The Hod King

by Josiah Bancroft

  That word released Byron from his trance. He was emphatically not a monster. Monsters didn’t have feelings, or friends, or fashionable sensibilities, or wit. Monsters could not hold a brush, or organize a tea, or even burn a pudding. No, if there was a monster in the hall, it certainly was not him.

  He raised his pistol and fired in one fluid stroke.

  A crystal sconce at the far end of the hall exploded from his errant shot.

  The bad miss seemed to give the soldier courage. He straightened his arm and blasted away at Byron’s head.

  It felt as if he’d bitten down on a quivering tuning fork. The vibration shook his jaw and ran down his spine. He thought for a moment the shot had found its mark, that he had been killed, but when he reached up to feel for the ooze of blood, he found his skull intact and his right antler missing.

  Then another soldier and a third blundered in behind the first. The new arrivals gaped at the one-horned stag while the first scout shouted at them to quit gawping and shoot “the devil.”

  Byron would’ve liked to stay, reload, and correct the soldier’s choice of words, but even counting his ego, he was outnumbered. Self-preservation prevailed. He turned and ran.

  He could not recall the last time he’d run. In fact, he wasn’t entirely sure he’d galloped with these legs before. They were much swifter than he would’ve supposed, and half as noisy as they had any right to be. It was exhilarating, making his own breeze, seeing the doors of the cabin blur past! If he survived the night, perhaps he would have to take up running. Somewhere placid. A forest perhaps.

  When his scout called back that the entrance was secured, Eigengrau led the rest of the boarding party, who numbered forty-eight in all, across the gangplank and onto the ship.

  He was surprised to find the lower corridor deserted. When the hatch had swung open of its own accord, he had assumed they were stepping into a trap. Which was why he’d sent a few of his most disposable men on ahead to spring it. After surveying the brightly lit, carpeted hallway, and the many cabin doors, nearly all of which his men had already opened and checked for occupants, he began to wonder if perhaps the open hatch had heralded a surrender rather than a snare.

  Still, it made him uneasy.

  He might’ve felt more confident if it hadn’t been for the scout’s insistence that he had seen some sort of monster. In evidence of this, the scout had produced the broken antler of some woodland animal—proof, he insisted, that he had wounded the beast.

  “And where is this monster now, Private?” Eigengrau asked.

  “He ran that way.” The private pointed to the foot of a stairwell at the end of the hall.

  “And you didn’t pursue him?” Eigengrau’s tone was one of paternal disappointment.

  “Yes, sir, I did. He ran to the second floor. He locked himself inside the engine room. I thought I should wait to pursue him.”

  “Fool! He could be sabotaging the ship! Sergeant,” Eigengrau said, turning to address a man with grand muttonchops and a mouth like a coin slot. “Get inside that engine room. Shoot whoever’s in there, including the private’s monster. Then work your way down the gun deck to the aft of the ship. Kill whoever you encounter. I’ll take the other half of the men to the aft stairs and proceed to the top deck. We’re not taking any prisoners today, but try not to ruin the ship. You may find yourself part of its crew in the morning.”

  The sergeant turned to organize his men, but Eigengrau called him back for a final word. “And if I catch a single one of you retreating, I will hang you from the port and let the vultures peck you free!”

  Chapter Fifteen

  A man who is not suspicious of a philosophy that appeals to his nature is like the bull comforted by the rutted path that leads to the slaughterhouse.

  —I Sip a Cup of Wind by Jumet

  Edith tipped back in her chair ahead of Haste’s attack. As she fell, she saw Georgine’s flame-bright hair flare out like a corona. Her expression was one of perfect determination, but there was no hate nor loathing reflected there. They had been friends, had shared a few sincere and vulnerable moments, but friendship in the Tower could only be a luxury, a holiday that everyone wished would not end, but must, and always did.

  As her chairback hit the floor, Edith raised her heels, catching Georgine’s sculpted breastplate above the navel. Edith rolled backward and kicked as she did, sending the golden Wakeman flying. The effort took all her strength. Georgine’s engine was as heavy as an anchor. Edith felt the steel bulkhead tremble when Haste landed flat on her back some feet away.

