The Last Page (72 page)

“Mister—”

“Get out of here,” said Zane. “If you knock again, I’ll take a kitchen knife and cut your little hand off.” He shut the door. When he turned around he saw Alani going through the stack of papers on his table, nidus still aimed in his direction.

In the same instant, several things happened all at once.

Zane dove and grabbed a chair. He lifted it like a body shield and charged his adversary. The nidus went off with a concussive hiss and multiple popping sounds.

Heavy pointed pins of steel filled the air, tearing through wood and fabric and plaster.

Zane Vhortghast screamed.

The nidus fell to the floor.

One of the chair legs caught Alani in the chest.

Knives flashed.

The older man moved with astonishing speed. Though aching and winded from the blow to his ribs, he quickly divested Mr. Vhortghast of his knife.

The spymaster was in no condition to fight. Already torn where the nidus’s scores of missiles had caught him in the shins and elbows and shoulders, perforating his flesh wherever the chair had been unable to protect him, Zane hurled himself toward the open window. He rolled out onto the fire escape and slid down the metal steps, fumbling in his own blood.

Alani winced the moment he tried to follow. The chair had bruised something inside. He stopped and watched the former spymaster stumble into an alley and peal away through the slums of Gorbür D
yn.

The old assassin paused to catch his breath. He had suffered many similar injuries during his long career. He knew how to wrap his ribs. He picked up the papers on the table and left the stolen nidus behind.

Now,
he thought,
we’ll see if Caliph Howl was worth all this trouble
.

Two days later the hot weather broke suddenly with a crack of thunder. Lightning stumbled over rooftops, through revolving voluted gears while the gutters slithered with mating things.

Alani told Caliph almost everything. He found that he was well remembered from the train platform in Crow’s Eye and gained an immediate audience. He made it clear that Peter Lark and Zane Vhortghast were interchangeable names, watched carefully as Caliph paged through the notes he had salvaged from Zane’s apartment. The papers Sena had taken from Zane’s office rested in a second pile. Together it was enough to be useful.

The new High King wasn’t giddy. He talked little. When he spoke, he didn’t make puerile exclamations, or ask pleadingly what they were going to do. Instead, he sorted through the papers without a word, separating them into different categories. It was a wealth of incrimination, a fragmented, fortune-forging plan that had spiraled beyond Zane Vhortghast’s control.

Lightning seared the sky just beyond the window, splashing harsh light into Alani’s eyes. The paneled walls vibrated in rumbling aftermath.

“It looks like we may be in trouble here,” said Caliph.

Alani reached into his vest and pulled out a pipe. He lit it; the flame sizzled and flared under his cupped hand. He nodded but did not speak.

“Tell me again why I find myself the beneficiary of your . . . services,” Caliph said.

Alani lingered before answering. He looked out at the rain. In the south, he knew that warm dry weather was probably baking the land, even at night, gently. His aging skin and bones remembered that southern climate with longing. But everything about the north resonated with him: the shortening season, the turning of the wind each fall.

And the snows . . .

Stonehold was the end of the world, far from the endless summers of the south. People were real here. They knew what it was to lay up stores, to watch the mountains for an early frost. Such a wonderfully haunting
landscape, Alani thought. So filled with life because the season of death was only ever a season away.

“I have a vested interest in the Duchy of Stonehold,” Alani said softly after the interminable pause.

Caliph indicated with casual, friendly ease that Alani’s answer was not good enough, that he needed more in order to believe.

“I was born here.” Alani invested each word with soft-spoken meaning.

Caliph frowned. “A broom.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“A broom,” said Caliph. “That’s what belongs in your hands. You were a janitor at the High College. You nearly caught us in the stables at Desdae.”

Alani smiled and watched the memory spread like light across the High King’s face. “Correction, Mr. Howl, I
did
catch you. And it’s good of you to remember.”

“That was the last time,” said Caliph. “That was what made me steal the clurichaun.”

“I know,” said Alani.

Caliph sat back, stunned. “I can’t believe I couldn’t remember your face.”

“You were preoccupied. Under stress, the memory tends to slip.”

“I took a caning because of you.”

“A clever political move. I was impressed.”

“So you didn’t work for Zane?”

“No. I had a private interest in you. Four years as a janitor, watching you finish school? That should convince you of my interest in the Duchy.”

“But why?”

“Because I’d heard about you. I came to check in on the future ruler of my beloved country . . . to see if you stacked up.”

“And if I hadn’t?”

