The Last Page ch-1

by Anthony Huso

Caliph felt pinned, unable to maneuver. He had to keep his engines close to the city, which meant he had to face the brunt of Miskatoll’s mechanized onslaught with infantry.

  Flying his own fleet of zeppelins out to meet Saergaeth wasn’t an option. Isca’s military boasted forty airships including the Byun-Ghala and several older, less reliable models that were practically tethered to Malgôr Hangar.

  Even the most conservative estimates placed Miskatoll’s fleet at one hundred strong, including fourteen leviathans.

  Caliph sat in the royal study, moving his eyes from the window to stare blankly at a map of the Duchy varnished to the top of the low table in front of him.

  Gadriel lounged across the room, leg crossed over his knee. He seemed to be counting books on the study shelves. An oil lamp spread the room with pearly radiance and shadows that wavered in the corners.

  Caliph had left the windows open so they framed the dark steeples and ancient gables: strange creatures watching the sea. “Gadriel, what were you before you were seneschal?”

  The other man stopped his count.

  “I was an intern, your highness.” His very proper gray beard and moustache twitched as he spoke.

  “That’s quite a synopsis.”

  “I’ve liked your wit ever since your arrival, King Howl. You have a particular economy of words that I admire.”

  Caliph leaned back in the cushioned divan and folded his arms. The light wrinkled across the rich pillows that, like him, seemed to brood.

  “I don’t enjoy being king.”

  The seneschal looked worried. “Is something wrong?”

  Caliph smiled. “Nothing I could blame you for. But I feel like I’m running with a blindfold on.”

  “Nonsense,” said the old man. “You’ve already got the hang of it.”

  Caliph made the southern hand sign for no.

  “It’s bad luck that I took the crown during so much strife.”

  “Forgive me, your majesty, but your coronation was the cause of the strife and therefore inevitable. It’s good that we have a king now. A Council may run economic affairs well enough, but for war, a king is best.”

  Caliph frowned. His eyes went out of focus. “What is happening in Tentinil? I should be out there, touring the field.”

  Gadriel took a small snuffbox from his pocket and rapped it lightly with a knuckle. “I’ve given word to let you sleep in.”

  Caliph forced a smile.

  “Shall I have anything sent up?”

  “No thank you, Gadriel.” Then the careful, quiet exit, the seneschal barely allowing the door to click so as not to disturb—even Caliph’s thoughts.

  Caliph lay back on the divan, staring at the molded ceiling. Most of his thoughts were stillborn, hardly worth Gadriel’s care.

  Yrisl knows how to fight a war. If I give all military command over to the Blue General maybe it will be better for the Duchy. I’ve got all my life to learn how to be king. No sense trying to pretend I know what I’m doing during such a critical time.

  Exhaustion crept over him. He gazed from the edge of consciousness at the ceiling, eyes drooping, in and out of a dream. In the dream he was tapping on his desk, trying to explain something to Clayton Redfield about not regulating the sale of religious artifacts along the Avenue of Charms. Temple Hill was screaming their approval. He was tapping with a silver pen to make his point, tapping, tapping on the polished desk. Tapping. Caliph woke up.

  There were two doors to the High King’s study. One opened inward on the castle. The other opened out. The outward one was a thick oak and metal-studded thing that screened the room from the battlements.

  He sat up.

  After a moment the tapping came again, outside of the dream. Soft. Insistent. He stood slowly. A guard?

  He waited.

  It sounded again, barely audible through the thickness of the portal.

  He walked, dumbfounded, to the door and slid away the bolt. An assassin? I could be so lucky. With well-oiled silence it opened and Caliph peered before him at the empty moonlit parapet.

  To either side, the crenels looked down into deep courtyards. Naobi glowed fat and white, a reptilian eye wreathed in green. Stillness covered everything. The clear balmy night seemed devoid of sound. Not even cricket song. The gardens lay too far below.

  Caliph took a half step out. He stopped. A heady sweetness lingered on the air. A whisper from behind the door. “Caliph?”

  He turned slowly.

