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

by Josiah Bancroft

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!