“It’s an impressive trick. Very impressive. But how do you get the button back?”
“Well, first you need to hire a fifty-foot ladder, and then you—” Haste began, and Edith stopped her with a good-natured shove of her shoulder. “So this is the Colosseum. You seen enough?”
“We haven’t seen anything yet! What about the living quarters?”
“You want to see the dormitory?”
“Well, only if you can manage it. I mean, it’s pretty impressive that they let you in the lobby to play with the birds.”
Georgine rolled her eyes. “Oh, you’re good at getting your way, aren’t you? All right. Let’s go.”
The dormitory entrance lay at the end of a short but crowded hall. Edith counted a dozen soldiers in dark uniforms and short-brimmed caps, each armed with a pistol and saber. They guarded a set of enormous doors, decorated with iron braces and panels of darkly tanned leather, stamped with the noble profiles of men and women who Edith took for scholars and philosophers. Their ascetic faces were marred by the drawn additions of mustaches, eye patches, and harlequin makeup. Above the doors, the marble lintel bore an epigraph. Some of the letters had been chiseled into oblivion. What remained read: _ _ C _URE _ALL.
Haste greeted each of the guards in the corridor. She asked after their wives and children, often by name, and remarked on the men’s pastimes, distinctions, and celebrations. Then she made a joke about how fat she was getting, ringing her perfect golden stomach like a cymbal. All the men laughed. They obviously adored her. When Haste introduced Captain Winters, that adoration seemed to be to her credit as well. No one remarked upon her being a woman, though there were several questions about her ship. How did she move so fast? What was her top speed? How big was her crew? Edith answered all their questions gamely enough, some with impressive truths, others with intimidating fictions.
Then a sergeant with a fatherly face and a fitting paunch, who Haste had called Burton, remarked, “Oh, and we found the tunnel.”
“You found the tunnel?” Haste repeated, her expression flattened by confusion.
“Yes. We’re plugging it up this afternoon, in fact,” Sergeant Burton said. “You remember how we had a problem with those Coattail boys? Remember how every so often, we’d find one of them wandering around inside the dorm?”
“I thought that only happened the once,” Haste said.
“No,” Burton said, his voice trembling with rueful laughter. “No, much more than once. We couldn’t figure out how they were doing it. At first, we just assumed one of us was taking a bribe. But nobody was. None of us would be stupid enough to do it a second time after the general’s interrogations, and it happened six times. Six times! And that’s just counting the occasions we caught them. Anyway, it turns out the Coattails were using a tunnel from the outside to get into the dorm.”
“How many hods escaped?” Edith asked.
“None.”
“There’s a tunnel to the outside, and none of them escaped?” She was incredulous.
“Well, it’s not a very big tunnel.” Burton approximated the size with his hands. “It goes through the soft mortar between large blocks. You’d have to be pretty small to fit through, and most of the brawlers are quite big. That’s sort of their distinguishing characteristic, you might say.” When he smiled, a gap between his front teeth showed.
“So the hods went to the trouble of digging a tunnel they couldn’t use to escape?” Edith shook her head. “That doesn’t make any sense.”
“Well, where would they go?” Sergeant Burton asked. “There’s a constable on every corner and a port full of soldiers. They’re slaves, not prisoners, Captain Winters.”
“Was this your idea?” Georgine asked. “Looking for a tunnel—you thought of that?”
“No, it was General Eigengrau’s idea. After he questioned every last one of us, and we convinced him we weren’t responsible for letting the Coattails in, he went looking for an alternative.”
“Well, let’s have a look at this tunnel, then,” Haste said, reaching for the door pull.
“You can, of course, but I can’t let Captain Winters in. No offense, but General Eigengrau said absolutely no unauthorized personnel, and begging your pardon, Madam Wakeman, you are a foreign agent.”
