by Jeff Giles
Her speech finished, she placed a motherly hand on X’s cheek. Her palm was raw, yet he felt its warmth.
“I have enjoyed our conversation,” Ripper said. “It’s been years since I spoke so many coherent words in a row.”
“Thank you for your counsel,” said X.
He smiled gratefully, and found he was not ready to let her go.
“Ripper,” he said.
“Yes?”
“I wanted to say,” he began awkwardly, “I wanted to say that I very much like your dress.”
“Well, thank you, kind sir,” she said, looking pleased and brushing some dirt off the decaying embroidery. “In truth, it was never particularly dear to me. But I did not know, when I laced it up on that last morning, that I was dressing for eternity.”
The Russian twisted the key in the door and entered the cell. The lantern threw a faint light on his powder-blue tracksuit.
“Is time,” he said. “Party over. Now ve cry, boo-hoo.”
Ripper gave X a final nod, then contorted her face into the mask of insanity she had invented for the Lowlands. It was as if someone entirely new inhabited her body now.
X watched in admiration as she spun around, hissed at the guard like a feral cat, and swept back to her cell.
The days passed, but X’s bruises were slow to fade—his skin remained a landscape of purple, yellow, and blue. Soon, though, he was strong enough to pace in his cell and do simple exercises. He still daydreamed about Zoe constantly. But he managed to divert his thoughts, as a town might divert a river, from losing her to finding her again.
One day—as usual, he could not have said if it was morning or night—X awoke to the sound of a rusty key scraping in the lock. A squad of guards stood huddled outside. They were the same ones who had abandoned him on the plain. The squat chief in the turtleneck and red tie stepped forward, and helped X off the ground.
“Been meanin’ to apologize, I ’ave,” he said. “Me and the men behaved poorly with respect to you. Cowardly, like. You deserve betta.”
The guard was only groveling because he’d learned that X’s mother had been a lord. Still, X had no appetite for cruelty.
“Thank you,” he said. “I could not ask for a more sincere apology.”
“Been practicin’,” said the guard.
The guard gestured for X to follow, and steered him toward the wide rock staircase. The prisoners rattled their bars and hollered as they passed.
“Where do you take me?” X asked.
A cloud passed over the guard’s face.
“Promised I wouldn’t tell,” he said.
“I understand,” said X.
“But seein’ as how you been so gracious ’bout the other matter, I’ll tell you anyway,” said the guard. “The waterfall what feeds the rivva—you know it?”
“Yes,” said X.
“Well, behin’ it,” said the guard, “there’s a tunnel, an’ at the end of the tunnel there’s a kind of meeting hall, like. Very grand, it is. The lords do their business there—their shoutin’ and lawmakin’ and whatnot.” He paused as X negotiated the first step down. “I’m told they’re all waitin’ for you. They been handlin’ assorted matters all day, but you’re to be their main course.”
The waterfall rained down so fiercely that X could hardly penetrate it. Finally, with the help of two guards, he emerged into a long stone passageway he had never seen before.
No one spoke. The only noises were the crackling of torches, the echoing of boots, and the dripping of garments as they walked. X knew they must be drawing close to the meeting hall. So many lords congregating together sent out an unmistakable energy—a pulse, like a hive of bees.
As if to confirm X’s suspicion, the passageway began to transform. The walls had started out as ugly, rough-hewn rock. But the farther the company walked, the more polished the tunnel became until it shone like silver. There were enormous gems embedded in the wall now, too. They flickered and winked as the guards passed by with their torches.
At the end of the tunnel, there was an ornately carved blue door. Two sentinels with terrifying black rifles stood in front of it.
The sentinels were a higher species than the fleshy, bumbling guards and barely acknowledged them. They turned to the door with choreographed precision and pulled it open without a word.
