Senlin Ascends (The Books of Babel Book 1)

by Josiah Bancroft

  “Oh, he’s just as jolly as a grave robber. He’s a treacherous, paranoid, short-tempered pimp, and I haven’t turned my back on him since I handed over the reins of the Steam Pipe six years ago. But he’s usually predictable. He lays low; he hardly ever leaves the Pipe. I can’t figure why, but he seems to be interested in this ship’s cargo. You said private parcels. What’s inside of those?”

  “I don’t know.” Senlin deliberated a moment, and then said, “Do you want me to open them?”

  “No, no. That’s bad for business. If we start riffling through the mail, we’ll lose half our business. We’re supposed to be the discreet port.” Goll looked troubled. “Do me a favor, Tom. Keep the men in tonight. Iren will come around with arms for the men, just in case.”

  “I don’t understand. What do you think is going to happen?”

  “Nothing, I’m sure,” Goll said, and then more sharply: “That backstabbing mudbugger.” Senlin could see that Goll was working himself into a proper rage, and he was glad to not be the focus of his wrath a second time. “If Rodion does come to the port tonight, and if he brings his little troop of whore-smitten doormen, you’d do well to stay out of the way.” Goll stood abruptly. “Don’t you say a word to Rodion. I want to catch him in the act so he can’t deny it. Who knows, maybe tomorrow you’ll be Port Master and Whoremonger. Wouldn’t that be a turn? I don’t suppose you can play the organ?”

  Chapter Sixteen

  “When teaching me to load a gun, Adam warned that an overloaded barrel does not fire faster or farther, it merely explodes in one’s face. So it may be in the port this evening when Rodion and Finn Goll collide.”

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

  All the lanterns of the skyport were lit, and even still, it was a gloomy scene. A rare winter storm had crested the mountains and now charged across the arid valley, snuffing out stars as it coursed nearer the Tower. The bitter wind smelled of snow. Senlin stood clutching his collar about his neck at the port entrance. The mouth of the tunnel moaned like a clay flute. His pockets bulged with books, the Commissioner’s coveted painting was sewn into his coat, and his hand numbed about the cold steel of the aerorod. It was time to leave this adopted life. It was finally time to go.

  He’d spent the afternoon with Iren, handing out aged sabers and flintlock pistols to the porters. The blades were so old and chipped that they resembled saws more than swords. Most of the porters were more perturbed by the cancellation of their evening liberty than the possibility of violence. Some elder porters took the occasion to brag about bygone battles full of near deaths and harrowing kills, though most were obvious myths. Iren gave the men direction: they were to let Rodion and his troop pass through the yard unmolested. Once the interlopers were past, the porters would follow Iren into the tunnel, where they would flank Rodion and confront him in the port. They were not to reveal themselves until ordered to do so.

  Senlin had decided to delay the announcement of the canceled pay raise. Tomorrow, he would be gone, leaving Finn Goll holding the bag. If Goll wanted to trim wages in the middle of a turf war, that was his prerogative, and he could tell the men himself. Though “war” was not quite the right word for the coming scuffle. It would be a standoff, Senlin was sure. He expected saber-rattling, some bark and spittle, perhaps a little fencing, but neither Rodion nor Goll would want the threat to escalate. There was nothing to gain from killing one’s coworkers or from damaging the port through which all wealth flowed. No, Rodion would be put in his place, and Goll would get his due.

  The platform, from crane to bollard, was a symphony of groaning: timbers and ropes shifted under the pressures of the approaching storm. Even the great iron struts added their bass complaints to the song. The graceful profile of the merchant ship the Gold Finch was lit up like a chandelier. Her crew worked hastily to batten down the hatches and redouble the tethers of the lozenge-shaped balloon. The ship’s lookout, hardly more than a boy, clung to the bowsprit like a figurehead, watching the snow clouds billow nearer. Senlin marveled at the composure the Tower required of even the youngest souls; Babel aged its population with equal cruelty.

  If the Finch evoked a chandelier, The Stone Cloud docked cattycorner from it resembled a lard candle. The scotched and buckshot hull, with its bulbous fore and tapered aft, knocked against the bumpers of the port ungracefully. Its ashen balloon bulged through the matrix of rigging like fat through fishnet. Not a single kind phrase came to mind when Senlin gazed upon the Stone Cloud, and yet, despite its homely face, he loved it to its bones. It was his ship. He only had to take it.

