Senlin Ascends (The Books of Babel Book 1)

by Josiah Bancroft

  “And you’re becoming, morbid, Mr. Senlin. You’re losing sight of the prize! Galas and spas and peacocks await you,” Ceph said with maddening insensitivity.

  Senlin had no notion of what more he could’ve said to Edith, in any case. Perhaps it was just as well they avoid a final, awkward farewell. She was bound for home, and he still had more of the Tower to climb. He hoped she would be on her farm soon enough, hoped she could again become the Generaless, and hoped that he would become just a minor actor in a horror story she’d strive to forget. How could he say all of that in a goodbye? Better to leave them both with some dignity. So much had already been taken from them.

  Rattled and spent from the ordeal, Senlin was silent as he was led out of the torture ward, back into the vast, officious halls. An attendant appeared with his clothes and satchel, and he was allowed to change out of his rumpled, sweat-soured butler’s costume. He discovered that his money had not been stolen, but in that numb moment of depression, he found he didn’t care. As he buttoned his shirt, he resolved three times to return to Edith’s bedside. Let them throw him in jail and put a bucket on his head and unscrew his eyes. Let them try!

  And three times, he convinced himself to go. Marya was waiting just up ahead. He hoped she was whole and unscarred. He wished she was there, right then, to comfort him. It was, he knew, a selfish wish.

  Assistant Ceph seemed uncharacteristically subdued as he showed Senlin to a marble walled stairwell. Chiseled in broad letters over the door were the words, “The Baths.”

  Senlin had no intention of lingering on their parting, but the moment Senlin set his boot on the first step, Ceph reached forward and grasped his elbow. The young man offered an abrupt and earnest confession. “I know that was more than a little overwhelming for you. To be honest, I fear that I failed you with my own performance. You were so natural. I admire you. I had aspirations of playing the Registrar myself. After this, I can’t help but wonder whether I’m up to the part.”

  “Well, good luck,” Senlin replied curtly, not grasping why the obnoxious assistant was suddenly fawning over him and divulging his professional aspirations.

  “What I wanted to ask is, do you think I might be more suited to the role of a nurse? Do you think that character would be more appropriate to my talents? The role is traditionally played by a woman, but the potential for…”

  Senlin butted in, “Role? What do you mean? You’re an actor?”

  Ceph could hardly contain his delight; he bit his knuckle and blushed. “Oh, Mr. Senlin, what a wonderful review. You have absolutely made my day!”

  Part II

  The Baths

  Chapter One

  “The Fountain of the Baths can unwrinkle a crone’s elbow, can mend sprained muscles and strained hearts alike, can dislodge the most stubborn tic. Whatever is worrisome will be forgot.”

  - Everyman’s Guide to the Tower of Babel, IV. III

  A troop of chattering young women in felt dresses and crocheted hats followed him up the switch-backing stairs. Their stairwell converged with another, then a third, until their upward path joined a great confluence: steps of pink marble, wide as a city block. The footfalls of ascending tourists chorused like falling rain, growing from a rhythmless patter into a thunderous beat. He was one of thousands making the climb.

  The Everyman’s Guide called the Baths “the nurse of humanity”— though Senlin’s faith in the literature was not what it had been.

  His time in the cage had stiffened his joints. His legs burned and shook. When he mounted the last step, he wanted to collapse, but there simply was no room. Without a moment to regain his breath, he was jostled forward into one of many queues inside the crowded customs station. The white porcelain brickwork gleamed in the gaslight of bronze chandeliers. Men in navy blue uniforms patrolled and scanned the crowd. Billy clubs and rapiers hung from their belts. The black leather bills of their blue caps hid their eyes, but Senlin could feel the uniformed agents watching him, watching them all.

  At the end of the great hall, some hundred yards ahead, a bank of caged custom booths stood, sturdy as molars. This was the only way through to the Baths, he knew. Either Marya had stood just here at some recent moment, or would stand here soon. After getting tangled in the mazes of the Parlor, he felt relieved to be standing again on the clear path.