“It’s all right, Sergeant,” a deep voice said from behind them. They turned to find Eigengrau. The tall general was wearing his long hip cannon but not his cape. He was down to his black waistcoat and had the sleeves of his shirt rolled to his elbows. There was dirt on his face, and the peak of his oiled hair was a little frayed. “Captain Winters is with me, soldier. I wouldn’t mind hearing her opinion on this. What do you say, Haste?”
“I’m surprised to see you taking such an interest in a bunch of penned-up hods,” Haste said.
“Well, you know, recently enough, an odd little tourist said something to me that I’ve been thinking about ever since.” Eigengrau wiped his hands on a handkerchief as he spoke. It seemed a methodical sort of ablution. “He said, ‘Underestimating your inferiors is how every revolution starts.’ It’s all too easy to confuse subordination with obedience. It’s a mistake many a king has come to regret.”
“So you know why the tunnel is there?” Edith asked.
“I do not,” the general said.
“What are you going to do now?” Haste asked.
“Interrogate the brawlers, of course.” Eigengrau stuffed the handkerchief back into his pocket and turned to face the guards behind him. “All right, gentlemen. Mind yourself. Watch each other’s backs. And if a fight breaks out, shoot the biggest ones first, then work your way down.”
Chapter Twelve
All the birds in the forest sing when a lonesome rifle rings.
—I Sip a Cup of Wind by Jumet
The dormitory’s ceiling was high and curved and painted a flaking crimson. Thick bands of white plaster ribbed the ceiling, making Edith feel as if she were standing inside the carcass of some immense beast. Exterior windows filled one wall, and opposite those bricked-in frames stretched a platform. A thick tumbling mat lay center stage, and upon this pad, two hods were caught in a dramatic grapple, their heads pressed ear-to-ear.
The chamber was a maze of cots and trunks, tables and chairs, but despite this crowding, the beds were all made and the floor clean-swept. Still, it seemed more a bivouac than a dormitory. At a glance, Edith estimated there were forty or forty-five hods in all. They looked strong and well fed. She didn’t see Senlin among them. She was sure he would’ve stood out among so many formidable physiques.
Speaking near Edith’s ear, Sergeant Burton said, “This used to be a lecture hall. Those doors on the far side don’t go anywhere anymore. They bricked them up years and years ago. Makes it easier to keep an eye on the brawlers. Keep them all in one place.”
The moment General Eigengrau and his company of armed men appeared, the hods fell silent and still. A second before, they had been eating lunch, lounging on their cots, conversing boisterously as they watched the two men wrestle upon the stage. But the hods saw at once that this was not a usual visit, and they all stood and turned to face the armed men who’d come into their sanctum.
Eigengrau strode with his pistol drawn. The barrel of his hip cannon was as long and thick as a table leg. He passed between the empty cots, marching toward the stage. He did not have to ask for anyone to move out of his way. Half of his guards stayed by the door, half followed him up the steps, their heels drumming. The two sparring hods stepped apart, panting from their recent exertion. They didn’t seem to know where to go. Edith, who had followed Georgine up the platform stair, felt conspicuous standing above the crowd of bare-chested men. Many bore the scars of whips, black powder, fire, and steel, injuries they’d suffered outside the arena. It was strange to think these men’s lives as brawlers could be safer and gentler than the lives they’d led before. She stood away from the front edge and tried not to look as exposed and disconcerted as she felt.
There was s
omething about General Eigengrau that made her uneasy. He reminded her of a smug uncle, the sort of man who complained about the incompetency of entire generations or the ubiquity of fools in the world. He seemed the type to confuse ambition with duty and good fortune with merit. When they had first met, he had valorized Pelphia by saying, “Our excellence is evidence of our righteousness,” but she was certain he had mostly been referring to himself. She thought him wrong on both counts.
Eigengrau turned toward the floor of the former lecture hall and said, “I am here for the truth. Unfortunately for all of us, honesty is easily forged. The only reliable means I have found for discerning the truth is through consensus and confirmation. Consensus. Confirmation. These are the legs on which truth stands.”
