Senlin Ascends (The Books of Babel Book 1)

by Josiah Bancroft

  Goll rapped on the door twice, and the driver let out the throttle. As the coach pulled away, Iren grabbed the rear rail and pulled herself into the jump seat. She glanced back at Senlin briefly. There was a subtle shift in her expression, which would’ve gone undetected by anyone who hadn’t spent hours sitting across from her. To Senlin, that look spoke volumes; she was unhappy. Perhaps the beating had driven her nearer to his cause.

  Chapter Twelve

  “Everything I’ve read on the subject suggests that five able bodies are required to make a skeletal crew. Counting myself, Adam, and Voleta, and presuming that I can recruit Iren, I’m still one short. I suppose I could advertise in the dockyard. Aeronaut wanted for crusade into certain peril and probable death. Low wages, moral reward; philanthropists preferred.”

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

  The thin winter air felt good on his bruised face. The snowy mountain range on the horizon looked like a long sheet of torn paper. The Market below had begun to take on a unified color, as tents, carts and travelers were all smudged by distance into a textured mauve. His aerorod thumped upon the ironbound wood beams of the skyport, striking a tone and rhythm the men recognized. Senlin could easily tell which porters only became busy at his approach. The hardest workers moved slowly, deliberately, while the lazy appeared eternally fresh and enthusiastic. But Senlin wasn’t out to inspect the men. He had come to look at ships.

  He was well aware of how strained the situation had become in recent days. He would lose Adam if they couldn’t save Voleta from Rodion soon. And Iren might like him, but Finn Goll would be watching her closely now, and Senlin doubted she would abandon her life just to continue her reading lessons. Goll had made it clear that there was a limit to his patience. He might at any moment decide that Senlin was a greater liability than an asset. Senlin couldn’t afford to be picky now. Today he would choose a ship; tomorrow he would steal it.

  The port was full at least; all four slips were occupied. The Cornelius sat in the Tower-side south bay, a hulking, multi-tiered ship that reminded Senlin of a great flat-bottomed river boat. Its boiler room alone probably required three men to maintain. Though it hardly mattered; the ship was scheduled to cast off before nightfall. Across from it sat a gray wind-scalded ship called the Stone Cloud. It was not much larger than a twelve-man sloop and oddly shaped. Its hull was reminiscent of a nesting robin, with a bulbous fore and a flattened aft. It had one thirty-pound gun at the bowsprit, a filthy, clam-shaped balloon, and a full crew of gold-toothed pirates. The outer north bay held a miserable, unarmed ferry christened the Sally Quick, which looked as sturdy as a rat’s nest and every bit as charming. Then there was the Gold Finch, a sleek merchant ship from the south of the continent that had come in loaded with olives, tea, pistachios and incense. Freshly painted a brilliant yellow, the Finch had four big guns and a single, long envelope that was tapered like a cigar. It was a little large for a five-man crew, but manageable, he thought.

  He stood atop a coffee crate considering the Gold Finch. This was the ship. His ship. Now he only had to figure some way to empty it. He tried to discreetly count the heads of the crew as they moved along the immaculately scrubbed deck. He had just lost count and had started again when he heard someone speak his name. It was a woman’s voice, a familiar voice. He turned and found Edith standing behind him with a wondering expression on her face.

  His second thought was that it was not Edith: this woman’s dark hair was bobbed above the jawline; she wore the mismatched leathers and rough wool pants popular among unaffiliated aeronauts, which was just a polite way of saying “pirates.” A piece of polished brass capped her right shoulder like a lone scrap of plate armor. This rustic privateer was nothing like the countrywoman in a peach gown who’d once huddled and shivered against him while locked inside a wire coop. It could not be her.

  And yet it was.

  Since she had spied him first, she had the unfair advantage of having composed herself; a lopsided smile bunched the freckles on one dusky cheek, and she held her head cocked in a mischievous manner as if she’d been trying to sneak up on him.

  He recovered himself quickly, and since he was unsure how to react, he stayed poised atop the crate like a statue in a town square. “What are you doing here?” he asked.

  “Well, hello to you, too, Tom,” she said, feeling, or perhaps feigning, hurt.

