The Hod King

by Josiah Bancroft

  “Well, the man confessed to it, so there really isn’t anything to be done about it now.”

  “But who are all these other people?”

  “Mr. Pinfield, are you really so unversed with the basic tenets of the law as it pertains to the hods?” Eigengrau tossed his short cape aside so he could access a waist pocket. He drew out a small notebook, which he consulted as he continued to talk. “Mr. Cavendish and Mr. Brown’s total fortunes, including all their assets and subtracting their not inconsiderable obligations, came to 219 minas, 8 shekels, and 11 pence. The total debt of these conspirators comes to exactly 219 minas, 8 shekels, and 11 pence. Their death will balance the books.”

  “That doesn’t make any sense! Surely someone holds the debts of these hods. Aren’t you stealing from their pockets?”

  “Sir! Everyone understands the risk of holding a hod’s bill. Hods perish all the time. The Old Vein is full of bones. Is there anything rarer in the Tower than a hod who lives long enough to pay his debt down entirely? Every law-abiding citizen shares the burden of the hods. It is our civic duty.”

  “But look at her!” Senlin said, pointing a finger at the young woman against the wall. Her narrow chest was wrapped with fabric so dingy and rough it wouldn’t serve for sackcloth. “What is she? Fourteen, perhaps fifteen years old? What possible justice could have brought her here, to this?”

  Eigengrau looked down at Senlin with a pitying smile. When he spoke, his tone was so full of condescension Senlin considered throwing his life away just to strike the smug look from the man’s face. “Mr. Pinfield, I did not impoverish that girl. I did not give her parents license to bear a child they could not support. I did not direct them to run up debts they could not repay. And I did not sell their child, like a sow at the market, into hoddery.” Seeing that his explanation had not softened Senlin’s expression of perplexed distress, the general put his arm around the Boskop’s shoulder and said, “Perhaps it might help to think of justice as a sort of moral accounting. Like accounting, justice doesn’t deform to accommodate excuses or bad luck or good intentions. Justice draws a bottom line: a line that is straight, clear, and unequivocal. It is my duty to balance the accounts upon that line. I must be accountable for the people who are not accountable for themselves. I’ve accepted this fact. I do not expect to be adored for the work I do, the sacrifices I make. Righteousness is its own reward.”

  “How much?”

  “Pardon?”

  “How much does the young lady owe? What is her debt?”

  With a great show of tolerance, Eigengrau consulted his notebook. “Eleven pence.”

  “Elev …” Emotion constricted his throat before he could finish. It dawned upon him that she had been chosen only because she fit the bill. In the eyes of the law, she was loose change. He pulled out his billfold. “Well, I’ll pay it. In fact, I’ll pay for all of them. It may take me a day or two to get the funds together, but I’m sure you know I’m good for it.”

  “Mr. Pinfield … Cyril,” Eigengrau said and laid a very long, almost slender hand upon Senlin’s arm. “It isn’t your fault. I think you are a little traumatized by what happened. I’m so accustomed to seeing death that I sometimes forget that not all men are unaffected by the sight of violence. Even if you paid the debts of these hods, I would still have to fetch more to pay the blood debt that is owed. This is hard, manly work. Perhaps you should leave before—”

  “All good! I’m ready!” the photographer said.

  The sergeant called for the squad to ready their aim. Sixteen barrels swung up to point at the hods. The photographer raised a small trough on a stick. Gunpowder lined the flash pan. “Perhaps we could count to three? That would be very helpful. They should fire with the flash.”

  “Wait! Stop!” Senlin pulled his arm free of the general’s grasp and moved to restrain the photographer, to put a hand over his mouth if he had to.

  But before the count began, the black powder in the flash pan ignited with a percussive poof. Sparks leapt onto the sleeve of Senlin’s coat. The sergeant shouted his command a split second later. The whump of lead balls into flesh and bone was nearly drowned out by the crack of gunshots. Some of the hods went rigid as if pinned by their wounds. Others slumped down, pulling upon the chains that linked them. The young woman had been struck in the lung. Though the weight of the other bodies and her shackles pulled hard upon her, she fought to stay on her feet.

