The Hod King

by Josiah Bancroft

  Leonid replied, “That, you’ll have to ask the baby when he’s born!”

  While the wild-haired king rode upon his carousel, pouring champagne out for the lords and ladies that trotted along beside him, Edith found herself the target of the king’s advisers, each of whom elbowed a little space to walk at her side and make the introductions that the king had either forgotten or not cared to make.

  General Andreas Eigengrau—commander of the king’s navies and keeper of the domestic peace—introduced himself with a sort of weary charm. He seemed a man in need of a nap, but also a man who was resigned to never getting what he needed. Edith recognized him from the butterfly’s recording of Senlin’s hotel suite when the local constabulary had come to question him about the murders. He seemed even taller in person than he had appeared in that recording.

  Eigengrau congratulated her on her command, calling the State of Art easily the most stunning ship he’d ever laid eyes on. He assured her that she was in good hands with Wakeman Haste. Before relinquishing his spot at her side, he said, “I hope that you will share with the Sphinx what a lawful and orderly ringdom we are. Our excellence is evidence of our righteousness. If there is anyone deserving of the Sphinx’s faith and gifts, it is we Pelphians.” As she met his eyes in parting, she discovered that his gaze was not so sleepy as it first seemed. He was a keen and clever man.

  The royal treasurer, Crown Prince Pepin Le Mesurier, was the next to introduce himself. He was the king’s brother, though Edith couldn’t see any resemblance. His face was full, his hair was rusty, and his limbs were thick, though probably more from excess than exercise. He wore a girdle around his middle that raised his chest unnaturally, shaping him like a seal. The leisurely walk around the pyramid appeared to be the most exercise he’d had in weeks. He panted and spoke to Edith as if she were the last sane person in a world of fools. Edith had no doubt this treatment had nothing to do with her and everything to do with his own agenda. He said, “Those upper houses think we must be poor because we’re so low on the pole, but they never tire of buying our clothes, do they? Never tire of filling our coffers with gold. Of course, you know that. You’re here, after all! You know where the opportunities are. My trouble, as treasurer, is finding investment opportunities as great as our capital. I see in the Sphinx a worthy business partner. I’m sure that’s no surprise to you, clever woman like yourself. Personally, I think the day he decides to stop giving away those marvels of his, and starts selling them instead, is the day he becomes the wealthiest man in Ur. The schematics for that ax-head of a warship would be worth ten thousand mina. Twenty thousand, perhaps. You know, if you’d like to leave the blueprints with me, I could provide you with a more concrete estimate.” Edith declined the offer. Le Mesurier never once looked her in the eye as he snorted and blathered at her elbow. The crown prince might’ve tried to grease her further, but the exercise appeared to be too much for him, and he had to quit the undertaking midlap.

  The last adviser in the king’s inner circle was a little stick of a man who introduced himself as Grand Duke Horace Gardon, the city manager. He had thick-lensed spectacles, an ill-advised, weedy mustache, and the look of someone who’d just been informed that his basement had flooded. He was the youngest of the king’s advisers by twenty years, perhaps, but the work had aged him, stealing first the majority of his hair, then the color from his cheeks, and finally the starch from his spine. Gardon was eager to hear what she thought of the parade route and the reception she’d received. Edith assured him that everything had been very fine, but this proved to be an insufficient compliment. Gardon was the sort of person who liked to farm praise by self-criticism. He bemoaned the absence of his usual master of ceremonies, who’d been felled by a head cold, and apologized for the street sweepers who’d let the confetti pile too thickly on the road, and he scolded himself for not having organized more banners to mark this historic occasion. Edith patiently complimented Gardon on each point, which seemed to satisfy him well enough. As their circuit about the pyramid approached its conclusion, Gardon said that King Leonid would very much appreciate a private consultation at his royal palace.

  Edith of course agreed, though she was disappointed to learn that Georgine would not be coming along. Haste explained, “I’m a better constable than a counselor. I never have much to contribute to important conversations. Not that they’ve ever asked. When you’re finished, we can meet for a drink if you like.” Haste pointed up at a dim constellation of blue-white pilot lights. “See the boot? The toe of it hangs over a rooftop pub called the Hope and Pride. It’s a nice, quiet spot. Not too showy. I’m usually there around four. And a word of advice: Avoid committing to any royal dinners if you can help it, or you’ll spend the evening being trotted about like a show hound.”

