The Hod King

by Josiah Bancroft

  There was a moment of terrible silence as everyone tried to decide whether this was part of the performance.

  Then the Mermaid gasped deeply, and the orchestra bellowed from the pit. She struck the first chords before she was even upright on the bench. The exuberant roar from the boxes, mezzanine, and main floor drowned out the music momentarily, then the orchestra fought back, and the Mermaid began to sing.

  The air swarmed with the reverberations of strings and horns and timpani, creating a thick fog of sound. Marya’s voice cut through it like a pike of sunlight. She sang with helpless abandon. The timbre of her voice ran down Voleta’s neck and along her spine.

  It was strange to be peering down at the subject of so much striving. Here was Senlin’s miracle. His hope. His once-wife. Voleta gripped the balcony rail till her knuckles blanched.

  She had no idea how long she had been listening to Marya play when the prince spoke so near to her ear she could feel his breath. “Do you like it?”

  “Very much.” Voleta forced herself to smile at him, though her gaze flitted back to the stage. “I’ve never heard anything like it. I can’t wait to meet her.”

  “Then I have a treat for you.” Something in his voice compelled her to look, and she saw that he held up a wooden chit, old and worn, with the word Vivant carved upon it. “A backstage pass. I only have one—they are quite coveted—but I will lend it to you.”

  As she took the token, Voleta wondered if this were some sort of trick. Most likely the prince was trying to impress her and make her feel indebted to him, though what did that matter? Voleta plotted it out in her head: She could go to the Mermaid’s dressing room, meet Marya, plead her case, return to the prince’s box, feign illness, skip the after-party, and retrieve Squit. She and Iren could be back on the ship before midnight. If Marya wanted to come with them, then they’d find some way to sneak her out of the duke’s penthouse or palace or wherever it was they lived. Marya could climb out a window, slide down a drainpipe, and voilà. They could throw a scarf over her head and be safely aboard the State of Art before anyone was the wiser. Voleta wasn’t delusional. She knew the plan was hazy in places, and the whole notion was audacious, but they hadn’t time to deliberate.

  She smiled at the prince and said, “Thank you, Your Highness.”

  Francis gave a treacherous little smirk in return. “You can catch her during intermission if you like. She usually spends all of it in her dressing room. You should start making your way down soon, though. It’s a bit of a jog. I’ll call an usher to guide you.”

  The prince excused himself. Reggie went to “enliven his drink,” leaving Voleta alone with Xenia, who looked like she was about to scream in disgust. Voleta hurried to calm her in a voice that was too low for Reggie to overhear. “Xen, this is perfect. With me out of the way, the prince will naturally look to you. You’ll have him wrapped around your finger before I get back. You’ll be the one getting the special passes from here on out.”

  Xenia’s expression brightened in a flash. She took Voleta by the arm and nuzzled her like a child. “You said we weren’t friends, but I knew you adored me!”

  Iren and Ann sat stiffly on the fat settee under the wings of the mounted owl. They watched the young people lean upon the rail and gabble over the music. It seemed such a harmless scene.

  Then the prince left, and Voleta came to them after embracing a beaming Xenia. Voleta showed Iren the wooden chit and explained what it was.

  “All right, let’s go,” Iren said at once, starting to rise.

  Voleta gentled her mountainous friend back down. “No, no, no. The chit’s only good for one. Besides, Francis will be here. I think you should keep an eye on him.”

  Iren grumbled but conceded the point. If they had to be separated, it seemed better to do it here rather than at a raucous after-party, and she really didn’t want to let the prince out of her sight. The usher came, a harmless-looking runt, and Voleta left with him.

  But no sooner was she gone than Iren’s imagination began to torment her. So much could go wrong. Marya might decide that Voleta was a charlatan and call a constable, or the port guard, or worse, her husband. And what if the prince had hired a thug to ambush Voleta the moment she was out of the room? Where exactly was the entrance to the backstage? How could Iren find her if Voleta got into trouble? How would she know if she did?

  Iren’s fretting flared into anger, which having no better target, focused upon the pinch of her uniform. She could feel every button, every seam, every saw-edge of lace.