  Edith sat bolt upright. Her scabbard and holster dangled like a lure on the wall. She lurched to her feet and made a dash for it, stumbling around the table and through the spilled remnants of their dinner. Perhaps if she shot her in the leg, it would be enough to subdue Georgine, enough to get her off the ship, but not so much as to kill her. Edith reached for the steel pommel of her pistol.

  The next thing she knew, she was hurtling sideways. It felt and sounded as if she’d been struck with a shovel. Her engine absorbed the brunt of the attack, but the force was still sufficient to throw her into a display case. Pain shot down her arm as she crashed through the cabinet. An explosion of glass and trinkets followed her to the floor.

  She landed awkwardly on all fours amid the scattered knickknacks. Looking over her shoulder, she found Georgine rubbing the ham of one golden hand as if the strike had bruised it.

  “You’re faster than you look,” Edith said.

  Georgine unholstered Edith’s pistol. She took a moment to appreciate the craftsmanship of the etched grip and the line of the barrel, then she cracked the weapon in half and let the pieces bounce in front of Edith. Georgine broke off the saber’s cup guard while the sword was still sheathed, then slid the naked steel out into her hand. Casually, she whittled it down several inches at a time, breaking it as if she were snapping long beans. “Come now, Edith. Look at us! We don’t need pistols and swords, do we?”

  “I liked that sword.” Edith raised herself to one knee, leaving a bloody handprint on the rug amid the shards of glass.

  “You won’t need it again,” Haste said, dropping the last pieces of the ruined blade. She balled up her fists and stepped toward Edith, still kneeling on the floor.

  Edith snatched the jade bedpan from among the clutter and slung it at Haste, who ducked, but not quickly enough. The bottom of the pan glanced off the top of her skull. She grasped her head, hissing in pain. Edith took the chance to regain her feet.

  Haste dropped her hands, one eye still clenched shut. “That wasn’t very sporting.”

  “Maybe you’re not so fast after all,” Edith said.

  “Ah, the Gold Watch never runs slow!” Haste swung for Edith’s jaw.

  Edith deflected the first strike with her engine but missed the second. The jab was too short to catch, and the most she could do was try to bend away from it. Still, it caught her cleanly on the ribs. She doubled over, then, since she was already low, plowed forward into Haste. Her momentum was enough to tip Georgine off balance, and the two fell heavily to the rug among the strewn saucers and cutlery. Haste raised her arms to shield her head even as Edith lifted an iron fist over her. She struck at Haste’s collarbone, ringing her chest like a cowbell and leaving a dent in the beautiful carapace. Grunting, Georgine rolled onto her side, shaking Edith off, and scrambled back to her feet again.

  Edith popped up, clutching a candelabra in her bloody hand. Haste shook the hair from her eyes and swung almost tentatively at Edith, who parried with the candleholder.

  “Not used to fighting with your hands, eh?” Haste asked.

  “I wouldn’t call those hands, George. They’re more like clubs with thumbs, aren’t they?”

  “Says the woman with the iron mitt!”

  Georgine came at her with a flurry of punches—hooks, jabs, and uppercuts. In doing so, she showed Edith the evidence of her hours sparring with the brawlers of the Colosseum. She advanced so skillfully and with so
much force, Edith could do little more than retreat and let her engine take the brunt of the attack. But her cabin wasn’t large enough for her to lead Georgine on a merry chase. The candelabra was already bent and missing two of its stems. She wondered how long she’d be able to defend herself with one arm against two. Even a glancing blow to her head would be enough to end things, and she was sure now Georgine would kill her. She would feel bad about it, most likely. She’d get drunk and reminisce a little about the time they’d spent a morning together eating and drinking the king out of house and home. She might shed a tear. But she would kill her.

  Georgine threw a cross that missed Edith’s chin by an inch. When she recoiled, one of her calves bumped against the edge of her mattress. And that was that. She was out of room.

  Meaning to finish her, Haste lunged with one arm raised to fend off Edith’s engine, and the fingers of her other hand pointed, plunging for her heart.