Alani waved his hand. “You did. Which is why I wanted you on the throne. I still do . . . but you seem to be at a disadvantage for the moment, and I think I can help.”

“You told the Iscan Council where to find me. That’s why a zeppelin showed up in the Highlands of Tue. And that started my problems . . . with the witches.”

“No, your majesty. You are to blame for your problems with witches. Not me. If the zeppelin hadn’t shown up, I think you might have stayed in that pasture . . . permanently.”

Caliph considered for a moment, then made the sign for yes. “Fair
enough. Maybe you
did
save my life. Now tell me how you intend to help . . . and . . . I want details.”

“Well, your majesty. As I’m sure you’re aware, Bjor
n Amphungtal is still in the city.”

Caliph tugged his lower lip. “Okay, but I’m sure the blueprints have left the Duchy by now.”

“Which doesn’t concern us anymore,” said Alani. “You have your own set. You don’t need them. The blueprints aren’t our problem anymore.”

“Then what’s our problem?”

“Our problem is Pandragor getting involved in our civil war. Vhortghast knew about solvitriol power. He wanted it for the Duchy. And he manipulated you into starting a program by staging an energy crisis.

“But he
didn’t
want war with Pandragor. My guess is that he thought you were too inexperienced to handle the situation and took the reins himself. Look at the documents here.” Alani sorted through the papers and pointed out one in particular. “You can see what happened. He coerced David Thacker into selling him the blueprints. Then he turned around and sold them to the Pandragonians for a small fortune. But that’s when things went wrong.

“Saergaeth Brindlest
m started negotiating a new deal with them, luring them out of Vhortghast’s pasture. They already had the blueprints and must’ve seen you as someone they wanted to replace.”

Caliph scowled.

It was clear that Pandragor was intent on helping Saergaeth win the war: not that Saergaeth needed any help.

For the next several hours the room grew dark with Alani’s counsel. The draperies sagged inward, trapping sound in mournful heavy folds. Even the lamplight seemed lacquered: little snails and lockets of light held in stasis by the darkly polished wood. The two men leaned together, scavenging from the paper bodies Vhortghast had left behind.

Alani smoked. The soft pop of his lips against the pipe stem punctuated their dilemma.

“I’m damned any way I go, aren’t I?” said Caliph. “There must be half a dozen nations that know I have solvitriol power. If I move ahead with development, the Duchy becomes a potential threat to them. We invite attack, sanctions . . .

“I could sign treaties that I won’t proceed with solvitriol research . . . allow inspections—”

“And ensure losing your own civil war,” finished Alani.

“And ensure losing my own civil war.”

Caliph’s echo was quiet and resigned. “It’s the only edge I have against Saergaeth.”

Alani nodded as he smoked.

“Alani—or should I call you Mr.—?”

“Alani. Just Alani.”

Caliph barely smiled. “Your altruistic endeavors—”

Alani wagged his finger. “It’s nothing that preposterous. I told you.” He laid his pipe aside and adjusted his old hands, folding them across his lap. “I am not a charitable individual, King Howl. This is more than patriotism. This . . . is for me.”

Caliph’s eyes returned Alani’s stare with calcified impunity.
Maybe he can see a trace of pain,
thought Alani. His injured ribs ached. But the High King’s unsympathetic glare only reinforced to Alani the correctness of his choice. Caliph Howl was the right man to be High King.

“Are you sure,” Caliph was saying, “that you can establish yourself quickly enough . . . to be useful in this war?”

Alani appreciated the question. Like everything else it was no-nonsense. It did not apologize or make excuses. Nor did it indicate that Caliph and Alani were friends.

“I have always been established in this city,” said Alani. “My profession took me out of Stonehold but . . . I will not be starting from scratch.”

“Then it’s settled.” Still, Caliph paused, seemed to hedge on asking one final question. “What are the odds,” he asked, “that Mr. Vhortghast will return?”

Alani suppressed a grin. “That is something you need not trouble yourself with. I will keep an adequate amount of resources fixed in that regard.” He picked up his pipe and smoked before proceeding. “I will of course need to do some cleaning.” His fingers fluttered like a feather duster. “Appoint some . . . different people to positions within the organization. That sort of thing. Don’t be alarmed if you see new faces around the castle or in my company. All of this, you and I,” he motioned with his hands, “is based on trust.”

Caliph felt sick. Trust, specifically, was a word that chafed him.

Isca had been cut off from fresh imports for at least two weeks. Yet, even with southern commodities being conspicuously absent from shelves all across the city, Caliph held back.