X passed through the door, and was hit with a burst of light. He and the guards had entered a stunning white amphitheater made entirely of marble. The lords—hundreds of them—sat in a circle around a small stage, their clothes so colorful and fine they looked almost liked plumage. They stopped talking when they saw X. They watched as he was led down the steps to the stage.
The stage was empty except for a single stone seat and a podium. The guards, trying to impress the lords, pushed X roughly into the chair, and streamed single file back up the steps.
X’s eyes slowly adjusted to the light. The walls were like the inside of a pyramid—carved with thousands, maybe millions, of words and drawings, as well as an immense map that seemed to represent every inch of the prison. The ceiling was a huge, transparent dome, above which the Lowlands’ wide river rushed without a sound.
X hadn’t been seated long when the stone chair began to revolve so that no matter where the lords were seated they had a chance to inspect him. The crowd quickly bored of this, however, and broke into a hundred conversations. The chair continued to turn. It moved slowly, then quickly, then slowly again. X listened to the belligerent shouting, the jagged laughter, the angry stomping of feet. He watched queasily as the faces streamed by in a never-ending loop. He was waiting for the trial to begin, and then it struck him…
This was the trial.
He fought the urge to panic. He searched the crowd for Regent, but couldn’t find him. Surely Regent was there? Surely he wouldn’t abandon him now? X kept searching. There were so many lords. Their robes were flapping. The golden bands at their necks were glinting. Dervish sat in the middle of a row, laughing wickedly with his fellow lords. Were they laughing at X?
At last, amid the confusion, a lord no taller than a child mounted the stage. X watched as he stepped behind the podium and hushed the crowd. In a high, nervous voice, the lord announced that they would now hear final arguments before voting on whether the prisoner was to remain a bounty hunter or be locked away forever.
Final arguments!
X’s mind reeled. He was dizzy from the motion of the chair. His purple shirt was damp with sweat. The gash in his leg seemed to glow beneath the bandage.
He closed his eyes, and when he opened them—he saw Regent. At last! The lord rose from his seat and approached the stage.
Before Regent addressed the audience, he leaned down to X and confirmed what Ripper had said: X would be allowed to speak, but only once. X saw the sympathy in the lord’s eyes, and was moved by it. Without thinking, he whispered, “You have been so kind to me. Might I know your true name?”
The lord was shocked by the question. He turned away without answering.
Regent told his fellow lords he was disgusted that they were even contemplating further punishments to the soul who sat before them. He reminded his audience that, though X had committed no crime, he had spent his life in the Lowlands—that he had learned to crawl and walk and speak in a cell barely bigger than his body. Of course he had been tempted to run! Of course he had fallen in love!
It was a stirring speech. The lords seemed rapt by it.
Regent talked about X’s mother, about the rare blood that ran in his veins, about the appalling torture he had suffered on the plain.
X longed to speak on his own behalf—and was afraid he’d miss his chance. He remembered Ripper telling him to grovel. He practiced silently in his head: My lords, my actions have been disgraceful. I beg to remain a hunter, so that I might continue to serve you. I recant everything—and everyone—else. My only love is the Lowlands.
He loathed every word and meant none of them.
When Regent finish
ed, there was a light rain of applause. Dervish, who seemed to live in a perpetual state of outrage, was so scandalized that he didn’t even bother taking the stage to give his rebuttal. He pushed past the lords seated next to him, and began shouting from the aisle.
“This knave MUST NOT and CANNOT remain a bounty hunter,” he declared. “He has ALREADY revealed what weak, lovesick stuff he is made of. He has ALREADY betrayed us. And yet some among us would let him remain a hunter and stroll the Overworld at his leisure? Nay, I say! NAY, NAY, NAY!”
Dervish expected his own round of applause. But after that bizarre string of “nays,” Regent said loudly, “Forgive me, but has a horse entered the room?”
Laughter rippled through the chamber.
Dervish stood hunched in the middle of the aisle, recalculating his plan of attack. A thought came to him. X could see it register in his eyes.
