Oedipus and Rex stood immobile in front of the ridiculous bed, daring anyone to come close. There was an empty stretch of slope, about 50 feet wide, between the plateau and the mass of damned souls. It must have been forbidden ground, because the souls were careful not to cross into it. In fact, they were crammed against the invisible dividing line as if behind a wall of glass. The only other thing on the plateau was a black rectangle of rock about four feet high and eight feet long. It looked like an altar. But there was no religion in the Lowlands save the prayers that the damned whispered too low for the lords to hear. The rock had to have a less holy purpose.
High above him, X saw a rough domed ceiling. Below him, the slope was lit by torches on tall iron stands, which made the hill look like a forest on fire. Dozens of guards were on patrol, kicking prisoners aside as they went. X didn’t see his friend in the red tracksuit—he must have been farther down. X would have to strategize without him. Nothing would keep him from finding his mother.
Something stirred at X’s feet. He looked down to see a soul reach slowly into another soul’s shirt pocket. The thief was a chalk-white figure in rags; the victim, a plump, peaceful-looking Asian man in a khaki shirt and shorts, who appeared to be meditating.
X had decided not to involve himself when he saw the thief slide a photograph out of the Asian man’s pocket. It made him think of the things he himself carried: Zoe’s letter and the objects in the silver foil. The photograph would mean nothing to the thief, but it might mean everything to the man he stole it from.
X knelt.
“Return the picture,” he whispered, “or I will break your hands.”
The thief grimaced, sized X up—and put it back.
“Wasn’t gonna keep it,” he said in a dry voice. “Was only gonna hold it a minute. Is it a crime now to hold something?”
The Asian man’s eyes fluttered open. He patted his pocket to make sure the photograph was still there, then looked at X and the thief. He knew instantly what had gone on.
“Have you been at it again, Bone?” he said. X was surprised by how warm his voice was, how forgiving. “There’s so much suffering here. Let’s not compound it by turning on each other. Let’s aspire to be the lotus flower that grows out of the mud. All right? All right.”
“Blah blah blah,” Bone said bitterly. “Easy for you to act holy. You’ve got a picture.”
He crawled down the slope on his stomach, hissing at everyone in his way.
“I’m grateful to you, friend,” the Asian man told X. “Not many souls would have troubled themselves to do what you did, and the photograph is dear to me.” He checked to see that no guards were watching, then offered his hand to X. “I’m called Plum.”
“Plum,” X said, liking the sound. “I’ve never known the Lowlands to bestow so genial a name.”
“Neither have I,” said Plum. “I’ve become fond of it. But truth be told, I believe it refers to my belly.”
He patted his stomach happily.
Plum had been sitting with his knees folded in front of him. He stretched them out now, and tried to touch his toes. Because of his size, they remained quite out of reach.
“I’m X.”
“Well, that’s very mysterious,” said Plum. “Please don’t think too badly of Bone. The Countess treats us as though we’re less than human, so some of us become less than human. You’ve met her, I assume?”
“Yes,” said X. “She assaulted me with—with her forehead.”
“I’m not surprised,” said Plum. “That woman can make a weapon out of anything.”
“She seemed incensed about a blemish near her mouth,” said X.
“Ah, yes, the pimple,” said Plum. “It’s her mortal enemy. I got here thirty years ago, and she had it even then.”
X gestured toward the plateau.
“Does she lie abed all day like that?” he said.
Alarmed, Plum pushed X’s hand down.
“Please don’t point at her—it’s like summoning a dragon,” he said. “The Countess likes to be unpredictable, to answer your question. Sometimes she lets us jabber all day, sometimes she punishes us for the slightest sound. Sometimes she naps, sometimes she prowls. The only constant is that sooner or later, she will find a reason to torture somebody. She feeds on our sins. I mean that literally. It’s like she’s some mythological creature. The worse our crimes, the stronger she grows when she persecutes us. She has a knife. I can’t tell you the things I’ve seen her do with it.” Plum shivered. “But let’s not talk about her any longer. She seems distracted at the moment. I could show you my photograph, if you’d like?”
“Please do,” said X. “I carry a few tokens with me, too. Sometimes they are all that can calm me.”
Plum took the picture from his pocket. It appeared to be a picture of himself when he was a younger man.
“Don’t be alarmed, I’m not so vain as to carry a picture of myself around,” he said. “That’s my twin brother, Hai. We grew up near Lào Cai, in north Vietnam.” Plum was quiet a moment. “I did a lot of horrific things when I was alive. You wouldn’t know it from looking at me now. But in my day I was infamous. Hai suffered terribly as a result, not just because he was my brother but because everywhere he went, they thought he was me. I carry Hai’s picture to remind myself of the wreckage I caused—and because I loved him, though I was too crippled inside to say so.” Plum closed his eyes. When he opened them again, he gave X a faint, apologetic smile. “I certainly talk a lot, don’t I?” he said. “You’ll never make the mistake of sitting near me again.”
X smiled back to ease his mind. Plum sat waiting for him to share his own story. There was something so peaceful about the man. X felt comfortable in his presence, even though they sat in a sea of bodies and breathed air that was foul in a dozen different ways.
“You said you carry some things yourself?” said Plum.
“Yes,” said X, grateful for a way to begin his tale.
He extracted Zoe’s letter from his coat. It was in the plastic bag now, safe as an ancient artifact. X set it on the tiny bit of ground between himself and Plum.
“My name is X,” he said. “It is the only name I have ever had, for I was born in this place.”
Plum’s eyes went wide.
“And this?” he said, gesturing at the plastic bag.
“It is a letter from the girl I love,” said X.
“You don’t have to tell me anything else, if it’s too painful,” said Plum. “Your story is your own. All right? All right.”
“Her name is Zoe,” said X, “and I am always willing to talk about her.”
“You met a girl here in the Lowlands?” said Plum. “It’s not the most romantic place I can think of.”
“I met her in the Overworld,” said X. “I am a bounty hunter—or I was, until I broke every law they put in front of me.”
“I take back what I said,” said Plum. “I must hear your story.”
The words rushed out of X like water from a burst pipe.
Plum listened, rapt. Sometimes, he got so excited that he rubbed his hands together. He frowned when X described Dervish, and laughed when he recounted Ripper’s wild run from the Lowlands. He blushed when X—surprising even himself—told him about lying with Zoe in the boat, about the glow he’d made in the hull and how it lit up her body.
“I was always a disaster with girls,” said Plum. “When I was twelve or thirteen, I used to write them letters. ‘Dear So and So: Would you be interested in kissing me on Wednesday afternoon at 3:30 by the ironwood trees? Please circle YES or NO.’ One girl—she was called Thien—taped my letter high up on a wall at school, so everybody could see it. She must have stood on a chair. I couldn’t reach the thing, though I embarrassed myself by jumping up and down. Then I made the whole thing worse by walking uninvited into Thien’s classroom and shouting, ‘Excuse me for liking you!’ ” Plum sighed. “But I’m talking too much again. What else do you carry?”
X took out the silver foil packet, and unfolded it.
“May I?” said Plum.
He picked each thing up and examined it in turn, beginning with the comb and the bracelet reading Vesuvius, then placed them back in the foil. He was as gentle with X’s things as X himself would have been.
“A lord named Regent gave me these when I was a boy,” said X.