  Edith dove to one side, shattering a bedpost with a swat of her arm. The canopy dropped upon Haste like a net, even as Edith sprang clear of it.

  For a moment, the golden Wakeman thrashed under the bed’s sail, tangling in its threads.

  Edith dropped the warped candelabra, panting with exhaustion. As hopeless as it might be, she felt she had to make one more plea, if not for Haste, then for her own conscience. “Let it go, Georgine! We don’t have to do this if we don’t want to. There’s no reason one of us has to—”

  The muffled ring of a gunshot stopped Edith short. She cocked her head, trying to decide whether the sound had come from inside the ship. The knelling of the second shot convinced her that it had. “You brought friends?” she asked.

  Haste tore the canopy with one great stretch of her arms. Rising from the mattress, she snapped off another bedpost, gripping it by the finished end. “I’m not sharing this ship with anyone,” she said, and swung the club like a maul at a railroad spike.

  When Byron fled from the soldiers, bounded up the stairs, and locked himself in the engine room, it hadn’t occurred to him that he didn’t have a lamp and didn’t know where the switch for the electric light was.

  The dark was crowded and unfamiliar. It smelled like oil and stale water, aromas that he was particularly sensitive to. He took great pains in his daily toilet to diminish his own mechanical odors with an application of myrrh gum powder to his fur, what there was of it, and rose water to his reservoirs. The Sphinx had chided him for years for polluting his boiler with scented water. “It leaves a film!” she said. “It clogs up your plumbing!” But Byron continued the minor rebellion because he would rather have a little plaque in his pipes than smell like an old bog.

  His remaining antler bumped and scratched upon the machinery that consumed most of the open space. The tails of his coat caught on the corner of something sharp, and he had to tear it to tug it free.

  As he squeezed his way around the engine, he nearly tripped over the taut cables that tethered the mechanical bulk to the ship’s hull. He unfastened the lines as he found them and whispered hoarsely as he worked: “All right, wake up. Rise and shine. I need you to wake up, but softly, softly. Don’t shift around. You’ll squish me into jelly if you do. Shh! That’s right. Softly, now.”

  The wide disc of the locomotive’s face began to glow with a pale lunar light. The heavy joints of the Sphinx’s doorman breathed with warming steam.

  Something scraped upon the hatch of the engine room, the sound so grating it made Byron’s ears flatten to his head. The invaders were trying to force a pry bar between the door and the jamb. He wasn’t sure they could prize it open, but he didn’t wish to wait to find out.

  “I don’t know if you can really comprehend the gravity of our situation, but please, please try to understand. I want you to go out there and play very roughly with our guests. You can toss them around like balls if you like, but, but be very gentle with the ship. There aren’t any carpets here. If you kick a hole in the bulkhead, I will be very, very cross with you.”

  A bar of light split the darkness further. The soldiers were making progress on the door. He hadn’t much time now.

  “You know that jaunty tune you like to play when you think I’m not around to hear it? I want you to play that song now. That’s right. Change the drum. And please don’t step on me. I don’t want to die on your shoe.”

  The door hinges failed with a shriek of rending metal and the hatch fell away with a bang.

  The waiting soldiers stood in an organized bank, swordsmen behind kneeling riflemen. And still, they seemed unprepared.

  The music box began to play, slowly at first, but with a quickening intensity, a song that was perfect for romping and stomping and running down corridors.

  That was exactly what Byron hoped Ferdinand would do.

  Eigengrau led his squad up the stairwell at a measured pace. He let the barrel of his pistol lead, determined to shoot whoever appeared over the horizon of the steps above him. There’d be no questions, just the answer of his thunder. The custom-made weapon could pierce plate armor, and since it used specially made shells rather than the usual ball and powder, it could be quickly reloaded. It was to the general a very comforting totem.

  But the farther they climbed without seeing evidence of a crew, the more disconcerted he felt. A ship of this size would require many hands to fly. The act of reloading the cannons alone would take fifty able men. If they meant to surrender, they certainly were going about it in a manner that was likely to get them killed. No, either they had fallen back into a defensive position, probably on the bridge or the engine room, or they were hiding in the closets and the crawl spaces, waiting for the right moment to spring an attack.

