Black Bottle (50 page)

Miriam wound the crank. Its dials wobbled and glowed but the sound, the ticking, was inaudible under the red-purple screens of sand that ripped and howled around them. For her the roar was one-sided, mono-directional, entering her brain only from the right side of her head.

She assessed the survivors: Lady Rae was sitting up; the physician seemed fine. Surprisingly, one of the diplomats and a single bodyguard were also here. Both alive. Isham Wade had been hauled out with serious injuries. His shirt was torn open and Miriam noticed that his chest was dappled with silver spots.

“How did he get it?” said Autumn.

“I don’t know.”

“Are we staying here? Where is King Howl?”

*   *   *

M
R.
Veech’s body could not be extricated from the crushed metal that cocooned him. Caliph found it difficult to care. He continued searching the wreckage, gut aching, skin clammy because this wasn’t a generalized search for bodies. This was a specific search—for Sig.

Caliph’s pale green torch zipped back and forth through the darkness inside the airship.

“The Iycestokians—” said Owain.

“We’re looking for Sig,” said Caliph.

Any moment now. They’d find him.
If I survived,
thought Caliph,
so can he.

Caliph and his bodyguard scoured the areas they could reach, where the framework had not bent in on itself. Caliph trudged through sand. Back and forth. He had already checked some of the rooms twice.

“I don’t understand where he is,” said Caliph.

“Maybe he’s found the shelter,” said Owain. It was toxic optimism. Caliph knew Owain’s job was to protect the king, not search for Sigmund Dulgensen.

“Mother of Mizraim.”

“Did you find him?” The beam of Owain’s torch lanced over Caliph’s shoulder.

It was not Sigmund.

Rather, Alani’s casket rested on its side. Still sealed. It had broken loose from its ties. One end was buried in deep sand that had poured through the ruptured hull. Its fall had crushed a Baashan ombrometer.

The gray metal of the lid was beautifully and simply beveled. One of the generic caskets stored on all zeppelins in case of disaster, Caliph ran his hand along it, feeling the smooth endeavor of human dignity.

“Majesty?”

The sound of sand plinking and giggling over the metal had become so monotonous that Caliph didn’t notice it until something—the pitch, the ferocity—changed. He could hear a humming sound while sand whined in through the chinks from directions it had not come before.

Gouts of bloody orange light coned the sky, revealing massive banks of raging particulate.

“It’s the Iycestokians.” Owain took Caliph by the arm and led him toward the darkest reaches of the jumbled space they were in.

“I’m going to find a blanket, something to cover you. We’ll put some sand over it—” He was still talking when Caliph heard a thump and Owain fell over.

Hands grabbed him. How could they see without light?

Caliph didn’t resist. He let his assailants pick him up, move him effortlessly out of the wreckage and into the blinding ruddy turbulence.

In the light, he could see faces covered with bizarre masks: each like the soft back of a beetle uncensored by carapace or wings. Their weapons clung to their bodies, suckling primates, moving, hugging the shadows of their torsos, looking at Caliph seemingly without the assistance of their wearers.

His captors asked him nothing and Caliph returned their silence. They obviously knew who he was. There were no mysteries on either side of this process. As they strapped him into a harness that would haul him into the belly of the Iycestokian vessel, defying the might of the storm, Caliph’s only internalized question was
Where is Sig?

CHAPTER

38

Phisku 18

Archbishop Abimael,

As you know, I went north under the assumption shared by the consociation: that the Duchy of Stonehold was engaged in mythmaking and blasphemy and that those activities might form the basis of a new theocracy which would then attempt to legitimize aggressive northern expansionism.

Right now, the papers are full of news both about what happened at the conference and the disease that now seems to be everywhere, spreading so far in less than a week. I hope you are well. I hope you have managed to escape.

I know we’ve had our differences. I know most of the members will view this letter, since they will receive similar copies, as another outlandish claim springing from the Church of Nenuln. I am well aware that none of you believe in my vision.

