“Yes.”
“You see the guns?”
The policeman stopped. His pale blue eyes registered the slender shapes shadowing the Bulotecus’s undercarriage. They were moving. Aiming at his men. A bewildered fear filled his face. How could he have missed them? That must have been what was running through his head. He opened his mouth and started to scream at his fellows.
Caliph reached out and gripped the muzzle of the weapon. He pushed it up just as it popped like a champagne cork, right between his fingers. Men were screaming. Caliph’s other arm swung over the back of the officer’s neck, pulling him in tight, face to chest.
“Call them off! Call them off!” said Caliph.
The man was yelling in Ilek, which Caliph recognized but couldn’t understand. Caliph’s chest, however, had the undesirable effect of muffling the man’s voice.
From the Bulotecus, Caliph heard the gun turrets adjusting. He looked up. The cannons were aimed.
“Call them off!” Caliph shouted.
The man screamed in Ilek again, repeating something over and over. Caliph watched the policemen pause. They saw the cannons. Their terror was obvious. They dropped their weapons on the ground.
“All right, you’re going to let go of this.” Caliph tugged on the bing-gun. The officer let go.
Caliph snapped the weapon away. The officer stood up, hair and lapels rumpled. He looked angry and frightened, eyes darting between Caliph and the Bulotecus.
“It’s all right. They’re not going to fire. We just want our friends. Tell them to come over.”
Overhead, the Odalisque was motoring into position.
Things started running smoothly. The airship docked, the lift came down and people from the ground started boarding. Those on beds went first. Meanwhile the crews got sorted.
Based on the likely fact that warships were now coming for him, Caliph wanted to send the patients toward Stonehold on the slightly faster Odalisque. The more heavily armed Bulotecus, though not the ideal chase ship, would at least give him a fighting chance if he was engaged while pursuing Sena.
A mysterious set of polarized emotions went through him. Love. Disillusionment. Hard toxic lust left over from the dream. Longing and anger. He stuffed them.
The ships were loaded, the crews were ready and the situation on the ground was deteriorating. More municipal forces showed up just as Caliph ordered both ships to depart.
The Odalisque carried most of the physicians—Dr. Anselm included—the patients and some of his remaining soldiers. Its sleek dark shape turned north, heading for home.
Caliph felt a strange twinge at its departure. It had been Sena’s ship, built for her. It was going to Stonehold. He didn’t know exactly what that represented. Maybe nothing. All he knew was that he didn’t know where he was going or what Sena was doing, or whether his goal of surviving the summer was still achievable.
Dr. Baufent, despite her protest, had been assigned to the Bulotecus. She stood fuming only a moment on the port deck, watching the Odalisque leave. Then, in a businesslike manner, she said, “I’d better go check on Lady Rae.”
The plan was to deliver the priestess to Pandragor at the earliest convenience. She had been through enough and after raiding the medical chests like an addict, Caliph was worried she would quickly turn into a liability. Best case scenario was that she might serve as some kind of peace offering.
Sig had stayed by choice, Wade and Veech also. The Iycestokians’ decision seemed odd at first but in reality what else could they do? Mr. Wade could either sail to Isca or he could stay in Seatk’r and risk his treatment with the enraged municipality.
Caliph went over the new crew list that the copilot had just put into his hand.
After checking it, he stood on the deck for a while, watching his ship climb the Ghalla cliffs for what he hoped would be the final time.
Sandren’s copper domes and terra-cotta walls welled up over the shade-raked stones, glowing in the intense torrent of sunlight. And there, above the city-state, the white Pplarian ship still hovered, exactly where they had left it.
The pilot adjusted and the Bulotecus powered toward it. Caliph saw Sena’s ship nose forward, easing away from them.
As he expected, she wasn’t running.
She was leading him.
Where?
CHAPTER
28
The wind was cold and Caliph didn’t suppose this would end soon. He went to his stateroom for his coat before returning to the deck. From there he watched the ship buck up around the great horns of the Ghalla Peaks and ride southward over the precipices, surfing a waterfall of clouds.
The vertigo spun Caliph’s head like a top as he stared into the incomprehensible and ancient beauty of the south for the first time.
The Valley of Nifol was shaped like a grain scoop. It flared out to the east reaching nearly a hundred miles broad before its smooth green ribs dried against the arid jumble of Tibiun: the Stonelands. As the valley passed the choke point of the Ghalla Peaks, it funneled westward, dropping into the depths of the Great Cloud Rift.
Sixteen leagues across and two hundred long, the Rift separated north from south. Nifol flowed into the Rift, a mighty green river of vegetation that cascaded over the ruinous floor of Nurak Din21.
To the west, Caliph could see the Valley of Nifol’s misty extremities, where Sandren’s orchards and vineyards and farms soaked in the moisture that drained into the canyon. A pang went through Caliph that he could not stop to greet one farmer in particular.
The realization made him pat his side. A small lump in the pocket of his coat. He felt a pit in his stomach as he pulled it out. His birthday present. The little wooden figurine of him, the girl perched on his shoulders. He flipped it over, read the words.
No.
It had been a dream. Sitting across from her in that little kitchen. But the carving now burned like ice in his fingers. He stroked the smooth wooden facets made by Cameron’s knife. Obviously Sena had told Cameron what to carve. He swallowed and put it back into his pocket.
It wasn’t true. It couldn’t be true.
He refused to believe her anatomy would allow such a thing. It was a fever dream. I was sick.
He looked over the railing, against the icy wind and down into the misty peaceful-looking land where he hoped Cameron now lived quietly with his wife in the Valley of Nifol—preferably oblivious to the crisis that had just seized the world.
West of the Bulotecus, Caliph could see the yawning entrance to the Great Cloud Rift. Vast storms boiled there, rich empyrean thunderheads boomed faint and watery across the sky. It was one of the most incredible vistas he had seen and it was interrupted by Mr. Wade.
“King Howl, we need to talk.”
Caliph turned to see the man squeeze his eyes shut and sprinkle the insides of his glasses with unemotional tears.
“I know,” said Caliph.
“Yes. It is about time. We need to discuss, vigorously, what you’re doing right now and whether it’s the right course of action! There are a dozen leaderless countries at the moment.”
“What do you think we should do?”
Isham Wade sputtered a bit. “One might suppose she’s leading us into a trap!” His tone bordered on a screech. “Why else would she wait for us? Chasing her is lunacy! If you wait for the Iycestokian forces to show up—”
“There are Iycestokian forces on their way? How would you know that?”