  A prominent banner above the customs booths advertised a five percent tax on all goods and currency. A second notice promised swift justice to anyone caught smuggling.

  The tourist at his elbow wore a tall wig, powder white and boastful as a mainsail; his only luggage appeared to be an unlatched alligator skin bag from which a toy poodle peered and yipped. As flamboyant as this man was, he was not remarkable. The crowd was flush with wealthy eccentrics. They carried frilled parasols and crepe bonnets, black thorn canes and gold watch chains. Though better dressed, the behavior of the mob wasn’t much different than the mobs of the Market. The arriving masses were aggressive, single-minded, and aloof. If he failed to press against the person in line ahead of him, a swifter opportunist would wriggle into the gap. A woman carrying a large hooded birdcage knocked him on his heels jumping into his line. He felt hemmed in and panicky. He buried his hands in his coat pockets to keep from biting his nails: a nervous habit he had long suppressed.

  His thoughts kept darting back to Edith, the agonized look on her face, the nurse’s sadistic counting, and the repulsive yet familiar smell of searing flesh… He had left her. She’d wanted him to, but that didn’t lessen his guilt. His conscience antagonized him: You left her because you were afraid. You left her because she made you uncomfortable. And he was. And she had.

  But what could he have done? What would it have accomplished if he’d stayed and been branded and banned himself? And yet, if he discovered that another man in another ward had abandoned Marya the way he had abandoned Edith, he’d never forgive the scoundrel.

  For the first time in his life, he had to confront a terrible fact about himself. Yes, he was shy, nervous, and a tad sanctimonious, but these were not his flaws. He was a coward. The Tower had proven that much. He was a coward, and Edith had paid the price.

  After three hours of shuffling and self-recriminations, Senlin finally arrived at the front of his line. He only had to wait for the pushy woman with the birdcage to finish answering the agent’s well-rehearsed catechism: “Have you any spoilable goods? Do you intend to earn a salary during your time in the Baths?” All went smoothly until the agent asked her to unsheathe the birdcage. She demurred. He insisted. She resolutely refused on the grounds that her bird was extraordinarily sensitive and she was a well-established lady with a husband who possessed nearly supernatural political powers. The mood of the agent soured visibly, the dark bill of his cap dipping over his eyes like a heavy, humorless brow.

  At some discrete signal, another agent appeared, blocking the woman’s passage. This agent did not hesitate in removing the birdcage cover, prettily printed with yellow flowers. He didn’t seem at all surprised to discover that there was no bird. The cage was stuffed with bank notes. It must’ve contained hundreds of mina, a small fortune. Senlin couldn’t help but gape.

  The woman’s bluster quickly turned to fawning: she batted her heavily charcoaled eyes and twisted her sharp hips flirtatiously. It was a grotesque display. Unmoved, the agent hooked her arm and escorted her away. As her voice receded, it rose into the higher octaves of panic. Senlin thought of the torment that awaited her, and his hair stood on end.

  Then Senlin was shoved forward into the chute, and the agent asked what he had to declare. Without a second thought, he removed his boots, unpacked his thin stack of large paper notes, six mina and twenty shekels in all, his own small fortune, and counted it out on the shelf. He dutifully submitted five percent into the agent’s open hand. When asked to present his bag for inspection, he quickly complied.

  His copy of the Everyman’s Guide slid about at the bottom of his otherwise empty satchel. “I was robbed,” he explaine
d. This information seemed to make no impression on the unsmiling agent. He directed Senlin through the doors at the end of the tunnel with a quick swing of his chin. Feeling as if he was stepping from a riot, Senlin staggered into the shattered sunlight of the Baths.

  The light was simply dazzling. It took him a moment to discern how sunlight had been funneled into the cavern that held the city of the Baths. All about the top of the chamber, rectangular vents beamed in light. “The shafts must be hundreds of feet long,” Senlin murmured. He could only imagine the contrivance of mirrors such a feat required. The light was further dispersed by scores of mirror balls, some as large as a carriage, which hung suspended from the blue-painted ceiling high above. The effect reminded him of how the sun lit the walls of a tidal cave by bouncing off the water. Everything here spangled and rippled. It was beautiful.

