The Hod King

by Josiah Bancroft

  The port master was still mumbling through his remarks when the orchestra broke into a sudden and raucous march.

  Released from the tedious proceedings, the crowd pressed back toward the city gates. The tunnel into the ringdom was tiled from floor to ceiling in squares as white as milk teeth. A glistening black locomotive steamed upon a sunken track. The engine towed a passenger car, a red caboose, and nothing more. Voleta discerned that the Pelphians were quite proud of their railroad, which seemed entirely unnecessary to her. Even so, when a matronly lady asked if she liked the city’s “handsome iron stallion,” Voleta managed to keep a straight face when she said, “It certainly is a train.”

  Iren didn’t give the train a second glance, but she seemed pleased to see the porters. She handed the luggage off to them and watched as the customs agents in pillbox caps tagged each piece for inspection. Voleta knew they wouldn’t find anything. Iren had petitioned the captain to let her bring her chains, or a pistol, or at least a sword, and Edith had explained why she couldn’t allow it. A weapon, any weapon, would only raise suspicion when it was inevitably discovered and confiscated.

  Wakeman Haste had just put her foot to the stairs of the passenger car when Port Master Cullins stepped into Voleta’s path.

  “I’m sorry, miss, but we can’t have a loose animal on the streets. You’ll have to cage it.” The port master whispered something to one of the customs agents. He dashed off and returned presently with a birdcage.

  Voleta scooped Squit off her shoulder and cupped her protectively. “She’s quite harmless.”

  “I’m sure she is. But the law is consecrated by the Crown, and I don’t have any discretion in how it’s applied.” Cullins opened the door of the cage, holding it up for her inspection. “As you can see, it’s quite a pretty little cage. Your pet will be perfectly safe. I shall carry and protect it until after your court announcement.”

  Voleta turned to Iren, searching for support. But Iren’s level gaze reminded her of what she already knew. This was it: the moment of capitulation, the moment of compromise. Byron had warned her the time would come when she would have to choose between society and herself. The challenge had come quicker than she’d expected and had struck a tender nerve. She knew Edith was watching to see what she would do.

  The crowd began to murmur. The auburn sea of formal gowns pressed in around her. The port master’s smile had soured into a nervous grimace. Voleta felt the sudden urge to reach up and rip off his mustache.

  Instead, she lifted Squit and kissed her on her striped head. With soothing clucks, she placed the squirrel inside the cage, steeling her resolve when the squirrel’s legs began to quiver with distress.

  “There we are,” Port Master Cullins said in a patronizing singsong. He closed the cage upon the cowering animal. “All the little beasties in their little cages.”

  “All aboard,” Georgine Haste said from the top step of the train car. “It’s time to meet the king.”

  Chapter Four

  A screaming mob and a cheering public sound an awful lot alike.

  —Oren Robinson of the Daily Reverie

  Iren’s first impulse was to throttle everyone who bumped into her.

  She couldn’t remember the last time she had felt so completely overlooked. Probably it was as a young girl, standing in a soup line and getting jostled by the larger children. But ever since she’d hit her growth spurt at the age of ten, people had just parted before her. At least they had until today. The moment she put on a bonnet and set her hands to a luggage cart, it was like she disappeared. The crowd didn’t pay her the slightest attention, nor give her any space. She felt a powerful urge to rip off her cap and show them all exactly what sort of warrior they were dealing with. As she pushed the cart from gangplank to train steps, she glared at every lord and lady who dallied in her way or barked at her when she nudged them or made a point of not hearing her when she politely asked them to move. It would be so easy to wrench off the garment bar and beat them all to death with it. She could probably slay a dozen before breaking a sweat. And it wasn’t until she was out of the crowd and sitting on a hard bench in the passenger car that she realized it wasn’t true. She was letting her anger pull the wool over her eyes. It didn’t matter how strong she was; she couldn’t fight an entire ringdom.

  The only ringdoms she’d ever known were dark and brooding places. New Babel stank of sulfuric acid and guano. The Silk Reef was all cobwebs and pitfalls. But when she disembarked the train and emerged from the tunnel, she felt a scintillation of awe. Pelphia was as white as salt and clean as hanging laundry. The air smelled like freshly baked cakes and perfume and roses. The streets were narrow, and the buildings were faced with gleaming marble and glass. The city blocks were nearly sutured together by porches and galleries and terraces. Every window held a face, every inch of every rail was attended by a spectator. The city, which seemed to have been made for gawking, was leaning in and looking down.