  But the shock that stanched her wound did not last. A red streamer ran from the hole in her chest, crimped by the fading beats of her heart. She coughed up dark blood. Her legs failed her, and she fell in line with the dead.

  Senlin swatted at the flames that ran up his sleeve. Seeing he had no choice but to take the burning garment off, he threw it to the ground and stamped the fire out. He stood over the smoking coat, panting with fright and rage.

  The thunder of gunshots still rolled around the bowl of the sky. The crowd stood silent.

  The photographer, who’d been examining his camera, looked up with a scowl and said, “I’m sorry. I didn’t get the shot. Could we prop them up and try again?”

  Chapter Thirteen

  I never respond to invitations. It just smacks of desperation. The only event I am certain to attend is my funeral, and I hope to arrive very, very late.

  —Oren Robinson of the Daily Reverie

  The usual, sir?” Joachim asked.

  “No. No,” Senlin said, feeling almost nauseated by the thought of having to choke down another glass of blood-warm water. “Rum. A tall rum. A pail full of rum, please.”

  If the club bartender felt any surprise at this departure in the Boskop’s character, he didn’t show any sign of it. He produced a large tumbler that was half filled with a fine, oaky rum, the complexities of which were entirely wasted upon Senlin. He finished the glass off in three gulps.

  After the execution, Senlin had gone back to his room to change out of his burned coat. He’d had no other option but to put on the tuxedo he’d worn the night before, which seemed a little flamboyant for such an early hour. Though what did it matter? What did any of this nonsense about fashion matter?

  The Sphinx hunted for a dangerous conspiracy while so much evil stood out in the open. Of course a revolution was coming! How could it not be? Senlin disagreed vehemently with Marat’s means and egotistical motives, but he could not argue with the manifest need for change. The need was so great, in fact, it had a stupefying effect upon the spirit. How could one hope to change a culture, save an entire class? And why even try when he could adopt Eigengrau’s exonerating pragmatism? Why bother saving one young woman when another would only take her place? Why save anyone if not everyone could be saved? The tree of history rotted faster than it grew. The Tower crumbled more quickly than it could be repaired. Any effort to forestall the inevitable collapse was not only futile, it was naive.

  No. Senlin could not allow cynicism to pardon his conscience. He might not be able to save all the hods, but he could save one. He must save one.

  “Joachim, which Coterie member owns the Iron Bear?”

  “The Marquis de Clarke,” Joachim said, refilling his glass without having been asked.

  Senlin sipped from the pour he had not objected to. He had been hoping for a man of some lower rank: an earl or a baron. “And what sort of man is the marquis?”

  “He’s famous for his parties. He has a doting daughter who he’d like to see married, and he has the largest bar tab of anyone here.”

  “Aha!” Senlin said, raising his glass to this ray of hope. Perhaps the marquis was in need of some liquidity.

  “He’s very attached to his champion,” Joachim continued. “The Bear makes him a lot of money. He’s only lost one match, and that was a few months ago. The marquis was livid when it happened. He had a large wager riding on the Bear that night and was in no mood to pay it out. The marquis had snuck a pistol into the club—which is completely against the rules, of course—and he would’ve shot his champion dead i
n the ring if he hadn’t been restrained.” Joachim gave a laconic laugh, though Senlin wasn’t sure a joke had been told. “The Iron Bear hasn’t lost since.”

  “How much does a brawler usually cost?”

  “Well, I’ve seen champions sold for as little as a shekel in a fit of pique, and for as much as a thousand minas.”

  “You could buy a yacht with that sort of money!”

  “You could, indeed. But there really isn’t any way to know how much a champion is worth until money changes hands.”

  Senlin pondered all of this as he sipped his rum. After all the bills and bribes, he had 194 minas left of what the Sphinx had sent him with, which didn’t seem enough to purchase the marquis’s beloved champion outright.

  “When is the Iron Bear’s next bout?” Senlin asked.

  Joachim consulted a program he had tucked behind the bar, squinting like a man in denial of the onset of middle age. “He fights this evening. Seven o’clock. He’s facing the Djinn. Should be quite a bruiser.”