The general turned to the two hods on the stage with him. One was young, hairless, and handsome. His skin was thin and pale, and his wide eyes were ocean blue. Eigengrau asked his name, and the youth gave his performing name: The Ritzy Pup. Eigengrau pressed him for his real name, the name his mother had given him. The muscular youth said his name was Paul. The other brawler was older, his muscles larger, his skin leathery. His eyes didn’t quite line up, and he was missing several teeth, but there was a cool dignity to how he held his shoulders. When Eigengrau asked, the hod said his name was Harlan.
Eigengrau stood between the men. Even without his cape, he looked suited to the stage. Resting the barrel of his pistol on his shoulder he said, “We have discovered your tunnel.” The general lifted his chin at one of the uniformed men standing near the entrance to the hall. “Private, if you would unveil it for us.”
The guard saluted, walked to the edge of the nearest window, and began to pace along the wall, counting his steps as he went. After a short distance, he stopped and faced the block masonry where several unused cots lay in a flattened stack. He shifted these to the side, revealing a gap at the base of the wall. From the stage, it looked like little more than a mouse hole to Edith, though it was large enough to accommodate a boy.
None of the hods looked at all surprised.
“Now, I’m going to ask you a question, Harlan,” Eigengrau said. “And I want you to whisper the answer to me. If anyone overhears you, regretfully, I’ll have to shoot you and start over again with someone else. And no one wants that, so please be discreet.” The older hod flinched, though it seemed more an attempt to swallow his bile than to bottle his fear. “What I want to know is this: Why is that tunnel there?”
Everyone in the hall watched the tall general lean toward Harlan, who was ashen with anger. After a moment’s hesitation, the elder hod spoke a few furtive words into Eigengrau’s ear. The general straightened, his languid expression unchanged, his eyes still half-open.
“Thank you, Harlan. Now. Of course, the problem here is that I believe this was an act of collusion. I do not believe that some of you were aware of this tunnel and others were not. Which means that you have probably discussed the possibility of the tunnel being discovered. And if you’ve discussed the possibility, then you’ve probably agreed upon a lie to tell as an excuse for its existence. So now, Paul, I want you to confirm for me the agreed-upon lie that Harlan just told me. If your answers match, then we may continue with our chat. But if your answers do not match, then I’m afraid we’ll have to dispense with you both and start again with two of your friends. So, quiet as you can, tell me the lie.” Eigengrau pointed to his ear and leaned in.
The handsome young man looked feverish with fear. His chin trembled. Red rimmed his blue eyes. Paul cupped his hand to his mouth and whispered into the general’s ear.
Edith didn’t think Eigengrau was bluffing. He had no trouble shooting innocent hods, and if he believed these men were guilty, he’d kill them all.
Eigengrau straightened, and said, “Wonderful. We have a leg of truth. Consensus. The agreed-upon lie was that the tunnel was dug to allow the import of the narcotic Crumb. A very convincing falsehood. Now I will ask you the same question again: Why is that tunnel there? This time, you shall tell me the truth. How will I know if you’re telling the truth? Because the truth is the only answer that both of you know.”
Eigengrau signaled his men to level their guns. “Now, Harlan, from your lips to my ear. Tell me the truth.”
Edith felt the hairs on the back of her neck rise. She glanced at Haste, who was as red-faced as a hanged man; her golden fingers curled into fists. And yet Edith felt sure she would not object. The general never would have invited her if he had thought she would undermine his authority. For all her bluster, Haste had proven, time and time again, that she knew her place. She cursed and complained, but she did not intervene. She had not intervened when the hods were shot against the Wall of Recompense; had not stepped in to stop the local noblemen from using the Baths and the ringdom’s ports as their personal hunting grounds for vulnerable women, or from using the black trail as a final solution for irksome persons. Haste had blustered mightily when the young hod was sent up to prod the sun, but even then, alluded to the fact that this wasn’t the first time a child had been used for such a purpose. And what had she done to stop it from happening again?
