The Hod King

by Josiah Bancroft

  “If!” Senlin gripped the carpet with his bare toes. “If she is there.” He had been poisoned by hope once already and was determined not to let it happen again.

  “Byron, do you have the paper I gave you?” the Sphinx asked.

  The stag threw the tape measure over his shoulder with a snort and began to rummage through his leather satchel. After a moment, he produced a folded newspaper and handed it to Senlin before retreating to the panel of the wheezing wardrobe.

  Senlin read the headline aloud in a dwindling voice: “‘Duke Wilhelm Horace Pell to Wed the Mermaid, Marya of Isaugh.’” He looked to the date at the top. The paper was almost seven months old. He wished to read on, but his arms failed him, taken by a sudden weakness. The paper fell like a stage curtain.

  It was a fact now, and yet his mind was slow to accept it. The feeling reminded him of that nauseating confusion he had felt when, as a boy, he had been told that his grandfather had died in the night. He believed it was true at once because his mother had told him, and she would never lie about such a thing. But that evening, when he was shown his grandfather’s body, washed, and dressed, and laid out for the wake, it had become true in a different way. Believing was not the same as knowing.

  “She married the count,” he murmured, his throat closing about the words.

  “Duke, actually,” the Sphinx said.

  A cry like a swooping bird interrupted them, the sound rising from a murmur into a muffled shriek. It seemed to come from the wardrobe, which rattled more and more frantically, its hinges chattering like teeth.

  Neither the Sphinx nor Byron seemed overly concerned. When the shaking abruptly stopped, Byron pulled the latch on the wardrobe and opened the doors.

  Inside, Voleta Boreas hung from a wooden coat hanger as if it were a trapeze. Pink-cheeked and with scarves and stockings tangled about her neck, she leapt into the dressing room. Despite her relatively small stature, Voleta had a way of filling up every room she walked into. With her dark hair cut short, her wide mouth and bright violet eyes seemed to have grown more prominent. “That was absolutely terrifying!” she joyfully exclaimed. “It goes so blasted fast! I’ve never ridden anything so fast in my life! It was like falling in double time. I have to go again!”

  “I told you, Voleta, it’s not a ride. It’s the Fardrobe,” Byron said. “And you’re supposed to be waiting your turn to be fitted, not running amok in my storehouse.”

  Voleta, apparently oblivious to Senlin’s state of half dress, began speaking to him in an exhilarated rush: “It goes to a vault full of gowns and suits and socks, all hanging like bats from the ceiling. There’s hardly any light, and there are these mechanical arms that reach out and snatch the hangers, and then whiz all around through the walls!” As she spoke, she passed the loose garments she’d collected along the way to an unhappy Byron. “I promise you, Captain, one go-around and that frown will be blown right off your face.” Voleta reached into the back of her blouse and pulled a black velvet disc from the collar. She flipped it about, rapped it with a knuckle, and the disc popped open. Voleta put the top hat on. It sank over her ears at once.

  Still in a fog, Senlin handed her the newspaper and said, “I found her.”

  Voleta took the paper, her expression blooming with excitement and then wilting as she read. Sheepish now, she pulled the hat from her head. “A duke? She married a duke? I don’t understand. She’s your wife. She can’t … I thought she … I’m so sorry, Captain.”

  “Not captain anymore,” the Sphinx said, as if searching for a bottom to Senlin’s humiliation.

  Senlin turned back to the Sphinx and said, “Did she want to marry him or was she coerced?”

  “Eavesdroppers and newspapers can only tell so much, I’m afraid. I don’t know whether Marya said, ‘I do,’ or if the duke said, ‘You will.’ What was whispered, what lies in the heart—those are things that require a closer ear.” The Sphinx shrank as he spoke, his black robes pooling upon the floor. He put his face, large as a silver platter, level with Senlin’s.

  “Then I must ask her,” Senlin said, resolute in his undershirt.

  “Is your memory really so short? I just told you, you are not to speak to your wife. You won’t write her letters. You won’t spy on her from the bushes. You won’t go near her, her husband, or their home.”

  What had begun as cold, numb sorrow now warmed Senlin from core to extremity. “How can you be so heartless? Is there no humanity in you at all? You act as if she’s a fancy, an errand. She is not! She is a woman whose life I ruined! Ruined with my pride, my inability, my selfishness. I will find her. I will offer my help if she needs it, my heart if she wants it, my head, even if she would see it on a stake! And you, with your plots and contracts, you with your cowardly mask and tick-tock heart, you will not stop me!”

