Black Bottle

by Anthony Huso

  Just the wind, she thought.

  She pulled the tin out again and rolled a tiny cigarette. She pulled the poison out too and set it on a little table by her bed. It stood upright, like a finger pointing, underscoring the answer to all her problems.

  “I can’t,” she whispered and touched her grandfather’s necklace. She had heard an old man’s voice, as if fabricated from the airship’s low-toned sounds. It told her to do it.

  Another gust of wind made her cabin creak. Taelin was breathing hard. She checked her watch. She had been crying off and on for two hours when a soft knock sounded at her door.

  Hurriedly, she opened the window and fanned the smoke out. “Just a minute,” she called. She hid the tin and the bottle and dabbed her eyes. When she answered the knock she found Specks floating in the hallway. “Hi,” he said. “Are you okay?”

  “I’m fine.” Taelin smiled. “Why do you ask?”

  “I heard you crying so I brought you a tissue.” He held out one crumpled square.

  Taelin felt warm embarrassment surge through her. Had everyone on the ship heard her? “Come in, Specks,” she said.

  Specks floated tentatively past her, scraping against the door frame. “It stinks in here. Blech!” He stuck out his tongue.

  “Sorry.” She noticed the smoke still hanging near the window.

  “I have to help in the kitchen,” Specks was saying.

  “Oh?”

  “The High King is having lunch.”

  Taelin’s hand curled around the bottle in her pocket. “It’s a little early for lunch.”

  “Yeah. But it’s a meeting.”

  “Who is he meeting with?”

  Specks shrugged. “Are you crying because we’re in the desert?”

  Taelin sat down on the edge of her bed. “Now why would I cry about that?” She watched a drop of blood fall from the boy’s wrist onto her floor.

  Specks made a mmmhh sound, then asked for the tissue back. “I’m sorry,” he said. He let himself down, legs crumpling, pain crossing through his face.

  “It’s okay.” Taelin moved to help him up. He was already cleaning the blood from the floor. She reached down, lifted him, light as a bag of twigs in her arms. She held him close against her chest, feeling his warmth, his frailty.

  His little-boy smell made her think of her missing son.

  Specks squirmed. He pushed softly against her shoulders, trying to get away.

  “I’m sorry.” She let go, once again embarrassed. He floated backward with an apprehensive crinkle around his eyes. “There’s blood on your shirt,” he said.

  “Specks, don’t apologize for that. I don’t care. You’re fine. You’re better than fine.”

  Wind hit the side of the ship and Specks looked toward the open window nervously.

  “What’s wrong?” Taelin asked.

  “I’m not opposed to talk about it.”

  “Does it have to do with us being in the desert?”

  Specks nodded. He reached up and sorted through his thick dark hair. “One of the cooks didn’t want to be here.”

  “Does your dad want to be here?”

  Specks shook his head. “A storm’s coming. My dad said it’s a big one. He says we need to go home where it’s safe.”

  Taelin’s eyes went out the window. The sky was bright and clear but the wind was certainly strong. She didn’t doubt the captain’s instruments or that he might confide in his son.

  Caliph Howl was a cruel bastard, using people’s lives to advance his own selfish agendas. He had let witches onto the ship. Now a storm was coming. He was endangering his crew. He had murdered her father.

  “It’s going to be fine, Specks,” Taelin said. “Don’t you worry.”

  Specks smiled. “Yeah, I guess. I should go.”

  “Are you going to serve the High King lunch?”

  Specks smiled proudly. “Yes I am.”

  “Can you take me to the kitchen with you?” asked Taelin. “I need something to drink.”

  “Sure.”

  Specks led the way.

  The Bulotecus’ kitchen was a steaming, cramped eggshell-white facility with standing room for four people. Currently, however, there was only one man in the room. The kitchen’s ceiling was riddled with pipes. Bolted to the walls were dark chemiostatic coolers with gauges and glowing green cells that revealed the quality of each battery’s charge. Small countertops provided workspace while above and below, anchored to the walls, hung a garbage chute, an oven, several lamps and an array of cutlery. There was also a sink.

  On the countertop sat a silver tray loaded with drinks and appetizers. The cook looked up at Taelin and smiled. “Can I get you anything?” he asked.

  “Yes,” said Taelin. “Thank you. I need something to drink.”

  The cook opened one of the coolers. When his face disappeared behind the metal door, Taelin leaned forward. She used her body to shield Specks from what her hands were doing. She panicked. What should I do? She dumped a little poison into each of the three drinks on the tray. When her bottle was empty she slipped it back into her pocket. She couldn’t believe what she had just done.

  The cook’s face leaned out from behind the cooler door. “Hello?” he said, still smiling.

  “What? I’m sorry, I didn’t hear you.”

  “I said we have loring tea. It’s the High King’s favorite.”

  “Oh, yes. That would be fine.”

  The cook brought out a jar and poured her a glass. “Cream? Sugar?”

  “No,” she said. Oh gods, what did I do?