  Senlin softened his tone. “I beg your pardon. I only meant…” His mind drifted back to their days in the cage, a memory he had long suppressed. With no further prodding, the whole ordeal came rushing back, swamping him with unaddressed guilt and an uncomfortable ache. He had left her in her hour of need with a sadistic nurse and a fresh wound. While he’d escaped with scratches, she had been maimed. She had every right to hold a grudge. “…You’re supposed to be farming.”

  Her smirk stiffened at that. She didn’t seem to enjoy the reference to her past life. When she replied, it came out as a jab. “And you’re supposed to be teaching brats and making some of your own. How is your wife?”

  It was his turn to be wounded now. His expression, he was sure, betrayed everything, but he felt compelled to confess it anyway: “I haven’t found her. Not yet.”

  “Oh,” Edith said, and flinched with a silent self-rebuke. Their unexpected reunion was going terribly. Senlin began to think of an excuse for a quick exit.

  A docker, gesturing sheepishly at the crate under Senlin’s feet, interrupted the clumsy moment. He asked, “Are you done with that one, Port Master? It’s for the truck if you are.”

  Senlin climbed stiffly down, not letting the docker see his broken composure. “Yes, take it,” he said. Standing level with her, he realized that she was not wearing a brass pauldron, as he’d first thought. The shoulder armor ran all the way down her arm and ended in an intricately jointed gauntlet. He glanced at the metal arm, then to her charcoal eyes, then back to it, attempting not to gawk and failing.

  She gave an unguarded laugh. “Port Master! Headmaster! Are you a master wherever you go?”

  “Hardly,” he snorted. “I was conscripted into it, but I’m not terrible at it. They haven’t lynched me yet, anyway.”

  “That is a fine standard of excellence. I’m a First Mate, myself,” she said, swelling a little with pride.

  Senlin no longer wanted to bolt, but he was having trouble not staring at her brass-sheathed arm. “Oh, really? That’s an admirable title. Which ship are you mate of?”

  “The Stone Cloud.” She said, hiking her head toward the vessel bobbing in its crib behind her. Senlin followed the motion and gave the ship he had previously dismissed a second examination. It looked like something that had lain submerged in a bog for years. The wood that formed the hull appeared to still have its bark. Or perhaps it was just some sort of aggressive burl. He wasn’t sure… “Why do people always make that face when I introduce them to my ship?” she said, interrupting his scrutiny. “It’s not a bad ship, Tom. It’s fast enough.”

  He cleared his throat. “I’m— I’m sure. And how’s the crew?”

  “I had to break them in. They weren’t used to having a woman aboard, and it took a little while to convince them that I wasn’t the ship’s madam or anyone’s mother… Alright, we might as well address it since you’re not going to stop gawking at it.”

  He had been caught looking for signs of skin between the metal joints of her armored arm. Now he tried to act as if it was purely an academic interest. “It’s just such an unusual...” He swallowed noisily. “…Ornament. How does it attach to the arm?”

  “It doesn’t,” she said with the aloofness of one who has entered a necessary but uncomfortable spiel. “I lost the arm to gangrene six months ago. It was removed just short of the shoulder.” Edith studiously avoided Senlin’s gaze, which embarrassed him more because he wanted to reach out through his stare and offer some solace. But her shying also saved her from having to watch his initial revulsion turn to anger and then to pity, all i
n the span of a few seconds. “Yes, the infection started with the branding, and no, I won’t talk about it.”

  Sensing how uncomfortable she’d become, Senlin made a concerted effort to return his attention to the arm. It was truly a marvel: as sophisticated as a wind-up bird and as solid as a derrick. A beautiful arabesque pattern ran down the length of the arm like a tribal tattoo. When she flexed the arm for him, a valve at the shoulder gave a little puff of steam, fine as pollen shaken from a bloom. Clockworks hummed inside the brass shell, as her digits unfurled one by one. She demonstrated the fluid and nearly human range of her fingers by reaching out and unbuttoning the top button of his coat. It was a forward thing to do, and it made Senlin briefly flinch and then, very soon after, laugh. He was relieved to find that the bold woman he’d met in the Parlor had not been eclipsed by her novel limb or humble ship.

