The Hod King

by Josiah Bancroft

  Senlin could bear no more. Amid the huffs and muttered objections of the audience, he squeezed down the row and out to the aisle. He fled the theater as if it were on fire.

  Chapter Five

  Oh, how airmen love to say our stars are wrong! They call Nature the supreme artist, apparently forgetting that Nature also paints our deck chairs with bird droppings and our backs with hairy moles. Pelphia’s constellations were designed by a panel of famous artists and installed by master plumbers, not plopped willy-nilly about the sky by drunken Nature. Really, who’s to say it’s our stars that are wrong?

  —Oren Robinson of the Daily Reverie

  What sort of man was the duke? The Reverie had painted him as eloquent, charming, and beloved. The playwright behind The Mermaid’s Tale seemed to agree. But how could Senlin reconcile that heroic ideal with Ogier’s brutish vision of the man? Though, admittedly, Ogier wasn’t exactly a paragon of morality: Ogier the thief, the forger, the fraud who had no qualms about talking desperate women into disrobing for him. Perhaps the painter was the real villain. After all, the Sphinx had not claimed Ogier as one of her agents, which could very well mean Ogier was loyal to Marat.

  For all the newspapers Senlin had read, he still had no idea whether the duke actually cared for Marya. For all he knew, Duke Wilhelm might be a perfect cad. He might begrudge Marya her beloved books or cluck his tongue at her tomfoolery. He might hate how she attacked the piano like a stubborn drawer. The duke was probably the sort of man who never took pleasure in a difficult poem, never stood before a painting so long that he fell into it. He was probably the sort who—

  Senlin stopped short, realizing what he was doing. He was dressing the duke in the rags of his own insecurity. Hadn’t he been the one to fail Marya first? Hadn’t he dallied in the Baths when he should have hurried? Hadn’t he been unfaithful to her?

  Senlin rushed out of the theater’s entrance tunnel, feeling almost eager to see the city again. But he found it erased. Beyond the lights of the marquee, the white city was drowned in gray rain.

  Puzzled by the indoor monsoon, Senlin stuck out a cupped hand, catching water as it spouted from the theater’s awning. The rain was warm and, when he brought it to his nose, smelled antiseptic. The luminous quartz dials set into the street made some puddles glow.

  “If you’re looking to poison yourself, I’d recommend gin. It takes a little longer but tastes a lot better.”

  Following the reedy voice, Senlin turned to find a man smoking a cigarette from an ivory stem. He wore his long, white hair in a braid so tight it made the already pronounced bones of his skull stand out further. The black feather collar of his coat lent him a vulture-like appearance.

  “Why does it smell like a public house?” Senlin shook the water from his hand.

  “It’s the ethanol. The city gets a drink every month whether she needs it or not. She always needs it.”

  “But why?”

  “To discourage the pox, of course. And to clean the streets.”

  “But where does it all go—”

  “Are you mocking me?” The vulture squinted at him sharply. Surprised by the accusation, Senlin couldn’t respond before he rattled on. “Do you think I didn’t get a sufficient ribbing in there? I wrote poetry! Odes for the ages, I wrote. No one talks about them. Oh no!”

  “I beg your pardon, but I don’t know who you are,” Senlin said.

  “Anton Gavelle.” When Senlin shook his head dumbly, Gavelle repeated his name twice, and with mounting suspicion. “The Everyman’s Guide—you’ve heard of that, haven’t you?”

  “Yes, of course.” Now it was Senlin’s turn to squint. “You’re the author?”

  Gavelle scoffed. “Oh, yes, I ran up and down the Tower ten times. I went down every alley, looked around every corner, and knocked on every door. No, of course I’m not the author! There wasn’t any author. I was one of hundreds of writers, poorly paid writers. Oh, don’t give me that look! I know what people say. What you forget is that we were all very young and aspiring and I’m sure a little doe-eyed. But there was no conspiracy to mislead our readers, at least not on my part. Little did I know that the errors of my peers and the liberties taken by future editors—who deleted or declawed every word of caution, every warning, because they were invariably unpopular with someone, somewhere—that all of that corruption, deception, and incompetence would be credited to me. And god knows, you can’t remove a public stain once it sets.” Gavelle drew upon his ivory stem, his lips tightening into a pale rosette.

