Arm of the Sphinx (Books of Babel Book 2)

by Josiah Bancroft

  “No, not a romance,” Marya said, drawing a fingernail lightly down his cheek. “Old mother hen sits upon an empty nest.”

  “Shut up!” Senlin snapped. Marya evaporated like a splash of water upon a hot stove.

  Iren’s wide-eyed expression of shock pierced him, and he quickly washed the words from the air with a wave of his hands. “Do not talk like that, like our lives are published and done, as if we cannot change. You are in the prime of your life.”

  “Either the flies are speeding up, or I’m slowing down.” A distant caw drew their attention to the window, and through it they observed a spatter of black stars cross the white sky. They watched the constellation of birds dissolve into the sun’s glare in silence. “She’s not like us,” Iren said firmly. “I would very much like to keep it that way.”

  Senlin reached across the table to touch her arm. The amazon began to recoil, but stopped. She let his hand remain. “Iren, you are the only reason I haven’t slipped and fallen on my sword. I am alive because of you. That is one and only one of the many admirable things you have done with your life. You are an example of courage and experience, which I have benefitted from, and which I know Voleta benefits from, too. She is better off in your company than out of it.”

  Senlin could see her expression begin to harden again like a lake in winter. The moment of tenderness was ending. “Perhaps,” she said.

  “We just need to find a better way for you to express your feelings than hiking men through walls.”

  “Ayesir,” she said. “May I be excused?”

  “Of course.”

  Once she was gone, Senlin reflected on her confession with a mixture of relief and worry. The fact that Voleta held so much sway over Adam and Iren might one day pose a problem. The girl might split the crew. Conversely, if ever their inhospitable circumstances began to fray their spirits, she might be the binding that held them all together.

  Feeling disquieted, he turned to his research for distraction if not comfort. He consulted the ribs of his aerorod, and began to study a ringdom he'd dismissed in the past as a defunct and unapproachable port: the Silk Reef.

  According to the works in Billy Lee’s modest library, the Silk Reef was once a splendid park and silk farm. Before decay and rumor had rechristened it the Silk Reef, it had been known as the Silk Garden. The silk it produced was unparalleled in strength and lightness and was the preferred material among the elite makers of airship envelopes—

  A violent drumming on the cabin door startled him from his research. Before the rattle had left the hinges, Edith charged into the room. He came to his feet, readying himself for news of some new calamity, but she made no announcement. In fact, she hardly looked at him. She stamped about in a circle as if looking for somewhere to spit.

  “Well, Mister Winters, what does half a dozen beats on my door signal?” Senlin said. “An argument, I suppose.”

  He said it in jest, but the years she had spent managing foremen and field bosses had left her sensitive to patronization. Her subordinates had often resorted to mockery since they could not defy her openly. When she brought up a botched job a foreman didn’t wish to take credit for, he might loudly ruminate on a woman's aptitude for melodrama. He might call her “miss” or “girl” or, woe-unto-him, “dolly.”

  Fighting to contain her misplaced ire, she cleared her throat and said, “How are you?”

  Senlin could not imagine a more baffling question. To bolt into a room, red-faced and seething, only to propose weak small talk seemed the height of absurdity. He chuckled, and this tweaked her last nerve.

  She spoke in a furious rush: “Why would you hide the fact that you're seeing things? Not just things, but your lost wife. No wonder you can't hold a conversation or finish a thought. You’re addled! You pretend to be with us, but you are not. You're off with her. And perhaps you can’t help it, perhaps it is the Crumb poisoning you still, but you should not have hidden it from me.”

  At first, Senlin's gaze darted about like a man absorbing an ambush. His natural guilt nearly propelled him into a blubbering apology, but he was momentarily diverted by a different revelation. “You read my journal.”

  “It's not a journal, Tom! It’s the ship's log. It is a public document.”