  She stood in the shadow of the arch that sheltered the seldom-used portal, all but her face masked in darkness.

  Caliph’s eyes burned her image into his brain. Hair, silvery-gold and short. Her eyes were worlds of blue.

  Fear filled him instantly. Had she returned to finish what the witches in Tue had failed to accomplish? Was this a trick? But her eyes communicated a silent apology; a sincere vulnerability, real or imagined, that made him want to hold her and protect her.

  His tongue lay ignorantly at the bottom of his mouth. His head might as well have been severed for the all the help it was in determining what to say.

  Almost cautiously, as though afraid she might vanish, he reached for her face. As his fingers touched her, her lips twisted into that familiar smile that both mocked and tempted him at the same time.

  Caliph couldn’t help himself. He attacked her. She gave way easily, kissing him back, letting his emotions come out.

  “I guess you’re glad to see me,” she breathed into his ear.

  They fell apart. A test fit after two years. But their bodies had remembered, had conformed to each other with aching familiarity.

  “How—what are you doing here?” He felt inebriated. A tailless cat stepped out of the shadows and marched into the castle as though inspecting newly conquered territory.

  “How am I doing here?” She laughed softly. Her shoulders lifted then fell. Her voice was husky. “Feels all right to me.”

  Her lashes slipped. Lazy. Blue planets eclipsed. Only the corners of her mouth turned up. It was a well-practiced look. One that Caliph supposed had sent many men into short-term madness.

  Caliph came at her again.

  She was shocked by his eagerness. Of all things, this had been the one she least expected. Not from quiet, lethally rational Caliph Howl.

  His hands ran over her like the fingers of a votary, leaving no line uncaressed. They traveled from wrist to ankle, drawing her up, off the parapet, off her feet, inside the castle.

  Like walking lines, she moved without sense. Caliph carried her away, cradled her. A pearly light flickered in darkness. She was disoriented. She struggled free from her clothes, desperate to be rid of them.

  Caliph had turned her arrival into something wild. It was better than she had hoped. It was necessary. It was urgent. She felt herself let go of the controls, let go of the premeditated steps, the calculations she used with sex. It had been a while.

  Sena bit her lower lip. Her mind slipped away as the catapult fired. She was floating . . . drifting . . . in an ocean of stars, stuttering again . . . zoetrope spinning.

  In the morning, the light lay crisp and white across the rich crumpled sheets of the High King’s bed. Sena had no idea how she had arrived in this room but by the look of the sheets she must have been awake at the time.

  Her memory fogged with feelings that pulled her mouth into an amazed and contented smile. Caliph was nowhere to be seen.

  White marble flooded the floor. The four-poster bed she had slept in was carved from cherry wood with tall spindles at every corner. In the center of the room a gleaming enameled tub stood steaming on short recurved legs. It crouched like a fat cat above a plush colorful rug.

  Several wardrobes, a desk and a chest all sat at attention. They were crafted from imported woods, carved laboriously and stained deep red tones. On the walls, tapestries of inestimable value curled with the outside air.

  Leaning back, she gazed up at the ceiling which comprised a vaulted affair whose ribbing floated from pilla
rs in the four corners and met at a recessed oval where some artisan had done a fresco in the dome. It showed a cherubic youth with black wings descending from a sunlit cloud aiming a bow at an innocent-looking rabbit. Archaic lettering around the fresco read in Hinter, there is purpose in death.

  Her journey had certainly been worth it. She had walked lines to an abandoned cromlech on a low hill amid fog-draped mountains. Surrounded by dark, worn-down stones and brambles, she had used her sickle knife to cut her way through.

  Relying on road signs and other travelers for directions, she had taken a road south and after walking several days she had finally come to Isca.

  She had seen it in the distance: the mighty wall, the city pouring smoke. Blue-gray worms from a hundred chimneys had bent beneath the castle spires, everything caked in evening light.