  In recent months, Senlin had more than once fantasized about tearing the pages from the Everyman’s Guide and feeding them one by one to its author. Now that he stood before this man who’d had a hand in beguiling him, in calling him to this awful place, all he felt was pity.

  Senlin stared out at the rain-lathered road. If he ignored the acrid smell and the cloudiness of the water, the scene was almost familiar—the shrunken world of a passing storm.

  “You didn’t like the play either?” Gavelle asked.

  “No, I didn’t care for it.” Senlin drew a deep breath and spoke in a long exhalation. “All the characters were flat as a penny.”

  The writer plucked the burnt cigarette stub from his stem and threw it onto the sodden street. “I almost feel sorry for that country girl who married the duke.” Gavelle opened a black umbrella—a vulture spreading his wings. “Apart from the dinner table, Pelphians only know two appetites: one calls for a bed, the other a stage. And often the two aren’t far apart.” Gavelle disappeared into the downpour.

  The rain accomplished what the late hour could not: It drove the crowds indoors. Green copper spouts spat water onto the empty streets. The culverts gulped and gasped like drowning men. With the stars snuffed out, the constellations Senlin had hoped to use to navigate his way back to the hotel were now invisible. Rainwater funneled down his collar and pooled in his boots. His brief nostalgia at the storm’s appearance quickly turned to revulsion. This was not rain. He detected the stink of oil, offal, and rubbish under the ethanol. He covered his mouth and nose with his handkerchief and tilted his head down to keep the water from his eyes.

  He darted into an alley and took shelter under a balcony, deciding it was better to wait the storm out than ruin another coat. But no sooner had he escaped the foul pelting than he heard a muffled argument and then the sounds of wet, rhythmic slaps.

  Midway down the alley, lit by the foggy light of a burlesque theater window, three figures grappled against the wall.

  Fearing he had stumbled upon some terrible crime, Senlin stole along the deeper shadows until he was near enough to observe the commotion without being seen himself.

  Two of the men were dressed in soggy dinner jackets. Undone bow ties hung under their collars. The larger of the pair wore gold wire spectacles, which did little to improve the intelligence of his expression. The other gentleman, who had a beard that nearly hid his shapeless jaw, pinned a much shorter hod to the alley wall. The hod was dark skinned; the stubble on his skull was as sparse as the hair of a boar. White paint streamed down his face and flowed over his iron collar. The hod clutched something squarish against his deflated chest. The spectacled bully dunked a paintbrush into a pot of whitewash and slapped it across the hod’s face. He drew the brush back and forth in deliberate strokes. His bearded companion laughed and resisted the hod’s efforts to free himself.

  “I think I’m getting the hang of this, Humphrey!” the bully with the paintbrush said. “Even strokes leave the best coat. Even strokes!”

  The hod fought to catch his breath between the rain and paint.

  “Excuse me,” Senlin said. The two men twisted about, their dumb smirks stiffened by shock.

  “What do you want?” the bespectacled bully demanded.

  “A fair fight,” Senlin said, and punched him between the eyes.

  The blow broke the man’s glasses and his nose. He dropped the paint pot, and it burst upon the ground, throwing a sash of white across S
enlin’s front.

  His bearded friend let go of the hod, and after fishing through his pockets, drew out a penknife. He held it out as if it were a fencing foil, but his “en garde” position only exposed his knee. Senlin stamped on the top of the offered joint, and the man fell, dropping his penknife into the growing pool of white beneath them.

  The two bullies grasped each other, attempting to regain both their footing and their composure. Forgotten for the moment, the hod slid down the wall onto his heels.

  “You call that fair?” the taller of the two said, his voice muddled by a broken nose.

  “Well, there are two of you,” Senlin said.

  “Then you won’t complain if we don’t take turns!”

  Iren had taught Senlin to spot the markers of experienced brawlers—their form, stance, and gaze, and yet even without her considered help, he would’ve likely suspected these bullies had never been in a brawl. The bloody one cocked his balled-up hand back behind his ear. His bearded companion held his soft fists so far out from his body it looked as if he’d already thrown his punches and was hoping Senlin would do him the service of running into them.

