in anyone else. If this weren’t happening to him he would have curled his lip. But she had found a hairline fracture that caused something inside him, something indefinable, to fail. If it hadn’t been her . . .
If it had been anyone but her . . .
His mind toyed with options lodged in preposterous subrealities, masochistic cognitive abortions—games of “what if” staged in excruciating futility.
And yet he played.
Alani entered the high tower exactly on time.
Caliph could see Alani read his mood: somewhere between coal and cellar black. Caliph made it vanish with a ruffle, like a tablecloth pulled under dishes by sleight of hand. The tense angular lines relaxed, faded.
Caliph bid his spymaster sit.
He was risking everything with this meeting, trusting that unlike everyone else, Alani wouldn’t let him down.
Graffiti covered the gates to the Hold. The police were terrified. The markets were dead. It was time to unveil his plan.
Yrisl had been skeptical. It relied on surreal improbabilities. Grand orchestration. Perfect timing. It relied on variables that couldn’t be nailed down. It relied on murder, deception, cruelty and chance in order to succeed. It relied on greed and arrogance and, in the end, made the handful of murdered street youth seem like an easily forgivable sin. And yet, Yrisl had nodded his approval. And now it was Alani’s turn to hear the plan.
Initially, the old spymaster slumped slightly, legs crossed in a deceptively tranquil pose. But as Caliph began to talk, the old assassin scratched his knuckles faintly and adjusted his posture in the chair. He fumbled with his pipe, lit it nervously and laid it aside without a toke. And when at last the High King finished, Alani sat in stunned silence, digesting every syllable he had heard.
Finally he picked up his pipe. Without an encouraging puff, the thick tobacco had snuffed itself. He fondled the bowl and muttered, “Do you really think it can be done?” The old man’s voice was sagely diplomatic. It betrayed neither skepticism nor contempt. Rather, Alani’s question indicated through its perfect timbre that if the High King answered yes, that would be good enough for him.
Caliph looked hard at the spymaster.
“Everything I’ve told you is true. In that respect, it can be done. But you’re the man that would have to see it through.
“Risky isn’t even the word. It’s touch and go at best. But if we had even a sixty-five percent success rate . . . Mother of Mizraim, if we managed even fifty percent, it would give our fleet a fighting chance.
“Logistics are what I’m counting on from you,” said Caliph. “Insight. A tether back to sanity, I guess. I’ve been thinking about it, bottling it up for so long. I don’t even know what it must sound like anymore, hearing it for the first time. So . . . it’s your turn. You tell me. What do you think?”
Alani stuffed his unlit pipe back inside his vest and folded his hands across his lap. Caliph could tell he was choosing words carefully.
“Well—since it is all true . . . and understanding the implications of even marginal success . . . we don’t have much of a choice. You have these . . . suits ready?”
“After a fashion. Willing test subjects are, as you can imagine, difficult to find.”
Alani smiled and made the southern hand sign for yes.
“It’s already out that we have solvitriol power,” said Caliph. “The Pandragonian ambassador himself accused me of theft. It wouldn’t be that far-fetched for Saergaeth to believe . . .”
“We need papers,” said Caliph. “All kinds of official documentation. It has to look absolutely real.”
Alani nodded and spoke with quiet businesslike decorum.
“I’ll take care of the details. Just two additional items I wanted to mention.
“One is King Lewis. He may have reconsidered his position. He wants an audience.”
Caliph hoisted one eyebrow but remained objective.
“That would be a welcome twist. When?”
“Lewis likes to hunt. Invite him on one . . . maybe next week?”
Caliph continued playing with his bottom lip.
“The cotters have been complaining about some creature in the hills. We could use Lewis’ visit as an excuse to go after it. I’ll talk to Gadriel and work something out. What else?”
“A Pplarian ship arrived this morning in Ironside . . . bearing gifts. Some very interesting weapons and, apparently, a manual on their use.”
“I’ll come to Ironside this evening. I need to talk with Sigmund Dulgensen.”
“I had planned to bring them up to the castle—”
“No. Don’t do that. I have to visit