  Inside the city, a sea of people had sloshed against walls and buildings. Sena had been surprised at the chill twilight brought and the women in long coats who wore next to nothing underneath, showing skin and multiple belts around tightly circled hips. Shouting boys had torn through the crowd, dragging dead things on strings attached to poles. A gypsy with a beard had scowled and offered her toothpaste from a tray just before a huge man pushed past, nearly shoving her into a lamppost.

  Sena had seen shops for tobacco and unicycles and soap. Mechanized cars and strange creatures moved through tunnels in the walls. Metal boxes on pulleys carried regular deliveries on wires strung across the street. Clotheslines garroted gargoyles. Iron strangled brick. Windows slid up and down like teeth. People screamed and bartered and talked about war.

  A door opened somewhere and Caliph stepped out from behind one of the tapestries, breaking her reverie. She heard him thank a servant and shut the door. In his hand, he carried a copper kettle that he emptied directly into the tub.

  “Plumbing problems,” he said and looked around the room as though making sure everything met with his approval before coming to stand somewhat shyly near the baseboard.

  “I thought you might want a bath. No one knows you’re here.” He glanced at the ceiling where she was still looking at the fresco. “Yet.”

  “What did you do to me?” She climbed from the sheets and walked shamelessly to the tub.

  Palms up, silent, he felt suddenly uneasy, almost bashful.

  “I don’t even remember what you like for breakfast. I don’t know if you’re staying. I don’t know . . .”

  His words trailed off and he walked to the window. From behind he heard her slide into the water.

  “I didn’t come here just to have breakfast,” she said lightly.

  “What then?”

  “Caliph, you think too damn much. You always have. Relax. I’m here. I came here for one reason. You.”

  Her words surprised herself. She sank up to her neck. “Nice scar, isn’t it?”

  Caliph came over and sat down by the tub. “What do you mean?”

  “My scar. You didn’t notice it last night?” She pulled herself up so he could see.

  He put his finger on the pink line.

  “I missed you.”

  “I could tell.” She grinned. “I didn’t expect treatment like that. Thought you might even throw me out. You’ve got better things to do now than think about me.” Suddenly she sat up straight. “Where’s my pack?”

  “I put it over there.” He pointed to where it hung on the back of a chair. Ns lay sleeping on the seat. She slipped down again until her chin touched the water, feeling relieved.

  “So—” Caliph tried to start any kind of conversation, “nearly two, two and a half years now.” He nodded. “I came looking for you and found your cottage. I guess that’s where the scar came from?”

  “You would have followed me to Eloth, wouldn’t you? You found the note.”

  Caliph felt hot with embarrassment. He hated that he felt so syrupy over her. It had never been the same for her. Never sloppy. These feelings were supposed to be gone, dead with time. But their revival was wonderful, sweet, heady, almost dizzying and lined every inch with fear. What if she goes away again? He felt half-tricked, half-cheated at his own enamoredness.

  “How did it go? Your search for that book?”

  Her eyes lit up. She whispered even though there was no one else in the room.

  “I have it. It’s here.”

  “What happened at the cottage?”

  A knocking sounded from the door behind the tapestry. “Your majesty?” a servant’s voice called from just outside.

  “Don’t come in, I’m bathing,” Caliph shouted.

  “Majesty,” Sena whispered playfully. “Do I have to call you ‘majesty’ too?”

  “Shh—” Caliph scolded.

  She rolled her eyes. “They can’t hear us.”

  Caliph stood up and rummaged through his wardrobe.

  “I’m not so sure about that. Regardless, we have to find some clothes for you.”

  “What’s wrong with mine?”

  “As difficult as it may prove to be, we need to make you look like a serving boy. The last thing I need is added scandal.”

  “Sorry to inconvenience you.” She splashed.

  Caliph turned toward her. “You know I didn’t mean it like that. It’s political bullshit, nothing else.” He stopped and frowned. “How in Emolus’ name did you get inside?”

  Sena’s lips puckered at one corner. “You opened the door.”

  Caliph snorted. “I mean the grounds. No holomorphy?”

  She shrugged. “Maybe . . . just a little.”

