Senlin Ascends (The Books of Babel Book 1)

by Josiah Bancroft

  Having not yet developed the wiles or elephant skin of a seasoned teacher, Senlin’s confidence was sorely tested by her schoolgirl interrogations. As that first year passed, he came to loathe the quizzical redhead because he wondered if she wasn’t right to question him. Perhaps he was a fraud, an incompetent dolt, and a polluter of future wits.

  But then that first summer came, and a little distance with it. With time to build his kites and walk the cliffs and peruse old letters from his beloved professors, he realized the situation was not as insufferable as it seemed. He decided that what Marya Berks lacked was responsibility and difficulty. She was bored. So, he decided to find some entertainment for her.

  When the new school year began, but before she had an opportunity to derail his lesson with some ponderous question that was ultimately unanswerable (at least to her satisfaction), Senlin announced that she, Miss Berks, would be his teaching assistant for the fall, and that in particular, she would be in charge of the lessons for the children in the lower levels in the subjects of history and writing. She would conduct her lessons in a back corner of the schoolhouse while Senlin taught the upper levels in the front. Of course, Miss Berks would be responsible for keeping up with her own studies, and there were a half dozen other caveats beside, but Marya was not perturbed in the least. She leapt at the opportunity.

  There were false starts and missteps, but soon these were overcome, and Marya was conducting well-organized and well-received lessons on the basics of grammar and the elementary epochs of Ur.

  Her inquisitions did not immediately or entirely cease, but the more she taught, the more patience she developed with Senlin’s lessons. She was more likely to stay after class to pose her questions privately, and her questions were more likely to be deliberate than contrary. He still found her a little egotistical and pestering, but she was, for the first time, tolerable.

  Three years later, Senlin was an established headmaster who no longer suffered the howling insecurity of the amateur, and Marya’s youthful thorns had been ground down, allowing humor and grace to bloom. Their relationship became cordial, almost collegial. He would be sorry, he had to admit, to see her go.

  Whenever students departed Isaugh for a higher institution of learning, it was tradition that the headmaster see them off. Disliking goodbyes, especially public ones, this was not a favorite duty, so Senlin was prone to forget it. On one or two occasions, he had arrived at the train station just in time to watch the great bouquets of steam erupt from the departing train, much to his small guilt and great relief.

  The day of Marya’s departure, Senlin was making an effort to forget the train schedule, and was, even a half hour before her embarking, standing atop a ladder plucking clods of grass from the gutter of his cottage, sweating in the mid-July swelter with a handkerchief tied about his head. A spasm of some unfamiliar emotion pulled him off the ladder. He had to see her off. He hadn’t time to wash his hands, comb his hair, or change out of his summer breeches and work sleeves. So, he looked like a stable boy running down the great green bank toward the town and the station that lay clear across the valley of the inlet. The villagers he tore past could hardly believe it was their headmaster blurring by. He ran like a startled ostrich, and they were convinced, though not surprised, that he had gone mad.

  In all honesty, Senlin was a little surprised himself: he could not say why he was running or grinning as he ran.

  His boot soles skidded when they landed on the weathered boards of the train platform. Recalling the handkerchief tied about his head, he hardly had time to whip it off before he spotted Miss Berks, standing beside a steamer trunk, which the local porter was busily weighing and labeling. No ribbon was in her hair today, and her hair stood turned up in a practical bun that made her seem more mature. Her dress was high-collared, long-sleeved, and the skirts hung nearly to the toes of her boots, which were as bright and black as a collie’s nose. Since he spotted her first, he got to see her honest state. And she seemed, he thought, sad.

  When she saw him, shuffling now with handkerchief clutched in hand, her look changed entirely. She smiled warmly and said, “You are late, Headmaster.”

  “Impossible. Headmasters cannot be late,” he said. “The sun must be running fast.”

  This delighted her, and he felt strangely pleased to see it. Soon, they both realized that they had been standing there entirely too long, grinning and swaying and saying nothing else. She rescued them both by saying, “Have you picked a new assistant for the fall?”

