That left the few automatons in existence with very little to do with themselves. Hornbellow was left forgotten in the kitchens, where he observed the staff in silence for months before declaring that he would best serve the household by contributing what he’d learned of preparing beverages – boiling hot coffee and tea, scorching enough to burn a man’s face off, and borderline undrinkable because of how clumsily he handled the ingredients. To many in my domain, Hornbellow was a nuisance, a glorified coffeepot. I thought he was mostly harmless. Almost a little sweet in his earnest desire to serve, actually.
“Coffee doesn’t go with lunch,” Pierce said irritably. “How many times do I have to tell you that, Hornbellow? It comes after. After.”
Steam issued from the vents in Hornbellow’s neck, like he was sighing. “Apologies. As one who does not consume food or beverages, Hornbellow is unaccustomed to the whims and desires of fleshy, frail organic lifeforms.”
Pierce set his lamb shank down noisily and pointed a finger at the automaton’s head, generally the area that might be considered his face. “Now you listen to me, you rustbucket. The only reason you still have a job here is because Quill has a soft spot for you. You’re never that rude or sassy to him, and I can see why, because then he’d have you scrapped for parts.”
Hornbellow said nothing, though the insides of his chassis rumbled menacingly, the slits meant to represent his eyes glowing like freshly heated embers of coal.
“You deserved it,” I said, nudging Pierce sharply in the ribs with my elbow. “And shut up. You’re way too hard on him.”
Pierce grumbled to himself indistinctly and turned back to his food. I slid my empty cup over towards the edge of the table, nodding at Hornbellow. It was pure white porcelain rimmed in gold leaf, Mother’s housewarming gift when she first gave me full run of my own apartments.
“I’ll take a cup, Hornbellow. I like your coffee. Besides, it’ll be cool enough to drink by the time I’m done with my food.”
Hornbellow made another rumbling noise, one that almost sounded pleased, and he shuffled closer, massive feet clanging over the marble as he gingerly poured me some coffee. Gouts of steam rose from the cup, which was probably seconds from cracking into pieces because of the coffee’s overwhelming heat. For reasons I didn’t want to discover, there were also lumps in it. Now, Hornbellow could make a mean latte, but it always felt like a gamble. On some days, he got it just right. But on others? Lumps.
I gave Hornbellow a tight smile. “Thank you, Hornbellow. That’ll be all.”
His chassis squeaked and rattled as he attempted a shallow bow of his head, then he shuffled off, clanking and clattering towards the kitchens, leaving plumes of steam in his wake.
“You’re too nice to him,” Pierce said, grimacing at the lumpy cup of coffee that both of us knew I wasn’t going to drink.
“Well, someone has to be.” I sighed, planting my chin in my hand. “Imagine not ever knowing your purpose, forcing yourself to find something, anything to do with your life.”
Pierce rolled his eyes, scratching at his bare stomach. “I know my purpose. It’s to enjoy all this.” He waved a hand across the banquet hall, folding his arms behind his head. “I’m pretty happy with that. And your purpose is to burn heaven and earth.” He waggled his eyebrows at me. “No sweat.”
I narrowed my eyes at him. “Yeah. No sweat, except for the part where I’m not at all sure that it’s what I want.”
He threw an arm across my shoulders, and I winced, wondering if the hand rubbing my upper arm had been the same one he was using to molest his lamb shank. “It’ll be fine. You’ll be fine. My buddy, the conqueror. We’ll start small, just like Asmodeus says.” He grinned when I grimaced, then squeezed my arm even harder. “Speaking of which, when do we attack the Thirteenth Choir? I’m dying to stab somebody.”
9
Swirls of fire tumbled around me, mingled with strange streaks of purple energy. Pierce and I pressed on regardless, the chaotic tumult of infernal essence around us as natural and inoffensive as air. To a first timer, entering the Hexus could be an unnerving, even terrifying experience. The two of us were used to it, though, and it was functionally free, as long as your destination wasn’t too far off from one of the helleportation nodes.
“This way,” Pierce said, sniffing at the air. “I can smell the exit.”
I chuckled and rolled my eyes, strolling after him casually, my hands stuck in my pockets. He was only saying that to exaggerate. We demons – even the half demons like me – developed a keen sense of where to go within the tubes. It was a network, essentially, a spiderweb that spanned across nations and continents, and in some cases, entire dimensions. But a trip from my home to, say, Mother’s palace, or even somewhere like the Black Market, was only a hop, skip, and a jump away.
The Seven, that is, the demon princes who ruled and represented each of the deadly sins, essentially despised each other. The network was the one collaborative effort they’d agreed to work on in millennia. The minor princes of smaller hells, each representing tinier annoyances and vices, had to roll over and agree to help, naturally. Of course, one can’t tap into the network and expect to end up in the Prince of Wrath’s fortress, or worse, Lucifer’s doorstep, not
