The Hod King

by Josiah Bancroft

  Since Sodiq had given them a destination but not a route, it was left to them—or, more accurately, to Senlin, as bearer of the map—to find their way. It seemed like every time Senlin devised a path to Mola Ambit, Tarrou would return from a vent to report that he didn’t like the smell of it. Sometimes the air was stale and thin, other times John detected the unique reek of chimney cats. Whatever blocked their way, it fell to Senlin to find an alternative. The new course often required backtracking, but they all understood that the penalty for haste was an unpleasant death. And so, none complained when many hours of climbing had to be retraced.

  When on the fifth day of their trek they came upon a colony of bats roosting inside a vaulted junction, the stench of ammonia was so overpowering, the three men could hardly see for the tears in their eyes and could not speak for gagging. The discovery of the bat colony was particularly disappointing because they had journeyed there in hope of making camp. As it turned out, one of the rarest commodities in the maze of airways was level ground. A flat floor (denoted on the map with a zero) meant the possibility of real rest and a civil meal. The fact that a colony of bats had claimed the largest open floor they’d come upon only to use it for a toilet was dispiriting, to say the least.

  But they had to rest. They could not afford the clumsiness that came with exhaustion. After poring over his map for a few minutes, Senlin found another level spot that was perhaps half an hour’s crawl out of their way. The zero that marked the landing on the map was followed by an asterisk, which they all found intriguing. They crowded over the map, squinting at the speck that seemed to squirm in the submarine glow of their lamps.

  “It could be a blot of ink,” Senlin said, staring until the whiskery lines and minute figures began to swim about the tiny mark. “Or there could be something unusual there.”

  “Like a bed?” Goll said.

  “Or a café,” Tarrou suggested.

  There was only one way to find out. When they arrived at the lip of the shaft that led down to the landing, they were surprised by its breadth. Their lamplight did not touch the other side of the gap, and they could not begin to see the bottom of the vent. The wind was chilly, and it poured down from above. When Senlin dropped a little stone into the abyss, he counted to four before hearing a distant and echoing click.

  It was the first time that they had no choice but to use the ropes Sodiq had given them. They had two lengths, fifty feet apiece, both frayed at the ends and loose in the middle. The jute fibers were gray with age and creaked when pulled. But, surely, if Sodiq had meant to kill them, he could’ve thought of a quicker, surer method than sending them off with unsafe tethers.

  Surely.

  After some debate, they agreed to lash one of their lamps to a rope and lower it down first. If its light didn’t find the hoped-for refuge in the rock face, then they’d give up the effort and camp where they were. The bubble of blue light sank thirty feet before revealing what they all agreed was the lip of a long shelf, though they could not see how deep it was from where they stood.

  Senlin volunteered to lead the way, and Goll consented only after forcing Senlin to relinquish the map and his pack as insurance that he would not try to escape. Rather than reel the lamp back up, Senlin slid down after it, collecting some friction burns along the way.

  When he swung onto the ledge, he was surprised to discover the floor was sodden and slick with some variety of jade-green algae. As soon as he was sure of his foothold on the slippery surface, Senlin untied the lamp, called up the all clear, and began to inspect the level ground.

  The landing didn’t appear to join any other vents. The back wall, which spanned some fifty paces, was dominated by a trough that was as deep as a bathtub. To his delight, Senlin saw that the long manger held water, fed by a dribbling spring. The sound of trickling water was almost musical. The green slime that swathed the basin appeared to have clogged the drain over time, causing an overflow that spilled across the outpost. The trough was home to a species of tiny glowing shrimp, which resembled a milky galaxy when they moved in a lazy school.

  Three grout-spattered stone basins, which called to mind oversized birdbaths, stood near the precipice of the oasis. On either end of the outpost, piles of sand and cakey lime lay under racks of ancient wooden tools. After a moment’s study, Senlin realized what the landing was: a long-abandoned mixing station for the preparation of mortar.

  Once Goll and Tarrou were safely down, neither man made any effort to conceal his disappointment at the swampy floor, the scarcity of mattresses, and the absolute absence of a single café waiter. They were a little appeased by the fresh water, which seemed potable, and though the ground was smeared in a viscous goo that would not be very nice to sleep upon, there were at least wooden pails they could use as stools.

