[redacted]
No names please. Will you strike that? Thanks.
Anyway, back to the tinctures. This is your second time with them so it’s going to be less painful. It gets easier every time.
[redacted]
Is it a dangerous underworld drug? Yes. With repeated use, will it eventually cook your brain from the inside out? Yes. You signed the waiver.
But is it also a sublime concoction capable of drawing on humanity’s collective past and personalizing it for you in a way that provides inspiration, insight and possibly even epiphany?
Maybe, yes. I think I’m offering that service.
Others are going to tell you that shuwt tinctures reveal hidden dimensions and enlighten you as to the actual nature of the universe. I don’t say that. I suggest a conservative approach to the aftermath of a shuwt journey. Remember the ratio: ninety-nine percent meditation, one percent action.
[redacted]
Right. Let’s finish up with a legal recap, shall we? First offense will get you …
[redacted]
Iycestoke is far worse. I don’t know what they do in Bablemum but once the treaty takes effect I’m sure they’ll follow the same laws as Pandragor.
[redacted]
I agree. It’s just arbitrary legislation as far as I’m concerned. But they can’t legislate my culture out of existence. Veydens have been doing this spirit guide thing for centuries.
[redacted]
Yes, but see, that’s precisely why I don’t offer those services. You shouldn’t take tincture without a guide. But this whole movement of getting a dream shaman? I mean, that crap about the answers being inside of you is just a convenient way to sell things to people that don’t have any friends.
[redacted]
Because we’re talking about transcendence. And I’m of the opinion that you cannot transcend without permission. Without help.
That’s the one part of the Sslia legend that I can buy into. I don’t believe the notion that shuwt tinctures offer some kind of passage to divinity, but I do like the idea that, in the end, the Sslia doesn’t really seem to succeed. The Sslia just disappears. Why? In my opinion it’s symbolic of taking something to the extreme. It’s symbolic of obsession, of elitist rhetoric, of going down the wrong road on your own. That’s what happens. You fucking disappear.
[redacted]
Good. Right.
[redacted]
Yes. Use them but not more than once every other day and no more than twice in a week. Three doses in a ten-day period will probably set your brain on fire. So go two in a week and then stop. And I mean stop.
Cold.
I’ve never seen anyone take a third-day dose and not end up tied to a bed for the rest of their lives, assuming they survive.
[redacted]
Yep. I’ll get you a copy of the session. No problem. Two-week rest intervals.
[redacted]
Yep.
[redacted]
Yep.
[redacted]
All right. Take care. I’ll see you in three.
CHAPTER
45
The papers were smudged. Their margins were also badly crumpled as if they had been carried around for a long time, pressed inside a small book with their edges hanging out. They were at least a year old based on the political reference.
The questions pertaining to how Sena had gotten access to these personal papers and why she had placed them here made Caliph uneasy. A soft knock on the door brought a further lump to his throat. “Come in?”
The door slid open and much to his relief the familiar face of Dr. Baufent leaned in. What he didn’t like was that she looked nervous, and not a little afraid.
“What’s wrong? Where are we?”
“Bablemum.” She didn’t elaborate but inflected it as if to lay blame on him.
“How did we get here?”
Baufent looked at the papers in his hand. “Found those, I see?”
“Yeah.”
The physician withdrew her head as if toward a sound from outside the room. Her hand came up, finger raised while she listened. All Caliph could hear were the dripping branches, the frogs and leaves and buzzing static of the city. A weird night bird also called from just outside the window.
“Yes. He’s awake,” Baufent called out to whoever had spoken. Her voice launched the unseen bird from its perch. Its wings sounded large and leathery and Caliph caught a glimpse of its head—an anvil-shaped aberration—as it flew away. “He’ll be out in a moment.”
She stuck her head back inside. “You’ll be out in a moment?”
Caliph considered exercising his authority. Part of him wanted to bark at her, demand a full account of what was going on, whether Sig had been found—even though he knew that answer, didn’t he? Instead he nodded and let her go.
He tossed the papers back on the small table and slumped into a chair by the window. He closed his eyes and Sig’s face was there, teeth chewing at that ridiculous patch of hair. Caliph let out a silent, volcanic wheeze, hot and angry and cathartic. He allowed himself a few seconds of grief.
It wasn’t enough.
Sig deserved more than stifled sobs. He deserved life.
Another knock at the door.
Caliph lashed out. “What!”
Baufent’s voice was firm on the other side. “I forgot to tell you not to turn on any lights,” she said. “It’ll draw attention.” Then her footsteps scraped away.
Caliph stood up, furious.
He inhaled the lukewarm humidity deeply, then wiped his eyes. There was a set of clothes laid out for him. He dressed violently, thrusting arms and legs through holes. He took his anger out on the seams.
Fly buttoned, boots buckled, he marched toward the door, eager to confront the unknown.
A lit octagonal hatch ten feet down the hall guided him toward the only possible destination. Tremulous people-shaped shadows spilled out into the hall. He barged in, then drew up, forced to reassess.
Taelin lay practically atop a tattooed man Caliph had never seen. It was an exaggeration, but she was perched on the same divan, leaning parallel with him into the cushions, one of her legs draped over his mighty thigh. His arm was around her waist.
Dr. Baufent stood by a lamp whose maroon globes bloodied the room. She did not look happy.
There were other big men, like the one groping the priestess. Heavily tattooed greenish skins and coarse red braids erupted from them, unable to be contained by rich clothing. Cuff links, and black sleeves and silk ties strained but failed to tame the crew of wicked gentlemen. They glared at Caliph.
Their leader was obscured, barely discernable among the powerful angles of the room. He was huge and broad, a trapezoid flowing, hacked from bolts of luxurious cloth. Easily twice Caliph’s size, he looked down with fiery black eyes and said, “High King Howl. A pleasure to meet you.”
“I’d like an introduction,” said Caliph. It was a flat command leveled at Baufent.
She spluttered. She was not trained as an aide or a servant and must have found his order discomfiting. “Th-this is—”
“I am Ku’h,” said the huge man. He had a thick southern accent but his Trade was just fine. “We are glad you are feeling better. I am…” he seemed to lose his way for a moment “in charge … of the Great City of Bablemum.”
“In charge?” Caliph couldn’t hide his skepticism.
“The lord mayor is dead,” said Ku’h. “Only some of us are left.”
“Dead how?”
“The disease.”
“We know the Sslia brought you here,” said Ku’h.
The word surprised Caliph. He recognized it from more than Taelin’s drug counseling transcripts. It had also been in the journals Sena had given him.
“Sena came aboard while you were comatose,” Baufent said quietly, as if passing Caliph the facts which Ku’h had molested. “But she didn’t speak to us.”