Black Bottle (10 page)

Madam,

His Majesty, High King Caliph Howl, welcomes you to the Duchy of Stonehold. It would please the crown to acknowledge your recent charitable efforts here in Isca City with a token of his gratitude this evening at St. Remora at thirteen o’clock.

Please feel free to use the enclosed cruestone in order to confirm or decline at your earliest convenience.

Drown Vicunt,

High Seneschal, Isca Castle

Taelin’s knees, despite the reason for her coming to Stonehold, promptly gave out. She sat down in a wooden chair, clenching the note as if it had been delivered by Nenuln herself.

She worried that Sena was behind this but Palmer interrupted her thoughts.

“Lady Rae?” he whispered. “Lady Rae? Is they shuttin us down? Is that what it says?”

Taelin made the hand sign for no.

“He’s coming,” she said, looking at Palmer’s pale, wasted face, which hung in astonished folds like a wet sock back in the shadows of the volucroria. “He’s coming here. Tonight.”

*   *   *

“Y
OU’LL
want an engineer,” said Alani.

“Sig.”

“Sigmund Dulgensen?” Alani clarified.

“There’s only one Sig. He’ll come. He owes me. He owes me for the rest of his natural life.”

Alani wrote the name on his ledger. “Anyone else?”

Caliph tugged his lower lip. “I don’t think so.”

“I suggest we bring Lady Rae,” said Alani, “from the Church of Nenuln.” Dappled, snowy light danced through the office windows and played across the spymaster’s unsmiling features.

Caliph chuckled. “Why? And why would she agree to come with us?”

“Because I have it on good authority that her reason for being in Stonehold isn’t to assist the poor.”

“She’s a spy then?”

“Worse. An idealist.”

“I’m an idealist.”

“Hardly.” Alani’s scoff was brusque. His sharp features peered against the light, out into the city. “Lady Rae isn’t fond of Sena or the fact that there’s a temple in her name.”

Caliph steered his thoughts away from Sena. “So this Lady Rae is here because she’s upset over some crazies worshiping my—?” He wondered why the daughter of an attorney general had nothing better to do with her life.

“Precisely,” Alani cut in. “Did you know she had an audience with Sena last Day of Charms?”

“Sena does a lot I don’t know about.”

“The priestess left the castle looking flushed. What intrigues me is why Sena granted her the appointment.”

“I don’t know,” said Caliph. “But if she’s here because she hates Sena, why would we want to invite her—”

“We don’t care about her on that level,” said Alani. “We care about how we appear to the south and what they print. I’m sure if you make a donation to her church tonight … she’ll see you in person of course in the best possible light … and then I’ll invite her to accompany us tomorrow. Not only will she feel obligated, but I’m sure she’ll also view it as an opportunity to go another round with Sena and perhaps this time get the upper hand.”

“Not very subtle.”

“Subtle enough. Did you know she spent time in a mental ward?”

Caliph raised his eyebrows. “How do you know she’s free for a visit tonight?”

“I’ve already made arrangements.”

Caliph grunted. “You know I don’t like it when you—”

“Yes. I know.” Alani’s lips formed an immaterial pout.

Caliph couldn’t help smiling. Just slightly. “I’ll trust you on this. Whatever edge you can get us with the Pandragonians, I’ll happily take.”

Alani inclined his head slightly, tucked his ledger under one arm and quietly left the room.

*   *   *

W
ORD
of Taelin’s efforts with the poor had fueled a hot controversy. After all, St. Remora was in Lampfire Hills. This wasn’t Maruchine, or Thief Town. Outside of the little cavities of decay along Knife Street and Seething Lane, Lampfire Hills was an upscale borough. Critics were already blaming her for luring unsavory elements out of Winter Fen’s slums and into the proper neighborhoods of Heath Street. Others decided it had become chic for the upper crust to stroll down and serve food at the shelter.

That the High King was willing to publicly recognize and support her efforts clearly meant that he wasn’t worried about criticism. Even the squatters took pride in scrubbing the church anew, with the understanding that the supreme leader of the duchy would be arriving today: to see them.

Taelin expected them to utter slurs but, to her surprise, not one of them did. In fact, she began to understand that they did not blame the crown for their lives. Rather they blamed themselves and, in Palmer’s case at least, thought of it as a personal choice.