  Iren had never seen so much high ground. She felt as if she were walking along the bottom of a canyon. The confetti fell as heavily as a blizzard. The cheering sounded more and more like roaring. She felt a powerful urge to roar back. And perhaps she would’ve if Voleta had not at that moment reached up and taken her hand. Iren looked down at Voleta, her shoulder snowy with confetti.

  “Did you see their tin-can sun? Isn’t it hilarious?” Voleta asked. “It looks like someone smacked their sun in the face with a frying pan!” Iren was relieved to see that Voleta was taking it all in stride, though of course it made sense: She had experienced crowds and frenzy. Perhaps Voleta sensed her uneasiness because she patted Iren on the hand and shouted up into her downturned ear, “It’s just theater, Iren. That’s all it is. This show started long before we got here, and it’ll continue long after we’re gone. We’re just actors walking across a stage.” Voleta pointed down at the ground where a glowing glassy disc interrupted the cobblestones. “See, even the streets have footlights! It’s all a play. Nothing but a play.”

  Iren found the thought consoling. She even managed to wave and grimace out something that could pass for a smile. But then confetti got in her mouth and a spray of champagne stung her eyes, at which point she decided it was best to leave the parading to professionals like Voleta, and she retreated behind the cover of her bonnet’s brim.

  Voleta was sorry to see that Iren was having such a miserable time because she was finding the whole spectacle quite entertaining. Yes, their reception was unnecessary and overdone, and she had no doubt the novelty of it would soon subside, but after days and days of being shut up inside the State of Art, it was nice to have such a thorough distraction.

  Their procession carried them past chocolatiers, bakeries, and perfumeries. Shopgirls ran into the street to press candies into Voleta’s hands and spray scent upon her neck. She was handed a teacup full of hot chocolate that was so sweet it made her teeth ache. The parade moved through an area the gold-breasted Haste called Cobblers’ Ghetto. There, young models dangled their legs from balconies, showing off the season’s most essential slippers and boots. Voleta followed in Edith’s shadow as she marched under the jutting marquee of a theater, past posters of resident actors, who stared out with an intensity that almost passed for intelligence.

  At last, they broke free of the high, white bluffs of the city blocks. The moment they stepped onto the open piazza, pinned here and there with lampposts and spotted with more of the luminous spots, the celebration ceased, or rather the revelers turned to other festivities. As the crowds dispersed, the hods emerged from little alleyway closets, armed with brooms and mops to clear away the drifts of confetti and lakes of champagne.

  The ringdom’s spine rose before them like the gigantic trunk of a barkless tree. Georgine Haste pointed out the Colosseum, an austere but disfigured landmark, and the willowy spires of the Vivant Music Hall. “And straight ahead,” she said, “is the Circuit of Court.” She gestured at the gated boxwood hedge. Here, the golden Wakeman stopped
and, with an inclusive wave, brought their party into a huddle. Voleta liked the conspiratorial feeling of having her head sandwiched between Iren’s and Edith’s.

  Haste said, “King Leonid likes to show off for his guests. I suggest you all prepare yourselves to be impressed.”

  “And respectful,” Edith said, giving Voleta a meaningful glance.

  “Yes, and also entertaining,” Haste added.

  “Entertaining?” Edith said. “They don’t expect us to put on a show, do they?”

  “No, nothing so extravagant.” Haste swatted the notion away and scoffed reassuringly, then undid all her encouragement by admitting, “Not necessarily a show. But this is Pelphia. If you’re boring, you’ll just be dismissed. It’s a good idea to distinguish yourself, especially while you have the attention of every noble in the ringdom.”

  “What would you recommend?” Voleta asked. “Juggling, tumbling, some light sparring, perhaps? I don’t know any soliloquies by heart, but I’m sure I could make something up—something with plenty of thees and thous.”

  “No, nothing so formal as that, I shouldn’t think,” Haste said. “When I was introduced nearly twenty years ago, I cracked a few jokes, talked a little about my travels, and let the king ring my chest like a gong.” She tapped her gilded breastbone.