  “I was thinking I might give Mr. Barret a turn.”

  She sucked in a breath and grimaced, “Mr. Barret is a bit of a gander.”

  “Oh, no, he’s just unaccustomed to speaking publicly.”

  “An ideal teacher, then. He can pantomime his lessons,” she said, and gave a brief performance with her arms. Senlin was baffled by the laughter, the giggling, that poured from him.

  The porter heaved her luggage up the steps of the train car, ignoring both her and Senlin’s overtures of assistance, though accepting the two pence she offered him next. The engine began to hiss as the steam built, and the engineer rang the bell, tolling the last passengers aboard.

  This, then, would be the awkward part that Senlin so entirely detested. He was in the process of deciding how to offer her his hand, when she settled her own on his shoulder, hiked herself onto the tips of her collie-nosed boots and kissed him on the mouth.

  And then she whisked herself aboard, and he was waving dazedly at the impassive valves of the train and the invisible stain she had left in front of him, standing entirely too near the drive wheel that bathed him in cumulus clouds of steam.

  The engine slipped forward on the tracks. The wail of the train harmonized with the hills, and she was gone.

  You are late, Headmaster. His mind felt as shriveled and parched as his tongue, which stuck to the roof of his mouth as he shuffled through the gloom of the bore to North Port. A medallion of sunlight swung back and forth hypnotically ahead of him, and then the coin became a saucer, and the saucer grew into a platter. He could smell the salts of the desert air. You are late, Headmaster, her voice lisped from behind his eardrum, driving him onward through the husk of the Tower, arm in arm with her confessor. You are late, Headmaster; you are late.

  North Port had been scalloped from the Tower’s facade. The stepped archway reminded him of the bandshell of an amphitheater. Broad dock boards fanned out from the opening, leading first to the customs booth, before splitting like a trident into three separate piers. The piers were supported by a great matrix of girding. There was only one airship in the port, and it bore the scars and patches of an old working vessel; it seemed the sort of thing men would wager playing cards late at night. It looked like a gray mollusk hanging from a bluish jellyfish.

  Judging by the slack posture of the agents who leaned against the blue customs booth, the alarm either had not yet been raised or hadn’t spread as far as the ports. A pair of longshoremen unloaded crates from the lone airship, knocking softly against the jute-wrapped pylons. Crowding near the gangplank, which warped violently when men crossed it, was a line of women, apparently waiting for the unloading to finish so they could board. The women, though young, seemed sallow and frail in the firm sunlight.

  Ogier handed Senlin a little scrap of paper and then filled his palm with ten shekels. “Give the shekels to the guards and the note to the skipper. He owes me a favor. He won’t talk to you, though, so don’t bother trying to strike up a conversation. In fact, that’s good advice: say as little as you possibly can. People up there don’t like wits, Tom.”

  Senlin was trying very hard to focus on what Ogier was saying, but he was in such a state of confusion. Questions flew through his mind. He could hardly consider one before the next occurred: Who was the Count? How could he marry a married woman? Was he dangerous, was he violent? Where did he live?

  “New Babel is the nearest port,” Ogier said. “That’s as far as my favor can carry you.”
>
  One question stood out. Really, it was the only question that mattered. “How do I find her?”

  “The glove the Count dropped was monogramed with the letters W.H.P. I’m almost certain the ‘P’ stands for Pell. The Pells are more than a family; they are a wealthy and powerful centuries-old dynasty, and unfortunately, there are dozens of minor royals running about, happily abusing the moniker. The Baths are essentially a Pell colony, though the nobles treat it more like a fraternity house. The Commissioner is their local enforcer: he flies their crest, the gold astrolabe, collects customs under their authority, and trollies heaps of gold up to their ringdom. If this Count was indeed a Pell, and he certainly was arrogant enough to be, he will take Marya there, to Pella.”