  “Gentlemen, we are getting wet,” Senlin said. “Why don’t we all just go home and wring ourselves out?”

  “Look, Humphrey! See how quickly his courage melts!” the taller one crowed. The two shuffled about in ponding water until one stood on either side of Senlin, who held out his hands, still pleading for peace. The bullies pedaled their fists and kicked the milky water. Both seemed to be waiting for the other one to throw the first punch.

  The taller brute sneered and said, “Here we go, Humphrey! Here we g—” The corner of a cobblestone struck him on the temple. The man fell without bracing himself and landed on his side.

  Still clutching the brick, the white-faced hod turned toward Senlin.

  “Now, wait a—” Senlin began. He didn’t have time to duck before the hod hurled the brick at him. Though the shock of the moment seemed to slow the brick’s passage, it did nothing to quicken Senlin’s reaction. All he could do was watch the missile come.

  The stone sailed over his shoulder. Senlin turned in time to see Humphrey, his face a crater of blood and splinted bone, fall to his back amid a great splash.

  The water at Senlin’s feet began to blush with blood.

  He gaped at the hod, and his voice shook with anger when he demanded, “Why on earth did you do that?”

  The hod squatted over the man he’d struck first, and finding he was still breathing, the hod pressed his knee into the side of the man’s neck and gave it a violent jerk. The sound of snapping bone made Senlin shudder.

  Standing again, the hod gave Senlin a conspiratorial nod. “Come the Hod King,” he said, then turned on his heel and ran.

  Without much hope, Senlin knelt to check the fallen men for breath and found none. The diamond-paned windows of the dance hall cast an argyle light upon the morbid scene. Inside, the band concluded a wild mazurka, and the dancers applauded and cheered.

  Senlin still wasn’t accustomed to seeing the shocked expressions of the dead. There had been a time in his life when he had not known that peaceful repose was often a mortician’s trick. Perhaps his ignorance had been a gift.

  He turned away, and his eye fell upon the corner of something jutting up from the water. He retrieved it from the puddle, recognizing it as the object the hod had chosen to clasp rather than defend himself. The rectangular article was wrapped in oil cloth. By its weight, Senlin guessed it was likely a book, probably a ruined one.

  Without the murderer to point a finger at, it didn’t seem wise for him to dally over the bodies. He tucked the wrapped book under his coat and left the alley with his head down and his collar up.

  Chapter Six

  There really is no point to teasing a Boskop. They are insensible to wit. One might as well whistle for a footstool or attempt to romance a mop.

  —Oren Robinson of the Daily Reverie

  From behind his lectern in the hotel lobby, Mr. Aloysius Stull dispatched porters to fetch luggage, deliver dishes, freshen vases, remove spots, change linens, uncork bottles, and fulfill every wish of the temporary kings and queens of the Bon Royal. He looked like a conductor directing a symphony through a difficult musical passage. He waved his arms and smoothed his hair, which seemed to grow grayer by the minute. He managed to seem at once passionate and absolutely constrained.

  Yet, when he looked up and saw the Boskop, Mr. Pinfield, drenched to his socks and splashed with whitewash, Mr. Stull flinched like a man discovering a toothache. He marked the milky puddle spreading across his wool carpet with particular concern.

  Stull snapped at two porters, who discerned the urgent need at once. They swaddled the guest, coat and all, in an immense, luxuriant bathrobe. They provided a towel for him to stand on, and wrapped another around his head, which, despite the guest’s half-hearted protests, they twisted into a turban. When they were finished, little more than the Boskop’s face was left uncovered.

  “There! Isn’t that better?” Mr. Stull said, his poise tested but not broken.

  “Yes … no,” the guest said, lifting his chin. “I’m afraid I’ve been involved in an accident.”

  “Oh, I see!” Stull said as if it were a revelation. “Shall I summon a doctor, or perhaps a tailor?”

  The Boskop shrugged off the porter who’d begun dabbing at his face with a hand towel. “Given the circumstances, I think your constabulary might be more appropriate.”

  “Oh, my goodness! Of course I’ll send for them at once. What shall I say is the crime?”

