Senlin Ascends (The Books of Babel Book 1)

by Josiah Bancroft

  *

  Senlin woke in the middle of the night to a wooden bang.

  The sound was like a door being slammed, but lower to the ground. Blearily, he wondered if it was a trapdoor. But his room didn’t have a trapdoor. Perhaps it was an echo from the stockyard or a forgotten nightmare that had fooled his waking ear. In a daze, he opened his eyes, anticipating the dim golden gloom of the shuttered lamps outside.

  A red glowing figure loomed at his bedside, twisting and struggling like a man amid a seizure. The revelation was immediate: it was the Red Hand. Impossibly, incredibly, the Commissioner’s executioner had found him.

  The assassin was pulling at his own knee. He had stepped on the faulty floorboard, and for the moment, his foot was caught in Senlin’s secret cubby. Adrenalin flooded Senlin’s extremities with sudden sensation; every nerve felt like a sparking fuse.

  Senlin rolled out the far side of his bed, intent on making a break for the door. Instead, he tumbled to the floor, tangled in his sheets. He flailed like a fish caught in a net. Boards splintered behind him, and he turned in time to see the Red Hand lunging over the bed like some cosmic phenomenon, like a fireball blazing through the atmosphere. Then the meteor crashed down. The Red Hand bowled into Senlin, and they became a knot of bed sheets and limbs.

  They crashed into the flimsy bureau, popping all three of the drawers out. Shirtsleeves roped about them. The assassin’s brass cuff clipped Senlin in the jaw, making his eyes pool with tears. Senlin could see nothing but a red glow shrouded by white linen. It was like watching a forest fire through dense smoke. A sudden pressure on Senlin’s arm kept him from swiping away the clean laundry.

  “Where is the painting?” the Red Hand said, his enunciation so flat and calm he might’ve been asking Senlin for the time of day.

  “I don’t know!” Senlin said through gritted teeth.

  The tracery of veins made the man appear as a frozen firework, a spew of volcanic light. With his free arm, Senlin pulled a shirt over the vivid skull and looped the sleeve about the assassin’s neck. The Red Hand seemed to gasp, and Senlin felt a little flight of hope: perhaps he could fight his way free. But it was not a gasp of surprise. It was a sigh. A weary, contemptuous sigh. Senlin was boring his assassin.

  Before Senlin could tighten the makeshift noose, excruciating pain lanced up his shoulder. The Red Hand wrenched his arm with overwhelming, almost mechanical strength. He rolled with the pressure to keep his arm in its socket. Forced onto his stomach, he was left entirely helpless. He kicked like a child throwing a tantrum, but his heels hit nothing. The Red Hand yanked him up by the hair, and his spine bowed against the knee that dug into his tailbone. He felt like a stick of kindling preparing to snap. Then the floor flew at him. He had just enough time to look away before the side of his head bounced against it. Splinters bit his ear and cheek. For an instant, he was deaf. Then a ringing note, higher than hearing, slowly descended the scale like a falling bomb. His head was lifted and bounced a second time, and the wood now splashed beneath him. Motes appeared in his vision, yellow spiders crawling upon a red web. The red web opened its mouth, showing a little glowing furnace, a flame-like tongue.

  Senlin could feel the man’s warm breath when the Red Hand said, “You intellectuals are always so surprised to discover how fragile your body is. The mind is so robust, so remote. But muscles and bones are as simple as tied-up straw. They unravel and snap. And the more they break, the more the mind shrinks. In the moments before the cascade into death, the great intellect is reduced to a silent kernel. The mind is nothing more than a door into the dark.” Senlin wanted to scream but couldn’t. “That is where you’re going, Thomas. The voracious, indifferent, eternal dark. Where is the painting?”

  Made desperate by fear and dumb by the beating, Senlin cast about for something, anything, to defend himself with. His hand slapped along the floor, searching. The wood tingled under his hand. He was disoriented. Which way was the door? If he could only get ahold of his aerorod, he would at least be able to die while defending himself. But there was nothing, just laundry and splinters.