Early in the afternoon, Taelin reread the message.

She still didn’t trust it. This was not Pandragor and Sena Iilool was certainly not her friend. She sorted through her larder for ideas, pulled out a can of freeze-dried berries and sighed.
He won’t eat. But I have to put out a spread … something for his bodyguards at least.
She guessed there would be journalists and ambrotypists and city watchmen by the dozen.

Slightly after noon she began to notice that the whole of Knife Street between Mark and Heath was barricaded off.

His motivation must be purely political.

She couldn’t imagine Caliph Howl taking a sincere interest in Nenuln’s church. Not that it mattered. She wasn’t going to take his money, even if he offered any.
What would a “token of his gratitude” consist of, anyway?
She tried not to think about it. Besides, she could afford her current expenses better than she could afford to be financially obligated to the entity she had come here to depose.

Tonight was going to be
her
stage with litho-slides and editorials; her chance to politely decline his assistance and tell the press what Nenuln’s church was really about.

*   *   *

B
Y
half past twelve, winter hurled night at the city and the sunset transformed icicles on St. Remora’s eaves into jewels. This far north, the planet’s angle around the sun produced sunsets that lasted for hours.

Shortly, a knight in chemiostatic armor pounded on the front doors just as Taelin was opening them to check the approach. When they swung into the vestibule, the narthex seemed to lose one of its walls, staring vastly down on Mark Street.

The knight greeted her with a brusque smile and stepped out of the cold strawberry evening, armor glowing from little emerald panes of holomorphic glass. Once she had invited him in, a detachment of men poured into the church, inspecting rooms and establishing a perimeter with gate-crashing efficiency. It took less than five minutes. Taelin could see men holding flash handles. Bulbs popped in the murky street where gas lamps dwindled toward Knife. Then, Taelin heard the jingle of bells. A dark shape slipped off Mark, up St. Remora’s private causeway and came to a stop on the terrace.

Against the sky’s pennants of ripped pink and winter turquoise, Taelin saw a man dressed in black step from a sleigh heaped with luxuriant fur. He wore a gold clasp at his throat and looked directly at her.

I am an emissary of Nenuln!
She chastised herself as the High King’s hand floated up to help Sena.

Twined in white fur, immaculate as the snow-draped roofs, the High King’s witch drew her hood back while Caliph Howl waited for her. In the twilight, Sena’s short gold curls tossed fitfully in the wind, eyes searching momentarily, wary of the subjacent streets.

Her gaze found Taelin as the eleven lenses on St. Remora’s facade dumped muddy orange light over her face. An eternal instant passed between them. Then the High King caught Sena’s hand and pulled her like a kite through air.

*   *   *

T
AELIN
imagined decadent sweets imported from Yorba, silk sheets as rich as cocoa butter. She imagined gorgeous, wrought-iron lanterns throwing candlelight across a lavish palace bedroom dripping beneath the moons. Under creamy light, the High King and his witch were moving together. Perfect bodies. Serpentine rhythms. Indulgent. Erotic. Pernicious to the soul. Sena’s lips pulled earnestly, her perfect teeth bit tenderly, siphoning the High King, drop by sparkling drop into an ewer full of souls …

*   *   *

“Y
ES.
Come in.” Taelin inhaled sharply.

The narthex was freezing. The knight helped her close the door. A crowd of people with official clearance milled as another flashbulb branded its ugly ghost onto her retinae.

“Thank you. Nothing for me,” the High King was saying. His smile was cordial. The smells of mocha and warm, iced pastries (filled with rehydrated berries) had already fogged the air.

Taelin watched Sena’s delicate fingers pluck snowflakes from her hair. “I’ll have loring tea,” said Sena.

More flashbulbs and conversational laughter. Taelin watched the press fawn over the High King’s witch while Sena reciprocated.

“Lady Rae,” a man in business attire leaned into her ear, “we’re going to do the donation over here.” His hands, one behind her back and one gesturing in the direction he meant for her to go, never actually touched her.

More flashbulbs. Taelin was getting a headache. She smiled and blinked and followed the man’s directions.