  At the middeck landing, he stopped long enough to quickly survey the gun deck, which was wide enough to exercise an elephant inside, though it stood empty except for the cannons and ranks of brass dummies that stood at lifeless attention. At the far end of the steel floor, the other half of his men gathered about a broad hatch, which he took for the entrance to the engine room.

  By the time he reached the top landing of the stairs, he was convinced a trap lay just ahead. The corridor there was narrow, paneled in dark wood, and lit by crystal globes that seemed to cataract the light inside them. The first hatch on the left stood open, and a brighter yellow light spilled out from it.

  The general approached with his back pressed to the wall. He drew from his belt a small, collapsible periscope, an instrument he sometimes had cause to use to peer over the plaza crowds when the sedans gathered too thickly. With the steady hands of a jeweler, he extended the periscope’s barrel and stretched the hooded prism past the lip of the door. He peered into the eyepiece at the room beyond.

  An ugly man in his undershirt sat cross-legged in the middle of the floor. Behind him, all around him really, stood great banks of switches, throttles, and knobs, the likes of which Eigengrau had never seen. The controls were packed as densely as the keys of a typewriter and were lit by a bevy of tiny lights. Incredible as the interface was, the gold frames that hung above those cabinets were more fantastic still. The paintings were colorless but living, moving images. By some magic he could not fathom, they contained glimpses of the port outside. The moon rose inside one frame. In another, the trio of the Ararat’s envelopes blotted out the stars. In a third, he saw the clouds wrapped about the necks of the distant mountains like scarves.

  The fantastic bridge of the ship seemed entirely empty except for the thin-haired cretin who sat smiling on the floor. When Eigengrau looked at him again, he realized the wretched little man was staring at him. Not staring at the periscope’s hood but staring through its lens and around the corner at him. Eigengrau shivered under this gaze. Steam seemed to rise from the stranger’s eyes. His ears and nose and mouth glowed red like a raw egg held before a candle.

  Then the general recognized who it was. He pulled away from the eyepiece with a start.

  It was impossible. The Red Hand was dead.

  Eigengrau turned to find t
he private who he’d originally sent in to scout the ship. He grabbed the man by the back of the neck and pulled him close to his face and said, “I want you to go in there and say hello. Whatever happens, do not fire your weapon. If you shoot any part of that machinery, I will skin you and pack you in salt. Is that clear, Private?”

  The private nodded until his cap rattled on his head. He was still nodding when Eigengrau pushed him in front of the open hatch. The frightened soldier stumbled as he struggled to draw his saber. Once he had his sword drawn, he glanced at the general, who thrust out his chin, directing the man onward. The soldier slid one foot forward, then the other, his knees trembling as he advanced. He disappeared into the room.

  Eigengrau turned to the rest of his men who clogged the passageway and spoke in a near whisper: “No one discharges their sidearm in that room. Is that clear?”

  “Hello?” the private called from inside the bridge. “Hello, you there … on the floor … stand up! Put your hands in the air.”

  The general lifted the periscope again to watch what would occur, but he hadn’t gotten the piece to his eye before he was stopped short by a sharp, brief shriek. He heard the squeak of bootheels, a rustle of cloth, then abrupt quiet.

  He felt his men shrink behind him. They were all too young to be such cowards. Eigengrau was about to enliven their bravery with some well-constructed bodily threats when the private reemerged from the bridge. He dragged the tip of his saber upon the floor. His mouth hung open, spilling out a thread of drool. He walked straight out, bumped against the opposite bulkhead, then turned listlessly to face the general and his men.

  He appeared uninjured except for a single, thick tear of blood, which streamed from the inside corner of one eye. His gaze was vacant, his shoulders round. He did not seem to recognize them, nor indeed anything. With one strike, the Red Hand had reduced the man to a mindless husk.

  “Draw your swords,” Eigengrau said. “One hundred mina for whoever kills the fiend. A noose for any man who tries to leave before he’s dead!”