  It had taken Senlin a couple of days before the crisis of his hunger overwhelmed his revulsion for their rations. The beetle cakes were grotesque in texture and foul in flavor, but surprisingly filling. Famished from the day’s climb, they arranged their buckets in a circle and passed the sack of beetle cakes around.

  Tarrou said, “You know, if you don’t let yourself think about what you’re eating while you’re eating it, these are still nearly inedible.” He made a show of inspecting the textured mauve-gray puck. “It’s like an offal pâté with raisins, isn’t it? No, not raisins. What do you suppose those are? Heads?”

  “John, please. I just want to keep it down,” Senlin said between sips from the waterskin.

  They sat around a gloamine lamp as if it were a cold campfire. The remaining lanterns rested in the mixing basins, one on either end of the outpost.

  Goll balanced his blunderbuss on his lap as he ate his insect cake and glared back and forth between Senlin and Tarrou, ever vigilant, ever suspicious. Before they had sat down, Goll insisted Senlin turn over the supply pack, which he now wore on his back as insurance against either man running off. Senlin wondered where exactly they could run off to. As clever as he was, he still couldn’t fly. In his present state of exhaustion, he wasn’t even sure he’d be able to shinny back up the rope they’d come down by. But Goll’s paranoia appeared stronger than his sense.

  In the five days since they’d commenced their climb, they’d had little chance for conversation. They had spoken enough for Tarrou to discern that Goll was well aware of his attempted conspiracy. Goll made no bones about his willingness to shoot Tarrou. Since there was no reason to keep up a pretense of civility, John took to needling Goll, and the two quickly developed a mutual animosity that only silence could pacify.

  The mortar mixing post was the first time they’d been on level ground and in a position to talk since they’d left the zealot camp. Senlin wondered how long it would take the two men to begin sniping at each other. His answer came soon enough.

  “So tell us, Mr. Gallstone, how exactly did you fall in with the zealots?” John asked. “Did you get caught in one of their rat traps? Or did they mistake you for an ugly orphan child and adopt you?”

  “I was running from a pack of oversized goons like you who were under the mistaken impression that I owed them money.” The shorn state of Goll’s head and his noticeable thinness conspired to make his large, animated brows more conspicuous. Goll looked, Senlin thought, like a caricature of his former himself. “I knew the zealots were protective of their converts. And if it saves me a beating, I don’t mind lying.”

  “Oh? Do you prefer to lie on your belly or on your back?”

  “I suppose I’m like your mother: I let the gentleman decide, hodder.”

  Tarrou swatted at the air. “Oh, stop it with that hodder nonsense! You’re the absolute worst actor I’ve ever seen, and I’ve sat through a thousand drunken dinner theaters.”

  “Or as your friends call it, ‘Tea with John.’”

  “Sodiq saw right through you. It was embarrassing watching you smirk and shrug as if you were fooling anyone. You seem to be under the misapprehension that sarcasm is a legitimate dramatic met
hod.”

  “And yet somehow, I’m not the one who’s been shot twice in a week,” Goll said.

  “I’ve only been shot once.”

  “Keep talking!” Goll shook the gun at him, eliciting a not very intimidating rattle.

  “What happened to you to make you so sour?” Tarrou asked.

  “What happened to me?” Finn Goll threw the remaining wedge of his beetle cake over his shoulder into the yawning gully at his back. “Thomas Senlin happened to me! I know he doesn’t look like much. Oh, he had me fooled, too! But in the span of one evening, he murdered my business manager, made off with my starlet, destroyed my port, and kidnapped my personal bodyguard.” Goll ticked each grievance off on a finger as he named them. “It took my enemies scarcely a week to carve up what was left of my assets, and another week for all my debts to be called in.” He balled his hands into fists and shook them like an inconsolable infant. “I have a wife and six children! Six! Do you have any idea where they are now? They’re living with cousins who hate them, washing soiled linens in the Baths. My youngest is four years old. A four-year-old girl wringing out pissy sheets for twelve hours a day. And she is waiting for her father to claw his way out of this inescapable hell and come rescue her!” Goll twisted the leather-wrapped stock of his weapon and glared at Senlin. “I gave you a job. I gave you a salary. And you ruined me for it!”

