Black Bottle

by Anthony Huso

  “Why don’t you sit down?” she said.

  He asked her something in return. She adjusted her head and cupped a hand behind her good ear.

  Caliph limped forward. “What’s wrong?” he asked again. He lifted a mangled hand and pointed it in Anjie’s direction. Apparently he had heard her sobbing.

  “Nothing.” But keeping him cordoned from the truth was pointless. Even now his eyes scanned the deck, hunting for the reason. He found it quickly. Gina’s arm was pinned behind the deck rail. It marked the spot where the airship had rolled to starboard and crushed her body between the desert and the hull.

  His shoulders slumped at the sight and he clenched a fist in his hair with what seemed genuine angst. Smothered as he was in his own stiffening blood, the act lifted his curls. They stood on their own even after he removed his hand. “I’m sorry,” he said.

  One of the High King’s bodyguards emerged from the backdrop of wreckage and lowered himself to the deck from a dizzying angle. He carried a gas-powered crossbow and seemed in good health. He fretted over the High King for a few moments until Caliph finally screamed at him to check all the rooms for survivors.

  Miriam turned her attention back to the qloin.

  “We need to go back,” Anjie hissed in Withil. “We need to take her back to Aldrun…” She was hunkered up against the railing, holding Gina’s pale hand.

  Miriam knew it wasn’t possible. Gina would not be one of the girls that returned to Skellum. Her burial wouldn’t be in the sacred tombs, but here in the desert.

  “Anjie, we can’t get her out. We have to go.”

  “I’m not leaving her.”

  Miriam felt the pain in her words. They had already lost too many in Sandren and now, as dusk and the sandstorm pulled in around them, thick with the stench of carrion; now, with Sena’s ship nowhere in sight, Miriam felt the burden of her decision.

  “We can’t kill the Eighth House,” hissed Autumn. She whispered it into Miriam’s right ear, keeping the breach of protocol just between the two of them. Miriam knew she was right. What did this mean? Was this it? The end of the Sisterhood?

  They were one qloin now. One qloin that should have been able to do impossible things! But Miriam felt the exhaustion buckle her knees. Its weight was crushing.

  “Miriam?”

  This time it was the High King of Stonehold that addressed her. “I’m so sorry for your loss.” His eyes looked briefly at the tragedy behind her. “Can I … can I get your help?” Blood dribbled off his middle finger, hit the deck and solidified in the dust. “I’m going to check the fore cabins,” he said. “Will you please check the others?”

  Miriam hesitated. What did she care about any of these people? Gina was gone! Their mission seemed impossible. Caliph Howl had ceased to be useful.

  “Yes. Of course,” she said. Autumn looked at her quizzically. “Stay with Anjie,” Miriam said in Withil. Caliph Howl had already turned and dragged himself over the broken deck.

  Miriam reached up and gripped the door frame. The passageway beyond was steep but hardly vertical. Inside, she heard the voices of Caliph’s bodyguards, gnarled by wind, echoing.

  The first door she came to was open. She looked in and scanned the darkness. Nested like ungainly hatchlings in the room’s destruction lay Caliph’s physician and Lady Taelin Rae.

  Sharing the same nationality leant Miriam considerable familiarity with all the scandals Miss Rae had faced in the south. And here she was again, embroiled in political catastrophe, tangled in the wreckage of a Stonehavian airship.

  While Miriam climbed toward the priestess, the physician stirred, grumbled and attempted to right herself. “Who are you?” the older woman demanded. She had a huge goose egg on her forehead. Then, “It doesn’t matter. Help me get her up.”

  Together they lifted Taelin’s limp body toward the door. There was no place level to lay her down so extricating her from the wreckage seemed the best course.

  “Is she alive?”

  “She’s breathing,” said Baufent.

  They got her into the hall and carried her downhill, out onto the deck where they laid her on a relatively flat sweep of textured metal. The deflating gasbags formed a pavilion of sorts that shielded them partially from the storm.

