Air horns sounded again and somebody was announcing the High King’s tour of the city was about to get underway.
Vhortghast led Caliph to a mechanized lift and from there onto the boarding platform.
Though less than half the height of the high tower at Isca Castle, the view was only slightly less impressive.
Gunnymead Square moved far below like an animal carcass thronging with life. Its paper lanterns of blue and yellow bobbed happily. Its colorful awnings frittered and declined, surrendering only after four hundred yards of unchecked sprawl to the dismal brown tenements of Three Cats.
Clock towers, steeples and belfries confused the horizon with hazy ominous shapes.
“Welcome to the Byun-Ghala,” said the captain of the airship. Caliph turned away from the vista and smiled, shaking the man’s hand. “Right this way, your majesty.”
A narrow bridge with railings had been extended from the craft to the tower roof and Caliph stepped off solid ground with an uneasy pit in his stomach. The bridge swayed ever so slightly as a gust of wind tried unsuccessfully to buffet the enormous craft.
Caliph stepped through an oval door frame into a cramped passageway that opened on a small but luxurious stateroom paneled in dark jungle wood. Much different from the military craft that had picked him up in Tue, this space was lit with gas lamps as well as many small windows.
Brandy and cigars waited on a wooden table with a mirrorlike finish while a woman in provocative dress played soft lilting music on a baby grand. Paintings of former High Kings, generals and other nameless politicians hung on the walls. They looked solemn and important.
An open archway led to an outer observation deck, girded with railings and fitted with spyglasses on convenient swivel mounts.
Vhortghast directed Caliph through a paneled door into another room that smelled of fresh leather and wood polish.
Caliph noticed a hulking four-poster bed in the shadows.
From the previous room came the sound of additional passengers boarding, clinking glasses and music. The smell of freshly lit cigars began to filter in.
General Yrisl entered, amber eyes flashing. He gave the spymaster a strange look of disapproval and immediately poured himself a drink.
“I don’t want him visible,” said Vhortghast as though Caliph were not in the room. He shut the door and then turned, graciously gesturing for Caliph to have a seat.
“I think I’ll stand.”
Yrisl swallowed his whiskey in one gulp and set the glass down with stinging decorum. “He should mingle.”
“No he shouldn’t,” said Vhortghast calmly.
Yrisl looked on the verge of cutting off the spymaster’s head.
“We haven’t had a High King in sixteen years. Your agenda is outdated.”
“Yours is dangerous,” countered Vhortghast.
“Am I even here?” asked Caliph. “What in the trade wind—”
Vhortghast flung his finger toward the other room where the sound of music and conversation barely carried through the door. “That is a dangerous room.” He was speaking to Yrisl. When he turned to the High King his voice became restrained and cordial.
“Forgive me, your majesty, but those people, good as they are at being burgomasters and barons and whatever else we let onto this ship, have only one thing on their minds right now.”
“Oh for fuck’s sake!” cried Yrisl.
Vhortghast raised his palm. “They want to sidle up to you, your majesty, while you are still new and—forgive me—still inexperienced. If they can get you to promise them some kind of favor or action or exemption while you are yet unable to gauge the possible repercussions—” He shrugged. “You may wind up playing favorites without realizing it or be called a liar later on when you try to back out of an innocent and even good-intentioned promise with unforeseeable consequences. Everything you say will make it to the papers.”
“Bah!” Yrisl seemed to barely restrain himself from spitting on the carpet. “Caliph Howl handles himself better in a crowd than Jerval Nibbets. Did you read the papers today? If he stays in here he’s going to look like a recluse, like he has something to hide.”
Vhortghast made the southern hand sign for no. “I understand your point, really I do. And yes I read the Herald and several other unofficial publications. I assure you, one week of silence will not hurt his image in the least. If anything it will give the illusion that he is planning for the looming conflict with Saergaeth, devising unfathomable plans. He’ll—”
Illusion? Caliph felt incensed.
Yrisl took a threatening step toward Zane and the spymaster fell silent. “If you want to listen to the worm of the underworld, your majesty, that’s fine.” Yrisl’s eyes pinned the spymaster in place. “But his kind doesn’t process information like the average citizen. You pay him to think like a criminal and frankly we don’t really care what criminals think of you right now. We need a kingship that’s open and accessible to the masses, especially with the recent publicity.
“Stonehold is used to a Council nowadays. You’ll have to emulate that democracy and candor. They held open forums before you arrived! Debates, for Palan’s sake! With journalists in the wings writing down everything they said! If you take that away now . . .”
Vhortghast bit his lip, looking at Caliph and Yrisl with equal anticipation.
“I appreciate your concerns. But I think I can manage,” said Caliph. “All I needed was a warning.”
Vhortghast bowed graciously.
“Of course. As you wish, your majesty.”
Yrisl rolled his eyes.
Caliph adjusted his lapels as Vhortghast opened the door for him. The High King emerged.
The crowded smoky room quieted for an instant. All faces turned to him with a kind of bathetic wonderment.
Caliph could see a few furtive smiles amid the throng, knowing glances cast between apparent partners or friends. He marked them immediately. No doubt there were those with more sinister intentions, hidden behind flawless smiles, but those were a job for Vhortghast’s men. The less subtle of the lot Caliph could handle on his own.
“Good morning, your majesty.”
Various cheerful greetings rang in Caliph’s ears. A young lieutenant general seemed to hold Caliph in particular awe.
Three old men with handlebar mustaches, sporting an array of medals on their chests welcomed the High King with suspicious warmth.
Caliph accidentally bumped into an ugly woman with black hair and a nose like a fin who stood wrapped in fashion. As he apologized, Caliph noticed the debonair but visibly spineless gentleman she clung to. Both of them fawned over Caliph as though he were their long lost son.
Caliph’s stomach lurched slightly.
Somewhere below, the coupling had been released and the Byun-Ghala lifted off the roof of West Gate and powered east over Gunnymead Square.
Almost at once, the well-dressed herd pressed gently but persistently toward the observation deck and the mounted spyglasses, oohing and ahhing and pointing at the tangled sepia piles of architecture below.
“How many men does it take to pilot a zeppelin?” asked Caliph, turning to the Blue General.
It sounded like the beginning of a joke.
“Depends on the size, your majesty. This one here is the smallest of three basic designs. We call this a lion. It’s small, agile, but not as powerful as sky sharks or the largest: leviathans.”
“And crew size?”
“Sorry. Yes. A ship like this could run with anywhere from nine up to a dozen or so men. The larger ones range from eighteen to fifty.”