  He realized he couldn’t swallow before he understood that he couldn’t breathe. The assassin now sat on his back, pulling his neck like a rider trying to stop a horse. A sudden, unexpected rush of euphoria filled Senlin. Dimly, he recognized the gladness for what it was: the coming of death. And he was oddly relieved. The Red Hand was wrong. There was light in that expanse; there was peace to think. He let his mind wander. He wondered about Ogier. He must’ve hid the painting well because it hadn’t been found. Maybe Ogier had died before he confessed the hiding place of his beloved Girl with a Paper Boat. Senlin saw the girl now, standing in the full brilliance of the Bath’s kaleidoscopic light, standing over her shadow, dark as a hole in the world. And in his vision of the painting, Marya was standing with her, skirts bunched up in one hand, her other hand holding the girl’s. He watched from the shore. Neither faced him. Neither needed to. They were happy; the world was bright.

  Amid this fondness and calm, a fly began to buzz: a single, dark speck of thought. The fly refused to be caught and refused to go away. He batted at it. Whatever small revelation was trying to disturb his paradise, it wouldn’t have much longer to live. How long did houseflies live? He would ignore it. It bumped against his face. He swatted again and the fly seemed to slow, to let itself be caught. He felt it fizz in his closed hand. He pulled his fist up to his face, and uncurled his fingers. In the middle of his palm lay a key.

  Then the world began to shake, the subtle tremor quickly become a grinding, stampeding earthquake. The water leapt and boiled and splashed up the legs of Marya and the girl whose hand she held. Fine mortar began salting his upturned face in the utter darkness.

  He realized he wasn’t ready. He wasn’t ready. Then the ground leapt out from under him, and he began to fall.

  He landed in his body again on the floor of his room. He was lying on his back. The red glowing figure shook him roughly, and it didn’t seem like the first time he done that. Senlin felt warmth pooling in he mouth. He swallowed and coughed until he could breathe; the sensation was painful but full of relief. “I’m sorry it has taken me so long to find you. I don’t like to be tardy. I visited Ogier months ago. I was right on time for that conversation. It didn’t go well for him. Either your compatriot was fatally stubborn, or the truth was unfortunate. I asked him the same question I ask you now for the last time. Where is the painting you stole?”

  Senlin felt a pang of sorrow for the painter, but he was equally amazed that Ogier had been willing to die to keep his painting from the Commissioner. It all suddenly seemed so out of proportion. And the fact that the Commissioner had continued hunting for Senlin in the ensuing months, had somehow found him, and had then loosed his dog on him… All for a painting!

  Obviously, he wouldn’t be able to convince the assassin of the absurdity of his mission. If Senlin wanted to survive, he had to tell him something. Then he recalled the key that had appeared in his hand in his deathly vision, and an idea, slim and unlikely, sprang to mind.

  His voice came out as a croak. “It’s in a locked drawer,” he said. “I need to get the key.”

  Chapter Ten

  “The Banyan o’ Morrow is a flat-bottomed scow that’s as ugly as a pig’s nose. One thirty-pound gun, heavily corroded, is its only defense. The motley crew of six would probably surrender without argument. A charmless but feasible candidate. (On second inspection, rot has turned the bulwarks soft as cake. It is a deathtrap.)”

  - Every Man’s Tower, One Man’s Travails by T. Senlin

  Senlin braced himself over the shattered gap in the floorboard. As he reached into the darkened cubby, a boot heel settled on the back of his neck, threatening as a thumbnail to a flea.

  “If you come up with anything but a key, I will step on you,” The Red Hand said.

  Senlin hesitated. Sweat or blood trickled around the rind of his skull and down his jaw. The jailor’s key lay under t
he painting of Marya. He had no choice but to pull her out first to get to the key.

  “There’s a painting here,” Senlin said. “But it’s not the one you’re looking for. The key is under it.”

  “Let me see it.”

  As soon as the painting emerged, a glowing hand flashed down and snatched it from him. Senlin could not watch the assassin’s scrutiny of the painting, but he saw the result. Hurled against the wall before him, the frame exploded about the painting. Senlin winced. He couldn’t tell if his painting was ruined, but there was nothing he could do about it now. He reached again into the hollow with deliberate slowness.