  Voleta and Byron stood frozen in the silence that followed. They waited to see whether Tom would survive his outburst, or if the Sphinx would spark the life from him.

  At last, the Sphinx sighed, the sound like coins rattling down a drain. Reaching up, the Sphinx twisted the mirror. It fell away even as the black shroud piled upon the floor. Senlin gasped. Her face was a quilt of metal and flesh that was as tan and creased as a walnut. Plates of precious alloys crowded about an eyepiece that would’ve been better suited to a microscope than the face of an ancient woman. Perhaps strangest of all, she did not stand, but sat cross-legged upon a floating platter. Senlin passed a hand near the red glow that emanated from the bottom of the floating platform. The air there was vaguely warm and unsettled, as if possessed by static, but it did not burn him.

  He looked to Voleta to share his amazement. When she caught him looking, she blurted out a not particularly convincing “Oh my god! It’s a flying crone!”

  “Really, Voleta,” the Sphinx said, moving the brass horn that distorted her speech away from her mouth. Her unfiltered voice was creaking and reedy but remarkably ordinary. “The only living persons who have seen my face are standing in this room. You see, Thomas, a business contract is just a sort of artificial trust. But we four are beyond that now.”

  “But I don’t … Why me?” he asked. “And why Voleta?”

  The Sphinx pulled thoughtfully at the thick lobe of one ear. “Perhaps because you are capable of remorse. There is nothing in the world so inspiring of trust as regret. And I trust Voleta because she reminds me so much of myself—”

  “We’re virtually twins,” Voleta piped up.

  “—right down to that pert mouth of hers.”

  “But if you have such faith in me,” Senlin said, his confusion verging upon ire, “if you understand me so well, why would you forbid me to speak to Marya? Surely, you must know remorse is not enough. If amends can be made, they must be.”

  “Just because I trust you, Thomas, doesn’t mean you’re not sometimes a fool.” Before Senlin could balk, the unveiled Sphinx pressed on, her tray pacing the carpet before him. “Let’s think this through; let’s think how your attempt to see your wife would probably go. Let’s say that you defy my counsel, my orders, your contract, and our friendship, and go in search of Marya. Let’s say you actually manage to meet her, which is no small feat because she is married to a popular and very powerful duke. How do you think she will react when her husband of old materializes?” The Sphinx stopped shifting about, as if to give Senlin a chance to reply, though as soon as he drew a breath, she carried on for him. “Perhaps she’ll be happy! Perhaps she’ll say, ‘Oh, Tom! My love has returned! I am saved! Carry me home!’” The Sphinx clapped her still-gloved hands together in a mockery of joy. “But perhaps she’ll be angry. Perhaps she’ll say, ‘You! You ruined my life, you miserable worm!’” The Sphinx shook a fist at him.

  “Whichever it is, whatever her feelings are, one thing is certain: She will be surprised to see you. And what do people do when they are actually surprised?” The Sphinx cut her gaze toward Voleta. “What if she blurts out your name or gasps or faints or screams? It won’t really matt
er whether it’s done out of delight or fright if the duke overhears it. Do you really think he will be pleased to see you, his rival? If you are lucky, he will take his displeasure out on you. But if he is an unreasonable or jealous man, if he is cruel, might he not take that displeasure out on her as well?”

  Senlin scowled at the Sphinx’s logic because he could not think of how to argue against it. At least, not yet. “What do you propose?”

  “Voleta will speak to Marya on your behalf.” The Sphinx swept an arm toward the young woman. “Voleta can wear a dress. She can curtsy her way into court. She can, I think, get invited to the sort of parties the duke and duchess go to. She can wait for the right moment, and when it arrives, she can make a discreet inquiry.”

  “I don’t want Voleta doing my dirty—” Senlin began, but Voleta interrupted him.

  “I’ll do it.”

  “Wait a minute. You don’t know what you’re volunteering for. Is it dangerous?” Senlin asked.

  “Of course it’s dangerous!” The Sphinx laughed. “Most things worth doing are. But she won’t be alone. I’m sending the amazon with her.”