  Iren barked, “I am not a doll! Why do you keep trying to tart me up?”

  Ann leapt in her seat at the sudden outburst. The small governess looked terribly hurt by the accusation. “Iren! Dear, I never thought of you as a—”

  “I am not pretty!” Iren said, thumping herself on the chest. “I’m better than that.”

  “I’m so sorry! I wasn’t trying to insult you. That’s the last thing I wanted to do. I think you’re wonderful,” Ann said, gripping her hands in a frustrated knot. “I was just trying to help you—fit in, not because you’re deficient in any way, but because—well, because frankly, fitting in has served me well enough. There isn’t any advantage to standing out, not for people like you and me. So I learned to be bland and meek and patient; I learned to hold my tongue and wear the uniform and play the part. And as a reward, I’m allowed to live. Not on the streets. Not with my parents or a husband I don’t want. But on my own, under my own steam. And all I have to do is … look the part.” Her final word seemed to be an admission she had not expected. Her gaze turned inward.

  Beyond the rail, the music stopped. The applause cracked like thunder, swelled to a supreme din, then slowly rumbled toward silence. On the main floor, the opulent audience stood as one, pressed into the aisles, and hurried to the lobby where the wine flowed and the wits dueled. Some considered the intermission the main attraction of the night, and they were eager for it to begin.

  An usher poked his head through the curtained door. The two governesses observed Prince Francis shake his glass at the earl as if to say, Go see what the blighter wants.

  Reluctantly, Reggie broke off his failing effort to impress Lady Xenia with an amusing anecdote about the time he had killed three birds with one shot. The earl tugged his vest, tried to conjure a soberer expression, then went to see what the attendant wanted.

  The usher, who was blond as a broom and nearly as thin, spoke to Reggie with his head ducked as if in embarrassment. Iren couldn’t hear a word of what he said, but she observed Reggie’s expression turn increasingly grave. After a moment, the earl pulled a few coins from his pocket and gave them to the usher, who vanished in relief.

  Reggie turned to face them. When Iren saw the look in his eyes, she knew at once something had happened. She stood with such force that the settee nearly toppled. Ann had to grip the bucking bench to keep from falling off.

  Reggie put up his hands as Iren charged at him, and shouted, “She’s fine, she’s fine, she’s perfectly fine! She’s only fainted!”

  Iren halted just shy of his velvet loafers. Reggie’s hands trembled in the air between them.

  “The Leaping Lady? Fainted?” the prince asked, though without much concern. “I suppose we must credit either the excitement or the rum.” He snaked an arm around Xenia’s waist, who looked as if she had just won a prize. “For goodness’ sake, Reggie, put your hands down. She’s a nursemaid, not a bull!”

  Reggie lowered his hands, swallowed noisily and said, “They put the lady in the fur cooler. They thought the cool air might revive her.”

  “Take me to her,” Iren said, already striding for the curtained door.

  Prince Francis shook the naked ice in his tumbler and cinched the Lady Xenia closer to his hip. “Yes, be a chap, Reggie.”

  Reggie raised himself up like a gallant knight who’d been given a noble charge. He bowed to Xenia and came up wearing a perfect simper. “Pardon me, milady, but duty calls. I shall return mome
ntarily. Of that you may be—”

  “Now!” Iren boomed from the corridor, and the gallant knight squealed.

  Chapter Twelve

  Two roads run to fame: one from fortune; the other, folly.

  —I Sip a Cup of Wind by Jumet

  Voleta followed the young usher, who had said twice already how honored he was to be guiding the Leaping Lady backstage. He stumbled upon a step while trying to keep her in sight over his shoulder, as if she were a hummingbird that might blur and disappear. He lavished her with praise: She was so much prettier than the etching in the Reverie, and graceful, and brave, and unique, and no wonder she had caught the prince’s eye. And what a wretch he must seem to her, being only an usher without any hope of being anything better.