  Senlin dusted his hands and shuddered as he swallowed the last of his wretched dinner, then said, “I’m sorry for your family. They really did seem lovely, and I don’t enjoy hearing of any child’s suffering. But do not pretend that I took advantage of you, or that I was ever a willing employee. The Steam Pipe was a human mill that turned women into shekels for your purse. And Rodion was nothing but a theatrical rapist who preyed upon his wards. You were not a businessman. You were a slave trader, a pimp, and a thief. The grudging part that I played in your despicable industry is a source of unending shame. If I could go back and burn your port down a second time, I would.”

  Goll swung the black mouth of the blunderbuss at Senlin’s chest. Spit bubbled in the corners of his mouth. Making no effort to be subtle, Tarrou pulled the tarnished knife from his sarong and held it upon his knee. Goll spat when he spoke. “I enjoy seeing how well your decency has served you, Saint Thomas. I really do. I made hard decisions to feed my family. How fares your wife?”

  “Not as well as I would like,” Senlin said, patting his thighs and laughing softly at an understatement neither of his companions understood. “I have disappointed her several times over, but I’m still determined to account for those failures. And your loathing for me doesn’t change the fact that John is right. You’re not a very convincing zealot, Hodder Finn.”

  The change in topic seemed to dampen Goll’s rage. The gun returned to his lap. “So what if I’m not? Who cares? I’m not in this for the cause.” He rubbed his fingers together meaningfully.

  “You do understand the moment you accept the bounty, Marat will have you executed,” Senlin said. “It’s a test. If you take the money, he’ll kill you.”

  “You don’t know that.” Finn Goll spoke with a confidence his expression did not match.

  “Sodiq all but said as much. Besides, I’ve met Marat. I’ve been to his camp. I’ve sat at his table and listened to him philosophize.” Senlin shook his head at the memories of the gold-plated jail. “He has no compunction about killing hods. I doubt he even has the money, and if he does, I’m sure he’s not going to give it to you.”

  “Oh, but you don’t think he’ll hang Captain Mudd, the hod slayer?” Goll asked.

  “I’m certainly going to try to make a case against it.” The stationary light of their lamp had drawn a cloud of small, colorless moths. They ticked upon the glass globe like rain upon a window.

  “I bet when they cut off your head, you’ll just keep right on wheedling and chattering for another fortnight.” Goll rubbed his face with embellished exasperation. “Face it, Tom! You’ve run out of luck! You’ve had a fine run. You beat some long odds, but it’s over.”

  “Perhaps. But I still have a plan.”

  “Do you?” Goll mugged an expression of delight and surprise. “Please, tell us how you plan to escape the black trail, that debt pinned to your neck, and the bounty on your head.”

  “I’m going to tell Marat whatever he wants to hear,” Senlin said.

  “Well, that should about do it!” Goll guffawed.

  “We share an old friend in common. I think he’ll at least want to hear an update about how she’s doing.” Senlin swatted at a moth that had begun to fly circles about his head. He drove the thing off for a moment, but it returned just as quickly. “And I’m going to come to him in the company of two true converts.”

  Tarrou, who had been listening with squinting skepticism, pointed back and forth between himself and Finn Goll. “You mean us?”

  “Yes.”

  Tarrou rolled his head about as if dizzied by the idea. “Tom, I’ve mingled with the zealots, and I can tell you, they are very sincere. They’re also quite good at spotting imposters. I can be convincing enough, but I doubt we have time to teach the mouse here how to act.”

  “No more name-calling, John,” Senlin said quickly, surprising both men. “I know it helps lift your spirits, but we can’t afford to bicker anymore.”

  Finn Goll interjected before Tarrou could defend himself. “I’m actually fine with the bickering. It’s the cooperation I’m not so keen on, Tommy. You mistake me for a friend.”

  “No, I take you for someone with shared interests. We all want to get off the trail. Besides, we’re not just going to put on an act for Marat. We’re going to give evidence of your conviction as well. The two of you are going to turn down the reward.”