  “Well, we’re not doing that. It’s a good thing we came with our very own comedian, isn’t that right, Iren?” Voleta said, nudging her friend in the ribs. The amazon looked a little pale at the suggestion.

  Ranks of pages in emerald smocks stood before the shut gates of the court. Something about the scene struck Voleta as odd, but it wasn’t until they drew nearer that she could put her finger on what unsettled her. It wasn’t the fact that the shrubs were obviously fake, or that some of the pages were boys and others were old men in bobbed wigs, nor was it the menacing black spiral formed by the ironwork of the closed gates. No, it was the silence of the court behind the silk bushes. In such a noisy town, it seemed like the sort of quiet that would precede a trap.

  But when the pages blew upon their trumpets and opened the black gates, and their little party strode through a gauntlet of palm trees into the vast courtyard beyond, Voleta saw at once it wasn’t a trap. It was something much worse than a trap: It was a dramatic tableau.

  Dozens of costumed actors huddled before them, all caught in the grip of staged paralysis. Young girls wearing floral wreathes stood on their toes in a frozen frolic. Bakers, with loaves underarm, posed behind a table that was coated in flour and lumped with pallid balls of dough. Tailors held scissors to bolts of cloth; perfumers pinched the bulbs of spray bottles; chocolatiers staked whisks in mixing bowls; and a clockmaker with a loupe to one eye studied the cogs of an open watch. A troop of soldiers knelt in formation, pointing rifles at some invisible foe. A flight of burlesque dancers, with legs hiked under shallow skirts, struggled to maintain their balance, while an ox with a heavy dewlap and gold-capped horns broke the perfect stillness with a swish of its tail.

  Behind this bizarre display, a white pyramid held an ornamental star aloft. The moment Voleta laid eyes on it, she immediately imagined what it would be like to slide from its peak down to its base. She wished she had brought her bath mat.

  Then she became aware that all around this staged scene, lords and ladies stared, not at the tableau, but at them, the honored guests, idling in the entryway.

  Haste raised her hands suggestively. Catching her drift, Edith, Voleta, and Iren began to clap. The applause was contagious, and very soon the court pealed with the echoes of approval.

  The frozen scene thawed. The children laughed; the dancers put down their legs; and the soldiers dusted their knees. They all assembled in a line and bowed in unison three times. Then the actors began to file toward an opening in the hedge, which Voleta did not think had been there the moment before. One of the bakers took the ox’s rope and led the beast away.

  While the troop retreated, the watchmaker advanced upon the visitors, who felt suddenly adrift amid the dwindling applause.

  “What a magnificent tableau, Your Majesty,” Haste said, bowing to the watchmaker as he pulled the loupe from his eye.

  “You think so? I rather liked it, too. My own design, of course. I’ve had this costume for weeks. I’ve been spoiling for a chance to wear it.” He lifted the lapels of his jacket admiringly, the undersides of which were as bright as a goldfinch. “And I have to say”—the king’s voice rose so that it reached everyone in the court—“there really isn’t anything more wondrous than the jungle of a clock! There’s a tiger named Tick, and a bear named Tock. They roam the cogs and roar back and forth at each other. Tick, tock! Tick, tock! And only the watchmaker can tame them! Let us take a moment to appreciate the nimble-fingered watchmakers.” The king paused to initiate a run of applause, which he ended with a flourish of his arm. “And what is the Sphinx, really, but the Tower’s watchmaker in chief? Where is the Sphinx, by the way? I’m dying to meet him!”

  “If it please Your Majesty, I would like to introduce Wakeman Edith Winters,” Haste said with another formal bow. “Captain of the State of Art and emissary of the Sphinx.”

  Edith stepped forward and bowed with as much grace as she could manage. “Your Majesty, the Sphinx sends his warmest regards and his sincerest regrets that he could not come himself.” She came up from her bow to see the disappointment plastered upon the king’s face. He was an older man. His white hair stood out from his head like the wings of a dove. He had round, apple-red cheeks and lips as pronounced as a camel’s. His eyes were wild and watery. “But I assure the court,” Edith said with a sweep of her gaze, “I am authorized to speak on his behalf.”

