The Hod King

by Josiah Bancroft

  “I got three scenarios right!” Voleta shouted.

  “Out of twenty-eight! That’s terrible. Iren could do better.”

  “Oy,” Iren said.

  “Shut up, all of you,” Edith said, finding and holding each of their gazes. She looked angry and, Voleta thought, a little unnerved. “I don’t think you understand our situation here. We are a castle without an army. If anyone suspected there were only five of us inhabiting this ship, they would break the hull open and pull us out like maggots from soft cheese.”

  “Oh my god!” Byron shuddered in revulsion.

  “A buttload of anvils,” Iren said. Everyone looked at her blankly, and she shrugged. “When I worked for Goll, part of my job was to spot the sluggards. If I caught a man loafing, or napping, or dragging his feet, I’d give him a boot.” Iren’s expression seemed almost sentimental. “But there was this one clever slug named Miter. He figured out he could fool me if he carried an empty crate or butt about and just acted like it was full. He was good at it, too. He’d go red in the face. His knees would tremble. His eyes would bulge out of his head. I’d ask him, ‘What’s so heavy?’ And he’d always say, ‘Anvils!’ This went on for months. Then one day, just on a whim, I knocked on the butt he was lugging about and heard an empty thump.”

  “What became of Miter?” Voleta asked.

  “What do you call a person who really comes to appreciate the taste of something?” Iren said, frowning with thought. “A clowning sir?”

  “A connoisseur?” Byron suggested.

  “That’s it. I made him a connoisseur of my boot.”

  “Worse will happen to us if we’re discovered,” Edith said grimly. “But Iren is right: We don’t want anyone knocking on our butt.”

  Voleta laughed at the phrase, and Edith swung about to face the girl. “Listen to me, Voleta.” Edith spoke in a level voice that was more daunting for its lack of inflection. “I want to make one thing clear: Iren is in charge. If you disobey her, she is under strict orders to haul you back to the ship, in a sack if need be, and you will not leave here again so long as I’m captain. There’ll be no discussion, no excuses, and no third or fourth chances. The Sphinx will not intervene on your behalf. I will install you in the galley and you will scrub dishes until you’re old. You will do as Iren tells you. Is that clear?”

  “Aye, sir,” Voleta said and tried to swallow the lump that had risen in her throat.

  “Good. The Sphinx has decided that we dock at Port Virtue in the morning. He’s promised they’ll be expecting us. The Sphinx has given us three days to conduct our business. Three days. That’s as long as this little experiment will last. If anyone asks, we will tell them the ship has a crew of seventy-eight airmen. If anyone wants a tour, we will politely dissuade them. If anyone tries to board us, we will kill them at the door.”

  Chapter Three

  At the round table of color, orange sits supreme. Orange is sublime. Orange is ablaze. And seated across from Lady Orange, we have Sir Purple. I ask you, is any color more vulgar? The word alone emerges like something from a lavatory. Purple. Plopple. It’s all prunes, liver spots, and ink stains. If I ever utter a word of praise for that wretched hue, please snatch my pen away and gore me with it.

  —Oren Robinson of the Daily Reverie

  The Daily Reverie

  THE STATE OF ART AND THE STATE OF US

  JULY 14

  After the sun and the moon, the State of Art must be the largest, brightest celestial body.

  Yes, I too have stood out upon the viewing deck and watched that great silver scythe slink across the sky. I’m utterly certain it could slit the Tower’s throat should it have a mind to. Binoculared oglers have informed me that the ship’s envelope is decorated with the ancient herald of the Brick Layer. Because I was a poor student, but a better journalist, I researched the Brick Layer’s emblem, so I could describe it to you here in reliable detail. It is a wheel of half-clad men and women, marching heel to toe, sharing burdens of bricks, jugs, and sheaves of wheat. In short, it is a dreadful little pantomime of perfect human harmony, which exists to remind us how noisy and thoughtless our upstairs neighbors are.

  But it seems inarguable now—the Sphinx is back.

  I have been warned by the authorities that we should not expect the Sphinx himself to emerge from the ship with tentacles flailing and mane ablaze. Purportedly, the Sphinx is sending one of his Wakefolk to speak at his behest. I’ve heard whispers that the Wakeman will come with an entourage of interesting persons for us to turn upon the slow spit of our attention. I can hardly wait. My pen waters with anticipation.