  “That—” he began in a shout, and immediately realized he had no defense. Moreover, he had no sense of why he’d personalized something so procedural. He hadn’t set out to turn the log into his confessor. In the beginning, he just felt compelled to explain the reasoning behind some of his more… unusual orders. That explanation required he disclose his intention to dock in Pelphia, and that required him to relay some details about Marya. The rest of the confession, the fact that his lost wife haunted him, had just slipped out. “That is a valid point,” he concluded mildly.

  “Is she here now? Is she in the room with us?”

  “Yes.” His expression was as inscrutable as spilled ink. “She is not always with me. The torment ebbs and flows.” He glanced at Marya seated across the table from him. Marya, donning her red sun helmet, gave a coquettish wave. “Presently it flows.”

  Edith chewed and swallowed a few passionate words. She reminded herself that he was not just the captain. He was her friend. And as her friend, he was suffering. The recriminations could wait for the moment.

  She took a deep and composing breath. “What is she doing?”

  “Tell the hussy I'm playing the bassoon,” Marya said.

  “She's calling you names.”

  “Which ones?”

  “I’d rather not say.”

  “Is she usually like that, your wife?”

  “No, not at all.”

  “Has it gotten any better?” Edith slid into the chair Marya occupied.

  “I’d call it ‘wedded bliss,’ wouldn’t you?” Marya said, sliding out to make room. She threw an arm around Edith’s neck and put on a conspiratorial smirk, as if she and Edith were old friends. Senlin wanted to clutch his head and run from the room.

  “Not really,” he said.

  Edith looked him squarely in the eyes. “Has it gotten any worse?”

  He did not glance away. “No, it’s about the same. I’m still hopeful I’ll improve. The overdose can’t last forever.”

  “Hopeful,” she said in a tone that seemed to oppose the word. She was not without sympathy, but his secrecy had left her feeling a little betrayed.

  She tried to think of a question that would give her some clearer sense of his state of mind without making it seem like an inquisition. “Do you talk to her, to your ghost?”

  “No, I've made a concerted effort not to converse with the figment.”

  Frowning at the offense, Marya stamped over to his wardrobe. She threw open the doors and dove her arms inside. To Edith’s eye, nothing shifted in the room. He alone witnessed the geysers of silk robes and bedding she flung into the air.

  He tried his best to appear unperturbed. “Will you tell the crew?”

  “How can I? If I told them, I would… I would have to take command,” she said.

  Senlin nodded at this as if the statement were an unmanageable but anticipated bill. He knew what course his affairs would take if he were deposed. He would be an obligation at first, then a hardship, and then he’d become a millstone cracking the necks of his once-crew. His farcical quest for his lost wife would end. The ghost of Marya would haunt him into madness. Eventually, the crew would have no choice but to strand him upon some dire crag, and seek a better future for themselves.

  The self-pity of this vision was as repugnant to him as it was visceral. He shook his head and said again, “Will you tell them?”

  “No,” Edith said cautiously. “I don’t think they'd follow me. They still have a lot of warm feelings for you, Tom. I told you when we started: I don't want to be captain. But I also don't want to die. If you're seeing devils, then you're a danger to us all.”

  “Yet, while bedeviled, I have kept the crew fed. I have kept the ship whole. I may be haunt
ed, Edith, but I am not defective.” Senlin said, rallying some pride. “You say the crew is still with me, but what about you?”

  “It’s not a question of loyalty; it’s a question of leadership. We seem to be wandering about, waiting for a miracle, and I’m not sure it’s coming, Tom. How long must we tread air and wait?” She realized she was saying too much. She was putting herself and the crew between Senlin and his wife, which was not fair. And yet the impropriety of it did not make her concerns any less legitimate.

  “Someone has to lead,” she said as neutrally as she could.

  “And it will be me. I have found a way into Pelphia. I know where we must go and what we must do. Our days of wandering over the desert are almost at an end.”

  He related what he’d learned from Madam Bhata about the Silk Reef and the mystic-zealot, Luc Marat. He told her of Bhata’s advice that Pelphia could be reached through the tunnels the hods used, and that they only needed books to bribe Marat into showing them the way.