  “It’s a demanding little engine,” she said. “I have to put water in it. I have to oil it and fuel it. I’ve owned prize thoroughbreds that needed less attention. And it didn’t come cheap, I’ll tell you that. New arms aren’t free, Tom. You have to make a deal.” She bent and scooped up a pine slat from a broken pallet. She squared the wood board in her mechanical palm and with a slight jerk, crushed the board to splinters. “But the damnedest deals have the damnedest perks.”

  Realizing that she was trying to make him recoil, Senlin refused to indulge her. He ignored the menacing nature of her demonstration, and instead complimented her on it: “It is incredible. It reminds me, oddly, of a music box with its thick, hearty drum and its delicate comb. It’s part hammer and part tweezers, isn’t it? But I am sorry, I’m so terribly sorry that it came at such an awful cost. Edith, it is…”

  She dropped the arm abruptly and hiked her chin at him. “Ha. You remembered my name after all,” she said.

  “Of course I remember your name. You’re the Generaless of the Garden, Mrs. Mayfair with a fist. You’re Ms. Edith Ex-Winters. I didn’t forget.”

  She slouched a little, looking almost vulnerable, though the splintered board lay still fresh at her feet. “It seems like everyone I meet knows nothing about me but still wants something from me. It’s so tiring, Tom, to always be on your guard. It’s been an exhausting six months.”

  “It has,” Senlin agreed, and stamped down the guilt that was already balling inside him. Could he pretend to be any different? Didn’t he want something from her, too?

  She looked around, appearing uncomfortable with the conversation, and said, “I have to go kick my crew softly in the pants. We have a half ton of eggs to unload, and if I don’t glare at them while they do it, they’ll break half of them, and then blame your porters for it.”

  Senlin nodded, his hands wrenching his aerorod nervously. “When do you shove off?”

  “Tomorrow. The crew has shore leave tonight.”

  “Oh. Well, then maybe we could have dinner together,” Senlin said.

  “I can’t. First mate has to stay aboard so the captain can go carousing. Besides, I don’t care for the local entertainment much.”

  “No, of course,” Senlin said. “But could I call on you? I have a bottle of very average port that has been aging on a shelf for… for days now. It really needs to be drunk.”

  She laughed, but he could feel the hesitation in the sidelong way she looked at him. Perhaps she was thinking of his wife and wondering if this was some sort of romantic overture, or perhaps she already sensed that he, too, wanted something from her. The months had made her guarded. But she didn’t waffle for long. “Bring your port, Port Master. If it needs to be drunk, we’ll drink it. I’ll be free after moonrise.”

  Senlin watched her stride off toward the Stone Cloud that squatted like a molting bird in its nest. The flawless Gold Finch swelled grandly behind him. He heaved a sigh. Yes, her ship was plain, short on guns, probably infested with termites, and aptly named, but the Stone Cloud had one very appealing quality, and she, unlike the rest of them, was familiar with airships. While he’d been mastering another man’s ledgers, she’d learned how to fly.

  So, it had to be the Stone Cloud. This was the ship.

  Already feeling a little devious, though he had done nothing yet and was not exactly sure what he would do once given the chance, Senlin arrived back in his office to find that he had company. The yellow-haired woman sat in his desk chair with a book in hand. She appeared to be reading what he recognized as a particularly inept guide to the Tower. On closer inspection, he realized she was not reading the book. She was scouring it with the nib of a pen. She scratched at the pages with such determination that it seemed she was trying to dig through it. Then he recalled where he’d seen this odd behavior before: the postal clerk in the Baths had been likewise engaged with the book Senlin had rescued, Confidences of a Wifemonger.

  When the yellow-haired woman saw Senlin stalled in the doorway, she did not immediately cease her work. Instead, she laid the book out for him so that he could see the words she was carefully redacting, beginning from the last word on the last page and working her way toward the start.

  He recognized her as one of Rodion’s girls, but he didn’t show it. Instead, he said, “Put down my book. Get out of my chair.”