  A cabin boy on the waiting ferry rang a bell three times, and the women began to file across the treacherous, jouncing gangplank. “Thomas, I am sorry that I couldn’t trust you from the beginning. I thought that the Count had sent you. I was sure you were a spy trying to catch me out. I know I tested you viciously. I’m sorry.”

  An unexpectedly crisp breeze whipped down at them as some jet of higher air shot down the length of the Tower, and for a moment they could not speak over the rush. Senlin set his hand on Ogier’s drooped shoulder, thorny with misgrown bones. The wind cleared his mind of questions and incriminations for the moment, and when it had passed Senlin said, “Thank you for helping Marya. You were wrong, I think, to say the Tower forbids friendship.”

  Ogier’s expression brightened with gratitude. “Yes, friends just in time to never meet again.” He turned Senlin by the shoulders, and began gently running him down the dock toward the customs booth. “I put a parting gift in your bag.” He spoke just behind Senlin’s ear. “New Babel is full of villains. Be mindful of my key. It fires a measly pellet and the trigger is not exact, but it may be enough to save you someday. I am afraid you will need it.”

  “What about you? What if Pound suspects…” Senlin began, but Ogier quickly broke in.

  “As much as he might like to, the Commissioner won’t touch me. There are greater forces at work, and fortunately for me, greater forces need me alive.”

  “I don’t understand,” Senlin said.

  “And there isn’t time to explain. Bon voyage, my friend.”

  Part III

  New Babel

  Chapter One

  “Volume II in the Everyman series describes the many marvels of New Babel: the Lightning Nest, the Chrom chapels, its population of exotic moths and bats, and how it earned the titillating nickname the Bedroom. Request a copy from your local bookman today!”

  - Everyman’s Guide to the Tower of Babel, V. XXII

  The galleon swayed beneath him. Clouds migrated over the distant mountains, dreamily as unherded sheep. Perhaps the ship stood still, and the world swayed. It was hard to tell. He felt their ascent in the building pressure behind his eardrums, but otherwise, flying was not at all the harrowing experience he’d expected. It was quite serene. He recollected reading that serenity was often a symptom of shock. It occurred to him that he was taking the news that Marya had been abducted by a foreign nobleman quite well. Too well. Perhaps he didn’t believe it yet, or perhaps he had anticipated a much worse fate for her. She was alive, at least. However it was, for the moment, he didn’t care where the feeling of peace came from or how long it would last. The world swam about him like a nursery about a cradle.

  The ship was built from materials chosen for their lightness: pine, cord, and wicker. The rail at his elbow and the bench beneath him were both made of bamboo. Everything creaked like old hinges and chirped like crickets. The wind ran through everything. He sat among twenty or so young women in the aft of the ship. His size and relatively fresh clothes made him stick out like a heron among seagulls. Their frocks and sarongs were stained and torn. Their hair was wildly frayed, and made worse by the wind that grabbed hold of it and beat it upon their faces. Each had an exhausted expression, the glassy eyes of a deer that had been chased until it collapsed. Bruises and sores and smirches of dirt colored their faces. One woman with wild yellow hair squinted at him amid his observations. She seemed vaguely familiar to him, but not in a significant way. She probably had a common face and was only curious what a man was doing on a ferry that was apparently reserved for women. Wrinkling her nose to show she was not impressed by him, she abruptly looked away.

  He wondered how these women had been so utterly robbed of their dignity and spark. Had they been lured away from their families? Had they been, like Edith, independent and adventurous once? Had they come to the Tower, or been born to it? He wondered if their present fate was better or worse than Marya’s.

  The Count, or W. H. Pell, or whoever he was, had gone to some trouble to entice Marya into going with him willingly. Which meant he probably wouldn’t hurt her. He might be short on scruples and spoiled by his station and wealth, but the Count didn’t seem psychotic. He hadn’t killed Ogier, though he easily could have. When Senlin found him— and he would find him— he’d attempt to reason with him first. It might be more difficult for the Count to claim another man’s wife if the husband stood present before him.