  Is there anyone who inspires more overconfident and underinformed theorizing than the Sphinx? We are naturally suspicious of his intentions. I’ve heard learned persons suggest that he has come to stake a political claim. Other, equally wise men are sure his return portends the introduction of a new and dazzling technology. (Of course, the Colosseum bookmakers are taking bets on the nature of that invention. Presently, there are equal odds on it being drinkable lightning, a mechanical girdle, or a pork-beef hybrid called moink.) Still other scholars claim that this is all an elaborate humbug enacted by one of the upper ringdoms—a poor joke played upon us, the original cast of the Tower.

  For my own part, I would like to know why the Sphinx vanished in the first place. Did we thin his patience with our squabbling? Or perhaps our independence made him resentful. I know the lower-ringdom jingoists like to believe he was exiled by our excellence, which forced him to admit that the Tower is only as high as its base is wide!

  Personally, I suspect the truth is more banal: He is an immortal who retired too young, grew bored of his coin collection, and decided to un-retire.

  I have observed some anxiety over why the Sphinx has chosen our port to be the first to welcome his warship. Is it a threat? Is it an invasion, and, if so, should we expect a monstrous coronation? I do sometimes wonder why we are so quick to expect the worst of our guests. I prefer to believe the Sphinx has chosen us because he knows what we excel at. He wanted someone to make a fuss over him. And everyone knows we Pelphians have no peer in the fussing arts.

  Ships bustled in and out of Port Virtue like bees through a rosebush. Of the Lower Ringdoms, no skyport saw more traffic in a day than Pelphia’s north harbor.

  Ferries full of tourists arrived almost hourly. Sow-bellied barges rolled in with the cool morning wind, weighted down with animal hides for the cobblers and bolts of wool and silk for the tailors, and left upon the afternoon thermals loaded with the freshest, already expiring fashions. The port, shaped like a four-pronged fork, jutted from a wide boardwalk. It boasted twelve slips that cradled enough open air to accommodate most vessels out to their midpoints. Gold-plated pollards studded each berth, and all were defended by eighteen turret guns called lead soldiers. The lead soldiers looked like kingly sarcophagi with arms stuck out in rigor mortis. They were eight feet tall and veined in gold. The soldiers could twist fully around on their bases and raise their arms from their hips to their ears, giving the gunners a range of motion with which no ship could compete. Between these daunting turrets, stout palm trees grew in pots like flowers on a windowsill.

  In the State of Art’s vestibule, Voleta was looking forward to being ashore and in the fresh air. She was sick and tired of the heavy ship, which had a tendency to lurch and swing like a compass needle. She stood at the port hatch alongside Iren, Byron, and the captain, and tried her best to look as Byron said she ought: cordial, pleasant, and contrite.

  Iren leaned upon the luggage cart, piled high with trunks and hatboxes, which she would be responsible for moving through the port. Byron pressed his snout to the steel door and peered through the peephole, watching for the port master’s signal that the welcoming party was ready to receive them.

  “This wig itches,” Voleta said, scratching the part of her flowing locks. A charitable observer might have called the wig “blond,” though she thought it was objectively yellow. “It feels lik
e I’m wearing a mop.”

  “Don’t scratch,” Iren said, though without much feeling. Voleta could tell her friend was still getting used to her uniform. She almost didn’t mind the long skirts and poufy shoulders, which did a fair job of concealing her bulk, but she found the frilly bonnet almost insufferable. Iren had told Voleta that morning that if the wharf rats of New Babel had ever caught her in a bonnet, they would have died of laughter—because when they laughed, she would have strangled them.

  Voleta said, “I hardly recognize us.”

  “Good,” Captain Winters said. She wore a military frock coat, one sleeve of which Byron had removed to make room for her iron arm. “Don’t forget what happened the last time we tried to tie up here.”

  “What happened last time?” Byron asked.

  “We covered the ship in rags, tried to pass ourselves off as wifemongers, got pelted by the lead soldiers, and ran away with a hole in our sails.” Voleta recounted the ordeal merrily enough.