Caliph Howl stood near a table with a coffer on it, smiling exactly as all politicians smiled. His hands were folded in front of him until the man guided her into position. Then a spot right next to the High King opened up and Caliph put his arm around her.

That was precisely the moment that a huge amorphous shadow burst out of the chancel into the hall and caused Taelin to cry out. No one else seemed to notice the shape. They looked at her instead.

Taelin looked from the undulating apparition toward Sena.

Forked, interwoven shadows fluttered over the witch’s cheeks. Her stare seemed to gouge Taelin’s body, excavating flesh and bone and soul like an occult steam shovel.
What’s happening? Why did I come here? Why am I in Stonehold? This is … anserine.

*   *   *

T
IME
seems to change. Chemiostatic mechanisms in the church’s walls are groaning. Everyone is talking. Sipping cups and smiling while the High King reveals a coffer. Litho-slides of the moment are flashed by journalists in the wings.

Glowing dials are spinning. The air is warped. Taelin can see a mansion on a hill … its windows swell with red skies. Sena’s mouth is full of whispers. Her curls are blowing. Her sapphirine eyes drool perfect rivulets: chokecherry red. Taelin hears the great black shadow that has slid out of the chancel shriek like gulls above the sea. Its shape is enormous and impossible to describe. Taelin feels herself stumble and fall. Then a woman’s beautiful lips—perhaps Sena’s—are pressed against hers, kissing her deeply. She feels the probing of an eager tongue.

Taelin opens her mouth to scream but something heavy dislodges from the back of her throat. It bubbles out of her mouth like semi-molten beef fat … with the exception that it ululates and squeals.

“There she is.”

A smiling face hovers over her. Not Sena’s.

“We lost you there for a minute. Let’s move her to that cot.” She can feel strong hands lift and position her on the uncomfortable canvas. She lets the nightmare go, gladly trading it for reality—even though it doesn’t feel real yet. Things are only marginally better.

Caliph is leaning over her with eyes the color of wet snakeskin. He is looking at her pupils. She can tell he is attempting a prognosis. But his anxiety over her is the anxiety of a stranger for another stranger.

For a moment she lets herself look into his eyes.

What’s happening? She feels frantic and confused.

From behind the High King, she hears someone break the silence with a joke. “It’s okay folks … she’s just never seen that much money before.” A chorus of good-natured laughter.

But a flashbulb pops and Caliph’s irritation shows. “Please! No more lithos!” Caliph’s voice is smooth but forceful. She sees a knight grab the offender and move him instantly toward the door.

A woman in a red trench has appeared.

“I don’t know what I’m looking for,” says Caliph. “Is she all right?”

It is the physician’s turn to look at Taelin’s eyes. She makes Taelin squeeze her fingers. Her face is kind but not as kind as Caliph Howl’s. “I think she’ll be just fine,” the doctor says.

Taelin sits up and summons a smile for the crowd. “I’m sorry.” Dazed amity leaks out of fractures in the resolve she has put on specifically for the event. “I don’t usually faint.” There are more jokes … this time about the High King’s good looks.

Taelin sees the chapel as though its gravity has shifted and the witch is at its core. The huge shadow has disappeared. Sena is looking at her with a curious smirk. Not cruel. Rather ingratiating … as though she has done Taelin a favor.

Taelin scowls and stands up. She remembers she is being scrutinized. She smiles again and touches her forehead where there is a faint scar.

The physician produces a glass syringe.

“Oh Gods, no. No. I’m fine.” She holds her hands up and maintains the artificial grin despite the fact that the room is spinning. “I’m so sorry. I haven’t eaten much today.” She sits down again, this time in a padded chair that has been scrambled from a nearby room.

Caliph pats her gently on the back and puts a glass of water into her hand. “We don’t have to do this tonight,” he whispers. His voice is only for her. Too kind. She suspects him of ulterior motives but smothers her skepticism with graciousness she coughs up for the press.

“No, really. I’ll be all right.” She stands up. Everybody claps.

She can see the Iscan trade bar in the coffer. Gold. Its value must be extraordinary. She doesn’t know what to say. She says thank you. She lets the High King’s aides move her into position by the table. They shine lights on the two of them. The ambrotypist begins with a litho for the papers and then takes two images on treated plates of glass.