“The TRUTH,” bellowed the vile lord, “is that this knave does not even DESIRE to remain a bounty hunter. All he truly desires is to nuzzle his SLUT! I should have MURDERED her when I had the chance—and I may murder her yet!”
X rose from his seat. He was so furious and dizzy he could barely see.
Regent tried to calm him: “He bluffs in the hopes of enraging you. Do not be provoked!”
But X could hear nothing but the blood pounding in his ears. He stumbled off the stage, and lurched down the aisle toward Dervish.
“If you lay a hand on Zoe,” he cried, “I will make your face even uglier—with a rock!”
“You are hardly in a position to hinder me,” taunted Dervish. “I shall lick her neck, if it pleases me.”
Regent flew down the steps to hold X back. But, dizzy as a child spun around during a birthday game, X lashed out at Dervish with his fist.
He struck Regent instead.
A gasp flew up from the lords. The sentinels raced forward with their rifles. X looked to Regent, whose face was a mask of fury and surprise.
“I never intended—” said X.
Regent raised a palm to silence him.
“You have spoken,” he said, his tone suddenly clipped and officious. “And you may not speak again.”
X collapsed back into the stone chair. All was lost. He would never be a bounty hunter again. He would never see Zoe. His insolence might even cost her family their lives.
He gazed at the bandage on his leg. Blood rose through it like a little lake. To distract himself, he pressed his fingertips into it and felt the pain rush through him. Maybe, with Ripper’s help, he could prevent the wound from ever healing, so that he could jab at it forever—a permanent reminder of his loss.
When it came time for the lords to vote, Regent helped him out of his chair.
“Be silent, no matter what occurs,” the lord told him. “I have done all that I can.”
X forced himself to look out at his judges. Few of them returned his gaze, which told him everything he needed to know about his fate.
The diminutive lord who’d opened the proceedings called out the official referendum in his reedy voice: “Shall this soul remain a bounty hunter—yea or nay?”
A nay was shouted, and then another, and then two more.
X felt as if he were watching his future with Zoe vanish and die. He had promised to return to her unless two worlds conspired against him—what a reckless promise! All it had taken was his own anger and pride, his own voice leaping out of him unbidden.
He tried to shut his ears to the proceedings. Yet listening to his own thoughts was no less a misery. How long would it take Zoe to admit to herself that X had failed her—that he was never coming back?
The ninth—or was it the tenth?—nay was bellowed out.
X hoped Zoe knew that he loved her. He couldn’t swear he had actually said those words. When he had kissed her, every part of him was flooded with feeling. Had she known it? Would she remember? Or would she decide that he had never cared for her? Might it be better if she did?
His mind ached. Every question was like dry wood exploding in a fire.
He could ask Banger to take Zoe a message when Banger was sent to retrieve another soul. Banger was a loyal friend, that was clear. He would do it. But what would the message say? The words “I’m sorry” were so small.
Regent voted in X’s favor, and X felt an absurd flutter of hope.
Three more nays followed. X was surprised how much they stung him even now.
He needed this to end. It was torture.
The lords had grown tired of the vote. They began standing and pushing toward the aisle. The man-child behind the podium shouted for order. They ignored him, and jostled each other. X wondered how such a pack of adolescents could rule the Lowlands.
And then it struck him: They didn’t rule the Lowlands. Not really. Ripper’s words came back to him: the lords answered to the Higher Power.
Suddenly, X heard a voice cry out: “I question your authority!”
He was shocked to discover that it was his own.
Regent shook his head violently, reminding X that he was forbidden from speaking again.
But X would not be silent. Zoe wouldn’t have been.
“I question your authority!”
Every head turned.
“On what grounds?” said the little lord.
X stole a look at Regent, hoping for encouragement. The lord gave him the slightest of nods.
“On the grounds,” he began slowly, “on the grounds that you do not have the right to judge me—for I am the son of a lord.”
Silence swept the cavern. Ripper had counseled X well.
