The Last Page (62 page)

N
s appeared and leapt up onto the bed. The cat sniffed her, sniffed the book and then retreated. Sena closed her eyes and tried to imagine what she would find inside. Wonders. Miracles in ink.

The second piece of news Caliph heard was that David Thacker had been interrogated with mixed results, most of which indicated he knew less than anyone had hoped.

Zane Vhortghast showed up in person with this trivial bit of information and seemed to hover in the room.

Caliph expressed his desire to go and speak with David personally, a desire Zane keenly discouraged.

“You’re an old friend. Regardless of how you interact with him, a familiar face will probably console him—and thereby compromise our ability to—”

Blah. Blah. Blah,
thought Caliph.

Finally the spymaster left.

Caliph decided to visit David.

He grabbed a bite and went to his next appointment. The autopsy report out of West Gate, hand delivered by Dr. Baufent, the physician who had performed the procedure.

She was a short powerful woman with graying hair and a healthy complexion. She wore the red trench coat indicative of her career. Her apparel and her demeanor reflected a no-nonsense mentality. Just like the instruments she used, her remarks were concise and painfully direct.

“They haven’t any brains.”

That was the first thing out of her mouth.

“What?”

“Their heads are empty. Apparently they’ve enough tissue in their spinal columns to do the thinking—which would explain a variety of nonlethal
wounds I catalogued to the glabella, occipital, temporal and other bones of the skull. On top of that, the bones themselves are not only extremely dense but also pliant. These creatures must be capable of absorbing incredible external force. My question is why?”

“What about the others? The men who wore the gas masks?” Caliph was as horrified as he was enthralled.

“Yes, they seem to be less whatever it is that their taller thinner counterparts are. More human if you will. They certainly have brains. Which brings me to the other curious thing. In the tall ones there are vestigial organs one would expect to find in . . . well, fish. Cirri, pyloric caecae, that sort of thing. The initial data would seem to indicate that our tall thin friends are actually only chips off the old block—not a race unto themselves. Like breeding a horse with a donkey, you wind up with a freak.”

“So you’re saying what? Humans are screwing fish?”

Dr. Baufent simpered at his vulgarity. “I don’t know what’s happening, your majesty. Cross-copulation on the scale it would take to create hordes of these creatures seems unlikely.”

“Then what do you suppose?”

“I never suppose anything.” Obviously she read the papers and chose to dislike Caliph Howl. “I’m still running some tests. I’ll let you know more when I do.”

During their conversation Caliph had assimilated quite a bit of additional information. Dr. Baufent’s report detailed the existence of mucus glands beneath the skin which she said would help reduce friction and proliferate the phenomenon the guards had experienced: weapons striking glancing blows. It would also protect the creatures from various forms of bacterial infection. A list of iridophores and xanthophores and other discoveries followed in a twelve-page dossier.

Caliph shook Dr. Baufent’s hand and thanked her for her time. After she left, he tossed the report aside.

He climbed the stairs to the high tower and stood alone, looking at the sea.

Meaningless skirmishes along the river and consistent losses in the mountains defined the war that he was losing.

And,
thought Caliph,
to top it off there was Roric Feldman . . . which I suppose serves me right.

The door to the high tower opened and closed.

Caliph did not turn around. He heard Sena sit down.

Sena looked at him. The reflection from the glass made his face gray. She remembered sitting in the library at Desdae, watching him read.

“Do you love me, Caliph?” She felt immediately ridiculous after saying it.

He nodded, the worst kind of answer she could imagine.

“Someone’s here to see you.”

“Someone always is,” Caliph replied dryly. The waves soothed him.

Sena stood up and moved toward the door. “He must be related to you. His last name is Howl.”

Caliph whirled. “Where is he?”

“Where do you think? The grand hall.”

Caliph’s heart began to beat again. He kissed her lightly and hurried down the steps of the tallest tower in Stonehold.

Cameron stood gazing into the fire, watching blue worms of flame eat the white and pink undersides of a log.

“Cameron?”

The man bowed.

Cameron seemed to step out of Caliph’s head, turn around and look at him. A figment turned to flesh and blood. The dream-man’s tan looked burned-in, weather-beaten brown. His thinning blond hair was still in the ponytail Caliph remembered. Cameron’s waist seemed to have grown but not out of proportion. He had a powerful presence, not much taller than Caliph, but with a build that far exceeded the younger man’s lean musculature. Cameron’s blue eyes were exactly as Caliph remembered them.

“You seem smaller,” Caliph said.

Cameron chuckled. “You don’t.”

“My father’s . . . well, I didn’t think my note to him had been read or, if it had, maybe he didn’t have time to write to you before . . .”

“I know.” Cameron nodded sympathetically. “I took my time getting here. Stopped along the way. Talked with soldiers on the move.” He rubbed his chin. “I wasn’t all that sure about coming back—lots of ghosts here for me.”

“I suppose I can relate. Please, sit down.” Caliph pulled a rope and told the servant it summoned to bring wine.

“I’d just like some warm milk.” Cameron smiled. “Myrrh feeds me what she calls secrets—strict diet and wine upsets my stomach nowadays.”

“Secrets?”