  Senlin had no doubt that Iren would protect Voleta with her life, but she was still only one person. What could she do if the duke or the navy or the whole ringdom turned against them? “I can’t put their necks on the block for my mistakes. We’ll have to think of something—”

  “You aren’t captain anymore,” Voleta said. She did not say it meanly, yet even so, the words stung. “You can’t give orders any longer, Mr. Tom. So. I want to go to Pelphia.”

  “The parties are glorious!” Byron said, with a happy shake of his antlers. He helped Senlin slide his arms into a new white-collared shirt. “The people are dreadful, but the parties are sublime. I’ve read a hundred stories: the waltzes, the music, the hors d’oeuvres, the wits—”

  “I’m not going for any of that!” Voleta said. “I don’t care about waltzes and minces and how-do-you-dos! I’m going because this man saved my life. He saved my brother’s life. So it’s my turn to be … good, or whatever it is we are.” She turned to Senlin. “I promise, I’ll bring her home.”

  “That’s incredibly brave and selfless and … thank you.” Senlin knew her too well to think she would be dissuaded once she had decided on a course. “But, Voleta, please, you must be honest with her. Tell her everything. Tell her about the thievery, the piracy, and the bloodshed. Tell her about the starving, and the Crumb addiction, and … all of it.”

  “All of it?” Voleta said, squeezing the hat flat again. “What am I supposed to say, ‘Hullo! You don’t know me, but your old husband sent me to tell you what an awful person he is now. A real stinker! But he wants you back. Oh, yes, he does! Wait, madam, where are you going?’” She popped the hat out with her fist. “That’s a hard sale, Mr. Tom.”

  Senlin pushed his arms into the jacket Byron held out for him. It fit perfectly. It felt strange to wear a new, tailored suit again. He looked at his scarred and weathered hands, protruding from the pristine cuffs. He felt like two different people stitched together.

  “Marya has to know what she’s signing up for.” He tried to put his hands in his pockets but found them sewn shut. “I won’t trick her. I won’t pretend I am the man she married. I don’t think I’m completely ruined, or at least not beyond redemption, and perhaps there will be a homecoming for us, but if she is happy in her new life, I would not pluck her from it.”

  Not knowing what to say to this sincere declaration, Voleta attempted a curtsy. She bent both knees, threw her head downward, and popped up again like a spring.

  Byron brayed in horror and said, “What on earth was that? Are you bobbing for apples?”

  “There’ll be enough time for practicing curtsies later,” the Sphinx intervened before Voleta could retort. “Now that your business has been settled for the moment, I’d like to discuss mine.”

  “I imagine it has something to do with Luc Marat,” Senlin said.

  “I suspect it does. Someone is destroying my spies, my butterflies. Specifically, someone inside the Colosseum. That’s where the locals watch hods bleed for their amusement.”

  “They sound like lovely people,” Voleta said.

  “It’s just the sort of injustice that rallies hods to Marat’s cause. It’s not that Marat is truly against bloodshed; he just prefers it to be spilled on his own account. Whether he’s involved or not, one thing seems certain: Someone doesn’t want me to know what’s going on inside the Colosseum.”

  “But if it isn’t Marat, if it’s the locals who’re blinding you, what do they have to hide?”

  “Ah! Now you’re asking the right questions. I knew you’d make a fine spy, Tom. There is one other thing you should probably know. The Colosseum is run by the Coterie, which you may recall Duke Wilhelm is a member of. So your investigation will probably put you right in his way. But you will do your best to avoid him.”

  “For such a large place, the Tower seems awfully small sometimes,” Senlin said with a sour smile.

  “‘Small,’ he says. Small.” The wand she gripped began to spit and spark like green wood on a fire. “If you’d prefer I can dispatch you to the ringdom of Thane, where a hundred rifles have vanished from a locked armory. Or I can ship you to the ringdom of Japhet, where a street recently collapsed, apparently the result of some errant tunneling. Or I could send you to Banner-Wick, where two libraries have burned down in the past month. The shipyards in Morick have suffered from repeated sabotage. Perhaps I should send you there!” Her voice had risen to a shout. “I choose to dispatch you to Pelphia because we share a common interest there. But do not confuse my charity with fate. Only a small man believes the Tower is small.”

  Feeling sufficiently chastised, Senlin raised his hands in surrender. “I’m sorry. It was a facile thing to say.”