  Edith, the king, and his advisers hadn’t far to go. The palace overlooked the plaza. As they crossed the milk-white mall, King Leonid threw out handfuls of hard candy to the children who flocked after them. The children squealed in delight, and the king tilted his head back and crowed. Edith thought, if he wasn’t mad, he certainly was odd. And his home was no less so.

  The word that leapt to mind when she gazed upon the palace was ramshackle. The structure reminded her of an old country manor that had begun as a cottage, and then been added to by successive generations, until the original home was swallowed up by the additions. Edith would learn that something similar had actually occurred with the Palace of the Pells. Going back many, many years, each member of the ringdom’s monarchy had endeavored to make a mark on the royal home. The result was a jumble of styles and ideas. The facade featured two arches of inconsistent size, one round and the other pointed. The portico had an odd number of pillars, all with unique capitals. There were scores of windows, but not one on a common line. Each of the palace’s five corners boasted a turret, and some of those had sprouted secondary turrets like limbs branching from the trunk of a tree. Two domes topped the palace, to something of a rude effect, though one had a cupola and the other was leafed in gold, an addition that King Leonid had personally overseen. “Something about the one dome seemed to cry out for the second,” the king told Edith proudly, then popped a piece of rock candy into his mouth.

  Edith was accustomed to sizing a person up quickly. Haggling with pirates had taught her to trust first impressions and her instincts. Admittedly, she was not a perfect judge of character—her first impression of Senlin, after all, had been that he was a useless sop—but she felt certain that her ability to distinguish harmless oddballs from violent maniacs had saved her life more than once.

  And yet she struggled to get any real sense of the king’s character.

  The royal address consumed a city block and towered above its neighbors. As they mounted the palace steps, the last tagalong lords and ladies peeled away. The children ran off with cheeks full of candy, and the reporters were dispatched with a parting raspberry, which Leonid said they could quote him on.

  Edith followed the king and his three advisers through the gold-hinged palace doors. The interior of the king’s home was just as grand and confused as the exterior. Every stick of furniture seemed a work of art, and all the fixtures were as fine as jewelry. But since none of it matched, the result was something like an extravagant curiosity shop.

  Edith marked the change that came over the king the moment they were indoors. He shooed away his servants, who vanished like mice at the striking of a light, and began stripping off the pieces of his clockmaker’s costume—hat, coat, vest, and tie—as he walked, casting them onto the museum pieces of his home without breaking stride. He seemed younger, his actions more staid. Leonid’s voice lost the theatrical lilt it had possessed in the court. He spoke to Edith almost casually. “I’m old enough to remember when the Sphinx’s name didn’t sound so mythical. My great-grandfather saw the State of Art the last time it flew—When was that, General, a hundred years ago?” Leonid paused long enough to let Eigengrau nod. “The Sphinx certainly has mastered the long enco
re.”

  “And he thought Pelphia would be the perfect stage for it,” Edith said.

  “That’s very flattering. I hope you don’t mind if I dispense with the royal tour. It’s a big house, and I’m sure we both have better things to do with our time than pretend to appreciate all the hearths and tapestries,” Leonid said in a guileless way. Edith agreed at once, grateful to be spared the boring perusal. “Anyway, I prefer the roof. I like the air.”

  The terrace jutted from the palace with all the subtly of a codpiece. The extravagant expanse was shaded by rows of palm trees in massive glazed pots. Leonid explained that every morning, wilting trees were carted out to revive in the port sunshine while fresh ones were rolled in to languish in the gaslight. He said, “It’s a terrible indulgence, I admit. Being king does have its perks. And I can’t think of anything more serene than tree shade. Honestly, I’d rather have greenery than gold.”