“Supposed to help me live as long as,” he glanced around and whispered, “as long as your kind.” A ghost of a smile crossed his lips. He leaned back and rubbed his knuckles. “I think she’s far too optimistic. Besides, it feels like I’ve been around longer than these walls and I could use the rest.”

Caliph sat down and interlaced his hands.

“I don’t—really know what to say.” He searched furiously. “I hardly remember Myrrh—not to mention anything about you.”

“I don’t suppose you do.” Cameron’s blue eyes went back to the fire. “What do you remember?”

“I remember kites.”

Cameron laughed.

“I remember sparring,” Caliph continued. “I remember the little wooden figures you carved for me. The halgrin was my favorite. I still have them.” He shifted as though momentarily uncomfortable. “I remember some brown fans . . . police swords . . . holding on around your neck one night. I think there was a battle.”

Cameron shifted uncomfortably. “Yes. I remember all of that.”

“Where did that happen?”

“Right here. In this castle.” Caliph sat farther forward as a silent indication for Cameron to go on. “Your uncle was High King. Of course you know that. When he took the crown he took you with him, leaving the house on the hill and moving up here to the castle. I was no longer in his employ.”

Cameron glanced at the doorway. He had noticed a woman’s shadow had come to rest there. She was obviously listening.

“Inadvertently I was the one who helped your uncle get the crown and once certain matters came to light I took it upon myself to correct the mistake—part of that mistake was leaving you in his . . . care.”

“You stormed the High King’s Castle for me?” Caliph said it as though this one realization were enough. In all the years of doubting, when his father’s whereabouts were typically unknown, when he had been locked in the ascetic halls of Desdae like something forgotten and alone, before all of that, in a place he had not remembered, the man in front of him had stormed the High King’s Castle for one reason. For him.

“Well, I had some help—”

The way Cameron said it in his slow simple voice assured Caliph that it was true. The impossible odds of creeping into Isca Castle, where the guards took their duty as a sacred honor, both excited Caliph’s imagination and caused another ripple of worry as he remembered the night of the opera. It was hard to believe only two days had passed since then.

“You knew how to get in because you served the High King, didn’t you?”

Cameron nodded very slowly. “I was the Blue General once.”

“Who did you serve under?” Caliph’s hunger for the cloudy details had been whet.

“Caliph, I’m sorry. I . . .”

“What is it?”

“Well . . . it’s just that . . .” Cameron let out a long breath. “I suppose it doesn’t matter. You have a right to know the truth. And if you think I’m crazy, what’s the worst that can happen? I’ll go back home and you’ll go on managing Isca.”

“Why would I think you’re crazy?”

A small door opened into the massive hall and a servant came in with wine and a pitcher of steaming milk. He served the two men and left without a word.

“After Nathaniel poisoned your mother . . .”

“What?”

“He poisoned your entire family, Caliph. He had to. For the house. For the crown.”

“I thought . . . it was bad food.”

“It was very bad food.”

“But . . .” Caliph tried to sort time. Things he remembered and things he had been told combined in an indistinguishable pile of maybe-facts. “I get the chronology confused. It’s like I don’t even know who I am.” He had so many questions he wanted to ask. He picked one at random, a particular day that jumped out. “I remember a winter morning; we left on a trip. Where did we go?”

“That was the Year of the Crow,” said Cameron. “The morning we left for Greymoor. I woke your uncle and he made a dash for the fireplace. Incontinence forced him to use whatever was close at hand. We were going to Desdae which seemed ridiculous to me. Heading for a library in the Kingdom of Greymoor just to reach some old books in the dead of winter. But Nathaniel was compensating me for the danger.

“That was also the morning I told him I was going to quit. Stop being your tutor. His thin lips always puckered when he got annoyed. Looked like a cat’s ass just above his chin.”

“I don’t remember the trip. What happened? Something went wrong . . .”

Cameron nodded. “Yes. Something went wrong.” His eyes glazed with what looked like a uniquely dire memory. “We should save that story. I’ll tell you . . . but let me fill in the holes first.”

Caliph nodded. “We could start with you coming to the house. Uncle . . . hired you as my tutor, right?”

“After a manner. Do you remember the day he introduced me to you?
You were a downcast little boy then. Standing near that enormous black fireplace decorated with Niloran carvings. And your uncle talking. ‘Cameron, this is Caliph. Chin up, Caliph. Fools look at their shoes.’

“Time was muddy for me back then. We used to play on the lawn.”

“Fly kites,” said Caliph.

“Yes. You got one stuck in a tree once.”

“I remember.”

“That was the same afternoon you took me where you used to play. Do you remember that as well?”

Caliph had a vague recollection of sculptures behind the arms of trees, filing away. They burnt pale pink in a sinking sun. So bright. More like molten glass than stone.

“UMM—” Caliph pauses. “You want to see?” and after Cameron’s affirmative nod, “Come on, I’ll show you.”

His eight-year-old legs begin a mad dash for the statue-marked trail and Cameron hurries to keep up.

A formerly well-kept path shows disuse and overgrowth. Saplings spring up in the middle of the trail.

“Doesn’t anyone come here?”

Caliph shrugs. “No one ever has. Sometimes I play down here with Marco.”

“Marco? Who’s he?”

“My friend.”

“Does he live in the city?”

“No. He lives out here.”