  The apology seemed to appease the Sphinx. The bright spark dwindled from the tip of her wand. She pulled what appeared to be a little ball bearing from the sleeve of one glove. She presented the copper pellet to Senlin, who was horrified to see it sprout eight legs and run a circle about her open palm. The Sphinx tut-tutted and tapped the mechanical arachnid with her finger. The spider balled up again. “Swallow this.”

  “You can’t be serious,” Senlin said.

  The Sphinx pointed at Voleta, whose mouth was already open. “Young lady, if you say one word, you’ll be eating this instead. Now look, Thomas, it’s perfectly harmless. It will only help us find you if you get lost. Consider it a safety line, like the airmen wear.” The Sphinx again presented him with the balled-up spider. “Or if you’d rather, I can have Ferdinand assist you with the insertion?”

  Senlin took the pill, placed it on his tongue, and swallowed with a small shudder.

  “There we are. That wasn’t so bad, was it?” She plucked a leather billfold from her tray and handed it to him. Opening it, Senlin found a thick stack of twenty-mina banknotes. “You will be posing as a Boskop tourist; an accountant by the name of Cyril Pinfield.”

  “Cyril!” Voleta laughed.

  “We’ll have to work on that laugh of yours, too,” Byron said.

  “Is it genuine?” Senlin asked.

  “Of course it’s genuine. You’ll need it for lodging, meals, and bribes. If you find that you’re running low, let Byron know. We can always print more.”

  “Genuine!” Senlin scoffed.

  “There are a lot of people looking for you, but very few who can recognize you on sight. Don’t roam about. Stick to the Colosseum and your room.”

  Senlin nodded and slid the billfold into the inner pocket of his jacket. “And what will Captain Winters be doing while I’m off on assignment?”

  “Once she’s delivered Voleta and Iren, she’ll reclaim the ringdom’s copy of The Brick Layer’s Granddaughter. I want it back before Luc Marat gets his hands on it. Assuming he hasn’t already. Now, as soon as you’re packed, Byron will take you to the stables, and you can be on your way.”

  �
�Stables? Wait, I’m to leave tonight?”

  “As soon as possible.”

  Senlin smoothed his graying temples. “I suppose I’ll say my goodbyes, then.”

  “There’s no time. I promise you Marat will not let sentiment slow the pace of his advance. Besides, you will all see each other again soon enough.”

  “But what possible harm could it do to say goodbye to—”

  The Sphinx cut in, showing the jewelry of her smile. “I think you’ve seen enough of Edith Winters, don’t you, Tom?”

  Feeling suddenly transparent, Senlin shut his mouth.

  Chapter Two

  Wallflowers are harmless. They are pretty things that stand in corners with a pleasant look on their face. It’s the wall-weeds I can’t stand. They moan about the mantles, mope upon the sofas, and pout about the punch bowls, waiting to be asked, “Are you all right? You look so sad.” Wall-weeds will linger for hours if you let them. And the only thing that seems to drive them away is other people’s happiness.

  —Oren Robinson of the Daily Reverie

  The staff of the Bon Royal Hotel of Pelphia thought the guest in Room 356 distinctly odd.

  Since his arrival three days prior, the guest had requested dozens of copies of newspapers, old newspapers, which had to be retrieved from the archives of the Daily Reverie at some expense, though the guest had no qualms about paying the archivist’s fee or tipping the porter who had to jog the half mile to the newspaper’s offices.

  Stranger still, the guest in Room 356 hadn’t gone anywhere except to the noonday fights at the Colosseum, for which he departed wearing the same sort of grim expression the maids wore to unclog a drain. The guest returned to the hotel as soon as the early fights were through, nodded to the concierge, and vanished up the stairs. He never took an aperitif at the bar, or participated in the evening singalong, or played a hand of cards in the parlor with the other tourists. He fled to his room and didn’t reemerge until the next morning. The staff couldn’t help but wonder what the lanky recluse did all day and night. The cleaning girls, who were usually quite good at dispelling mysteries, reported that other than stacks of newspapers, his room was free of obvious intrigue. There were no empty bottles of gin in the waste bin, no bawdy manuscripts under the mattress, no pinned-up treasure maps, or bloodstains on the carpet. The most shocking thing about the guest in Room 356 was that he apparently owned only three coats, all of them the same doleful shade of gray.