Be that as it may, it is my responsibility to inform you that what happened at Sandren was not a solvitriol weapon. It was not a weapon of any kind, as far as I can tell. What I mean is that I believe strongly that the Duchy of Stonehold is not making myths. I believe Sena Iilool is a god.

Furthermore I believe she is solely responsible for the mass murders at Sandren and for the propagation of the pandemic in which we find ourselves.

I know I have somehow disappointed you since the days I came to seminary. My father is a Gringling. Trust between us now is, I suppose, thin and you may wonder why I would make these claims by mail rather than bringing them before the full fellowship. It is because I am afraid.

So afraid that I don’t know what to do. Father will take care of us. I believe this will end badly for all of us, that the end may really, truly be close at hand. I am sending this to you so that you can prepare the people in your church, let them know that this must be part of some grand design if it suits you. The Ublisi ruined my party.

Abimael, believe me, I no longer rely on Nenuln. I no longer believe in the sun

is brighter

than I thought.

Give my love to my parents.

You are all going to die.

Sincerely,

Arrian Glimendula

Taelin put the pen down. Her hand hurt from writing. As she massaged out her palm she looked at her wrist. The configuration of silver spots had changed, as if the disease was struggling to conquer new regions of her skin only to lose ground in the rear. The places that had originally itched, where the creature in Sandren had grabbed her, were now clean, but other areas of her arm had become infected.

She noticed that the top of her forearm was as silvery as the aluminum desk she sat at.

It frightened her in an aimless, alienated way.
My son is dead,
she thought, and stared into the little vase of flowers on the desk.
Bitten to death by nyaffle in the deep desert.
She didn’t care about the plague.

The Iycestokians were treating her well. They had given her a private cabin, even if the door was locked.

She reached up and drew the curtains from the window above her desk. She could see a throng of Iycestokian troops sifting through the wreckage of the
Bulotecus,
searching for something.

She felt poignantly sad for Caliph Howl, even if he
had
done horrible things to her. His lovely ship lay broken, partly buried in a pool of cobalt-colored sand. The aft portion rested on the orange of the surrounding desert, as if it had crashed into a shallow oasis.

She thought about her night with Caliph. It had been ceremonial. She had shared him with her goddess. A kind of sacrament. It was not a mistake. It had been beautiful. It had brought her closer to Sena Iilool, who secretly
was
the goddess of light: with the sun streaming out of her back.

There was no difference anymore between the Church of Nenuln and
the Fane of Sienae Iilool: Omnispecer.
They were the same.

Taelin clutched her demonifuge tightly.
I’m supposed to be getting ready,
she thought.
I need to get ready.
She reached for her toiletries and pulled out her razor. She pressed it firmly into her palm and sliced her hand open. Then she held her injury toward the ceiling. “Use me,” she said. “Use me for your designs!”

Taelin watched the red-black rivulet roll across her wrist. It followed gravity down her forearm as if she had crushed a pomegranate in her hand. Droplets gathered at her elbow.

After a few moments she turned on the water from the little pressurized tank above her shower. She used the blood like gel, lathering her legs. When water entered the cut it burnt like crazy but she wet her razor and began shaving her body anyway.

Corwin says it snows on the mainland,
said the inside-girl.

“It does. But not here. We’re too far south.”

That’s sad. I was hoping to see it. But anyway, the sunlight is lovely.

“I know. I love the sun. My goddess is the goddess of light.” The razor fell from Taelin’s hand. She was trembling. She had cut herself in many places.

Let’s get cleaned up.

“By the Eyes, I’ve made a mess. What do you think will happen next?”

I don’t know. But Sena said we’re going to open the door to the future. Isn’t that wonderful?

*   *   *

W
HATEVER
gasses had kept the hylden’s organs afloat must have leaked out, perhaps through perforations caused by thousands of glassy teeth, perhaps from rents made by the storm.

But the storm was gone now. Clear skies held sway. And Miriam could look out from her tiny window, across the grisly green and silver landscape of blubber, sunk into rubbery piles and great bubbled domes. The hylden was a much larger gasbag than what had collapsed around the
Bulotecus.

