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 Your agenda is outdated.”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