The Hod King (The Books of Babel, #3)

by Josiah Bancroft

“I don’t want you to suffer on my account, or wait, or worry. If I don’t come back, don’t waste a minute looking for me. We both know where that road leads.” “Do we? I don’t have any idea what will happen. Every time I’ve felt sure about what the morning will be like, I’ve been wrong. There aren’t any seasons here; there isn’t an almanac to tell us what to plant or when to sow it, when to expect rain, when to brace for drought. Some days I wake up with a different arm at my side. Some days I wake up and feel like a different person.” She took his hands in hers, the one soft and warm, the other hard and cool. “All I know is that, at the end of the day, dreams don’t matter, but neither does regret. We aren’t what we want or wish for. We are only what we do.” Because he smiled at the thought, and because every farewell in the Tower could be forever, she leaned in and kissed him goodbye.

It seemed the duke had already learned what it had taken Senlin too long to discover: Intimacy was not about maintaining the idealistic charade of courtship; it was about embracing and adoring the flaws, the very things that the headmaster of Isaugh had never been quite able to admit in himself. The Mermaid’s train song to the children rang again in his ears: “It’s perfectly all right not to be perfect. A chip or a crack can be precious, too.”

But the glance was enough to stoke his determination. It was cowardly to pretend he had any right to reject himself. It was cowardly to fall before the blow landed. He could not beat himself for her, nor blame himself enough to steal her right to blame him if she wished. He had to face her, be truthful, and accept her choice.

But much as Senlin had underestimated his enemy, the duke had underestimated him: his resourcefulness, his determination, and the strength of his friends. He was not some sniveling Fishbelly! He was a survivor, a schemer, a man of the clouds! He would not die here in this stink with a jar on his head. No! He was at the bottom of the bottom, in the gutter of the gutter. He could sink no lower. It could only be death or resurrection from here, so let the resurrection begin!

It was curious to think there had been a time in his life when he could lie awake at night, stare into a dark corner, and ponder the world without dread or loathing. Back then, he might dream up a new lesson plan, or contemplate the latest chapter he’d read in a novel, or puzzle out a new design for a kite. Now he wondered if the dark would ever be so friendly again, or if for the rest of his life, the witching hours would only invite all of his lurking sins.

customs exist for two reasons: one, to identify insiders; and two, to exclude outsiders. That’s why they’re so tricky and picky and peculiar. Table manners are like … like a long secret handshake, a handshake that goes on for hours and hours until everyone is so full they can’t do their pants up.”

“You say, ‘avoiding confrontation.’ I call it running from a fight.” “Voleta, my dear, all society will ever do is throw fights out in front of you. It exists to goad you and get your hackles up. But if you take a swing at every bully that steps into your path, you’re going to end up with a lot of black eyes, and you’re going to make a lot of enemies. You need friends where you’re going. You need allies to shepherd you into Marya’s privileged sphere. If you want to have any chance of seeing her, of saving her, you have to be cordial, pleasant, and contrite.”

My father was always so nervous about being liked at work and putting in enough hours. It was never enough hours.” She sighed and shook her head, seeming to find the memory sad but familiar enough to no longer ache.

The rich “learn lessons.” The poor commit crimes. “Mistakes” are generally considered a mark of the middle class.

“I’ve pondered that question: Am I the sum of my parts or am I something else?” “And what do you think?” “My sense of being, my identity, whatever you want to call it, it doesn’t reside in my parts. It lives in my past, and in the continuity of my present thoughts, and in my hopes for the future. I’m more afraid of losing a memory than a limb.”

“Well, I can’t speak for the rest of the Tower, but I think most Pelphian men are just leery of women. I really do. They’ll say, ‘No, no, no, women are weak. They’re foolish. They need looking after and direction.’ But I think deep down they can’t forget that they came out of a woman, were nursed by a woman, and had their little minds sculpted by one as well. When they grow up, just the thought of it makes them uneasy. But rather than face their fear, they look for ways to dominate and possess us, to create proof that we are weak, and they are strong. I’ll tell you this: The harder a man brags about his thunderous escapades in the lady’s boudoir, the more frightened he is. I’m sure you’ve noticed how much they love giving us diminutive nicknames. The Mermaid, the Leaping Lady …” “The Gold Watch?” “Exactly, because we shake them to their infant bones.” “Cowards.”

Byron clasped his hands behind his back nervously. “Captain, you do realize I’ve never fired a gun before?” Edith twisted the key in the door of the arm’s cabinet, revealing the racks of sabers, pistols, and rifles stowed within. “Not to worry,” she said. “The only thing simpler than firing a gun is getting shot by one.”

“Bravo! Now that’s how you handle a king: like a tenant who’s late with the rent.” Edith waved at her to quit making a fuss. “No, I just recalled what my father used to say: ‘Asking nicely once is polite. Asking nicely twice is just begging.

There was something 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.

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.

The strangest thing came to mind the moment Edith realized she would die. She remembered the smell of horses. She recalled the day she had ridden out early before anyone was awake. A heavy fog had settled overnight. It made the world seem at once small and infinite. She didn’t ask permission because she knew her father would not grant it. It was dangerous to ride through such a blinding mist. She might charge into a fence or a ditch or a hedgerow. The horse was unfamiliar, and she inexperienced. She couldn’t remember why she had done it, but the feeling of thundering through the fog with her heart in her throat and the path appearing ahead of her just in the nick of time had filled her with a consuming sense of joy. And she had not been afraid, not even when the limb of a branch jousted her from her mount. She broke her wrist in the fall. The fog thinned into a light rain, and she could see the path she had missed, the tree that had unseated her, and her father’s house in the distance. The sight filled her with dread because she knew she would have to go home, have to face him, have to endure the inevitable scolding, and all manner of restriction as she waited for her wrist to heal. And she realized then that she would rather run toward danger and uncertainty than to have an unobstructed view of the unforgiving truth.

But Senlin knew that while tyrants had many strengths, their weakness was generally the same. They were gullible. For the tyrant, there were no reigning facts, no universal systems of inquiry, no demonstrable truths. Because they preferred their own rationalization to reason, their dogma to discourse, the main means a tyrant had for testing another man’s integrity and loyalty were oaths and intuition. But since the tyrants had no choice but to teach everyone exactly what they wished to hear, they were simple to pander to and easy to fool. At least, such was Senlin’s hope.