“Not so different from what?” Senlin asked. His throat was as dry as straw.
The duke stopped and examined Senlin’s face in the swinging lamplight. “Turning a man into a hod.”
Wil knelt, set the lamp down, and pointed the barrel of the pistol at Senlin’s nose with an indifference his expression did not reflect. His eyes gleamed with sadistic delight. He was savoring every facet of this moment. “I’ve bled you of all your strength, hope, and wealth. I’ve skinned you.” He wagged the barrel, directing Senlin’s eye down. Senlin discovered he was undressed to the waist and wearing nothing but a rough loincloth. His boots were gone as well. “And now I’m going to gut you.”
Without relinquishing Senlin’s gaze, the duke said over his shoulder, “Get out. Close the door. I’ll knock when I need you.” The soldiers saluted and shut the iron hatch behind them. It closed with a resounding clang that echoed for quite some time. Senlin turned to look, realizing that what he had taken for a room was in fact a passage, and one that ran beyond the lantern’s reach.
Senlin tested the limit of his chains and found his shackles were latched to the floor. The rattle made the duke smirk. “I knew you were too old for her, but I thought you would be handsome at least. How did you ever snare a creature like her? I suppose that’s the benefit of being a bachelor in a small village. There’s not a lot of competition. You would’ve done well, Tom, to have gone back and settled for someone closer to your caliber. An old widow or a willing sow.” The duke stood again, shaking his head and clucking his tongue. “The fact that you’re here can only mean one thing: You are stupidly, hopelessly, dangerously in love with my wife.” He backed across the chamber, his arms crossed, the pistol dangling.
“Do you have any idea how many people would like to be in my place right now? If I were Commissioner Pound, I would’ve sawed off your head and used it for a pisspot an hour ago. You have spent the past year running about kicking every hornet’s nest you could set your foot to. I bet if I auctioned you off to your enemies, I could make a small fortune.”
“Marya had nothing to do with—”
With two quick steps, the duke covered the gap and caught Senlin on the chin with his boot. The kick threw Senlin to his side, where he again found the limit of his chains. “Don’t say her name again.”
Senlin spat blood onto the hard flagstone, his ears ringing. He scowled at the duke but said nothing.
“I still owe you a gutting, don’t I?” Wil said, a familiar note of irony returning to his voice. “You seem to be under the impression that I am somehow Marya’s jailer, or that she is here unwillingly. But that is not the case at all. You see, very early on, she and I developed an understanding, a mutually beneficial agreement, which gave both of us what we wanted most. I got a talented, beautiful, obedient wife who is beloved by all, and who, very soon, will bear me enough sons and daughters to start a dynasty. And she got to keep your little runt.”
Senlin choked. “What?”
“You didn’t know?” the duke said with contrived surprise. “Honestly, I didn’t know either at first. If I had suspected she was pregnant, I doubt I would’ve let myself develop such warm feelings for her. But the heart is a cat; it does what it pleases.” Wil shook a fist at the round roof of the passage, a wistful gesture that was lost on Senlin, who was too busy recalling the last night he had shared with Marya aboard the train to the Tower. Never would he have thought that such a tender memory could fill him with such despair.
“She came to me in a most shameful and frankly dangerous condition for an abandoned woman. It’s tempting to say that it ruined her, but I think the unborn millstone put one or two things into perspective for her. I admit, she was not keen to marry me at first, not even after I brought her here, showed her my home, introduced her to my friends and my easy lifestyle. I think she refused me out of stubbornness—you know how willful she can be—rather than out of any lingering feelings for you. I was growing a little frustrated with her, in fact. But then, your little whelp announced itself, and the prospect of her being penniless and friendless in the Tower with an infant child made my proposal seem just what it was: a gift.
“Because she is quite intelligent, she understood why I could not publicly welcome a bastard and a spoiled woman into my home, and so she agreed to conceal her pregnancy and hide the child once it was born. I can hardly express how much trouble I’ve gone to, to keep that little bitch of yours out of the papers. But I am not without understanding of a woman’s irrational attachments, and so I promised her that as soon as she bears me a son, we can pretend to discover your child abandoned on our doorstep, and Marya can live as the adoptive mother to the girl, who I will treat as my own. Well, nearly my own.”
