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

by Josiah Bancroft

“Senlin Ascends is an adventure rife with character, voice, and beauty— a well-polished knife drawn out slowly” Sam Sykes, author of The City Stained Red

Chapter Two Wallflowers are harmless. They are pretty things that stand in corners with a pleasant look on their face. It’s the wall-weeds I can’t stand. They moan about the mantles, mope upon the sofas, and pout about the punch bowls, waiting to be asked, “Are you all right? You look so sad.” Wall-weeds will linger for hours if you let them. And the only thing that seems to drive them away is other people’s happiness. —Oren Robinson of the Daily Reverie

“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.

Chapter Nine Don’t saw off your arm to feed a dog. You only have two arms, and the world is full of dogs. —Oren Robinson of the Daily Reverie

Chapter Ten Why do we call a dishonest person two-faced? Is it really so honest to wear the same face day in, day out, regardless of our mood, our condition, or the event? We are not clocks! Have a face for every occasion, I say! Be honest: Wear a mask.” —Oren Robinson of the Daily Reverie

He was feeling impulsive, reckless. The dousing of alcohol wasn’t helping matters. How foolish he had been to assume that an opportunity for a private moment with the Mermaid would present itself! He felt like a man who wakes in the dead of night to jot down some epiphany in the dark, only to rise the next morning to discover he’d written an unintelligible scrawl. He had no plan! There would be no revelation!

He threw his arms out but felt nothing and no one. It occurred to him that he might be standing on the edge of some great precipice, and the mere thought gave him such vertigo, he fell to his hands and knees. He coughed the gun smoke from his lungs, but the air that replaced it was so foul it made him gag. The stench reminded him of the storm tides that struck Isaugh, when high water stranded mounds of fish and seaweed far up the beach to fester in the sun. If Tarrou had been shot and killed inside the gatehouse tunnel, Senlin knew exactly what he would do. He would find a rock and attack the clasp at his throat. He would remove the blinder by any means, even if he had to hack himself off at the neck. A moment after that self-destructive urge flitted through his head, he rebuked himself for it. No, he would not do the duke’s dirty work for him. Wil had been foolish enough to let him live. Senlin believed the duke’s threat, believed he would kill Olivet just to spite him and terrorize Marya. 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!

“I don’t know how the Sphinx gave me the ability to think and speak as I do, or how I came to inhabit this body. I suspect it involved her medium, but she has never told the details of my rebirth.” Voleta gazed at him with fresher eyes. “I still don’t understand why you’d say you were a mistake. I think you’re actually rather marvelous, I mean other than your personality.” “It’s possible, I think, to be so many things at once that you’re practically nothing at all. If you crush a mountain and spread it across a continent, it doesn’t make little mountains; it just vanishes into dust.” Byron drew the napkin from his lap and began absentmindedly folding it into the shape of a boat. “I’m not as tireless or amiable as the animals she’d breed in the past. I’m not as strong and dexterous as her other engines. I haven’t been embraced by the men and women who I’ve met, which makes me useless as any ambassador to the ringdoms. I am not a beast, a machine, or a man. I have no place at all and no purpose but to serve the Sphinx as I can.”

Chapter Two My grandfather, the royal magistrate, famously said: “Sometimes a prisoner would rather stare at a bare wall than a barred window.” Or, put another way, ladies: “Do not taste the cake your figure cannot afford.” —Lady Graverly’s Table: Rare Graces and Common Shames

Chapter Four A screaming mob and a cheering public sound an awful lot alike. —Oren Robinson of the Daily Reverie

Chapter Five No. 38: Because you have purchased a new frock and wish to air it before the fashion spoils. No. 39: Because you are intoxicated and in need of an audience. —101 Reasons to Attend My Party by Lady Sandbom

The thought made her furious and fearful, and the feeling didn’t abate even when she located Voleta amid the crowd, trying to smile while Xenia pumped her arms and shrieked with laughter. “No, it isn’t right,” Ann said. “But it’s why you and I will always have a job. The world is full of wolves and lambs, but precious few shepherds.”

Chapter Six No. 81: Because youth is fleeting and cannot be savored in retrospect. No. 82: Because your enemy has RSVP’d, and you wish to make a scene. —101 Reasons to Attend My Party by Lady Sandbom

Chapter Seven Smiles are like candlelight. They can warm and cheer the bleakest room. But we would be wise not to forget: Even the brightest candle hides a blackened wick. —Oren Robinson of the Daily Reverie

“If you don’t mind me asking,” Mr. Tut said, turning in his seat so he could better observe Voleta. “What is your opinion of the young woman who died?” “The young woman who what?” Voleta said, looking about to see if she was the only one who was confused. “It’s not in the morning edition, but it will be all over the evening post, I’m quite sure.” “What are you talking about?” the marquis said, feeling undermined by the change of mood of his celebratory breakfast. “I didn’t invite you to eclipse our moment of triumph with your own filthy gossip!” “It is related, milord.” Tut held his hands up in a show of deference. “A young lady fell from the roof of her home late last night. She was wearing a white nightgown.” He watched with undisguised interest as Voleta’s amiable smile first cracked, then shattered. “My goodness!” Xenia cried with a practiced quaver of grief. “Who was it?” “Commissioner Pound’s daughter, Genevieve.” “The poor man,” the marquis said automatically, his thoughts already moving ahead to the more important implication. “His daughter was mimicking our guest, wasn’t she?” “I don’t wish to speculate needlessly, milord,” Mr. Tut said with false humility. “Please.” The marquis shifted the handkerchief, which had slipped farther back on his head. Voleta stared down the line of gossips, chewing air and watching her with unfriendly smiles. She had never wanted to scream so badly in all her life. “No one knows what feelings reside within an unbeating heart, but amon...

