The spymaster’s death was a great black anvil that crushed through all of Caliph’s other crises and sat dead center; immovable.
It kept going through his head over and over, how can Alani be dead?
“Your majesty. We need to talk,” whispered Mr. Wade.
“Listen! I will meet with you when I am … when it is appropriate,” said Caliph. “And right now it is not appropriate.”
The crowd hushed at his outburst.
Mr. Wade’s meaty face was flushed, probably with anger. Caliph didn’t care.
He turned to the witches and gestured curtly for them to continue. Miriam started talking but all Caliph could think was, What is wrong with my head?
“I’m sorry to interrupt,” said Mr. Veech, “but we arrived late. What were your names?”
The witches reintroduced themselves.
Each of them was improbably attractive and athletic, as if selected from a beauty pageant: Anjelique Breckenshire, Gina Dingo and Autumn Solburner. Miriam Yeats seemed to be their leader. All of them had thin scars around their necks as if they had survived an attack with piano wire.
Caliph felt cold but Autumn’s voice interrupted his thoughts. She was an erogenic copper-headed saucebox with bizarre black accents dyed into her hair. “Of course you can trust us. We saved your king’s life.”
Had someone asked a question? I need to focus! Caliph thought. Mother of Emolus my head hurts.
“Here are the facts,” said Caliph, turning to the witches. “We were attacked on the twelfth by your organization, over Mirayhr. We lost good men and women that night.” Caliph saw a glance pass between Autumn and Miriam.
Miriam looked at Caliph calmly. “Your ship was attacked in an effort to prevent the thing that happened this morning—from happening. All those people in all those zeppelins didn’t have to die. We’re after Sena Iilool, just like you are.”
The words cut Caliph deeply because the witches’ actions seemed supportable. Was it true? Had he been on the wrong side? Had the attack on his airships by the Shradnae Sisterhood been justified?
Everyone on the rear deck knew that the four women had leapt from Sandren, falling on some mathematical parachute of wind. They had risked themselves to save Caliph’s life.
“You know it’s true,” said Miriam. “The only people you lost that night were the people that stood between Sena and our operatives. She lost the book that night.”
Isham Wade perked up.
“Yes,” said Caliph. “Thankfully it’s safe.” Caliph noticed how Mr. Wade’s eyes settled on him from behind his thick lenses.
Miriam scowled. She seemed to wait a moment and gauge what game he was playing. After a moment she narrowed her eyes and said, “Yes. But now we need to stop her. I believe you feel the same way, don’t you King Howl?”
“Yes. Yes I do.”
He did feel that way. But what he wanted more than anything was for Alani’s face to reappear, refrain from smiling as it always did and offer the essential wisdom he needed to navigate this truce with the Shradnae witches.
The scars around their throats were circumstantial at best but he had his suspicions. Despite all that, like it or not, Miriam was right. Sena had to be stopped. And how was he supposed to do that without real holomorphic power on his side? He needed them.
Caliph bounced his hand in the air to underscore his agreement. “We’ll go after her. Together.”
He turned to the captain. “Any word from Seatk’r?”
“None, your majesty.” The captain’s son hovered in his father’s shadow, listening intently to everything going on. Specks’ little armband ticked and a drop of blood hit the floor.
Caliph turned his thoughts back to the patients and physicians that had vanished from the tent hospital.
Many of them had managed to escape the flawless, as Miriam called the monsters. The surviving Stonehavians had fled down the teagle system into Seatk’r—an event that had gone unnoticed in the chaotic aftermath of what could only be termed the erasure of the conference.
“I can’t believe they won’t let the Odalisque moor,” said Dr. Anselm.
The government of Seatk’r wanted nothing to do with the Stonehavian airships, a fact that complicated the situation with the doctors and patients that had used the teagle system and were now stranded on the ground.
“Here’s what we’re going to do,” said Caliph. “Tell the Odalisque to come in. It’s going pick up the remaining patients and ferry them back to Stonehold along with anyone who doesn’t need to go after Sena. I assume that will be most everyone.”
“They’re not going to let us moor,” said the captain.
“Oh, they will,” said Caliph. “Seatk’r’s run by little more than a robber baron. He won’t get in our way. Not today.”
He turned to the captain and his few soldiers and gave them instructions. Then he, along with two bodyguards and Miriam Yeats took the lift down to the ground.
The ride was tense. This was in strict violation of the local government’s orders. They were supposed to be leaving, not disembarking.
As the cage opened Caliph was immediately accosted by six ragged-looking policemen from the ghetto’s ethically questionable municipality.
“You not allowed to get off,” one of them barked. His Trade was rough.
Caliph smiled broadly and walked up to the man, clearly the group’s leader based on the blue armband. “I understand. Can I talk to you for a minute?”
“We have orders. We don’t harbor you here.”
His use of harbor was chilling.
Caliph imagined the news hitting Mirayhr first, then Pandragor. Information about what had happened would spread quickly to Wardale, Waythloo, Greymoor and Iycestoke. Airships were already coming. Caliph didn’t know from where. But he knew his vessels were the targets. It would happen soon.
He kept smiling.
“I know, I know.” He raised his palms. “But,” he tried to get a word in edgewise against the man’s complaints, “but just … can we please step over here? Yes, this way. Thank you. I just want a quick word. That’s all.”
“We don’t harbor you,” the man said again. He was dirty. Poor. Clearly he took his responsibilities seriously.
“I understand. But I have people that need medical attention. We just need to pick them up. Then we will go.”
“No. You don’t moor here. You must go now.”
“We want to go now. We just need to pick up our friends. They came down on the gondolas. They’re right across the street there.” He gestured to the motley crowd gathered in the grass-striped shade of a large tree whose bark was worn shiny and covered with paint, presumably from loitering gangs. Doctors and patients peered across the street at him, looking anxious. They had been corralled by other policemen. Some of the patients were still on wheeled beds. Desperation and fear glistened on their faces. That they had not been taken to a proper jail told volumes about the way Seatk’r functioned.
“No. You don’t get off you ship.”
“I’m already off my ship. Can I please go talk to them?”
“Absolutely not.”
“All right, look, I have money.”
“No, no, no, no, no…”
“I can pay you.”
“Get back on you ship. Now!” The nose of the policeman’s bing-gun rose slightly. Caliph was unarmed. “All right.” He lifted his hands slightly. “All right, look. Will you just look at them? They need help. They’re hurt.”
“I don’t care. Get on you ship.”
“Okay, I’m getting on my ship. You see it up there? Yes?”
“Yes. Go up.”
“You see it?”