  The guest began one answer, then fumbled into a second, and while struggling to keep the turban out of his eyes, seemed to decide to spare them all the embarrassment of a third attempt. “Please just say it’s urgent. I’ll wait for them in my room.”

  The porters who’d brought the bathrobe and towels had returned with a bellman’s cart, the base of which was covered with yet more towels. “I can walk,” the guest insisted.

  “Ah, but think how majestic you will look riding through the halls and in the elevator aboard such a gleaming steed. How regal! How mysterious! How much better for the carpets.”

  With a defeated sigh, the Boskop boarded the cart and gripped the brass bar at his ear as if he were riding a tram.

  As the porters wheeled Mr. Pinfield off to the freight elevator, Mr. Stull called after them, “Magnificent! A sultan glides among us! Bon voyage, sir! Pleasant dreams!”

  The moment Senlin was delivered to his room, he shucked off his coat and soaked clothes, and drew a hot bath. He was not tempted to linger in the tub. Not only was the water quick to discolor, but he was also sick of being damp. Besides, he wanted to have a look at what the hod had left behind before the law arrived. He scrubbed himself off as quickly as he could and emerged while the water still steamed.

  He donned a fresh robe—what a luxury it was to be dry!—and opened the hod’s parcel. The unwrapped oilcloth was nearly as large as his bed. He was right about it containing a book. The attractive leather-bound volume was cold and a little clammy, but the pages hadn’t warped from the damp. Whoever had wrapped it had done an excellent job. He read the title aloud: “Trilobites and Other Ancient Arthropods.” It was a comprehensive study of fossilized shellfish, exactly the sort of book that would languish in a library for decades before anyone called for it. But then, the content hardly mattered. He knew what hods did to books. He thumbed to the back, expecting to find the words obliterated by blots of ink. To his surprise, the text was untouched and intact.

  He felt a pang of shame. He shouldn’t assume that every hod was one of Luc Marat’s mystics. Perhaps the hod who’d bashed in the brains of those alleyway bullies was a paleontologist or an oceanographer or … Though, he had yelled the phrase “Come the Hod King,” which certainly sounded like the sort of thing Marat would ask his followers to call him. Still …

  The front board bore the brassy traces of binder’s glue. When Se
nlin shook the leaves, a brittle bookplate fell out, bearing the name Ostraka University. On the plate, three stately pillars were laced in ivy and underscored with the motto: “Out of ignorance: inquiry. Out of inquiry: proof.”

  Senlin examined the seams for signs of hidden pockets but found none. There were some numbers scrawled in the margins here and there. It was as if a student had used the book as scratch paper for their mathematics homework. Otherwise, the volume was unremarkable.

  Without a murderer to hand over to the authorities, Senlin knew he was more likely to be treated as a suspect than a witness. He had considered not reporting the murders, but then, he couldn’t be sure he hadn’t been seen in the alley or during his suspicious dash back through the empty, rain-flooded streets. His whitewashed jacket, which certainly had made an impression on Mr. Stull and his staff, tied him neatly to the crime, as did the spectacle glass lodged in his knuckles.

  It had occurred to him that he could just run away. He could flee to the skyport, board the next departing flight, and send a messenger to the Sphinx with his new address.

  But he just couldn’t stomach the idea of leaving, not after everything it had taken to get here. Not while Marya’s fate was still uncertain.

  Senlin knew it was possible a local officer might recognize him as the burglar of the Baths or dread Captain Mudd, but Commissioner Pound and his crew’s homecoming hadn’t happened yet, and the published warrant for Captain Mudd was laughably inaccurate.

  No, at the end of the day, his best option was to remain calm, to lean on his alias, and to hope the constables would think a Boskop too boring to be involved in something as salacious as murder.

  While he waited, he delivered his evening report to one of the Sphinx’s mechanical messengers. Except for his attendance at the play, which he omitted to save himself a scolding, he gave a full account of events. He repeated the hod’s salute to the Hod King, shared his suspicion of Luc Marat’s involvement, and concluded with the title of the disappointing book he’d recovered from the alley. He could only hope the Sphinx would be so taken with these details that she would not think to ask why he’d been out roving the city at night.