“There is one who rules over even you,” X continued. “Only He has the power to punish me. Only He can decide my fate. Ask Him to judge me—if you dare.”
Banger hung on every word of X’s story. The guards had ushered him back to his cell, and they could not get their fill of his tale either. They stood clustered in front of the bars, openly admiring X’s courage (“The bollocks on ’im! Imagine!”) and soaking up every detail in amazement. Ripper danced noisily in her cell, feigning madness, but X knew that she listened and was proud.
As for X himself, he careened between ecstasy and shock. He tried to calm his blood, reminding himself that his fate was still uncertain.
“You said, ‘I question your authority’?” Banger asked, not for the first time. “You seriously said that?”
“Desperation drove me to it,” said X.
“And then what ’appened?” said one of the guards, who had a wizened old face like a shrunken apple. “Mayhem, I figger?”
“The lords exploded into debate,” said X. “The noise was terrible. The lords circled me, outraged by my insolence. They threatened me with medieval punishments. Dervish stuck his nose within inches of my face, and asked if I was aware of how many different ways there were to skin a human body. But I was so inflamed with righteousness that he did not scare me, and I let him know it by replying, calmly as I could, ‘Seven?’”
This brought a round of laughter.
“Despite the lords’ fury,” X continued, “no one suggested that they did have the authority to judge me. I grew bolder and bolder, and began exclaiming, ‘Ask Him to judge me! Only He can judge me!’ Once, I believe I even shouted, ‘Can He hear us now? Is He listening?! Tell Him that He must answer!’ I was demented. Then, suddenly, amid the chaos, something so peculiar happened that I do not know how to credit it.”
X was silent for so long his audience squealed in frustration.
“The chamber itself seem to awaken in some way,” he said at last. “The river that rushed over our heads darkened. The walls became slick with moisture, as if they were made of skin. Then they took to vibrating. It was a mere tremor at first. But it grew steadily, and was soon accompanied by … Again, I hardly know how to describe it. It was accompanied by a hum. It began as a sort of growl, like something issuing from the belly of a beast. But the hum grew higher and higher, and soon it was transformed into a piercing sort of whistle. I cannot begi
n to relate how unkind a noise it was. It was like a spike driven into our ears.”
“I ’ave ’eard that very sound!” said the shriveled apple.
“Oh, you never did!” said the stout chief.
“I saw fear transform the lords’ faces—even Regent’s,” said X. “He ordered the sentinels to remove me from the chamber. I resisted, for the lords had not yet informed me of my fate. But the place was in such a tumult that I could do nothing to further my cause. As I was hurried away, I turned back toward the lords for a moment. I do not suppose you will believe this, but I saw that the gold bands the lords wear about their necks had commenced to glow. All at once the lords dropped their hands from their ears and clutched at the collars as if they were being choked. The sentinels and I had to push past one of the lords to exit the chamber, and the last thing I saw was a curtain of blood sliding down his neck.”
X’s last words landed in silence. Then, yet again, the shriveled apple felt compelled to speak.
“I seen that meself!” he said. “I seen that very fing!”
The stout guard turned.
“Liar,” he said wearily.
“All right, fair enough,” said the apple. “Howevva, I ’ave many a time seen their lordships strain and tug at them gol’ bands, as if they was a nuisance.”
In the cell next door, Ripper stopped carrying on and surprised the party by interjecting.
“Mr. Ugly has struck upon a truth,” she said. “Those gold bands are not signs of power—or, rather, not just signs of power. They are chains.”
“Well stated,” said the apple. “Bein’ called Mr. Ugly hurts a person’s feelin’s, but I will let it pass, as you are a well-known loony.”
Before Ripper could respond, Banger warned them of movement on the plain below. Regent was pacing on the rocky ledge. X could not make out his features, but his agitation was clear.
“Right,” said the chief of the guards. “We betta be off, then. Come along, Mr. Ugly.”