  On either side of the cobbled pedestrian mall, three and four story buildings stood without so much as an alley between them. The pastel facades were finished with elaborate white cornices, making the buildings look like decorated cakes. There were playhouses, dance halls, restaurants and hotels. The tourists were dressed in the diverse fashions of their native states, some in short riding jackets and breeches, some in elaborate kimonos, some in togas and leather thongs. Yet even among this chic flow, Senlin occasionally spied the bare backs and shaved heads of the hods, stooped and shuffling under heavy jute baskets. Customs agents half-escorted, half-drove these eyesores through the flocks of wealthy tourists, who scattered before the hods as if fearing infection. Senlin realized that he hadn’t seen any hods in the Parlor. He wondered how they had progressed unseen to the third floor. He recalled Goll’s remark that the Tower was not without backdoors. Perhaps the hods traveled a less public road. He doubted it could be a very pleasant thoroughfare.

  The wide avenue dead-ended into a reservoir that was perfectly round and blue as a sapphire. The size of the body of water was staggering, and Senlin wondered whether it had been drawn up from the deep aquifers beneath the Tower, or drawn down from the clouds that continuously masked the highest reaches of the Tower. Further out from shore, reeds with white downy seeds grew. Flocks of pale flamingos preened and squawked amid the tall grass. At the center of the reservoir, a tower spiraled up to the ceiling, tapering like a conch shell as it rose. Hyacinth and ivy poured from portals and windows and clung to every surface. Steam wriggled through the greenery. Wrought iron pedestrian bridges spoked out from the steaming tower, connecting it to the shoreline. Arched signs over the bridges advertised, “One Shekel to Visit the Famous Fountain Spas.”

  The reservoir, obviously the main attraction, was encircled by bathhouses. The cobbled, artificial shore teemed with bathers, young and old. At intervals in the deepening water, mechanical hippopotamuses opened and closed their maws, shooting jets of water from their throats, to the great amusement of many children.

  This was the wondrous Tower Senlin had expected to see, a place befitting a honeymoon! He had underestimated the squalor and danger of the lower ringdoms, but equally, he’d underestimated the beauty of the Baths. It was glorious! He only wished that he could share this moment of revelation with Marya. It would’ve made her so glad to see it.

  Senlin moved along the water’s edge, winding a path through picnickers, lounge chairs, and cabanas. The air smelled strongly of a dozen different soaps. The fragrances itched his nose. Out of habit, his eyes darted toward any swath of red. It was absurd to think that she would always wear it. And perhaps the hat had been stolen. He liked to think that she was presently situated in a hotel suite, was comfortably arranged and waiting, was perhaps even at that moment standing on a balcony looking out over the tideless coast, thinking of him. Perhaps she’d found a piano and was entertaining the other guests with her harrowing notes and thrilling voice…

  “That is the face of a man who needs a welcome!” The mirthful baritone startled Senlin. He looked down and realized that he was standing very near a slatted lounge chair holding a large and barrel-chested bather. “Welcome to the Baths!” The man was bronze skinned and shirtless, wearing nothing but red bathing trunks and darkly smoked glasses. A two-pointed black beard accentuated his iron gray mane of hair. He seemed hale and athletic for a man his age. Senlin was a little intimidated by the width of his chest and shoulders, though his smile seemed amiable enough. “And that is the dazed look of a man fresh from the monkey pen.” He gave an exaggerated shudder. “The Parlor is an awful place.”

  Despite his heightened suspicion of all the Tower’s visitors, Senlin couldn’t help but to feel an immediate camaraderie with this grinning giant. He asked the question that had been gnawing at him since he’d left Ceph at the bottom of the Parlor stairs. “Are they all actors?”

  “I don’t know. Perhaps they are just prigs. In the end, does it matter? They are terrible, and you are rid of them. Well, you are physically rid of them; it may take a bottle of wine to purge yourself spiritually, or, if you’re very traumatized, a fortnight in the steam baths.”

  Senlin pointed his bony chin at the fountain spire. “It’s an incredible sight, but I don’t think I’ll be staying as long as a fortnight.”