  It was a sentiment Edith could relate to. She was beginning to like the regent. Leonid stood at the rail, overlooking a city that seethed with life. Now wearing nothing but his suit trousers and a white shirt, undone at the collar, the king looked common, unremarkable, except for the spread white wings of his hair. “When I was a boy, I’d pull feathers out of my pillow and then bring them up here to see how far I could sail them over the rooftops. I made a whole game of it. There were points and penalties and … I frittered a hundred afternoons, launching feathers, tallying scores.” He fluttered his fingers in the air. “When my mother caught me at it, she gave me a horrible telling off. I had ruined her pillows! Destroyed her duvets! I was a vandal and a wastrel!” He chuckled. “Funny, now I can’t remember a single rule of my feather game, but I can recall with perfect clarity every word of that scolding.” Leonid looked Edith in the eye with an appealing amount of honesty. “I hope I’m not due for another one now.”

  Edith realized with a flicker of surprise that Leonid anticipated some sort of censure. The revelation came as a relief because it meant the Sphinx still commanded a little respect here. “Not at all, Your Majesty. The Sphinx sends his warmest regards. He wishes he could’ve come himself. He has nothing but fond memories of your ringdom and your lineage.”

  “I run hot and cold on them myself. I’m not one of those who thinks every dead relative is a saint. So, to what do we owe this honor, Wakeman Winters? What really brings you here?”

  “It’s come to the Sphinx’s attention there has been some turmoil in the Baths,” Edith said.

  “You mean the loss of the Red Hand,” the king said solemnly.

  “Pound lost him,” Le Mesurier interjected with a disgusted pucker of his lips. The king’s rotund brother had somewhere during their walk procured a tumbler of ice and gin, which he slurped at before going on. “Hardly surprising. Pound goes through money like my boy goes through girls. We gave him a resource like the Red Hand, and he squandered it. The man’s too busy collecting doodles to run a ringdom.”

  “There were mitigating circumstances, Your Highness,” Eigengrau said. “Pound was surprised by a trap in an unfriendly port.”

  “Itself an embarrassment!” Le Mesurier barked back.

  “I do not disagree. I’m merely stating the defense that Pound himself will mount,” the general said.

  “Gentlemen,” Leonid said, raising his hands. “Do these excuses matter to the Sphinx? The fact remains that it was our man who contributed to the death of a Wakeman. I’m sure the Sphinx won’t care which one of our hands we decide to slap.”

  “The Sphinx has sent me to offer Your Majesty some compensation for the loss.”

  “Compensation? For our blunder?” Leonid said. “I thought he’d be furious.”

  “I would not pretend to know what the Sphinx feels,” Edith said with a diplomatic shrug.

  “Still, that seems exceedingly generous,” the king said.

  “Exceedingly,” the crown prince echoed, sucking on the rocks of his drink.

  “In exchange, all the Sphinx asks for is your copy of The Brick Layer’s Granddaughter.”

  “You mean the painting that Pound lost?” Eigengrau asked, shifting aside his cape so he could better fold his arms. It was an imposing stance that did little to impress Edith. “I assure you, Captain Winters, we have made every effort to get it back. Some muddy pirate absconded with it. But there’s a reward out for him and the search goes on.”

  Edith continued to address the king, “Actually, Your Majesty, I mean your copy of it.”

  Confusion wrinkled the king’s brow. “My copy. But why? We still have our Wakeman. You met her. Georgine. We get along fine.”

  “I really couldn’t say why the Sphinx wants your copy, Your Majesty. Only that he does. I can tell you that you’re not the last ringdom I will visit with this request. And none of them, to the best of my knowledge, have lost Wakemen.”

  “So this isn’t about the Red Hand,” the king concluded. “And you say I am the first?”

  “Yes, Your Majesty.”

  “If it is because he worries his painting is not safe here, I can assure you our copy is perfectly secure,” King Leonid said.

  “Pound should never have had the Baths’ copy on display,” Eigengrau added. “It wasn’t his to show. It belonged to the ringdom.”

  “The man is obsessed with frames,” Le Mesurier said. “If you put a frame on a toenail, he’d hang it on his wall!”

  “Brother.” The king’s tone of voice did not require any further rebuke. The crown prince chewed an ice cube noisily but said no more. “Just as I can recall the stories of the State of Art, I have not forgotten the value of the Sphinx’s tokens. Does this mean the Sphinx is withdrawing his favor from the House of Pell?”