  When the music stopped, and the audience began to pour from the auditorium, the usher cleared a path for her, calling “On your right, on your right! Make way for the Leaping Lady!” They descended to the mezzanine, then down to the lobby and around until the halls narrowed and the throng began to clear. Illustrious hanging tapestries gave way to solemn plaques that read, QUIET PLEASE and AUTHORIZED PERSONS ONLY and SNOOPS WILL BE EJECTED.

  At last they came to a poorly lit and dingy dead end. A barricade of a man sat upon a stool reading a newspaper, both of which looked too small for him. He had the stripes of a sergeant on his arm and cotton wads in his ears. He folded the paper into quarters upon seeing their approach and came to his feet with an air of resentment.

  The usher balked short of the guard. “Here I must leave you, milady. It has been an honor.”

  Voleta stayed him from leaving with a wag of her hand. “Can I give a word of advice?” The usher looked flattered beyond words. His chest puffed up like a dove’s. Voleta’s gaze turned sharp. “Find a port. Join a crew. Sail away and never look back again.”

  The elation melted from the usher’s face.

  Voleta presented the wooden chit to the unsmiling sergeant. He examined it thoroughly before returning it to her care. Then without having ever uttered a word, he opened the emerald door to the backstage of the Vivant.

  Voleta was surprised by how familiar it all felt. The black painted hall was a tangle of ropes, props, and bodies, wedging one way or another. Musicians, flushed and perspiring from the first half of the evening’s program, clung to their instruments and kept to their own. She passed a clique of violinists, a pod of cellists, and a herd of trumpeters, emptying their spit valves onto the floor. All of them were too preoccupied to notice her. The sudden sense of anonymity felt wonderful. She asked a group of flutists where the Mermaid’s dressing room was. They rolled their eyes at the mention of the star’s name but told her which turns to make and to look for the door that had a sequined star on it.

  Digging through the crowd with her knees and elbows, Voleta soon found herself standing before a door emblazoned with a silver, spangling star.

  She smoothed her dress, took a deep breath, then knocked.

  The door flew open, and the Mermaid lunged at her with a joyful expression that seemed full of relief. Voleta yipped in surprise, dispelling Marya’s excitement. Her face fell. Obviously, she had been expecting someone, and it hadn’t been a shorn-headed stranger.

  Marya let the door hang open and returned to the bench at her dressing table without another word.

  Lamps bordered the immense mirror behind the vanity. The angle of the lights conspired to make whoever sat at the dressing table the brightest object in the cluttered room. Marya glowed like a full moon. A vase of ostrich feathers bloomed on one corner of her table. Among the many powder pots, brushes, and combs sat a headless bust, buried under strings of beads. Coat-trees lined two sides of the room, their branches swamped with robes, shawls, and capes. Framed portraits of past stars hung upon the wall behind the tree line. Those grinning idols seemed to stare at Voleta in judgment.

  Marya’s face was powdered to a skull-like paleness. Dark makeup made her eyes seem larger and brighter. Copper ribbons threaded her auburn hair, which was disheveled from her performance. Marya glanced at herself in the mirror, noted the disarray, but made no effort to correct it. She turned on her bench to face Voleta, her posture perfect, her gaze direct.

  “You’re that Leaping Lady, aren’t you?”

  “I don’t like that name,” Voleta said.

  “No, of course not. I didn’t care for the name they gave me either,” Marya said, watching the young woman with undisguised curiosity. “You don’t look much like your etching. But then, neither did I. They were done by the same man. Steeple, Stumple, Stimple, something like that. He has a terrible eye, or he’s a complete hack, I’m not sure which. He gives us all the same face. He changes the hair, makes the bust a little bigger, a little smaller. Always the same face.”

  “I don’t really like the papers either.”

  “Then there’s some hope for you.” Marya turned around on her bench, facing the voluminous mirror. She blotted away her lip rouge and then began to reapply it. “You came here on that enormous ship in the port everyone’s talking about, the Sphinx’s boat.” It wasn’t a question.

  “I did.”

  “I’ll give you this: You’ve made quite an entrance. I’m sure you’ll do just fine. They like a big entrance.”

