon.
“What is it?” asked Caliph.
“I don’t know,” said the captain. “But there’s something circling it.”
Caliph cupped his field glasses again and shielded them from the slanting rays. “What the…”
Under magnification the object was clearly not a mushroom. Nor was its vast umbrella supported from below. Rather the thing seemed to be floating and the great stalks below it were sloughing blubber, stretched perhaps between the island of bloated organs that filled the sky and whatever carcass still rested under the sand. Limpid shapes moved drunkenly in clouds around the thing, thrashing and tearing at the shape. Some kind of black-eyed scavengers with flashing transparent bodies and indistinct methods of flight.
“It’s something dead,” said Caliph.
Captain Viktor Nichols nodded. He was not from the south and it was clear he had no idea what it was. “I—” He started to say something then stopped. Caliph noticed an oil stick drawing taped beside Nichols’ controls where Specks’ hand had spelled Dad.
Caliph clenched his jaw and looked back toward the hideous mass. Against its hazy gray shape, he found the fading sparkle of Sena’s ship and hated it. “Follow her,” he said.
“Yes, sir.”
Caliph left the cockpit and walked back to the witches’ stateroom. He pounded on the light hollow door until it vibrated against the frame. No answer.
He turned the handle and went in. The room was empty.
From belowdecks he heard the hydraulics of the cargo bay opening. He left and took the stairs down. It was hot but breezy in the hold with a gaping hole toward the aft. Sig along with some of the crew and his remaining bodyguards had tethered up. They pushed crates and equipment out into the wind.
“Have you seen the witches?” Caliph shouted above the noise. They shook their heads. He went back upstairs and ran into Dr. Baufent.
“What is that
“Go have a look from the cockpit,” said Caliph. “It’s probably going to get worse.”
“Are we landing?”
“Do you want to die in Iycestoke?”
“No.”
“Me neither. We’re not landing.”
“What can I do?” she asked. Caliph studied her for an instant. In that instant he appreciated her grit.
“Go down and help lighten our load. We’re going to try and stay aloft as long as we can. Have you seen those witches?”
“No.”
Caliph touched her on the elbow, lightly. She didn’t flinch but he could feel her rigid strength, her tenacity. “I’m going to try to get us out of this.”
“Well don’t let me slow you down.” She pushed past him toward the hold.
Caliph checked the starboard deck, the roof above the cabins, the port, then the aft. He looked in all the rooms, except Taelin’s. They were empty. He checked the cockpit again. The captain still clung to the controls, sweating out the second worst experience of his career—on the same day.
Caliph took a maintenance ladder from behind the cockpit. It climbed up inside the skin, between the gasbags, rung after rung until he came to the hatch. He pushed it open and pulled himself up, poking his head above the top of the zeppelin. From here he had a clear 360-degree panorama of the desert, the debacle and the dead thing in the sand. All four witches stood a dozen yards away, staring at him, clearly interrupted.
Caliph climbed out of the chute and marched toward them against the wind. They were flapping—hair and clothing—looking shadowy against the sinking sun. Their perfumes mixed with the thick charnel vapor rolling from the south.
“It’s a hylden,” said Miriam. “Obviously a dead one.”
It was a parry that failed to turn aside his anger. Caliph shouted into the wind. “I’m not really worried about that! What I am worried about is that!” He swung his arm in a wide arc at the black crescent of Iycestokian warships.
“We don’t have enough blood to hide an airship,” shouted Autumn. “Unless you’re willing to sacrifice some of the crew.” Her black-red hair lashed around her face, obscuring her eyes.
Caliph’s heart cooled.
“Are you?” asked Miriam.
“We didn’t think you would be,” said Miriam, “which is why we’re up here, debating our options. The Iycestokian ships are too far away for us to steal blood.”
Caliph’s mind, long spinning like a runaway cog, bit down into the teeth of an epiphany. He shielded his eyes and looked toward the bloated cloud of blubber and gas. Sena had told him about the Shradnae secret of hemofurtum.
“What?” asked Miriam. “You look like you’ve just had an idea.”
“What about those things … feeding on the carrion,” Caliph shouted. “If we got close enough to them. Could you use them?”
The witches squinted after his finger.
“If we can make it there…” shouted Autumn.
Miriam made the southern hand sign for yes. “Nyaffle. Dangerous but maybe … yes. It could work.”
Caliph’s skin crawled. What was Sena doing? And why?
Why wouldn’t she help them if she wanted Caliph to follow? Why let them struggle? She was the villain in this chase. He had to accept that. He had to let go, once and for all.
CHAPTER
37
Taelin came out of her room with her crimson goggles on, her brown leather jacket zipped up against the wind. The world was better now, bathed in pink. She could see things clearer. She was sure of it.
A horrible racket from belowdecks made her wonder what was happening. She walked out onto the starboard deck and immediately saw the Iycestokian ships. Her goggles made them clear against the sky, deep red rather than black. They were southern ships. And she was from the south. They should have been her friends. But she had a new directive now.
She had a mission. A goal. The demonifuge was real. Sena had assured her of that. She was Sena’s messenger now. Taelin gripped her necklace in her hand.
She covered her mouth and nose with her hands.
Taelin gasped.
A warm trickle of anger bubbled up through the crevices in her spine. Artesian. Gushing to full red bloom in the tissues that packed her skull.
“Do you think the Iycestokians are trying to stop us?” asked Taelin.
“We can’t let the Iycestokians win,” said Taelin. “We need to make it to Bablemum!”
The inside-girl did not disagree so Taelin allowed her breasts to swell up, tearing through her clothing,