Senlin had never felt such anger in his life. But amid the immediate urge to murder this man, there was a flutter of pride and love. “What is her name?” he asked.
“I will tell you, but only because I know it will torment you more. But I do want to stress something first, Tom: If by some miracle you escape the black trail and worm your way to freedom, if I or anyone I know ever sees your face again, I will slit the child’s throat.”
“What is her name?”
“Olivet,” Wil said, raising his knuckle to the iron door. “Now, remember, mum’s the word. If you want to keep them safe, you’ll keep your mouth shut.” The duke knocked, and the clang of a heavy latch releasing reverberated through the iron. The hatch opened, and the soldiers returned with a third man between them. Tarrou’s expression was so slack it could’ve passed as a death mask. Though Senlin hunted for it, his former friend would not meet his gaze.
“We found this in your pocket,” the duke said, holding up the folded note he and Tarrou had passed. “So I thought why not send you to the black trail with a friend to guide you. I’m sure he won’t blame you for robbing him of regular meals and a warm bed.”
“John—” Senlin began but stopped when the duke holstered his pistol and took something from one of his men. The object was about as large as an urn, made of brass, and bullet shaped. There was a clasped enclosure at the open base and a few peephole-sized openings drilled near the middle. The duke bounced the urn in his hands, testing the weight. “Oh, it’s heavy!” He raised it over his head and pulled it down as if it were a helmet, though it had no slits nor visor for the eyes and mouth. “How do I look?” he asked, holding his arms out wide, his voice muffled. He pulled the contraption off again. “Oh, that was horrible. It’s like putting your head in a casket. You know, they use these in the Parlor to aid in the removal of eyes. They call it a blinder, I believe. It seems a little unnecessary. I mean, why go to the trouble of removing a man’s eyes when you can just pickle his whole head?”
The duke held the cylinder over Senlin, who was making a conscious effort to resist the overwhelming urge to struggle. “My suggestion is that you look for a good straw because you won’t get anything larger into that air hole. I hope you like broth.” Wil sighed deeply, luxuriantly, savoring the moment. “I want my face to be the last face you ever see. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have a date with my wife. Goodbye.”
The duke pressed the blinder down, eclipsing the amber light. The weight settled upon Senlin’s shoulders. As he felt the clasp tightening about his neck, the voices in the room were overwhelmed by the sudden resounding rasp of his own breath and the roar of blood in his ears. He could hear nothing else, and the panic was so intense, it petrified him. Dimly, he was aware that his shackles were unbolted from the floor and then removed from his wrists. Dimly, he felt himself gripped under the arms and hoisted to his feet. Dimly, he felt the gust of air from the closing hatch upon the drumhead of his chest.
Senlin screamed until his ears ached and his breath was gone. Tears burned his eyes, and he reached up to wipe them, only to knock his knuckles against the brass shell about his head. Every instinct told him to run. He groped the air and staggered forward until he jammed his fingers against cold masonry. He couldn’t breathe. He was suf
focating. His stomach seemed to press upon his throat. He screamed again and began to choke.
Large, heavy hands grasped him by the shoulders. Senlin bucked wildly at the unexpected contact, but the hands held him more firmly and pressed his back flat against the wall. Underneath the booming of his own breath, Senlin heard shouting.
“Calm down, Tom! Calm down! If you don’t calm down, you’re going to make yourself sick, and believe me, you’ll regret that for a long, long time. Breathe in through your nose. In through your nose!” Tarrou’s familiar baritone, though muted by the walls of the kettle, was enough to temper his panic. Senlin focused on his breathing. “That’s it. Slow. Deep and slow.”
In the utter dark, Senlin closed his eyes and pictured the dazzling blue sky as he’d observed it from his old cottage door—boundless and untroubled. He saw the cerulean horizon of the sea, the paper-white sails of ships. He smelled the wind, briny and crisp. And when he opened his eyes again, the darkness was not so deep, not so entire.