  “I’m not here for any of that. In fact, I’m looking forward to leaving. I think all of this”—Voleta gestured at the parliament of hanging capes and smug stars, smiling in their gilded frames—“is a bit silly. You sing and play beautifully, but this place, these people, they’re just awful.”

  Marya put down the lipstick and looked at Voleta’s reflection. “You’re rather young to be so disenchanted. Why come here if you’re so above it all?”

  “I came for you.”

  “For me?”

  “Yes,” Voleta said, and reached behind her to shut the door. “I’ve come to rescue you.”

  Marya’s mouth dropped open as she turned to face Voleta again. A scoff turned into a laugh. “Rescue me? Whatever from?”

  “From the duke. Senlin sent me.”

  Marya’s mouth snapped shut with a click of her teeth. “If that were true, then you would know that I’ve already given him my answer. I can’t go. I won’t.”

  “Oh, they didn’t want me to come. They said you’d already made up your mind, and—”

  “They were right. You should’ve listened. What do you think you can say that he did not? And if he couldn’t convince me, why do you expect to do any better?”

  “What did he say?”

  “He was very … frank.” Marya began picking through the mess before her. She shuffled her brushes and powder puffs about distractedly. She put on a bracelet, removed it, and put it on again. “He told me about all the desperate things he’d done, and how sorry he was for them. I forgave him, then asked him to leave me alone.”

  “Did he tell you that he saved my life, that he saved my brother’s life? Because he did. More than once. He’s made a lot of mistakes, but he’s had a few victories, too. He has—”

  Marya’s arms came down heavily on her dressing table. “I am very glad to know he has such devoted friends. Really. It is inspiring. And I don’t blame him for anything he did. I don’t feel superior to him, or you, or anyone. We’ve all done desperate things to survive. But I’ll tell you the same thing I told him: I’m not leaving my life.”

  “Why not?” Voleta shot back, crossing her arms.

  Marya couldn’t quite conceal her shock, or maybe she just didn’t care to try. She shook her head, fluttered her eyes, and said, “It’s really none of your business, young lady.”

  “Look, I understand you don’t know me, but I have spent the past six months eating porridge, fleeing death, and looking for you. You say Senlin has made his peace with your answer. Well, help me make mine! Why won’t you come? These people are horrid. This place is horrid! Your husband is—”

  “Don’t talk to me about my life!” Marya snapped, pounding the vanity hard enough to make her comb l
eap and clatter. “I know what my life is like!”

  Realizing her lack of composure was not helping her case, Voleta took a deep breath and spoke again in a more constrained manner. “I’ve never had a dressing room like this, nor an audience as grand as the one you have. But not so long ago, there was a man who loomed over me and my life. His name was Rodion. He managed the venue … the brothel where I lived and worked, and which I could not leave. He berated me. He tormented me. He dominated me. He made me dance for my dinner and told me every day how lucky I was to be caught in his trap, to be lashed to his stage, to be under his thumb. Because the only thing standing between me and the most unspeakable fate was him. He was the devil holding back the darkness.” Voleta found that her voice had begun to tremble. She cleared her throat and said more distinctly: “I had all but given up any hope of escape. And then Senlin—”

  “I’m sorry!” Marya said so loudly and firmly it sounded more like a rebuke than an apology. “I’m sorry your life was so horrible. But please do not confuse your misery with mine. I love my husband. He is a sensible man, a keen business partner, and a fine fa … I have no wish to return to the scrabbling, silly life I lived before!” As she spoke, she began pulling off her jewelry—ring, earring, bangle, and choker—as if those glistening charms were the source or her unhappiness. “Now, you must excuse me, I have a performance to finish.” Bared of her jewels, Marya rose stiffly and began to press Voleta back toward the door.

  “I know it’s frightening, but believe me, it gets easier when you’re away from it, away from him. Believe me! You have to believe me!” Voleta pleaded in a desperate rush, retreating even as she begged.

  Without answering, Marya opened the door, preparing to shove her unwanted guest into the hall. Both she and Voleta were surprised to find themselves confronted by a red-cheeked maid holding a swaddled infant in her arms.