  “Ah. No, me neither. I leave tomorrow. Homeward bound!” The giant briefly described his background in mining, mostly in the Cyan Mountains to the North, though Senlin did not imagine, based on the man’s appearance, that he had spent much time in the bowels of the Earth scrounging after glimmers in the dark. He seemed more the type to count the gold than to dig after it. “And you, I take it are…” The giant gave Senlin a long apprising look. “…a mortician?”

  Senlin laughed, “A headmaster.”

  “Of course! All in black because you are mourning the loss of youthful innocence!” His deep bellow was half reverent and half joking; Senlin would soon discover it was a tone he used often: an ironic bark. “A man of letters. Good! I haven’t had a reasonable conversation in months. Everyone here is too stuffy or witty to let an honest word slip out. I’m rabid for some intelligent discourse. Let’s meet this evening at Cafe Risso for tea or drinks or dinner or whatever it is you scholars indulge in.” The cafe, the man indicated, was located on the waterfront just behind them. “Risso’s service is slow, but the snails are delicious.”

  Though Senlin was hesitant to set any engagements in case he was reunited with Marya in the next few hours, the happy titan wouldn’t accept his excuses and promised that the engagement would be educative at worst, and enjoyable at best. Eventually, Senlin accepted the invitation, and before they parted, the two introduced themselves formally.

  Senlin shook the hand of John Tarrou, who laughed robustly when Senlin asked for a hotel recommendation. “They are all the same, Headmaster. They’re overrun with luxurious moths that never tire of eating your money. Send a letter to your bank before you ask for a room with a view!”

  Encouraged by his encounter with the friendly Tarrou, Senlin went in search of Marya. He quickly decided to focus his attention on the numerous hotels and the Customs Gate. If she was already here, she would have hired a room, and if she was still mired in the bowels of the Tower, the only escape was by the Customs Gate. He would catch her coming or going.

  He wished again that he’d had the foresight to negotiate a hotel reservation. As things stood, he’d have to scour the panoply of hotels. There were nearly sixty in all. Adding to the difficulty, he would have to hunt for Marya discreetly. He couldn’t just ramble about confessing that he’d lost his wife. He hadn’t forgotten Finn Goll’s advice to look without appearing to look. He didn’t want to attract the attention of thieves or hucksters. Even Tarrou, amiable as he seemed, would have to earn his trust.

  So, he devised a surreptitious means of discovering whether Marya was presently staying in a hotel. He approached the concierge as if he meant to check in and needed only to confirm that his wife, returned early from a matinee, had not already done so. When the concierge returned with the news that no guests under his name were currently on their ro
les, Senlin would feign puzzlement and say, “This is the Montgrove Hotel?” knowing full well it wasn’t because he had just come from the Montgrove next door. His mistake would be corrected, and he’d be sent on his way, just another absentminded tourist who had misplaced his hotel but not his wife.

  Soon, Senlin had inquired in two dozen hotels. Though he’d still found no sign of Marya, he felt comforted by the fair start he had made. It would be a process; he had to be patient.

  He was on the street between hotels when a carillon chimed a pretty musical phrase and then rang the hour of five. Recalling his engagement with John Tarrou, he made his way back to the Cafe Rossi with a rapidly growing appetite. It had been days since he’d had a proper meal, and the prospect was quite appealing. Besides, he hoped he might learn something useful from a man who seemed in every way at home in the Baths.

  He found Tarrou sitting at a wrought iron table on the patio outside Cafe Rossi, a wine glass and a bottle in front of him. Enclosed by a low fence, the patio contained an archipelago of wrought iron tables and chairs. A few solitary diners sat engrossed by the reservoir, which was turning orange and purple in the refractions of the setting sun. An artist stood at an easel nearby, blending paint on his palette. It seemed an ideal hour for meditation.

  Senlin greeted his new friend, who had added a canary yellow shirt to his red swimming trunks. His flamboyant style amused Senlin, but it seemed to be the local mode: everyone dressed like actors in a traveling theater troupe.