He began to sweat almost at once, and profusely. Senlin suffered a moment of self-loathing so intense it felt almost carnal. He had been given so many opportunities. Over and over, ill fate had ruined the woman ahead of him or demolished the man behind him, and he had slipped by unscathed. And what had he done with all his good luck? Nothing. He’d somehow managed to defy the law of the Tower that said what was lost once was lost forever, only to bungle the miracle when it came. He’d made friends only to lose them. He deserved what he got. He deserved worse, and Marat would probably provide it. Just as well. Senlin would adjure his executioners to take their time. Oh, but self-loathing was just so enticing, so holy, so unassailable! The cynic in him cried, Take my hope! Take my life! Who cares? As if surrender could make up for his failures or help the people he loved. What a lie to think he could whip himself to redemption. What a loathsome lie!

Chapter Two An unexpected knock on my apartment door is as welcome as the drums of an invading army. —Oren Robinson of the Daily Reverie

Chapter Three The rich “learn lessons.” The poor commit crimes. “Mistakes” are generally considered a mark of the middle class. —Oren Robinson of the Daily Reverie

Chapter Four I distrust sweet cocktails and cheerful men for the same reason: It’s hard to tell how dangerous they are until they’ve knocked you on your ear. —Oren Robinson of the Daily Reverie

Chapter Five A stain is only a stain if anyone notices it. Slosh wine onto the carpet? Scoot a sofa over the spot. Spill gravy on your shirt? Fan your ascot to cover it. Spoil your political reputation with a grievous indiscretion? Start a domestic purge or a foreign war. —Oren Robinson of the Daily Reverie

Chapter Six I love a good scandal. There’s nothing more comforting than tut-tutting the public sins of another from the privacy of your own squalor. —Oren Robinson of the Daily Reverie

Chapter Fourteen Sometimes a wheel squeaks not because it is faulty but because it bears the most weight. —I Sip a Cup of Wind by Jumet

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

Leaping from the ladder, she asked her pilot what he had done to save them. Gripping the horns of the ship’s controls and studying the sudden activity of all the gauges before him, Reddleman said, “Ah! Well, I activated the levitator.” “You keep saying that like I know what it is. What is a levitator?” Edith stepped over bodies, picking a path to the pilot’s console. “A means for repelling gravity!” he said merrily. “It’s sort of a balloon in a bottle, or a cloud in a fist.” “Are you telling me this ship can fly without an envelope? Without hydrogen?” “Indeed it can, Captain. And I’m happy to explain the technology to you in as much detail as you like. Or …” Edith leaned over his shoulder, her mouth hanging open as her gaze swept over the bank of watch-faced dials and all the quivering needles and winking lights. “Or what?” “Or I could take us back to port and give you a chance to return fire.” Byron clambered to his feet and said, “They were all in on the decision, Captain. Eigengrau, Pepin, Leonid. I heard them planning it. This was a premeditated act of war.” “It’s a war crime, in fact, isn’t it, Captain? Lancing a ship’s silks like that?” Reddleman said. The frame in front of her showed a view of the Tower’s facade. Even by dim moonlight, she still recognized the charmless blocks of stone, the crumbling mortar, and bolted-on coops. The ship had fallen as low as the Parlor. They were close enough for her to discern that not all of the cages were empty. She thought of Se...

Chapter Seventeen Some men spend their days pretending to be distinct, assured, or enigmatic. But in death, they are all as guileless as infants. In death, we are ourselves at last. —I Sip a Cup of Wind by Jumet

Chapter Eighteen Memory is not like a box of stationery—easy to browse, reorder, and read. No, memories accumulate like leaves upon the forest floor. They are irregular and fragile. They crumble and break upon inspection. They turn to soil the deeper you go. —I Sip a Cup of Wind by Jumet

Senlin wondered if John had been wrong about Goll’s acting ability or if his tale was heartfelt. Goll sounded sincere enough when he said, “My reward is to be here, to be freed of my anger, and to meet the Hod King in person.” Marat surprised them all by laughing. “Oh, I’m not the Hod King! No, no, I’m Hodder Luc to my friends and Marat to my enemies. No, the Hod King is there.” He pointed back down the borehole at the dormant siege engine. Seeming to sense the surprise of his guests, Marat explained, “Or I should say, that will be the Hod King once it’s fully crewed.” “I don’t understand. Our king is a machine?” Goll said. “Not quite. Have you ever heard of a rat king?” When the newcomers shook their heads, Marat continued, “Sometimes when rats are forced to live in too small a space, their tails become entangled, and those tangles become knots. The rats who find they have become entwined with their brothers and sisters are presented then with a choice: They can learn to think, coordinate, and work as one, or they can die as one. That is a rat king.”