  Edith met him at the gangplank that sawed back and forth over the drop. Her expression was grim. Behind her, a ramshackle crew of a dozen men hustled to clear the deck, inspected knots, and shoveled pans of coal into the furnace. The gusting wind made a discreet exchange impossible between them, but in response to Senlin’s tentative smile, Edith gave a short, almost desperate shake of her head, then she was abruptly forced to one side by Billy Lee. The Captain gave Senlin his arm and half jerked him over the gulf onto his ship. Senlin hit the deck awkwardly, and had to stagger until he found a surer stance. The ship pitched beneath him.

  “I’m here to sign your manifest,” Senlin said with admirable composure.

  “You’re a curious sot. You never said you were Port Master when I caught you fondling my first mate,” Captain Billy Lee bellowed. His emerald smock flapped against his puffed chest, and his hand rested on the cupped guard of the cutlass at his hip. “But then, you’re much more than you look.”

  “I was hardly fondling her,” Senlin said indignantly and turned to Edith for support. She had an entirely unfamiliar face on now: her teeth showed and her dark eyes caught no light. Disturbed, and a little confused, he turned again to find the tip of Lee’s sword leveled at his nose. Instinctively, Senlin raised his hands.

  “A girl at the Pipe told me all about you this morning,” Billy Lee said and animated his speech with a cursive flourish of his sword. “This sweet little tart said that you were a marked man. I could hardly believe my luck.”

  “A fair-haired woman?” Senlin asked, knowing the answer already.

  “I got the impression she was yapping to anything with a spare shekel and an ear-shaped hole. Everyone else took it for pillow talk, but me, I knew there was something to it.” Billy Lee called over his shoulder, “Bring it out.” A mutt-faced man in a skullcap carried over a small crate. Senlin immediately recognized it. “You’re wanted by the Commissioner. I wonder if this little box doesn’t have something to do with it.”

  Senlin dropped his hands in disgust, which inspired the encircled crew to draw their swords. He’d never seen so much gleaming steel, and certainly had never been the focus of it. He felt like a pincushion. Even Edith had leveled her single-shot pistol at his head; she stood scowling behind the bead. She had warned him of Billy Lee’s treachery, and yet Senlin was more surprised by her aggressive show of loyalty than Lee’s wolfish revelation. At least, he hoped it was only a show. He supposed Edith had little choice but to appear his enemy until the last possible moment.

  “I am the Master of the Port of Goll,” Senlin said, biting the words. “My employer is powerful, influential, and jealous of my time. You are accusing me based on the testimony of a prostitute and the evidence that I have engaged your services to deliver my mail. Is that the size of it?”

  “Of course you would deny it,” Captain Lee said, glancing briefly to one side. His sparse blond beard now seemed to have been pasted on, his uncertainty making him appear young and boastful. The flinch was enough to spur Senlin on.

  “And on this damning proof, you are willing to poison your welcome at this port forever.” Senlin moved his daggering gaze over the rest of the motley and haggard crew. “Do you really think that your lot, this ship, would be allowed to dock at Ginside Port or Erstmeer? Where will you take on fuel in the future? I’m sure a spit-shined dandy like you is probably clutched to the bosom of every
Port Master from the Baths to the bell tower.”

  Immediately, Senlin sensed he had gone too far; he had pricked the young captain’s pride. “Alright. Then we’ll settle it here.” Billy Lee put his curled up boot toe on Senlin’s crate. “Open the box, show us what’s in there. If it has nothing to do with the business of the Commissioner, I’ll say my sorrys, and you can go.”

  It was Senlin’s turn to flinch, though he tried to hide it with outrage. “Are you mad? I am not going to open my private affairs for you to nose through. If this is how you operate, then I will collect my parcel and go.”

  “Oh no, you won’t,” Billy said, straightening his cutlass again to Senlin’s throat. “If it hurts your feelings so much, Bobbit will open it for you.” The dog-faced crewman in the skullcap drew a fat-bladed dagger from his hip. He knelt and began working the point under the lid of the crate. Senlin held his breath.