  Her body had gone hot and rigid. She was sweating profusely.

  “Specks? Can you manage the tray?” asked the cook.

  Specks floated forward.

  “It looks terribly heavy,” said Taelin. “Maybe I should help you.”

  “I can get it,” said Specks.

  “Here you go.” The cook handed her the glass of tea. Taelin didn’t want it. She needed her hands free. She 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 de
monifuge 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.”

  “Get to the point,” said Caliph.

  Mr. Wade leaned once more on the bar, staring out the windows where the smoking dunes sped by. He drummed the bar with the flats of his fingers. “Did you know I am an expert in Pandragonian relations, King Howl?”

  Caliph said nothing. He fixed his eyes on Isham Wade.

  “Mm. Indeed I am. Did you know that the Pandragonians are secretly at war with the Shradnae Sisterhood?”

  Caliph leaned back and folded his arms. He felt like a cloth was being dragged slowly off a new sculpture and the suspense over what was going to be revealed wasn’t the good kind.

  “No?” said Wade. He pursed his lips, savoring the moment. “Well they are.” He wagged his finger. “I know just about everything that’s going on in Pandragor and what.”

  “I can assure you, you don’t want to lose my interest,” said Caliph. “I suggest again that you get to the point.”

  “Actually I think I’m quite safe.” Wade’s shrewd eyes regarded him. “But anyway, I will get to the point. You know the Pandragonians were involved in your civil war, correct?”

  “Of course.”

  “Well, King Howl. Initially this was all about solvitriol power. The Pandragonians wanted their blueprints and the witches wanted their book.”

  It felt utterly bizarre to Caliph that an understanding existed as to what book Mr. Wade meant. The Cisrym Ta had only ever been a private element. As other couples might have argued over where to hang an heirloom—which only one side of the family appreciated—so too the book had caused ripples of irritation between Caliph and Sena. It had never really been connected to the whirlwind of governmental affairs. It was not a part of his public life.

  “They were working together to bring down the Duchy of Stonehold,” said Wade. “With the agreement that each of them would help get the other what they wanted.”

  “But?”

  “But then things went wrong. Some piece of holomorphy that the witches were supposed to hurl at Stonehold was undermined. In the end, the agreement fell apart.

  “It’s terribly fascinating to us southerners. Normally we don’t pay any attention to the north, you know? I shouldn’t have said that as a diplomat, but it’s true. And then these wild rumors start trickling down to us and what—First that you’ve intercepted solvitriol blueprints—which we were selling to the Pandragonians. Then people are being brought back from the dead. That’s new! There’s a witch-goddess in Isca. Suddenly we’re all very interested.

  “Regardless of whether any of it is true, you know what it all keeps coming back to? This book. It’s the thing the Shr
adnae Sisterhood was after. Supposedly it’s what brought you back to life—though I admit I have my doubts. And now the Pandragonians want it. That’s right. I’m not even sure they know why. Personally I think that if the witches want it, the Pandragonians must just think it’s good. And that, King Howl, brings us to why I boarded the Bulotecus. Because, if the Pandragonians want it—”

  “Iycestoke wants it too,” Caliph finished.

  Mr. Wade smiled, pudgy cheeks pinched and shining.

  “It’s ridiculous,” said Caliph. “It’s just a book.” But that was an old line. He felt the book’s power now, not as some mysterious holomorphic trapping but as the crux.

  Mr. Wade’s black eyebrows lifted. “Is it?” he asked, “just a book? Because if it is, then I’m sure we can solve this quickly. We have machines in the south that can turn out copies. Everyone will be able to read it and decide for themselves.”

  “I see.” Caliph didn’t know where to go from here. He certainly wasn’t going tell Wade that he didn’t have the book. Instead he opted for, “I’m sure we can come to an agreement on that. Printing a book is not that difficult. But don’t you think we have more important things to decide at the moment? I mean what happened in Sandren—”

  “King Howl.” Wade’s tone took a mildly condescending edge. “What happened in Sandren is the point. You’re absolutely right. It was terrifying. It was wonderful. I don’t mean to be direct, but here it is: who gives a shit about Sandren? They were an elitist outpost that sold wine at inflated prices.

  “They were a fucking city-state. Really.” He put his palms together in front of his lips. “What I care about is that that kind of power is harnessed correctly. Legitimately. And by the way, the sickness in Sandren, whatever it is, is spreading. It’s in Pandragor. It’s in Yorba. Most importantly, it’s in Iycestoke. We don’t know how. But if you were in my position, wouldn’t you find it a bit … fortuitous to know that the only people with a vaccine were the people with the book?

  “Now listen. You’re in a sticky situation. All those zeppelins—vanishing without a trace? I’m not accusing you.” Wade raised a palm and patted the air in Caliph’s direction. His ring with the moving gears glittered; his eyebrows crawled to the top of his glasses as if genuinely apologetic. “But only ships from Stonehold were spared and again, only Stonehold has the book.”