The Last Page

kton dissolved into streamers of incense pouring out of Temple Hill.

When they threw their vision across the miles, the Pplarians found smoking skeletons in Ironside’s shipyards, sparked by the desultory stars of remote chemical welders. Beyond that, the dwindling brown piles of variation in Bilgeburg and Thief Town interfused with far-off Murkbell in a sort of sepia twilight near the wharves.

As Gadriel entered with a tray of refreshments, a zeppelin surfaced like a whale over Barrow Hill, skin painted to advertise malted cereal. A flock of blackbirds covered its spines.

“Have you seen Er Krue Alteirz?” asked one of the three Pplarians at the table in slightly broken Hinter. He took his striking violet-blue eyes off the airship and glared hospitably at Caliph.

The Pplarian’s name was Kl. Even seated at the table he seemed to tower, wrapped like his fellows in a traditional ksh and, despite the balmy weather, clad in loose heavy robes of dark, perfumed, yak fur.

Kl had very short blond hair that covered his milk-white scalp like peach fuzz. All three of them were tall and slender.

“I have,” said Caliph. “It was very interesting. I understand that the villain is based on historical—”

“Yes,” Kl took over, “the sorcerer, he . . . came out of the west . . . long ago. It is a true story . . . originally. Made grand by opera.” He laughed as though something were very funny.

Caliph smiled. “Your people have a great history.”

In unison the Pplarians gave a strangely charmed reciprocal smile that twisted their mouths oddly. Caliph had spoken in White Tongue.

Kl leaned forward. “You sound like my younger brother when you speak our language! How much do you know?”

“I studied a bit at college in the Kingdom of Greymoor,” Caliph explained.

The Pplarians nodded their heads.

“You must have learned from a Pplarian,” said Kl. “Your sound is very natural.”

“I learned from a man named Gilban Tosh. He lived in the Pplar for many years.”

“Yes.” Kl nodded. “I have heard of him.” He drew one of the tall purple drinks from the tray and sipped it. Overhead, crows and orchid-colored rylfs disturbed the air, flitting furtively through stiff tendrils of unnerving vegetation. Gadriel had left the room.

Kl’s first councilor was also his wife. She looked almost exactly like her husband except her eyes were piercing lavender and her bosom stretched the scintillating fabric of her ksh.

“How do you feel about your uncle?” she asked with straightforward curiosity that she seemed to find perfectly appropriate.

“Yes,” said Kl, “we are very curious about him.”

Caliph inhaled deeply and wondered, What in Emolus’ name has Lewis been telling you?

“My uncle was not a popular man for many good reasons. I don’t think about him. It’s a shame the people of this country had to be terrorized while he was High King.”

Kl’s wife looked deeply empathetic.

“You poor boy.”

“Nâsa,” her husband scolded her mildly, “he is the High King. He does not need our sympathy.”

“It’s fine,” said Caliph. “I have to deal with the past, just like everyone else.” He offered them a sincere favoring look. “How was your stay in Vale Briar?”

“Lovely,” said Nâsa. “Though your subordinate Lewis is not to be trusted.” She seemed unaware of how her statement changed the dynamic of the conversation.

Caliph tried to maintain his calm, pleasant demeanor.

“Really? Why do you say that?”

The second councilor, another woman named Vtî, gestured with slow grace toward Ironside’s harbor.

“He keeps ships from Mortrm.”

“You are different than we heard,” said Kl. “Your subordinate said you had a charmed tongue that hid a wrathful heart. I enjoy these bird gardens.”

He looked overhead at shadowy forms darting near the glass.

“We do not have such things in the Pplar. Your cities are amusing. I always think that you must be very afraid of being out of doors.”

Nâsa smiled, her lavender eyes intense.

“King Howl would find our country no less strange. Isn’t that right?”

Caliph demurred. “I’m sure it’s breathtaking.” He wanted to get back to the topic of King Lewis but didn’t know how. The Pplarians’ manner of speech made him feel like he was still trying to communicate with them in White Tongue.

“It is,” affirmed Kl as though feeling the need to stress an otherwise empty compliment about his homeland. “The giant yak,” he touched his robe, “wanders the snowy waste.” He talked with his fingers, indicating a vast expanse of land. “Have you ever been to our country, King Howl?”

Caliph had studied Pplarian society. It revolved around large nuclear families—the most important element of their government. They were fiercely tribal and loyal but there was little fighting between the tribes. He also knew them to be extremely brilliant with technology. The way Kl talked, it sounded like they all lived in huts around campfires. Caliph knew that wasn’t the case.

Once, long ago, the Pplarians had attempted to enslave the Nanemen, driving strange ships across the Dunatis like ivory water beetles.

Despite their advanced technology, it had ended badly for them.

The Nanemen had chased them back, had stood in the hills below the Healean Range and by their eyes and tongues hurled the heads of fallen Pplarian warriors into the sea. The rumbling echo of their war howls still trembled in the mountains.

Stonehold was not a gentle place.

Slowly the war had scabbed over, healed by medicines and ointments, amethysts and silver. Traders had bridged the gap, obliterating years of bloodshed with commerce and goodwill balanced on a slippery stack of money.

“No,” said Caliph. “I have never been to your country. Perhaps one day. If I survive this war.”

Nâsa reached out and touched Caliph’s hand comfortingly.

“It is a difficult time for you. We know. But we will acknowledge this new government in Isca. We will acknowledge the throne of Caliph Howl.”

“Yes,” said Kl. “You are a good heart, like family. We cannot send you help in this war, but perhaps there are weapons we have that you could use. Not much, but we will send you some.”

Caliph felt disoriented by the strange metaphor, as though he had just been adopted without his knowing it.

“That is very kind of you. I will accept whatever help my friends can spare.”

“It is not much,” Kl said again as if not wanting to inflate Caliph’s hopes. “But it is some.”

Caliph’s mouth dropped open in horror.

Something had wriggled beneath the Pplarian’s ksh. Kl noticed and drew his dark furs together like a woman startled by a man staring at her cleavage. Caliph didn’t know what to say.

Nâsa patted him reassuringly on the back of the hand. Her eyes looked crazed despite the gentle expression on her face.

“It happens sometimes,” she said. “It’s a throwback to the old days, when the blood was cleaner, when we had mingled less with your kind. Don’t worry, Caliph Howl, it was not your fault.”

Kl stood, still holding his robes together. He forced a pained, embarrassed smile.

“She is right, King Howl. Do not worry. I will send some weapons. I like you much better than your subordinate Lewis—and these bird gardens are . . . remarkable.” His violet-blue eyes nearly glowed.