  Finn Goll snorted. “No, we’re not.”

  “Yes, you are. You’re going to insist upon it. No matter how he presses you, you’re going to tell Marat you would never take a single penny from the cause.” Finn Goll opened his mouth to argue further, but Senlin forged ahead. “The zealots have ways of getting in and out of the ringdoms undetected. I believe Sodiq used one of those back doors to avoid answering for the murders he committed in Pelphia. If we can convince the zealots that we are on their side, perhaps we can get into a ringdom. Then, we’ll have options. If we can find the local Wakeman, I should be able to contact my friends.”

  “What sort of friends?” Goll asked.

  “The kind with an airship and plenty of money.”

  “You’re forgetting the brand, Tom,” Tarrou said, and put a finger behind his right ear. When Senlin looked puzzled, Tarrou turned his head farther so he could show the button-sized scar behind his lobe. “They brand you before they put you on the trail to discourage the exact sort of subterfuge you’re suggesting. Any ringdom guard who sees one of these is going to ask for your papers. Unless you can produce documents that prove you’re an emancipated hod who’s paid off his debt, they’ll shoot you on the spot.”

  Senlin rubbed the unmarred skin behind his own ear. He’d not noticed the brand on the hods he’d encountered, but it made sense why they would have it. The duke must’ve been so eager to box up his head, he’d forgotten to mark him. Senlin still had his hair for the same reason, which was long enough now to hang in his eyes and over his ears. “I suppose we’ll have to figure out a disguise if we get that far. Perhaps we can just pose as what we are. The people of the ringdoms seem eager enough to overlook hods.”

  “I’m sorry, Headmaster, but this doesn’t seem like much of a plan,” Tarrou said. “Placate the zealots in the hope that we can parlay that access into a later escape? Seems a little thin, doesn’t it?”

  “Absolutely. But as I see it, our other option is to find a shaft that’ll take us back to the trail, at which point every man would go his own way. Sodiq is right: We can’t travel in the open together. So what I’m suggesting is absolutely risky. But Marat has influence, power, resources, and we could take advantage of those. Perhaps we could even
volunteer for a mission. I know he’s been infiltrating the ringdoms, probably for years. Or if you both prefer it, you could find the nearest trading post, pick up a load, and start walking off your debts.”

  “I just think it’s a long shot that Marat will believe that you’re truly a convert,” John said.

  “Perhaps. But a long shot is still more likely than a miracle. And that’s what it takes to get off the black trail the legal way, isn’t it?”

  Finn Goll, who’d been stewing in silence for a moment, appeared to make a decision. “It’s too bad. I would’ve liked to see you swing, Tom. But I think you’re probably right. It’s a trap. So we go back to the trail. Then it’s every man for himself … as it always has been.”

  Senlin shook his head and sucked a breath in between his teeth. “I think you’re making a mistake, Finn. You may not get another chance like this.”

  “Life never runs out of chances; a man just runs out of life. And this isn’t a debate. You can tag along, or you can stay here, but I’m going back to the trail. And my god, gentlemen, if you’re going to befoul the air with beetle farts, the least you could do is take a few paces off befo—”

  Finn Goll rose with a jerk. The blunderbuss fell from his knees and clattered upon the slimy stone. He stood up on his tiptoes, and then kept right on rising until his feet kicked the air. He dangled from the straps of the pack, a round-mouthed expression of confused horror on his face.

  The immense, inky chimney cat that had snuck up from the pit to lock its jaws upon Goll’s rucksack began to shake its head in wide, violent strokes.

  The sack of beetle cakes flew from the pack into the abyss along with two of their blankets and the second waterskin. Goll nearly followed after the gear himself. When the chimney cat whipped its head back the other way, Goll tried to slip out of the shoulder straps, but one of his arms tangled in the loop, and before he could free himself, he was flying over the brink again. He screamed as the strap tore free of the pack’s shoulder, leaving him clinging to life by a leather strip and the strength of one hand. The fiend swung its head inland just as Goll’s grip failed. He soared in an arc above the landing and splashed down in the trough among the slime. The school of krill fled to the other end of the trench with an angry flash of white.