  Miriam watched a moment as the short woman, tangled in her red coat, checked Lady Rae’s vitals. She spoke to Taelin while concentrating on her trade. “Come on,” the doctor whispered. “You and I are going to play cards again…”

  Miriam didn’t want to look. She turned away and went back to the qloin. Anjie had quieted.

  “The Iycestokians are right above us,” Autumn said. “Probably waiting out the storm.”

  Miriam shook her hand up and down. “Apparently the diplomats—Wade and Veech—were locked in the hold. When we hit the desert, the hull caved in. I heard from one of the Stonehavians that they’re pulling the bodies out now.”

  Autumn changed topic. “So? What do we do?”

  Miriam’s diaglyphs scanned the wreckage. There was blood. Some here and some there. But what holojoules still sang on the wind were surprisingly scattered. The crash had dispersed everything—even the nyaffle.

  There simply weren’t enough holojoules to travel, especially not without a starline. Without the markers, without the proper lines to walk, crossing was costly and dangerous. And there were three sisters to move. Far too many cuts of blood to gather from this tiny crew. But, she thought, there is an Iycestokian airship hovering overhead. She felt confident there would be a hundred eighty people there, which would be enough for the three of them to cross lines.

  “The king’s bodyguards mentioned a chemiostatic car in the hold but apparently it’s destroyed,” said Autumn. “The water tanks are broken. They’re leaking into the sand.”

  Miriam inhaled the smell of carrion, strong and choking.

  It was actually mixed luck that the hylden’s enormous carcass, invisible through the storm, would cover the smell of the crash. She knew the nyaffle had not gone far. Southern papers routinely chronicled nyaffle attacks on zeppelins downed in the deep desert, once or twice a year. If they returned, the qloin could use them to travel. But for the moment the Sisterhood was trapped.

  Nyaffle, she mused. It had been a good plan. She admired Caliph Howl. Her thoughts turned from the High King as Anjie spoke her name.

  Miriam looked at the two girls she had left. Both of them filthy and frightened though they would never say. Tears had cut through the dirt on Anjie’s cheeks but she had checked herself. She was ready for Miriam’s command.

  “Let’s get out of the wind,” Miriam said firmly.

  She wanted to coax the qloin across the wreck, toward shelter, out of the shock radius of Gina’s pale limb. The desert temperature had dropped quickly as twilight slipped into dusk. With Autumn’s help, she dragged a thermal crank toward the chosen site, a found hollow between the aft deck and a sand dune. Beneath the zeppelin a pile of food, chemiostatic torches and medical supplies had already started to accumulate thanks to the efforts of Baufent and a couple of the men. The provisions accreted quickly in plentiful contrast to the number of survivors.

  Miriam wound the crank. Its dials wobbled and glowed but the sound, the ticking, was inaudible under the red-purple screens of sand that ripped and howled around them. For her the roar was one-sided, mono-directional, entering her brain only from the right side of her head.

  She assessed the survivors: Lady Rae was sitting up; the physician seemed fine. Surprisingly, one of the diplomats and a single bodyguard were also here. Both alive. Isham Wade had been hauled out with serious injuries. His shirt was torn open and Miriam noticed that his chest was dappled with silver spots.

  “How did he get it?” said Autumn.

  “I don’t know.”

  “Are we staying here? Where is King Howl?”

  * * *

  MR. Veech’s body could not be extricated from the crushed metal that cocooned him. Caliph found it difficult to care
. He continued searching the wreckage, gut aching, skin clammy because this wasn’t a generalized search for bodies. This was a specific search—for Sig.

  Caliph’s pale green torch zipped back and forth through the darkness inside the airship.

  “The Iycestokians—” said Owain.

  “We’re looking for Sig,” said Caliph.

  Any moment now. They’d find him. If I survived, thought Caliph, so can he.

  Caliph and his bodyguard scoured the areas they could reach, where the framework had not bent in on itself. Caliph trudged through sand. Back and forth. He had already checked some of the rooms twice.

  “I don’t understand where he is,” said Caliph.

  “Maybe he’s found the shelter,” said Owain. It was toxic optimism. Caliph knew Owain’s job was to protect the king, not search for Sigmund Dulgensen.