  This she did, though with a sarcastic pout that made it clear she was only humoring him. She circled around one side of his desk as he came around the other. Plopping into the cracked red chair across from him, she said, “You have a lot of stupid things.”

  “Yes,” he said coldly, picking up his scribbled-upon book with unfelt reverence. “Do stupid things attract you?”

  “Oo, you have a mouth. You think reading books makes you smart, but it just fills you with so much stupidness.”

  “Yes,” he said again. “It’s an interesting habit you have. What do you call it when you scrawl out the words of a book? You must have a name for it. Desecration? Doodling?”

  “Course not. It’s called ‘studying.’”

  “Ah. Studying, of course. And why do you start from the end and study your way backward?”

  She sucked her teeth. “Tch! To keep from reading, of course. The words worm their way in. Even if you don’t know what they say, they speak to you in your head and you hear it.”

  Senlin sighed at the idiocy of this, but filed the information away for later consideration. At the moment he had to focus on the task at hand, which began with getting her out of his office. He set aside the ruined book. “What do you want?”

  “You don’t remember me,” she said with sinister coyness, her chin dropping to her neck. She had a pretty, pert face, and her bosom bunched against an over-tightened corset, but there was nothing appealing about her. She radiated vanity and cruelty. “But I remember you.”

  “You were on the barge,” Senlin interjected. “And at the Steam Pipe. I remember.”

  “Oo, no, no, no. Before that. On the piano. You looked at my legs. And I showed you a little more, and then you looked all offended, like I was some sort of floozy. Remember? Then you made such a scene with all your sneezing. The Commissioner put on his rubber mask and took you out onto the porch, and you, Mr. Sneezy, had some words with him. Then, not three days later, you’re on the floozy barge with your nose in the air, flying to the Boudoir with all the whores you’re too good for. It’s funny. How does a man go from big talk with the Commissioner to the floozy barge in a few days? Maybe he’s running away from something, I think. Maybe he’s gotten into someone else’s honey, hey? What do you think? You think I’m stupid because I’m honest. Honest here,” she said, waving provocatively at her décolletage. She raised a leg, and put a slippered foot on the edge of his desk, her skirts spilling up about her white thigh. “And honest here.” Senlin kept his stare locked with her own, refusing to acknowledge the display. “But I’m not stupid.” She dropped her foot with a little stamp. “I know who you are, and I know you’re in it deep.”

  Senlin’s initial surprise at her familiarity with his past in the Baths had time to fade during her prattling speec
h, and had now resolved into a rehearsal of the facts. She knew him. She was trying to extort money from him. She was clever enough to see an opportunity, but not clever enough to know what to do with it, otherwise she would have gone to the Commissioner. Instead, she had come to him, hoping that he would startle and attempt to bribe her.

  But it was apparent to Senlin now that she worked for the very man who had sold him out to the Commissioner. It was the only thing that made sense. Rodion had influence and was ambitious; he had steady access to news from the Baths, and he had his eyes in the port, to be sure. Rodion would not include Goll because he would not want to share the purse, and the attack had only come after Senlin’s visit to the Steam Pipe. The whoremonger had been curious about Senlin’s pedigree. It wouldn’t have taken much to discover Senlin’s past entanglements: a few questions of the lonely captains who regularly visited the Steam Pipe; a careful, tentative letter to the Office of Customs; or perhaps an evening frittered at a gala, and everything would be revealed.

  But if that was the case, why was Senlin still alive and whole and left alone? Why had the Red Hand not returned? Senlin knew that a snipped line would not be enough to detour the assassin for long, especially if he had willing accomplices running free in the Port of Goll.

  Something was keeping Senlin safe, at least for the moment. Once he thought about it, the answer seemed obvious. It was the painting. No one knew where Ogier’s painting was, and that was the real object, the real prize. If they killed him or dragged him off in the night, the painting might be lost forever. The Commissioner would get his revenge but not his treasure back.

  Perhaps all Rodion was waiting for was a definite target. If Rodion, for example, believed that the painting was about to be smuggled from the port on a particular pirate ship, he would feel compelled to retrieve the prize for the Commissioner. He would be forced to act. He would storm the port with as many men as he could gather, and demand to inspect the ships. And that would mean…