Perhaps Haste could not interfere. She was a guest of the ringdom, after all, and with only the vestiges of the Sphinx’s influence to back her. Perhaps that was the watchman’s curse: Witness without influence. Of course, Edith had something Haste did not. She had a warship.
Edith looked down at the stage floor, searching for what she would do. Could she really stand by and watch the general shoot these unarmed men, one after another, until he got his answers? Of course not. The real question was when she interfered, whether Eigengrau would listen to reason, arrest her, or start a brawl. She wasn’t sure which was more likely given the general’s troubling sense of righteousness. And would Haste be on her side or the general’s side if events spiraled out of control?
This internal debate was interrupted by the realization that she was staring at a dusty, bare footprint on the otherwise tidy floor. It seemed out of place. It was not an entire footprint either; just the toes and the ball of a foot peeked out from beneath the tumbling pad. She looked around for other prints but saw none. Using the edge of her boot, she lifted the mat, and saw the heel of the pale print, hidden along with many others.
Edith looked up to discover Georgine was watching her with an expression that seemed to say, Why are you staring at your feet at a time like this?
The general, who had just received Paul’s whispered answer, said, “Oh, that is unfortunate.” He raised his great pistol. The barrel was braided in silverwork, fine as a scribe’s signature. “I’m sorry, Paul. We do not have a consensus.”
“Excuse me, General,” Edith said. Eigengrau lifted one eyebrow at her, obviously displeased by the interruption. He did not lower his weapon. She squatted down and lifted up the edge of the pad, revealing a trail of pallid footprints on the floor. “I think I’ve found something.”
Four guards lifted the heavy mat away, revealing an array of footprints, all of them small. At a glance, Edith counted several distinct sets. The prints radiated out from a trapdoor in the stage, which looked to have been part of the original construction.
Ever-cautious, Eigengrau decided not to explore any further until they had removed the hods from the dorm. He ordered the rest of the day’s fights cancelled and had his men escort all the brawlers to the holding cells at the gatehouse to the Old Vein. He announced that he would decide what to do with them later.
Once the hall was emptied, the general asked Edith to open the trapdoor while he and Haste stood ready to act should some hidden villain spring out. When none did, they peered warily into the gloom.
In the hollow under the stage they saw the evidence of dusty, long-forgotten props: rolled backdrops, ceremonial vestments, coiled ropes, and sandbags. A little light beamed in through gaps in the stage, and faint as it was, it was enough to illuminate the considerable hole at the center of an eruption of tile and masonry.
Climbing
down to investigate, they had to stoop to keep from knocking their heads on the beams of the stage. Once their eyes adjusted, they saw the unlit miners’ lamps hanging from struts near the hole in the floor. A tied-off rope descended into the abysmal dark.
Eigengrau put a match to the oil wick of a lamp and tilted the mirrored shade, focusing the beam into the hole. But the light did not reach the bottom. The fact seemed to make him nervous. He said he would summon a few men to go down first, but Edith pointed out that the delay might allow for whoever was down there to escape. She volunteered to climb down first, not because she was particularly enthusiastic about exploring an eerie pit, but because there was a chance, albeit slim, that Senlin was down there. She could hardly imagine the sequence of events that would have led to him being smuggled into the dormitory, then stuffed into a hole in the floor, but even this scant, unhappy hope seemed preferable to the alternative of the black trail. If he was down there, she didn’t want one of the general’s men shooting him on sight.
The general agreed to let her go. She hooked the lantern onto her belt, took the rope in hand, and tested its hold. Satisfied that it wouldn’t drop her, she eased over the ragged edge, and, with the line wrapped about her thigh and her boots acting as a brake, descended into the unknown.
Only a few feet down she looked back up at the hole to find she had passed through a painted ceiling. The hole interrupted the edge of a broad medallion that was immediately familiar. Sliding a little farther, the full design came into relief: It was the Brick Layer’s seal, the same green ring of figures marching in a circle that decorated the Sphinx’s front door and the State of Art.
The Hod King Page 49