  The creak of the gangplank startled everyone aboard. Before anyone could recover from their surprise, a dozen of Rodion’s men swarmed onto the ship. They were dressed in the plain breeches and wool coats of stagehands and ushers, though all had flamboyant touches to their clothes: wigs, feathers, scarves, and strings of beads. Where primitive tribes might favor war paint, these men preferred costume jewelry. The effect was bizarre. Regardless of their appearance, their purpose was plain enough: they came with sabers and pistols drawn. The invaders fairly swamped the portside of the ship. Another dozen of Rodion’s men waited on the dock with long-guns level and ready.

  Senlin was relieved by the interruption; he could only hope now that the rest of his plan would unfold peacefully. The ship would be unloaded and the cargo searched, and while everyone was engaged in that tedious business, he and his conspirators, his crew, would make off with the vacated ship. He glanced about for signs of Adam or Voleta but saw none.

  The ship, now over-crowded, began to sink under the new weight. The hull knocked jarringly against the cradle of the slip. Even amid the standoff, everyone had the sense to allow one of Lee’s crew to fire the furnace. The ship lurched back to port level.

  With the ship secured, Rodion boarded, pompous as a duke. He wore a full-length cape, trimmed abundantly in matching black fur. The ivory stocks of twin pistols stood prominently at his belt. Rodion squared his shoulders toward Billy Lee, who seemed amused when he said, “I saw you on stage! You’re the whoreganist.”

  “A comedian,” Rodion said dourly. “If only I’d prepared a joke.” Rodion said, glancing around disdainfully at the weathered fixtures: the chocks, cleats, and hatch rings. “But, I haven’t come for you.” The ostentatious pimp turned to Senlin. “I’ve been having the most fascinating conversation, Thomas. Bring them out.” He signaled one of his men stationed by the gangplank. Two figures were escorted aboard into the swinging, drunk light of the hurricane lamps.

  Senlin made a concerted effort to appear dismayed at Adam’s appearance. Adam, playing his part, was unable to meet Senlin’s gaze. At his side, Voleta’s wild black hair and large features were fairly buried under a shawl that appeared as heavy as a rug. She stared up at Senlin with unblinking, violet eyes.

  “Adam, what have you done?” Senlin blurted.

  Captain Lee interrupted the awkward reunion with gruff indigence. “This is my ship, not a theater. Take your penny opera elsewhere. I’ve changed my mind. I want nothing to do with any of this.” And yet he scooted Senlin’s crate nearer to himself with the heel of his boot.

  Ignoring Billy Lee, Rodion continued with obvious pleasure. “I have had my ears filled with such inspiring rumors about you. I hear you are a fugitive. I hear there may be some reward. I hear you are smuggling treasure.” Rodion put his hand on Adam’s shoulder confidently. “At least, I hope you are, for Adamos’ sake. I’ve promised him that if he delivers me a fortune and proof that you have abused your station and swindled our kind employer, I will release his sister from her contract, though promises aren’t as expensive as little girls.” Rodion said, and pinched Voleta’s cheek. She smiled and giggled gamely and then with one dart of her neck, bit his finger. Rodion recoiled, raised his gloved hand to strike her, but stopped short. “I would miss you so much, Voleta. I need a new bed-warmer.”

  Though he’d been standing in glum defeat a moment before, Adam’s head now snapped around at this. “You will keep your promise, Rodion!”

  “Of course, of course.” He inspected the teeth marks Voleta had left on his leather glove. “But we must finish the play! Too many dramatic questions remain: what is this treasure, and where is it now?”

  “You should know,” Senlin said before he thought the utterance through.

  “Why on earth should I know?”

  “Because you’re conspiring with Commissioner Pound,” Senlin replied, seeing no reason for Rodion to conceal this obvious fact now.

  “No one conspires with the Commissioner! He doesn’t collaborate. He crushes and he takes. No, I’d sooner tell the devil my address than bring myself to the Commissioner’s attention.” Rodion scoffed and his surrounding men took to the signal and laughed in a chorus. “When I turn you over to Pound, it’ll be from a great distance and without negotiation. Let him send along whatever compensation seems fair to him; he’ll get no argument from me.” Senlin was unsettled: if it hadn’t been Rodion who called the Red Hand down on him, then who? Finn Goll must’ve exaggerated his dread of the tyrant.