  The pressure softened on his neck when he came up with the key. The Red Hand removed his heel. Senlin stood, and his legs were as rickety as one of his chairs.

  “What does the key open?” the Red Hand asked in his distracted, almost dreamy way.

  Senlin cleared his muddy throat. He teetered on his feet and said without inflection, “You.”

  He pulled the small trigger inside the key’s bow. The report was no louder than the crack of a wooden spoon. The pea-wide barrel gave a snort of smoke. It was, Senlin had to admit, a more pitiful result than he had hoped for.

  Unruffled, the Red Hand glanced down at the stain forming on his shirtfront. The slow ooze of blood was garnet-bright.

  “You know what’s funny,” the Red Hand said humorlessly. “You look at me and see a man, a head shorter and a hand wider than yourself, but a man nevertheless.” The assassin reached forward and gathered the folds of Senlin’s nightshirt into his deceptively small fists. He pulled Senlin closer to his bland, jack o’ lantern face. “So you assume that I am like you, that I share your cognition, your burden of conscience, your intestinal parasites. But I am nothing like you.” His breath smelled strongly of formaldehyde, and up close, Senlin saw that his skin had the rubbery appearance of a preserved frog. Senlin was raised to his toes and then lifted from his feet. “I am the riddle in the mouth of the Sphinx. I am the slaver that chews the living chain. I am the farmer of dead seeds, the filler of holes. Who am I?”

  Senlin answered at a whisper: “Death.”

  “Yes,” the Red Hand breathed.

  An explosion arrested the tightening at Senlin’s throat. The apartment window across from them blew out into the station yard. The blast came from the opposite side of the room, and they turned as one toward the origin.

  Illuminated by the light of the hall, Adam stood in the doorway with his second pistol raised. A troop of dockworkers drummed up the stairs behind him. With unnatural speed, the assassin flung Senlin at the door, ruining any chance of Adam getting off a second shot. The Red Hand leapt through the jagged remains of the window into the murky light of the station yard, and was gone.

  Adam caught Senlin, the pistols in his hands making for an awkward embrace. Senlin, his voice momentarily crushed, gestured at the devastated window. Adam didn’t wait for further direction; he yelled over his shoulder at the coming troop of porters, “After him! He’s headed for the port!”

  Adam propped Senlin on his heels, and ran for the stairs, raising the alarm as he went.

  Senlin’s bedroom looked like it had entertained a bull. Rubbing his raw throat, Senlin made a halfhearted attempt at gathering up his sundries and his clothes. He dropped the tangled mass into one of the broken drawers and shuffled to the heap that had once been a picture frame. His knees trembled when he knelt to the painted board, which miraculously had landed face-up among the nest of wood and brown paper backing. The painting had survived. This simple fact was enough to chase the terror and the shock from his mind. He had also survived.

  He was surprised by the texture on the reverse side of the painted board. It felt like fish scales. The papered-over back of the painting had been torn open. He turned the board over and let out an unexpected blat of laughter.

  Taped to the reverse side of the board and staring back at him was a girl. She stood in ankle-deep water. A paper boat dangled from her hand.

  A scrap of paper fell out. The few words on it had been written out hurriedly, but Senlin still recognized the hand. It was Ogier’s. It said, “Don’t let him have it. It is not what it seems. It is a key— it is a key to the Tower and happiness and death. Hide it, and keep it safe. For her sake.”

  A half hour later, Adam returned to find the Port Master sitting on his bed with all the lights on. The gunny curtains hung limply over the destroyed window. Senlin had had the presence of mind to hide Ogier’s contraband painting. Whatever happened, he was determined to not add to Adam’s burden any further. It wouldn’t do the young man any good to wrestle with the mystery of a painting that Senlin had been compelled to steal by a man who did not keep it, even while insisting that it was a “key to the Tower and happiness and death,” whatever that meant. Such mysteries were part of the burden of leadership. Besides, Ogier’s painting might turn out to be a bargaining chip yet, and he didn’t want anyone to know that he had it, at least for the moment.