  “Yes, let’s avoid a repeat of all of that.” Edith peered at her warped reflection in the polished brass of the blowing horn that jutted from the wall. She shouted into the trumpet that connected to the bridge: “How does it look up there, pilot?”

  The Red Hand, his voice muddied by its passage through the plumbing, replied, “The port is standing room only, but our airspace is clear enough.”

  “Good. Stand by with our salute,” Edith said.

  “Senlin got off easy: no wig, no dress, not even a false mustache,” Voleta said.

  “We’re not using that name anymore, Voleta,” the captain said. “It’s Mr. Cyril Pinfield now. Though you shouldn’t have any reason to mention him at all.”

  “Yes, right, sorry. I won’t forget again.” Voleta squeezed her eyes shut and shook her head so the curls slapped her cheeks. She knew better than that! A slip of the tongue was all it would take to send Senlin to the stocks—or worse! Much worse. She blamed the wig. It was just such an extravagant torment. She could hardly think through the pinch and the itch. Worse yet, she knew the moment she was introduced to the public as a golden-haired maiden, she would be forced to keep wearing it for the next three whole days. What if Iren made her sleep in it? It would be like sleeping with her head on an anthill!

  Groaning with exasperation, Voleta marched to the porthole and undid the screws that sealed it.

  “Excuse me, young lady, what are you doing?” Byron asked. “The port guard is standing at attention. It’s almost time! The band is about to strike! For goodness’ sake, stop that!”

  But it was too late. Voleta had already opened the porthole, torn the golden tresses from her head, and stuffed the tangle through. The wind snatched the wig away at once.

  “There.” Voleta scrubbed her scalp happily. “Much better.” Her dark hair was just long enough to lie down, at least in spots. She pulled at the neckline of her dress that was as purple as a plum, and in the process disturbed Squit’s slumber inside one frilly shoulder. The fat-cheeked squirrel ran a lap about her waist and dove into the shelter of her other sleeve.

  Edith inhaled sharply, and Voleta braced herself for the reprimand. But the captain seemed to change her mind. “All right. No wig.”

  “I’m still putting it in my report,” the stag said, his long ears standing out.

  Voleta beamed at her irritated tutor. “Your reports are going to be very boring with me gone.”

  “Not everyone finds peace and quiet boring, my dear.” Byron peered through the spyhole once more. “There’s the signal! It’s time! Now, remember, smile with your eyes! No teeth! Teeth are the enemy of a demure smile.” Byron stooped to fluff Voleta’s skirts. “Bend your knees when you curtsy, and whatever you do, don’t dance. Don’t, because you can’t. You dance like you have one foot stuck in a bucket.”

  “I was just following your lead,” Voleta huffed.

  “I’m a wonderful dancer,” Byron said. Straightening, he turned the wheel lock to unseal the hatch.

  “Let’s keep our chins up. We don’t want to look like we’re skulking. Remember, we are emissaries of the Sphinx,” Captain Winters said as she seated her tricorne upon her head.

  Just before she passed into the daylight, Edith stooped and gripped the stag’s shoulder with her iron hand. “If I’m not back by midnight, fire a volley over the port. If I’m not back by morning …” She took a deep breath. “Send the madman.”

  The moment their feet touched the gangplank, an orchestra struck up a lively concerto. The brass horns flashed in the sunlight. The guards that bordered the bandstand held their sabers at attention, black jackets spattered with the colorful ribbons of war. The bannered port was awash with gentlemen and ladies in coattails and dress trains. They spilled from the jetty, onto the floating docks between berths, and even swarmed onto the decks of the other anchored airships, all of which looked toy-like in the shadow of the State of Art.

  Captain Winters paused at the foot of the gangplank. For a moment, she and her crew stood suspended above a rushing sea of wind. Voleta filled her lungs with the cool fresh air. Then the captain stepped ashore.

  The State of Art fired her thirty-two starboard cannons in a synchronized volley. The crowd gasped at the concussive roar and waved their hands at the smoke that blew around the ship and across the port. A second volley followed very soon after the first. Voleta knew the Sphinx’s cannoneers could reload the guns in less than seven seconds. Now the Pelphians knew that, too.