  “You’re going to give him our books?”

  “Our books?” he said, picking up one of his inherited aeronautical texts. “No, no, no, if we lose these, we’ll be left fumbling in the dark. They’re essential to our navigation, and besides, there aren’t enough of them to fill a school bag. They wouldn’t make much of a peace offering.”

  “So, where do we get more?”

  This was the question that had troubled him since he had crawled out of Madam Bhata’s web. He sensed where the question would lead, and he didn’t want to follow it to its conclusion. But it couldn’t be helped. The fact was, they were now entirely without refuge, and the sky was rapidly shrinking now that Captain Mudd’s game was known. They couldn’t pretend to be half-pirates anymore. They couldn’t afford to be patient, and they hadn’t the resources to be daring.

  There was only one type of vulnerable target that reliably carried books: the ships whose captains had been inspired by the literature to come to the Tower.

  He knew what they must do, and he had no illusions about what it meant. He would not be the same man when he met his wife again.

  He said, “We’re going to rob a tourist.”

  Chapter Nine

  “One need not be royalty to be in high demand. Even the plowman and the dairymaid are thought exotic in the ringdoms of Babel.”

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

  Senlin, Edith and Iren crowded on the narrow porch of the picturesque cottage. Blue and purple pansies, frozen by the mountain passage, thawed in window boxes under painted shutters. The jute welcome mat underfoot was clean and squared to the door, and the brass knocker was so polished it beaded with the midday light.

  Senlin had to fight the urge to take off his hat.

  He knocked again, and they listened to the sound of someone— two someones— trotting back and forth inside. Beneath the pressed-tin house number, someone had drawn in a fine cursive: “Seventeen Locust Lane.”

  Iren’s harpoon had passed halfway through one of the porch’s posts. At the end of the tether, the Stone Cloud bobbed, looking no larger than a kite. The Seventeen Locust Lane was an uprooted chalet, rigged to a quilted sack that was fired by a tarpaper duct running from the chimney. To call the thing a ship was quite generous. Beleaguered as his own vessel was, at least Senlin could take pride in the fact that it would never be confused for a flying tearoom.

  Most tourists were easy to pick out. Their ships were cobbled and converted, pasted and pinned together. They rode in gondolas that had once been hay wagons, brewers vats, and bathtubs. Once, Senlin had seen a tourist flying on a living horse that dangled under a balloon in a harness. The horse looked entirely humiliated and a little airsick.

  For every hobbyist that made it over the mountain range, a dozen others were rebuffed by the wind or done in by the cold. The ones who lasted long enough to break upon the Valley rarely survived long. Most fell victim to pirates. The stouter tourists soon discovered no port would have them, and they had no choice but to crash land in the Market or worse: begin the mortifying, and still perilous, voyage home.

  Senlin had always made a point of leaving these intrepid, albeit misguided, souls alone. It seemed poor sport to harass such defenseless dreamers.

  But that was before Captain Mudd had made a name for himself; that was before a stack of books was all that stood between him and his wife.

  It was taking too long for whomever it was inside to answer the door, and the delay had begun to make him nervous. Visions of a loaded cannon being wheeled around danced in his head. He was about to direct Iren to break the door in when it flew open on its own accord, startling them all.

  The woman in the doorway had a waist as slender as a sheaf of wheat. Her hair was rolling and golden, and she wore a pinafore that evoked a pastoral innocence so intense, he nearly mistook it for dimwittedness. She had a serene, slim face that made her age hard to guess, but Senlin supposed she was perhaps twenty-five years old. She had a pleasant smile and a better curtsey. “Please, come in,” she said. “We were just sitting down to tea.”

  Surprised by this cordial reception, the trio of pirates filed silently into the cottage. Iren, who’d been holding her chain belt like a garrote, discretely rewrapped the weapon about her waist. The interior reminded her of Finn Goll’s home, and something about that association made her feel a little ashamed for what they were preparing to do.