“That’s it, Headmaster. That’s it. Nice and slow.” Tarrou patted him on the chest. Then sensing the moment of panic had passed, he added, “That was quite a rescue, Tom.”
His voice trembling, his cheeks hot with tears, Senlin said, “It’s all part of the plan, John. All part of the plan.”
Through the blinder, he heard Tarrou’s rumbling laugh.
The Black Trail
The Old Vein is like the scullery of a fine restaurant: We know it is there; we are glad it exists; but seeing the mountains of dirty dishes with our own eyes only spoils the appetite.
—Everyman’s Guide to the Tower of Babel, IV. Appendix
Though dank and charmless as a bilge, the tunnel the duke had locked them in was not exactly the violent netherworld Senlin had imagined. The floor appeared to be level and the walls smooth. The air was ghastly. There was no denying that. It smelled like an outhouse behind an abattoir. But there was no human wailing nor churn of bodies. In fact, as far as he could tell with his head in a can, the black trail was deserted. He wondered whether the wretchedness of the tunnels had been exaggerated by the soft-handed tourists who’d been cast upon it.
Admittedly, his impressions were probably being skewed by the blinder. The duke was right: It was heavy. Senlin had been wearing it only a few moments and already the crown of his head, which bore most of the weight, ached. The clasp about his neck was tight enough to make him conscious of every swallow, and if he focused too long upon the sensation, his panic began to return. The ear holes, neither larger than a pea, made it hard to hear anything clearly, and despite the presence of a third hole over his mouth, Tarrou had trouble understanding him unless he spoke slowly and distinctly, and then, the tinny boom of his voice inside the bucket made Senlin feel horribly claustrophobic. It felt as if he were shut inside a coffin and shouting at the lid.
The thought made his breath quicken again. He had to resist the impulse to pant because the faster he breathed, the more his thoughts churned. He could not afford to dwell on certain questions, such as how would he eat and drink? How would he sleep? How would he scratch his nose or trim his beard? What if a fly got inside the blinder? What if it laid eggs?
No, if he wished to live long enough to have the privilege of starving to death, he’d first have to survive the next minute and, if he were lucky, the minute after that. His sense of the future shrank to the span of breaths, swallows, and small, tentative steps.
There was no question in his mind that he had to survive. He had to find Marya again and beg her forgiveness for having been so easily fooled by the smirking duke. Senlin wondered how he could’ve learned so much and still know so little about the world and human nature!
What could he possibly be worth as a father? And yet, that’s what he was: The father of a little girl named Olivet.
He tried to picture her face. He knew it could not really belong to her, and yet, he could not resist the urge to conjure up a little cameo. In his imagination, Olivet had Marya’s eyes and her perfect slope of a nose, but had his mouth and ears, in gentler proportions, of course, because she was not some little sturgeon. No. She was beautiful. She was perfect. He could almost feel her in his arms.
Then he took a foul breath and swallowed around the collar, and the vision of his infant daughter vanished.
Yet that small and probably delusional glimpse was enough to carry him through another moment. And that was all he needed to do: survive the next moment.
At least the black trail was well paved, a helpful feature for a blind man. Trying to build upon this hopeful thought, Senlin shared with Tarrou his opinion that perhaps the Old Vein wasn’t so bad after all. Ignoring that comment altogether, Tarrou warned Senlin that he should brace himself: They were nearly at the gatehouse. “Don’t speak to the gatekeepers,” John said without a hint of his usual levity. “Keep your head down and, if you can help it, don’t let go of my arm. When they open the gate, there are always a few idiots who’ll try to rush in. If you fall, you will be trampled, and I’ll be trampled trying to save you. Don’t be afraid to swing your arms. Just try not to hit me.”
A militant voice ordered them to halt and show their hands, which they did, though it meant Senlin had to give up his grip on Tarrou. He could only listen and try to guess at the scene: Heavy footfalls surrounded them. He thought he counted at least eight men, but he wasn’t sure. He heard the creak of leather armor and the rattle of arms. Someone shouted, “Look at the teapot!” Then there was laughter, followed by a hard knock on the side of his head. He winced and shrank, though without any sense of which direction safety might lie.
A more commanding voice said, “Cut that out! Open the inner door!”