  “He got away,” Adam said. “We chased him to the port. Don’t ask me how a man who glows in the dark vanishes in the middle of the night.” He tried to laugh, but the noise came out raw as a bray. Adam, badly shaken, sat heavily on a corner of Senlin’s bed. “I’ve never seen anything like that. I don’t know what that was.”

  “Thank you for coming to the rescue,” Senlin said, recovering some of his usual ramrod posture.

  “It was either that or lie awake listening to you break every piece of furniture in your room.” Boreas said with a tenuous smile. He was quiet for a while, his brow knitted in reflection. After a moment, he asked, “Tom, who was that?”

  Senlin wheezed, his swollen throat constricting his breath. It took him a few breaths to work up to saying, “That was the Red Hand, the Commissioner’s executioner. I think it’s clear that we’re past bargaining with that tyrant.” He retrieved the broom that stood in a corner of his room and began sweeping up the shattered glass from under the window. “I’m afraid that my glowing assassin will be back… eventually. I’m glad you interrupted him when you did, but he doesn’t seem the sort to be discouraged for long.”

  Adam stood and pursued the Port Master as he shuffled about the floor, dragging the broom in long pensive strokes. “Well, you say we’re past bargaining, but you’re also past hiding now. What are you going to do? If you have the painting, if you felt like you had to hide it from me, why hide it from him? Just give it to him. It’s not worth dying for.”

  “I agree,” Senlin said, presenting the broom to Adam. “And since you feel like pacing, I’ll give you something to push.”

  Adam yanked the broom from Senlin’s hand, but did not cease pleading his case. “Then tell him where the painting is. Tell him who has it, and who you stole it for. Or tell me, and I’ll talk to him on your behalf.”

  “No. It’s a brave offer, you probably don’t realize how brave, but no. You’re right about one thing: there’ll be no more hiding. But for the time being, I think the Commissioner’s uncertainty is what will keep me alive. The Red Hand could’ve just wrung me dead in my sleep, but no, he wanted to talk. I think, Adam, there is more to this painting than we know. I think the Commissioner is desperate to have it back, and just as afraid to lose it. Which I find interesting. And as long as I can keep him guessing…” Senlin trailed off when he saw Adam hanging upon the broom like an old crone holds her cane. He leaned upon the broom, looking bereft of all hope. And why not? He had just seen a monster, full in the flesh. The peril was undeniable.

  Senlin strode to the table and picked up the jailor’s key that lay there. He wanted to give Adam something else to distract him, something useful, so he said, “Alright, it’s about time I learned how to reload a gun. Come and show me.”

  Adam gave him a long, disbelieving look, but the Port Master did not back away from the request, which had sounded remarkably like an order. After a moment Adam set aside the broom and began the instruction.

  The next morning,
driven by curiosity, Senlin went out on the pier and looked for how the assassin had escaped. A ship would’ve been noticed, even a small one, which meant the Red Hand had come by more discreet means. Scouting the perimeter of the dock turned up nothing suspicious, though he wasn’t entirely sure what he expected to find. He repeated the circuit twice, moving more slowly each time. The porters, waiting idly for new freight, were amused to see their Port Master out of his office and away from the stock yard. They were further delighted to watch him sprawl flat and hang half over the side of the dock like a man who’d had too much to drink. Senlin ignored their snickers.

  It wasn’t long before he found what he was looking for: a silk cord tied carefully to an eyelet screwed close to the edge on the underside of the pier. He couldn’t see where the cord ended because it ran down and around the limb of the Tower, but he was sure it led to the Baths. The Red Hand had had a long and treacherous climb up, but a quick slide back down.

  Senlin set a hook knife to the cord and snipped the line.

  One thing was certain: someone in the Port of Goll had tied the line and let it out. Someone in New Babel was conspiring with the Commissioner.

  Later that morning when Iren burst into his office, Senlin was prepared. He received her calmly, his hands templed over the absurd prow of his desk. She stuck out her hand, large as a dinner plate, and waited for the envelope filled with bills and the summary of imports.

  “You can’t read,” Senlin declared, “which means you can’t write, which means you are more helpless than a woman of your stature should be.”