  “Not at all, Your Majesty.”

  “Is he changing the agreement?”

  “No, Your Majesty.”

  “Here is my concern, Wakeman Winters: I have spent my tenure on the throne pursuing and maintaining peace with the Algezians. It is not an absolute peace. We’ve seen those before, and how wildly they swing to bloody war. No, the truce I have built is tenuous and tepid. Because it is lukewarm, our defenses are stout and our navy is ready. But because there is peace, our ports are full, our markets are healthy, and our culture is thriving. I am concerned that your presence, that the Sphinx’s reemergence, could turn my tepid peace into fiery war.”

  While the king spoke, Eigengrau nodded along. The general agreed with the policy, though based on how the crown prince had buttoned his top lip into his lower, Edith didn’t think he shared the political strategy. “Your Majesty, the Sphinx and his Wakemen wish to keep the balance between ringdoms. We exist to preserve the peace. You’ve experienced this, I’m sure, by Haste’s service. The painting is merely a treaty, a sign of good faith.”

  Leonid smiled, though there was no pleasure behind the expression. “Do you know what a treaty is, Captain Winters? It is a document that tells us what the next war will be over.”

  “You mentioned compensation,” Le Mesurier said. “I’m not clear: Are you offering us another Wakeman?”

  “No,” Edith said. The Sphinx had prompted her what to say next, and still she made the king and his advisers hold their breath a moment before continuing. “The Sphinx will provide every ringdom that turns over its copy of The Brick Layer’s Granddaughter with access to a new technology.”

  A flight of surprised expressions followed as the men processed this unanticipated but welcome news. “What is it? A weapon? A power source? Is he going to share the lightning with the rest of us?” The crown prince’s eagerness and his girdle left him short of breath.

  “I don’t know,” Edith said.

  “Well, that all seems very vague,” Le Mesurier said, his excitement souring.

  “Be quiet, Pepin,” Leonid said, not sharply, but with the authority of an older brother. “You’re going to grouse us out of a gift. The Sphinx is paying us an immense honor. He has brought the announcement of this endowment to us first. This is a proud moment for all Pel
phians. Captain Winters, please tell the Sphinx we accept his generous offer. We will have his painting ready and waiting for you in the morning.”

  Chapter Seven

  I don’t understand the appeal of those hateful screw-booths. I’ve heard some claim to have seen visions of lost loved ones, and others say they saw their true and shining selves buried beneath age or ugliness, but I’ve only ever been lampooned by the Will-o’-the-Wisps. All they’ve ever taught me is that my inner nemesis is a crueler critic than my gravest enemy. So what? I still have to sleep with the fellow!

  —Oren Robinson of the Daily Reverie

  When Edith emerged from the palace, she found the ringdom’s attention had turned elsewhere. An hour earlier she’d nearly been crushed by a parade thrown in her honor. Now she hardly merited a glance. Not that she was complaining.

  Following Wakeman Haste’s advice, Edith had ducked King Leonid’s invitation to a soiree that evening, insisting that she had matters to attend to on her ship. “With such a large crew, I find I have very few hours for leisure,” she had told the king.

  “Well, you should give them some time ashore. We’d be sure to show them a grand time!” the king had said.

  Thinking quickly, Edith replied, “Thank you, Your Majesty, but if I’ve learned one thing as a captain it’s that shore leave is best used as a reward at the end of a voyage rather than the start of one. My men have to earn their ease.” The excuse had seemed to satisfy the regent.

  She found herself with a few hours to spare before she’d meet Georgine for a drink. She knew just how she meant to spend them.

  The Bon Royal was a short walk from the palace. The lobby of the hotel was such a spectacle Edith had to pause to take it in. Porters carried valises, trunks, and hatboxes up a grand staircase like ants swarming an anthill. A hundred guests at least lounged in the seating area on leather couches while white-gloved waiters lavished them with drinks and hors d’oeuvres. The check-in desk was as made up as a wedding altar in lilies, green garlands, and potpourri. Crystal chandeliers varnished everything in a shattered yellow light.