  “The Sphinx hides in his cloud, where fun is not allowed,” the king said in a singsong, apparently quoting a familiar rhyme. The reference drew titters from the court.

  “But,” Edith went on, “the Sphinx has sent his relative to entertain you in his stead. May I present to you Lady Voleta Pennatus Contumax, niece of the Sphinx.”

  Voleta stepped forward with her head raised and her chin out. While King Leonid watched and his court whispered, the Lady Contumax put one foot behind the other to begin her formal curtsy.

  Byron had described Voleta’s natural curtsy as resembling a theatrical sneeze. It was jarring and spasmodic. Worse, it came off as sarcastic. She was, Byron said, the first person he had ever met who could make a curtsy look like a curse. He had made her practice one hundred times a day for more than a week while they sailed about the Tower. She had rehearsed holding her skirts, bending her knees, and bowing her head until she was dizzy. Eventually, Voleta had declared that she knew how to curtsy. It wasn’t that hard. She just hated the way it looked, so slithery and submissive. The old manner of curtsy just hadn’t any personality. And hadn’t Haste advised her to distinguish herself?

  Voleta gave a quick, sneezy curtsy and popped up like a jack-in-the-box. If Byron had been there to see it, he probably would’ve fainted.

  The court gasped.

  “It is a pleasure to meet you, young lady,” the king said, his delivery flattened by his surprise.

  “The honor is all mine, Your Majesty,” Voleta said with as much effusiveness as she could muster. “And may I say, you make a very convincing clockmaker!”

  “Have you met many clockmakers?”

  “Oh, many!” Voleta curtsied again, the motion like a man discovering a crick in his back. The court gasped a second time. “Your people seem out of breath, Your Majesty.” This enticed a little laughter from the court. “Have you ever been to Miltonhead? It lies far, far to the west. Over the mountains and across the sea of grass. Miltonhead. It’s an ugly place, but oh, the clocks they make. You wouldn’t believe the roar of those little tigers and bears!” Voleta said, clapping her hands in delight.

  Iren saw the strained look on her captain’s face. Edith’s jaw worked as if she were attempting to chew through a rubbery bit of gristle.

  “Ah, yes, Miltonhead!” Something a
bout the sluggishness of the king’s reply convinced Voleta that he was not at all familiar with Miltonhead but was too proud to admit the gap in his knowledge. She would use that to her advantage. “But why travel so far?” Leonid asked.

  “Well, as my uncle the Sphinx always says: Dear Voleta, go away. Go far, far away.” This was met with another swell of laughter.

  “I see you have a little wit, Lady Voleta. Come! Give us a story. Don’t worry, I’ll tell you if it goes too long.” The king lifted his watch. The court laughed. Pages dashed from the gates with ice buckets and champagne.

  Voleta smiled and held out her skirts in a quasi-curtsy, which made her look as if she were searching for her pockets. She said, “I have visited the mountain kingdom of Eos in the misty north. The ladies grow wool and the men grow beards and they have fat-faced children by the half dozen.” Some of the courtesans, who had been withholding their approval, laughed and clapped at that. “I have met their chief. He drinks yak’s blood for breakfast and keeps a condor for a pet. He was such a nice man, the chief. He gave me a tapestry that was so large I had to fly it home on its own ship.”

  “Very good, very good. Eos. Yes, quite remote and frigid, I think.” The king affected a shiver, and again Voleta could see he was bluffing. “Condors are magnificent, though! Where else have you been?”

  Using her scant knowledge of Ur’s geography and a robust imagination, Voleta described the city of Cameer, where canals outnumbered the streets, and the poor lived in houses while the rich lived on yachts. The governor of Cameer had presented her with a teak rowboat with rose gold oarlocks. She spoke of the southern city of Nuxor, where the salons overflowed with talented playwrights, painters, and philosophers. The mayor of Nuxor had presented her with a poem that he’d commissioned, in her honor, which had required the invention of three new words.

  “I see a theme to your stories, Lady Voleta,” King Leonid interjected with a chiding shake of his finger. The court tittered without seeming to know exactly why. “Wherever you go, someone gives you a gift. If I didn’t know better, I’d think you were angling for a present.”