  “Do you have pencil and paper I can borrow? I need to write a quick note.”

  To Senlin’s amusement, the bartender produced an entire tabletop writing desk. He opened the lacquered box to reveal an inkpot, two colors of stationery, envelopes, a selection of nibs, and sticks of red melting wax for the production of a seal. Forgoing all the peripherals, Senlin selected a single sheet and a pencil to compose his note.

  Dear John,

  I want to buy your freedom, but your habit of winning puts you out of my financial reach. If your record were to be tarnished by your performance this evening, I believe I can convince your master to part with you. I hope you still trust me, at least enough to allow me to repay my debt to you.

  Look for me on the club rail.

  Faithfully Yours,

  The Great Grim Scowler of Café

  Risso

  Senlin folded the note and promised Joachim he would return with his pencil in a moment.

  He descended to the lobby floor and joined the noisy stream of men arriving for the early fights. The stands had only begun to fill, so Senlin hadn’t any trouble approaching the worn wood rail that separated the bleachers from the arena floor. Leaning down, he showed a five-shekel coin to a young lad raking the ruddy clay. The groomer edged his way near enough for Senlin to make his proposal: If he delivered the note to the Iron Bear and returned with a reply, the coin would be waiting for him. The lad glanced about and, deciding it was safe, took the card and pencil and vanished into one of the service tunnels.

  While he waited for the young man’s return, Senlin watched the birds swoop down from the dome into the footwells of the stands and peck about for scraps. A magpie hopped onto the neighboring bench with a penny clenched in its beak. For a moment, Senlin thought the tuxedoed bird was offering him the coin as a tip, then the magpie spread its wings and flapped away.

  The wait was a nervous one. Senlin wondered if he had just penned what would become the first exhibit in his trial. Even if the young messenger didn’t turn his note over to the Colosseum guard, it wasn’t inconceivable that Tarrou’s loyalties had been turned by his time on the black trail. Perhaps he had fallen in with Marat’s zealots and had pledged his allegiance to the Hod King. Perhaps he’d learned to babble in their inscrutable tongue. Senlin’s former café companion might expose him with a word. Senlin shuddered at the thought as a white-aproned bookmaker stepped onto a bench and announced the day’s fights through a battered bullhorn.

  The groomers raked up their footprints as they retreated to the tunnels. The heavy portcullises shut behind them with a finality that seemed an answer in itself: Tarrou would not be joining him in a new conspiracy.

  It had been foolish to try to get a note to John. The best Senlin could hope for now was to escape before the messenger identified him to the guards. He fled to the lobby, half expecting to find the kettle-chested Wakeman waiting for him. But the lobby was deserted except for the bookies, the tapsters, and one or two drunks. Cheers from the arena bounced about the vestibule like a taunt.

  Senlin was preparing to bolt for the exit when the young groomer emerged from a door behind the betting booths. The youth trotted over, presenting the folded notecard and pencil. He collected his payment and retreated the way he’d come without ever uttering a word.

  Feeling obvious standing in the middle of the unpopulated lobby, Senlin moved to the periphery to lean upon the trunk of a fat column. He unfolded the card and read:

  Dear Scowler,

  I can’t believe you’re not dead. Well done and congratulations on your continued good luck! Still, I have not forgotten what happened the last time I threw my lot in with yours. Part of me is quite sure that one adventure with you is enough for a lifetime. Then again …

  I don’t know, Headmaster. I just don’t know.

  I suppose my decision will be plain enough. If you see me getting the spit knocked out of me, you’ll know I’ve thrown my lot in with yours. Heaven help me. Heaven help us both.

  J. T.

  Senlin had prepared himself for a yes or a no, but he wasn’t prepared for a maybe. Perhaps he should cut his losses and make for the port. The State of Art would arrive soon enough. He could admit defeat, return empty-handed, and hope the Sphinx would be satisfied with his marginal efforts at espionage. Or he could hold out hope that Tarrou would take his offer, throw the fight, and let himself be won away from the marquis. Surely the Sphinx would not complain of the opportunity to interview a hod who’d spent so much time inside the Colosseum. If he could get John out, everyone might be happy, most of all Tarrou.

