Free Black Bottle by Anthony Huso Page A

herself.
    After that she put him to work caulking cracks in the basement and set herself at a small table to formulate her budget and forecast expenses. The savings made by buying instead of building had stacked up in the church’s larder: great sacks of wheat and shelves of canned goods. The northern brands offered no reassurance, all of them strange. Without a sense of quality, she chose the canisters of powdered milk that seemed the most welcoming: cartoon faces of bovine happiness shining in purple ink.
    By the end of the day, she judged her stores sufficient to maintain the shelter for several months. She could begin pulling some of the burden off Cripple Gate, planning to feed one hundred twenty meals a day. The larger soup kitchen, two miles to the west, served nearly five hundred. But Cripple Gate was supported by Hullmallow Cathedral and the Church of the Mourning Beggar. They had more resources—a fact that didn’t keep them from noticing her efforts.
    Taelin read the paper on the morning of the seventh and smiled. She was making an impact. People knew who her father was. The government couldn’t ignore her for long. And it didn’t. Mail arrived shortly after the paper indicating she would have her audience with Sena Iilool.
    Taelin tried to contain her joy—and her anxiety. Don’t be rash. Be persuasive. This was her chance. The one she had been waiting for. Everything else she had tried in her life had ended in disaster. But this was going to be different. Deep inside, Taelin knew she was still young and inexperienced, perhaps even a bit naive. But she also knew that she was special because, unlike so many other people, she had the desire to do great big fabulous things and that was what she hoped to accomplish here in Isca.
    She wanted to unleash something that would change the world, something they would remember her for. Forever.
    But before attempting to bring public censure down on Sena Iilool, Taelin wanted to meet the woman face-to-face. After all, none of the papers or magazines Taelin had read indicated that Sena’s church had been established by her. Rather, the phenomenon had come out of the Pplar. Whenever a journalist had put forth the question about people worshiping her, Sena had always politely declined to comment. It gave Taelin hope that eventually the blasphemy would end.
    Taelin spent the rest of the morning rehearsing what she would say. She left the midday meal service in Palmer’s hands, caught a streetcar at five before the hour and arrived on time, eighty minutes later.
    The gates of Isca Castle were free of snow and a traditional Stonehavian carriage shuttled her from the gatehouse, through the south bailey and up to the castle doors. It was a cold ride.
    A butler with the name G ILVER pinned on his lapel signed her in.
    After a brisk walk they arrived in a distant wing of the castle. Gilver stopped outside a set of oaken doors, knocked lightly twice then turned the polished porcelain handles and stepped partway in. His body expertly fenced Taelin off in an unobtrusive way. “My lady, the missionary Taelin Rae to see you from the new—”
    “Reestablished,” corrected Taelin.
    Gilver gave her a tight smile then continued. “Reestablished Church of Nenuln.” His voice echoed as if he were talking into a metal drum.
    Though Taelin heard no response, Gilver stepped aside, granting her access to the chamber. This single gesture, and the demeanor with which he performed it, seemed to elevate her from stranger to guest.
    Taelin walked into the stark room.
    A sheet-draped piece of furniture despaired in the southwest corner. Aside from that and a ticking thermal crank the space was empty.
    A woman in tight black riding pants straddled a wooden stool. Blond as a candle flame, she perched proud, silent and eerie.
    Maybe it was her irrational sense that this was an ambush that caused Taelin to look up at the frescoed ceiling. Against the gray plaster, resplendent egg temperas of