  “Then maybe you could get out the same way you got in. I mean, I can get you some breakfast first—”

  His tongue was moving faster than his mind. He came up short.

  “Thanks. I’ll just eat and,” she waved her hand around, “banish myself.” But her voice sounded far from offended. “What are you worried about? You’re the High King. You can make love to whomever you wish.” She turned over in the water and beckoned him with a finger. “You don’t really think I could pass for a serving boy, do you King Howl?”

  He walked slowly back to the tub.

  “It could be done, I think.” His voice sounded as though he were actually thinking about it. “It would take some work.”

  Sena’s soapy hands reached up for his ruffled lapels. She pulled him down. The water in the tub rose suddenly, flowed over the lip and wet the tasseled carpet all the way through to the floor.

  After her bath, and another session on the High King’s bed, she got dressed. Caliph threw a huge hooded cloak over her and escorted her from the castle.

  She could tell his charade fooled no one and guessed he wasn’t the first king to ferry women. When she was safely on the city streets, he told her he would meet her at a stone marker south of West Fen beyond the city walls.

  His plan was bizarre and ill-thought, something completely unnatural coming from him. “I can’t have you just show up in the castle. I’ll escort you out and then meet you someplace. Then I can bring you back in.”

  But she didn’t argue. He wanted her. That much was clear. And for the time being that was all that mattered. She took a cab to West Gate and left the city, following Caliph’s directions.

  Without the urban sprawl, Isca framed a new world of mountains and bogs and land by the sea. It brought back memories of her childhood in Tenwinds. Her crotch ached pleasantly. She climbed a low green tor west of Isca, again following directions, waiting for Caliph to show up. While she waited, she tossed the possibility of being honest around in her head the way Ns played with prey.

  For an instant she thought about telling Caliph the truth. But what was the truth? And how could she tell him if she didn’t know?

  She quickly set the idea aside. The formula for unlocking the Csrym T explicitly said that his blood must be stolen.

  She paced back and forth near the stone of Mizraim, waiting for Caliph, arguing internally.

  She had never felt this way before. But was it real? Or was she simply dec
eiving herself, forging false feelings for Caliph in an attempt to find a rare ingredient?

  No, she thought, this is love. Mawkish and ridiculous and inutile. Her hopes soared. An ampoule was not so much. Caliph would not die from it. But it must be stolen. And at the right time.

  She had to wait. Wait for autumn.

  But she felt it now!

  She kicked the stone of Mizraim in her frustration, worried that her feelings might fade with the leaves. She began to panic, tempted once more to regard the strange ingredients as mundane superfluities unrelated to the true mathematical workings of the spell. As the temptation rose, so did a gibbering madness at the back of her head, a cold upwelling that quickly swept the notion away.

  She had not come for Caliph. She had come for the book. When she had met him in the library that first night in Desdae he had sent shivers through her. She had decided later, after verifying the recipe several more times, that he was the one for the equation—if she ever found the grimoire.

  She leaned against the stone and stared down at the strange city. Morning fog sagged in the lowlands and distant shouts ricocheted through the gray patched-over brick of West Fen. She was an interloper, a foreigner. And yet the book’s howl seemed to quiet in this land, to give her respite from the urgency to open it.

  “Yella byn,” she whispered with derision. This is not my home. Once this is over I will not be able to stay here. She knocked the back of her head against the stone as if to dislodge the fantasy.

  For a long time she thought of nothing. She cleared her mind and stood enjoying the clean damp smell of the upland. A mile away the city groaned in discordant unison, like some massive abomination in the agonies of birth.

  At the edge of West Fen, breaking from the jagged edge of farm machinery piled against three-story buildings, an enormous black horse trotted into view.

  For Caliph, traveling alone outside the castle was not only pointedly stupid, but also difficult to achieve. Yet he had managed to slip away.

  He called a greeting in Old Speech.

  “You hardly look Hjolk-trull.” She crossed her arms and stood with her head tilted toward one shoulder.

  He reached down, extended his hand to her.

  She took it and pulled herself up onto the pillion.