  “Mother of Mizraim.”

  “Did you find him?” The beam of Owain’s torch lanced over Caliph’s shoulder.

  It was not Sigmund.

  Rather, Alani’s casket rested on its side. Still sealed. It had broken loose from its ties. One end was buried in deep sand that had poured through the ruptured hull. Its fall had crushed a Baashan ombrometer.

  The gray metal of the lid was beautifully and simply beveled. One of the generic caskets stored on all zeppelins in case of disaster, Caliph ran his hand along it, feeling the smooth endeavor of human dignity.

  “Majesty?”

  The sound of sand plinking and giggling over the metal had become so monotonous that Caliph didn’t notice it until something—the pitch, the ferocity—changed. He could hear a humming sound while sand whined in through the chinks from directions it had not come before.

  Gouts of bloody orange light coned the sky, revealing massive banks of raging particulate.

  “It’s the Iycestokians.” Owain took Caliph by the arm and led him toward the darkest reaches of the jumbled space they were in.

  “I’m going to find a blanket, something to cover you. We’ll put some sand over it—” He was still talking when Caliph heard a thump and Owain fell over.

  Hands grabbed him. How could they see without light?

  Caliph didn’t resist. He let his assailants pick him up, move him effortlessly out of the wreckage and into the blinding ruddy turbulence.

  In the light, he could see faces covered with bizarre masks: each like the soft back of a beetle uncensored by carapace or wings. Their weapons clung to their bodies, suckling primates, moving, hugging the shadows of their torsos, looking at Caliph seemingly without the assistance of their wearers.

  His captors asked him nothing and Caliph returned their silence. They obviously knew who he was. There were no mysteries on either side of this process. As they strapped him into a harness that would haul him into the belly of the Iycestokian vessel, defying the might of the storm, Caliph’s only internalized question was Where is Sig?

  CHAPTER

  38

  Phisku 18

  Archbishop Abimael,

  As you know, I went north under the assumption shared by the consociation: that the Duchy of Stonehold was engaged in mythmaking and blasphemy and that those activities might form the basis of a new theocracy which would then attempt to legitimize aggressive northern expansionism.

  Right now, the papers are full of news both about what happened at the conference and the disease that now seems to be everywhere, spreading so far in less than a week. I hope you are well. I hope you have managed to escape.

  I know we’ve had our differences. I know most of the members will view this letter, since they will receive similar copies, as another outlandish claim springing from the Church of Nenuln. I am well aware that none of you believe in my vision.

  Be that as it may, it is my responsibility to inform you that what happened at Sandren was not a solvitriol weapon. It was not a weapon of any kind, as far as I can tell. What I mean is that I believe strongly that the Duchy of Stonehold is not making myths. I believe Sena Iilool is a god.

  Furthermore I believe she is solely responsible for the mass murders at Sandren and for the propagation of the pandemic in which we find ourselves.

  I know I have somehow disappointed you since the days I came to seminary. My father is a Gringling. Trust between us now is, I suppose, thin and you may wonder why I would make these claims by mail rather than bringing them before the full fellowship. It is because I am afraid.

  So afraid that I don’t know what to do. Father will take care of us. I believe this will end badly for all of us, that the end may really, truly be close at hand. I am sending this to you so that you can prepare the people in your church, let them know that this must be part of some grand design if it suits you. The Ublisi ruined my party.

  Abimael, believe me, I no longer rely on Nenuln. I no longer believe in the sun

  is brighter

  than I thought.

  Give my love to my parents.

  You are all going to die.

  Sincerely,

  Arrian Glimendula

  Taelin put the pen down. Her hand hurt from writing. As she massaged out her palm she looked at her wrist. The configuration of silver spots had changed, as if the disease was struggling to conquer new regions of her skin only to lose ground in the rear. The places that had originally itched, where the creature in Sandren had grabbed her, were now clean, but other areas of her arm had become infected.

  She noticed that the top of her forearm was as silvery as the aluminum desk she sat at.