  Recovering their enthusiasm even before the boom of the second salute had faded, the crowd began to cheer wildly. Young men dashed their handkerchiefs over their heads; young ladies shook bouquets of poppies and lilies like pom-poms. A line of noblemen in gold epaulets and fire-colored sashes applauded from the mouth of the city gates, which stood open and waiting to accept them.

  The first thing Voleta noticed was that everyone in the port, save for the white-clad stevedores, wore the same colors: black and orange. They looked like a flock of orioles.

  The crowd made just enough room for them to leave the gangplank, but no more. Voleta couldn’t see over the perimeter of faces, and so relied upon Iren’s hand on her shoulder to point her in the right direction. Everyone was leaning in and speaking at once. At first, they seemed to be competing for who could wish her the most health, wealth, and happiness. Then someone complimented her on the daring nature of her gown’s color, and someone else expressed surprise that such a titanic vessel had produced only three visitors. Where were the dignitaries? Where were their wives? Where was the Sphinx? A lady asked Voleta if she were recovering from a bad case of lice or if there had been some sort of accident with her hair? Someone else asked whether she were really so brown or if it was only a bad tan?

  Gathering all of her patience, Voleta answered in a long ramble, “Hello! Good morning! Thank you. Your dress is daring, too! Oh, no, I did it on purpose. Yes, it will grow back. No, I came out this color. Good morning! Excuse me.”

  She was beginning to wonder if she would be forced to traverse the whole city inside a scrum of gossiping nitwits when the crowd suddenly broke before her. A knight stood at the center of the little clearing. At least Voleta assumed she was a knight because the woman was shelled in golden armor from her waist to her neck. She wore a gilded cuirass and a matching pauldron and gauntlets. Then Voleta observed the knight’s elbows cough a little steam, and she realized she was a Wakeman, like Edith. But unlike Edith’s iron arm, this woman’s engine was delicate and voluptuous. She looked more like a statue than a locomotive. Her red hair was stranded with silver at the temples. She stood with her wrists set upon her sculpted waist, looking heroic and a little out of place among the squawking throng.

  Captain Winters was quick to offer her hand to the red-headed knight. “Wakeman Edith Winters, captain of the State of Art. Permission to come ashore.”

  “Georgine Haste. Welcome to Pelphia, Captain Winters.” When Haste smiled, she showed her teeth, which endeared her to Voleta instantly. It was a smile
that made room for intimacy amid the gaping crowd, a smile that seemed to apologize for the hubbub.

  Still gripping her hand, Haste pulled Edith closer and Voleta scooted in to listen when she spoke. “Port Master Cullins is going to read a very dull speech. Don’t worry, after five minutes, the orchestra will strike whether he’s finished or not. Then there will be a short train ride and a parade. If you can stand it, smile and wave. It goes a long way. Then I’ll present you to King Leonid, who, I promise, is not as silly as he seems.”

  With the last word out, Haste used her hold on Edith’s hand to pivot them around to face the frenzied crowd. It seemed that everyone began to bow and introduce themselves in long-winded, self-important ways all at once. They talked over one another like turkeys gobbling in a pen. Haste pulled the captain through the commotion, and Voleta rode upon her wake.

  At the head of the port, a man in military dress clutched a podium. His curled mustache looked as hard as a ram’s horn. Voleta recognized him immediately as the port master who had once rebuffed them. To her relief, he showed no glimmer of recognition when he graced her with a toothless seasick smile. He stretched his neck, seemingly to soften the lump in his throat, and tamped the cards of his speech upon the lectern. When he spoke, his voice was small and unsteady.

  Port Master Cullins underscored the honor of the occasion, using phrases like “annals of history” and “fraternity of ringdoms” and “honorable envoys of the Sphinx.” The crowd, who did not care to spare Cullins’s feelings, talked over his efforts. They reviewed the orchestra’s boring performance of a tepid concerto and discussed how shabby the decorations seemed, despite being only hours old. And they returned again and again to their disappointment that so few guests had disembarked from so grand a vessel. Voleta overhead a man scoff, “The most interesting thing this week? Are you daft? This isn’t even the most interesting thing to happen today!”