  His patience at an abrupt end, Captain Billy Lee barked at his crew, “Get these yappers off my ship!”

  “Indeed,” Rodion said, and pivoted about nonchalantly. He drew his pistol in the same casual gesture, and shot Billy Lee just above the pyramid on his tabard. All watched as the cocksure, young captain staggered back three steps and struck the bulwark. He flipped backward into the open air, leaving one boot standing empty on the deck.

  Edith had scarcely opened her mouth and drawn a breath before Rodion wheeled at her and fired his second pistol. The bullet ricocheted off her brass shoulder and struck one of Rodion’s men in the forehead, knocking the feather from his ear and his brains from the back of his head.

  Edith recovered her voice before the man hit the floor. “For Billy!” Her cry cracked with rage. She drew the pistol from a comrade’s belt and leveled it at Rodion. He threw one of his own men in front of her barrel, and the surprised man caught the full blow. The powder flash set his fur stole on fire. Edith drew her sword and charged Rodion. The whoremonger snatched the cutlass from the hand of the burning man, and lifted the blade in time to receive Edith’s first attack.

  Senlin found himself in the middle of a melee. The two sides did not come together neatly like dance partners or the teeth of two gears, as his sparring lessons had suggested they would. Instead, many fled and crashed together, others fought in pairs and gangs, overwhelming and changing targets as randomly as a swarm of bees. Some of Lee’s crew began to fire at the bank of Rodion’s riflemen who stood on the port, and they replied in dreadful kind. The volley of shots shattered the bulwark, severing lines and limbs as they passed over the deck. Wood and gore sprayed the air and caked the floor. A man cried out like a kicked dog. A shot pinged off the furnace and shattered a cabin window. A water barrel burst on deck and its surf ran everywhere underfoot. It was madness.

  Voleta buffeted against her brother’s back, as he retreated from a berserk crewman, the one called Bobbit, who was swinging a fire iron in wild, wide strokes. Adam, though strong from years of hard labor, was having trouble deflecting the heavy fire iron. The rod struck the back of a dueling stagehand, sending him sprawling headfirst into the grate of the ship’s furnace. The stagehand screamed as his hair caught fire, and leapt up to run guttering over the starboard side. His torched head vanished like a shaken-out match.

  Seeing Voleta’s distress, Senlin pulled her from the thick of the battle, up the four stairs to the empty forecastle. Though a deal quieter than the main deck, the forecastle was a dead end, backed only by open air and curdling clouds full of snow. Senlin reg
retted the tactical decision almost at once, but he could see no safe path to the port. A new burst of gunfire sent them both diving to the floor.

  Rodion’s fur-trimmed cape swelled and fell like a great bellows as he fought with Edith. They were evenly matched: each attack was repaid with an equal riposte. Their battling spanned the deck, though their stage was littered with fallen men and the grim confetti of bullets. Rodion’s saber rang against Edith’s steel rapidly, like a butcher sharpening his knife. Even amid his frenzy, Rodion did not forget the precious investment he’d carried to battle. He called to his men, “Catch the girl! Three pieces to the man who catches her alive, and death to the man that slays her.”

  One of Rodion’s stagehands, a keg-chested man in a cornsilk wig, dislodged his saber from a dead man’s back and locked his eyes on Senlin, who stood hunkered atop the forecastle.

  Though he felt like a flimsy partition, Senlin held Voleta behind him and his aerorod before him. He sorted through every piece of advice Iren had given him during their sparring lessons. He felt overly conscious of his feet— were they too far apart; was he standing pigeon-toed? The way he gripped the aerorod felt all wrong. Would he forget his lessons, and swing it like an axe, leaving his center open to any halfhearted lunge? It was too much to hold in his head. It was like the old panic he’d suffered before an exam. All his thorough studying turned to stuffing in his head, and a nervous paralysis descended upon him. He had lost already.

  But then, close behind him, and almost into his ear, Voleta said, “Don’t try to reason with him. Just tap him on the head.” This simple advice called to mind Iren’s essential lesson: Don’t think about it too much.

  The bull in the wig was looking determinedly at Senlin’s legs from the bottom of the stairs, his sword already recoiling to strike at his knees. As soon as the brute touched the bottom step and was in reach, Senlin crowned him, knocking the man’s wig askew.