“I’m telling you they’re on their way.”
Caliph’s eyes scanned Isham. He had some device, some southern holomorphy that let him communicate. Isham Wade didn’t need birds to send messages, did he? Caliph hated him.
“You see,” said Mr. Wade, raising a meaty finger with a jeweled ring—there were little gears in the ring, moving, keeping time, “right now, and I mean no disrespect, but this is all highly suspect. And while one might think she’s leading us into a trap, I for one don’t think so. She was waiting for you, see? And you are following her. This doesn’t look like you’re chasing her down,” he emphasized. “It looks more like a coordinated escape.”
Caliph couldn’t believe his ears. “Are you serious? You saw what happened! If I’m … If we’re trying to escape what the fuck was I doing back in Sandren? You think I couldn’t have planned that better? Why would I let a pack of Shradnae witches board my ship? Better yet, why in Emolus’ name would Sena need to board a Pplarian ship? Why not just stay here with me?”
“If she were here it would make it rather difficult to hide a conspiracy from me,” Isham said patly.
Caliph wanted to scream. If I had planned this, none of my people would be dead right now and you most certainly would be, he thought.
Mr. Wade remained diplomatic. “I’m not accusing you—”
“Oh, yes you are,” said Caliph.
“I’m only telling you what I think would be in your best political interest: to wait for the Iycestokian forces.”
“Well I’m telling you what I think is in the best interest of everyone still alive,” said Caliph. The edge in his tone seemed to put Mr. Veech, in particular, on edge. Veech, the bodyguard, was tall and lean with a head like a paint can. A thin sandy bowl cut draped the corners of his eminent skull and seemed to press down on the dark festering scowl that pressurized his face.
“Well I think you might be … disturbed at the moment,” Wade said, backing away. “And Iycestoke won’t stand for this. You’re abusing an official diplomat, you know? You’re holding me hostage.” He turned and, with Mr. Veech in tow, retreated from the deck.
“You chose to be here!” Caliph called after him. “Twice!”
He was so sick of this. A bird had been sent—and good thing. The Council would be reinstated, at least until he got back. For now he was glad to be out here in the cold wind. No more tax reports. No more sniveling, pretentious burgomasters. No more pollution. No more diplomacy with motherfucking tyrants he’d rather punch in the throat than accept another gift from. No more crime reports, threat assessments, late-night populist chicanery. No more sycophants and traitors. No more newspapers and journalists with their endless chronicles detailing the snares and booby traps he’d failed to avoid.
Ahead, the great Tebesh Plateau—which supported the Six Kingdoms—spread like the edge of a lime torte. Its magnificent strata swept west, piling up, layer on layer, two miles deep.
As the Bulotecus plowed toward it, the dew-frosted valley of Nifol pulled up into mighty walls. A lake glimmered through miles of silver haze and then, against a great buffet of wind, they were over it, powering south, the lip of the plateau passing just underneath them, falling away.
The new landscape, a lemon-limey karoo crusted with flowers and gravelly gray rock, supported spiky plants for which Caliph had no name. It felt like they were skimming the ground. Clouds were sparse and great mud towers built by glass ants fingered the sky. The weather was instantly warmer and Caliph took off his coat. Lace-winged flies began gathering on the railing, on the cables, hovering in the shadow of the gasbags, tails looped in mating.
Miles to the south, amid nearly flawless skies, Sena’s ship maintained its lead. It was clearly faster than the Bulotecus. Still he had to try, didn’t he? He felt responsible for what had happened at Sandren. He had to arrest her. That sounded preposterous. If she had obliterated all those zeppelins what could he do against her? He had the witches on his side. Hopefully that counted for something.
If Sena’s ship got within firing distance he would aim for the gasbags; try to bring it down. Then the witches could help apprehend her. He would question her personally. Or not. That might be too much of a breach. Maybe the police … maybe it would have to be an international inquiry, formulated with Isham Wade.
Caliph tried to remember whether Sena had spoken when the fleet of zeppelins had gone up in brown mist. Would gagging her work? If she couldn’t speak, maybe her holomorphy would be dammed. He tried to imagine his men wrestling her to the ground, snapping on shackles, forcing a ball into her mouth. He tried to imagine her conviction, her sentence, her tongue cut out. Afterward they would put her to death.
Why had she done this? Why was this happening? He looked around but the deck was still empty.
The witches had retired to their quarters. Sig was probably alone, getting drunk or perhaps already in a medicated coma—like Lady Rae.
Caliph went back to his stateroom, dreading but knowing what he needed to do. He shut the door and locked it. He hung his coat up and noticed Taelin’s necklace still hanging in the closet. He took it down and put it in his pocket. He would return it to her before they dropped her off. The pair of books Sena had left him sat on a narrow shelf. He pulled them down. They had become important. His only clue to the madness she had unleashed today. He opened up the windows, turned on all the lights, consciously gathering as much brightness around him as he could for what was sure to be an openmouthed plunge into darkness.
Time is meaningless
—these notes from my 173rd tincture journey
The correct tense has eluded me to the waste of half a dozen sheets. Writer of Time, indeed! I have now decided to settle on the past, in the interest of clarity, and describe this tincture journey as if all that I arranged during its course had already happened.
First, let me say that I took this road because of failure. The platinum wires I crafted for my desert queen did not work. The ones that overlay my arms and head in the jungle may be equally insufficient. I tried them one last time with Nathaniel before moving to white ink. His suicide was proof positive that everything had failed—again.
Because of the failure of the wires, to conduct the requisite power, I did not even bother darkening the rubies that I entombed with my desert queen. They remain beneath the rotten orange crags that dwindle into nothing and cleave the Valley of Dust from the deserts to the west. Her eyes are still scarlet and in her day, the stones I used, were worth a thousand white slaves.
But I digress.
With Arkhyn I did draw blood and numbers down into the corundum and the gems I wired to my skull turned black. I will not discuss the particulars of my extant odds of success or how exactly I shall attempt to ensure fruition.
That is not the point of this entry.
The point of this entry is to outline clearly, to my successor in these matters, that I do not intend to fail, and that I have made arrangements.
To wit, I returned to Isca City in the shoes of a solitary man who was not Nathaniel Howl but rather his contemporary; a man whose long shadow and admirable wealth managed to charm the bourgeoisie.
This man, Mr. Dei, was indeed a foreigner. What he lacked in official paperwork, he made up for with charisma and eccentricity by the yard.
Within his shoes, I bought the church.
The Herald covered the acquisition and noted the history of the building, along with my “unusual” plans for its restoration. It did this on page twelve in an article exactly two hundred twenty-two words long. Once the restoration was complete, I let the loan lapse, Mr. Dei returned to his country and both he and St. Remora passed once more into obscurity.