What it really looked like, she thought, was that some foul god had cleared its throat. Its stink was powerful. More so today than yesterday. She watched its surface, crawling with sparkling nyaffle and wondered if the subtle metallic tinge meant that the hylden too had fallen victim to the disease.

The Iycestokians had processed the qloin. Miriam had allowed it. This was part of getting aboard, evaluating the situation, determining what to do next. Her eyes strayed up from the vast carcass to where Sena’s ship hovered. The Pplarian craft was surrounded on all sides. There was little drama. The Iycestokian ships with their huge black hoods and undulating pieces, ringed her in all three dimensions but no guns had been fired.

“What is she doing?” asked Autumn.

“I don’t know. Waiting for us I guess.”

Earlier, the Iycestokians had gagged all three of them and shackled their hands behind their backs. Gags and shackles now lay in a neat pile in the corner of the cell. The cell consisted of a cramped but clean space with two berths, a window and a wall of bars. Miriam didn’t suppose the ship took prisoners often.

On the other side of the bars was a narrow hallway that ran past the cell, the ends of which stretched beyond what perspective allowed Miriam to see.

The floor was textured duralumin and the wall that faced the cell was white. There was, however, a solitary guard.

It sprouted from a simple rectangular pot lined with what looked like shallow brown soil. The pot sat on a short corbelled shelf, eight feet away according to Miriam’s diaglyphs.

In the pot was an organ, pale and rigid as a Pplarian phallus and covered with what looked like tiny black eyes. It rose vertically, at an organic angle. Fungoid. Whether it could see or hear or both, Miriam didn’t know. She spoke in cant to Autumn. “Are you going to bite your tongue?” She was only half-joking.

“If I have to.” Autumn smirked.

“You’d think they’d have come to check on us by now,” said Anjie. She nudged the pile of restraints with her foot.

“I imagine they’ll bring breakfast,” said Miriam.

After a short interval, Autumn scowled and said, “Can you hear that?”

Miriam had no idea what she was talking about.

“It sounds like—”

“I hear it,” said Anjie. “It sounds like someone screaming through the wall.”

Miriam still couldn’t hear it. “Maybe they’re torturing the High King.”

Autumn looked out the window at Sena’s ship. “You know,” she said. “There’s enough blood on this boat to jump across.”

Anjie nodded.

“There’s only three of us left,” said Miriam. “I think we should regroup. I think we should go back to Skellum.”

“I agree,” said Anjie. “We should regroup.”

“But she’s right there,” said Autumn.

Miriam didn’t know how to say it. Yes, Sena was right there. But Miriam knew Sena, far better, and Sena frightened Miriam. How did she communicate the wisdom of that fear without demoralizing her ancillas?

A door clanged open at the end of the hallway. The sound was accompanied by the loud echoing rattle of a wheeled cart moving over the textured floor.

It stopped almost immediately.

“I’m not eating!” The sharp voice of Dr. Baufent made Miriam smile. She could picture the physician sulking three or four cells down.

The sound of plastic scraping against metal was followed by a crash. Autumn looked at Miriam and covered her mouth. Only Anjie remained grim in the aftermath of what had probably been an entire tray of food, scattering across the floor.

A man spoke with a thick Ilek accent. “Suit yourself. Maybe at lunch you’ll be hungry.” While he spoke, Miriam heard keys being applied, probably to the physician’s door.

“What’s that?” asked Baufent.

“Nothing,” said the man. “Just going to draw a little blood. We have to make sure you’re healthy.”

Miriam looked at Autumn.

“I’m healthy as a horse!” snapped Baufent. “Get your hands off me.”

“They’re checking for the plague,” whispered Anjie.

Miriam nodded and put a finger to her lips.

“Please try to relax,” the man was saying.

“What’s going on out there?” demanded Baufent. “I heard screaming.”

“Nothing,” said the man. “Everything is fine.”

“Ouch!” Baufent cried. “You cradle-custard … ouch! Sozzling … are you even trained to do this?”

“I’m sorry,” said the man. “I’m doing my best.” But his voice was tense and strained. He did not sound as if everything was fine.