  He stared at the floor as he pondered the question. The red lines in the marble were as fine as the veins of a bloodshot eye. Sprinkled all around the base of the column were dozens of what seemed to be large chips of plaster in varying shades of pink, gray, and white. Curious, he bent and retrieved a chip. Even before he had straightened, he saw what it really was—the paper wing of a butterfly, painted to resemble stone. He was standing amid a graveyard of the Sphinx’s spies.

  He circled that pillar, then another, and though he found many more wings, he didn’t find a single clockwork thorax. All the recorders were missing.

  The implication was clear enough. Someone was catching the Sphinx’s butterflies, stripping the wings off here, and pocketing the recording devices. The fact that he’d found the wings in the lobby seemed to exonerate the hods, who weren’t allowed to roam about. That left the Coterie and their staff as the more likely suspects. Senlin wondered how they caught the butterflies. He tried to imagine the guards charging about the lobby, swinging butterfly nets. Regardless of the how, the evidence did nothing to answer the more pressing question of why. Why would the Coterie go to such lengths to destroy the butterflies? Senlin hadn’t seen any evidence that the duke or his compatriots gave the Sphinx the slightest consideration. The Sphinx was little more than an oddity.

  The discovery of the stripped wings drove off any thought of a premature escape. Not only did he owe Tarrou the chance to make up his mind, but Senlin felt he owed the Sphinx answers to at least some of these questions.

  The matter settled, Senlin returned to the Coterie Club and reclaimed his stool. He asked Joachim if he would point out the Marquis de Clarke when he arrived, but the bartender assured him that wouldn’t be necessary because the marquis pointed himself out well enough.

  And Joachim was right. An hour later, a footman wearing a pillowy cap mounted the club stairs and announced in a theatrical timbre, “The most honorable, enviable, unimpeachable, and amicable Marquis de Clarke!”

  Senlin turned on his stool to mark the man’s arrival. The marquis wore a swallowtailed coat and white hose, which accentuated his bulbous knees. His robust middle was scarcely contained by an orange vest, and a small, white wig sat atop his considerable bald head like the lid of a teapot.

  The marquis warmed every corner of the club with his breath and presence. He visited table after table, overwhelming every convers
ation with his own endless sentence, which seemed to have begun that morning when he awoke and which would only conclude that evening when sleep applied a full stop. Senlin gathered that no one in the room particularly liked the marquis half so much as he liked himself.

  Senlin asked Joachim what the marquis drank and was not surprised to learn the marquis only drank from a particularly rare and expensive bottle of peridot. Senlin ordered two flutes of the refulgent syrup, then intercepted de Clarke just when he seemed to be running short of members to harass with his wit.

  Handing the marquis his drink, Senlin said, “Oh, your lordship, it’s such an honor to finally meet you.” On nearer inspection, Senlin saw the marquis wore a conspicuous amount of makeup. His complexion looked like a porcelain mask that had been shattered, then glued back together numerous times.

  A moment before the marquis had been describing the mulish kick of his newest rifle, but switched midsentence to say, “Is this the Peridot Deluxe Reserve: Rosa Absentia?” He stuck his piggish nose into the glass and piped up the air. “Oh, it is! I like you, sir! What is your name?”

  Senlin introduced himself and observed the marquis take note of the pin on his lapel. The minute de Clarke learned that Mr. Pinfield was a new member, he undertook a sort of rambling education on the virtues of the club, many of which concerned his own contributions to it. After several minutes of smiling and nodding and making modest noises of astonishment, Senlin managed to insert a question about the marquis’s champion.

  “I’m not sure you’d ever entertain a peripheral wager, but I—”

  “Cyril!” the marquis exclaimed, dispensing with formalities. “Side bets are the best bets. The rest is just paying the bookmaker’s salary. What do you fancy? Ten? Twenty minas?” The marquis punctuated the words by sipping from his flute with the rapidity of a hummingbird.