Black Bottle (37 page)

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?”

“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.

The dials I installed connected to cables that snaked down through the chapel’s entrails, into the basement and out through the foundations into several of the most probable dimensions.

That is a joke, by the way. No, I don’t expect you to laugh.

Actually I am quite certain of my figures. The dials have been calibrated. The cables that connect them to other worlds will carry the sound of their ticking. In other words, once my shade … or rather, when
I
have gone walking, I shall be able to
hear
them despite the fact I will have no ears. They will resonate with my pneuma and call me back under a variety of conditions.

The church itself will be my nose, my eyes, my ears and fingers when I will have none. It will tell me when the time is right.

It will also be my mouth.

This is the unfortunate part of the contingency; one that I am not pleased to be initiating, but alas, the tinctures have caught up with me and I was forced to make a choice: use what few journeys I had left to try and find a replacement (hardly certain) or create the machine that would allow me some measure of power at the end of time.

I chose the latter.

Once I have gone walking, I will have no mouth. I will have no blood. Already I am bloodless, baking rotten in the jungle’s heat. A perfect algorithm and the grume of every bird or mammal that passes overhead cannot hold this form together another year. The jungle will have its way.

So I will go walking, in far places.

I will leave the stink that has gotten into my skin, my hair. But St. Remora will call me back when the time is right.

I used many journeys to find the correct building. In alternate timelines my granddaughter examined the empty shell of Teapetal Wax, an old factory in Growl Mort, an elementary school on the corner of Grindosh and Bane. But eventually I found it—St. Remora—the one that
she
would buy.

She will also find my gold in the box I sent to Pandragor, while I dragged my servants to the jungle. She will carry it for me, while I will lack hands. The church will know of her arrival.

My successor has been chosen, though they will not call her my successor. They will call her Sslia, Deliverer, and say I was a fraud. But it will be my numbers that she will use to slip through. It will be my plans she confiscates from diverse libraries and vaults. She will find the way. She will not use wires or jewels because They will give her the set They never gave to me.

I have foreseen it. I am still a Writer and Eater of Time. Yet Their logic eludes me. Why have They chosen her instead of me? Because she is Hjolk-trull? Because They wish to toy with idle irony. Perhaps They laugh in Their dreaming cities in the dark; perhaps They think she will kill herself making the ink.

She will lack the blood to do so.

Perhaps They laugh at the happenstance arrangements of the patterns, of the movements and relationships of men. She will love him. She will kill him for the ink. They could never have wrung such a catastrophe from me.

I care only for my daughter.

The book will tell me of my successor’s arrival. I have put my mark on its pages. When she opens it, I will know.

Yes, you. You: SIENAE IILOOL.

I see your cunning face.

They will write Their runes in your skin and for a time you will try to fight against those strictly metered designs—clabbered in their loveliness. But I know, in the end, you will find them too gluey, too consolidated to work against. The runes will trace your every movement. Your every action will be known to Them. You will give in. And then, my dear, I will return from my far wanderings. I will bargain with you for my daughter’s release.

By the time you read this, it will be too late for you. You may think you can escape without me, but you will be wrong. You will find it in the math. Look. Take all the time you want. You may think I am powerless now. I have no mouth to speak, no blood to draw. But you are wrong.

St. Remora is my mouth.

I can open it. There is an eleventh dial that connects with Them, down below the church, in a womb of vesicated black. It is the trigger of my weapon, my postlude, my ultimatum. Do not tempt me with its use.