The rattle of chains and clank of gears shivered through the blinder and into Senlin’s skull. He began to breathe more heavily and so missed the next command when it came. The butt of a rifle jabbed him in the back. He stumbled forward, bumping against a broad wall of muscle, which he could only hope belonged to Tarrou.
A heavy thump reverberated behind them. Feeling around, Senlin discovered they had been closed inside some sort of chute. Just ahead, Tarrou called out, “They’re opening the gate. Hold on, Tom! Hold on!” Senlin had just enough time and sense to grope about and find his friend’s arm. He latched upon it. Then the outer portcullis opened, and they were hurled back against the shut gate by a wave of frenzied bodies. He felt Tarrou’s muscles strain and shake. Tarrou seemed to be managing to throw some of the hods back, but when he did, others squeezed under his arms and pinned Senlin against the rough timber of the latticed gate.
Senlin lost his grip on Tarrou but, recalling his large friend’s suggestion, he struck blindly at the riot of arms and fists and knees that assailed him. He heard, with a glimmer of satisfaction, knuckles crack upon his blinder. Some hands pulled at him, attempting to pry him from the door; others beat him back, as if they meant to use him as a battering ram. Ragged nails raked his bare chest; an elbow drummed against his ribs. He began to slip downward, and he knew in another moment he would fall underfoot.
Something staff-like bumped the side of his blinder, and amid the chaos, he heard a hoarse voice squawk, “Rifles!” Then there was a burst of heat, a lungful of smoke, and the ringing of a bell that pitched higher and higher and did not fade.
The press of bodies that had pinned him to the door a moment before broke. He stumbled forward, tripping over thin and lifeless limbs. The smooth flagstone path broke beneath him, giving way to loose, unstable rubble. He threw his arms out but felt nothing and no one. It occurred to him that he might be standing on the edge of some great precipice, and the mere thought gave him such vertigo, he fell to his hands and knees.
He coughed the gun smoke from his lungs, but the air that replaced it was so foul it made him gag. The stench reminded him of the storm tides that struck Isaugh, when high water stranded mounds of fish and seaweed far up the beach to fester in the sun.
If Tarrou had been shot and killed inside the gateho
use tunnel, Senlin knew exactly what he would do. He would find a rock and attack the clasp at his throat. He would remove the blinder by any means, even if he had to hack himself off at the neck.
A moment after that self-destructive urge flitted through his head, he rebuked himself for it. No, he would not do the duke’s dirty work for him. Wil had been foolish enough to let him live. Senlin believed the duke’s threat, believed he would kill Olivet just to spite him and terrorize Marya. But much as Senlin had underestimated his enemy, the duke had underestimated him: his resourcefulness, his determination, and the strength of his friends. He was not some sniveling Fishbelly! He was a survivor, a schemer, a man of the clouds! He would not die here in this stink with a jar on his head. No! He was at the bottom of the bottom, in the gutter of the gutter. He could sink no lower. It could only be death or resurrection from here, so let the resurrection begin!
He scrambled to his feet, raised his arms, and shook his fists at the darkness around him.
It was a theatrical indulgence, but he didn’t care. He roared into his prison, roared for the lives he was determined to save, until the ringing in his ears faded and the sound of his voice was no longer so distant.
He felt a large hand settle upon his shoulder, and through the peephole near his ear, he heard Tarrou shout, “Yes, yes, we’re alive. We survived. Congratulations. But you do realize, you’ve lost your loincloth? People are staring. Perhaps you should stop shaking about?”
In a panic, Senlin reached down to cover himself. But he found his sarong hanging just as it should. The sound of Tarrou’s rumbling laughter made Senlin’s temper flare. “How can you joke at a time like this?”
Tarrou’s laughter was pinched off by an ugly moan. “Well, if you’d rather spend your last days weeping, Headmaster, I’ll oblige you. I’m sure I can recall a sad ballad or two.” Tarrou surprised Senlin by staggering against him. Senlin narrowly managed to catch his heavy friend. “But you’ve got a bucket on your head, and I’ve been shot. I’d say this is as good a time as any for jokes.”
The Hod King Page 15