  And if reason didn’t work, then what? Senlin attempted to picture himself challenging the Count to a duel, or something similarly brutish and hopeless. He couldn’t see it, couldn’t even drum up a boast of what it might look like. For a man choked full of esoteric wisdom, he had very little idea what he was capable of. He knew himself but poorly.

  So why was it that he kept wriggling through the traps of the Tower, while those about him – Edith, Tarrou – were caught and punished? They were stronger than him, more resilient, more deserving of a second chance. It hardly seemed fair. Senlin hoped that Ogier would be overlooked, though it seemed unlikely. Pound would be suspicious. He would send his agents to dismantle Ogier’s apartment. When they found the stolen painting, the ponderous Red Hand would be engaged; a crowd would gather; a head would come loose.

  No. Ogier would escape. He was shrewd and careful; he was not eager to die.

  Senlin recalled the gifts the painter had mentioned, and indeed, his leather satchel felt heavier than it had any right to be. Senlin undid the brass clasps and peered in. At the bottom, Ogier’s key-shaped pistol gleamed with fresh oil. Ogier had called it a jailor’s key, and had described its original double duty as a prison cell key and a defense against rowdy prisoners. With no lock to fit it to now, it had been reduced to the single purpose of a firearm. Senlin had never loaded or fired a gun in his life. He wondered if it wasn’t time to learn.

  Carefully replacing the key, Senlin saw an unfamiliar wooden edge. He pulled the paper-backed frame halfway from his bag and recognized the work at once. It was Ogier’s nude study of Marya, the contraband he’d kept from the Count. It was the greatest gift he had ever received. The unexpected sight of her face, her iconic smile, made his breath catch. He sat hunched over the painting like it was a flickering candle about to go out. Longing passed through him like a shiver, and a hundred vivid memories of her surged to the forefront of his mind. He stopped the welling emotions with a formal clearing of his throat and slid the frame back into the weathered folds of his attaché.

  His only other possessions were the guide, its pages swollen from repeated thumbing, a few humble sundries, and the journal he’d lately bought and begun to fill. If Tarrou had been present for this inventory, he would’ve remarked that the artist had been cruel to take the bottle of grappa. Senlin winced at the memory of his friend stripped and shaved. Tarrou had looked as pitiful as a bear who’d lost its fur to mange.

  He remembered that Tarrou had slipped something into his pocket during the commotion. After a brief rummage, he drew out a piece of stationery that was folded into a small, wrinkled square. He opened it, and recognized Tarrou’s stately cursive, which grew larger and more rushed toward the letter’s end. It read:

  My Dear Tom,

  Forgive me for being dramatic, but I am done for. The Commissioner�
��s Blue Bells are coming for me, and I am sure they mean to take my beard. My debts, both economic and cosmic, have caught up with me. You might say they have caught me by the toe. It is a sad story.

  I did try, my friend, to go home. It is a longer tale than I have told. I think you, great grim scowler that you are, will understand how difficult it is to be forthright about sad stories and caught toes.

  Ogier is a reliable man. He is insufferable, but reliable. Trust him. I think he never strayed from the course of his conscience. I retired from that path some years ago, and I had lived happily after. Happily, that is, until one mad-as-mud tourist embarrassed me into action. (I hereby confess to all the incidental readers of this letter: I am the mastermind of the plot against the Commissioner. Tom is quite innocent; he is far too unimaginative to invent such a conspiracy.)

  Tom, as a superior student of the Tower, keep after your wife. It is easier to accept who you’ve become than to recollect who you were. Go after her.

  Drearily Yours,

  J. Tarrou

  The signature ran off the edge of the page.

  He read the letter twice and then released it to the wind. The sheet darted between the bowed heads of the defeated beauties and then vanished through the harp strings of the rigging. The note was better off lost. Senlin didn’t understand Tarrou’s allusions to the course of conscience or cosmic debt, and he was surprised that he had endorsed Ogier with this, his last gasp of freedom. The final sentiment, however, was not confused. Senlin understood him exactly.