  It frightened her in an aimless, alienated way. My son is dead, she thought, and stared into the little vase of flowers on the desk. Bitten to death by nyaffle in the deep desert. She didn’t care about the plague.

  The Iycestokians were treating her well. They had given her a private cabin, even if the door was locked.

  She reached up and drew the curtains from the window above her desk. She could see a throng of Iycestokian troops sifting through the wreckage of the Bulotecus, searching for something.

  She felt poignantly sad for Caliph Howl, even if he had done horrible things to her. His lovely ship lay broken, partly buried in a pool of cobalt-colored sand. The aft portion rested on the orange of the surrounding desert, as if it had crashed into a shallow oasis.

  She thought about her night with Caliph. It had been ceremonial. She had shared him with her goddess. A kind of sacrament. It was not a mistake. It had been beautiful. It had brought her closer to Sena Iilool, who secretly was the goddess of light: with the sun streaming out of her back.

  There was no difference anymore between the Church of Nenuln and the Fane of Sienae Iilool: Omnispecer. They were the same.

  Taelin clutched her demonifuge tightly. I’m supposed to be getting ready, she thought. I need to get ready. She reached for her toiletries and pulled out her razor. She pressed it firmly into her palm and sliced her hand open. Then she held her injury toward the ceiling. “Use me,” she said. “Use me for your designs!”

  Taelin watched the red-black rivulet roll across her wrist. It followed gravity down her forearm as if she had crushed a pomegranate in her hand. Droplets gathered at her elbow.

  After a few moments she turned on the water from the little pressurized tank above her shower. She used the blood like gel, lathering her legs. When water entered the cut it burnt like crazy but she wet her razor and began shaving her body anyway.

  Corwin says it snows on the mainland, said the inside-girl.

  “It does. But not here. We’re too far south.”

  That’s sad. I was hoping to see it. But anyway, the sunlight is lovely.

  “I know. I love the sun. My goddess is the goddess of light.” The razor fell from Taelin’s hand. She was trembling. She had cut herself in many places.

  Let’s get cleaned up.

  “By the Eyes, I’ve made a mess. What do you think will happen next?”

  I don’t know. But Sena said we’re going to open the door to the future. Isn’t that wonderful?


  * * *

  WHATEVER gasses had kept the hylden’s organs afloat must have leaked out, perhaps through perforations caused by thousands of glassy teeth, perhaps from rents made by the storm.

  But the storm was gone now. Clear skies held sway. And Miriam could look out from her tiny window, across the grisly green and silver landscape of blubber, sunk into rubbery piles and great bubbled domes. The hylden was a much larger gasbag than what had collapsed around the Bulotecus.

  What it really looked like, she thought, was that some foul god had cleared its throat. Its stink was powerful. More so today than yesterday. She watched its surface, crawling with sparkling nyaffle and wondered if the subtle metallic tinge meant that the hylden too had fallen victim to the disease.

  The Iycestokians had processed the qloin. Miriam had allowed it. This was part of getting aboard, evaluating the situation, determining what to do next. Her eyes strayed up from the vast carcass to where Sena’s ship hovered. The Pplarian craft was surrounded on all sides. There was little drama. The Iycestokian ships with their huge black hoods and undulating pieces, ringed her in all three dimensions but no guns had been fired.

  “What is she doing?” asked Autumn.

  “I don’t know. Waiting for us I guess.”

  Earlier, the Iycestokians had gagged all three of them and shackled their hands behind their backs. Gags and shackles now lay in a neat pile in the corner of the cell. The cell consisted of a cramped but clean space with two berths, a window and a wall of bars. Miriam didn’t suppose the ship took prisoners often.

  On the other side of the bars was a narrow hallway that ran past the cell, the ends of which stretched beyond what perspective allowed Miriam to see.

  The floor was textured duralumin and the wall that faced the cell was white. There was, however, a solitary guard.

  It sprouted from a simple rectangular pot lined with what looked like shallow brown soil. The pot sat on a short corbelled shelf, eight feet away according to Miriam’s diaglyphs.