  The parlor had paintings on the walls and candlesticks on the mantel and many other domestic touches that signaled it had been a home long before it had become a ship. A worn but colorful rug lay under the rustic dining set, which held an heirloom teapot, cups, and a pristine doily skirt. At the head of the table in the highest-backed chair sat a man with a plump and dark moustache. It was the moustache of a pensive but proud character. His shirt sleeves were starched, his vest fitted, and his watch chain gold. He seemed accustomed to pleasantries and respect.

  “Nancy, I see you have found some company,” he said, rising from his seat with practiced poise. Senlin had heard him and the woman dashing about a moment before, preparing both the tea and this reception, and so it seemed a funny piece of theater to feign such composure now. Though of course it wasn’t theater: it was polite society, a thing Senlin had almost entirely forgotten. Still, he knew what to do when the moustachioed man offered his hand. “I am Doctor Louis Pencastle from Milford.”

  “Captain Thomas Senlin from Isaugh.”

  “Captain Senlin?” Edith said.

  “Oh, there’s no point in lying. I know Milford. It’s only two hours by train from my old stoop.”

  The Doctor looked confused, though he did not pull his hand from Senlin’s too quickly. “And I know Isaugh. But what is all this about lying?”

  “I’ve made my name something of a liability. So I often go by another.”

  “Well. Travel does strange things to a man, I suppose,” Dr. Pencastle said affably. “Whoever you are, wherever you hail from, you are our first visitors, and so we welcome you to join us for tea.”

  “That is quite generous. But I’m sorry, we can’t stay long.”

  “Come, come! You staved my porch with your anchor. You can drink a cup of tea,” he said, spreading his arms toward the slim woman who had already begun to pour. “Besides, we are celebrating. We are at the end of a long journey. This afternoon, we’ll be tying up in a Tower port for the first time.”

  “Which port?” Iren asked, and though she wasn’t trying to be particularly gruff, her voice was enough to make the woman flinch, as if something had just been thrown very near her head.

  “New Babel.” The older gentlemen said, making a good show of addressing Iren without cowering, though no one would have blamed him if he had. “There is a thriving industry there, which I have reason to believe includes the production of a formidable narcotic called Chrom. Since I read of it, I have imagined all sorts of possible applications for such a drug, from surgery to toothaches.”

  “New Babel
will eat you alive.”

  “Much as a city of any size might devour an unmindful visitor, I’m sure. And, we haven’t decided for certain on our destination. We might dock in Pelphia. I’ve read that travelers can expect quite a fine reception there,” Pencastle said.

  Senlin bit down on a smirk, but not before the doctor recognized the pitying expression. “Oh, don’t mistake me; I’m not reckless, Captain Senlin. I am not one of those lads who jumps in a barrel and flies to the Tower to find fortune and fame. I am a physician of twenty years. Last week I removed my shingle from a thriving practice, and I did so for the express purpose of furthering my education. I have read of the many innovations in medicine unique to the Tower. I have come to learn for the benefit of my patients and my peers. I am determined to go home a better man than I came.”

  “I once shared a similar aspiration,” Senlin said. “But I think you may be surprised by how swift and morbid your education will be. You and your wife—”

  “Oh, no, no, this is my daughter,” the doctor said.

  Flustered by this mistake, which seemed to reveal much about his own character, Senlin apologized to the blushing and downcast young woman. “I’m so sorry for the error. My eyesight is poor. I’m sure you are a lovely and youthful and…”

  “Tom,” Edith interrupted his ditheration. She removed the square of burlap that had been tucked in her belt and shook the sack open. “I think it would be kinder if you just got to the point.”

  “Yes,” he said and composed himself. “I’m afraid I’m going to need to borrow some books.”

  Senlin gave Iren and Edith a discreet signal. The two left the parlor to go through the other rooms in the house. Nancy ran after them saying, “Oh, I’ll show you my room.”

  “What is this?” the doctor said, marching from foot to foot, trying to decide whether to stay and reason with the visitor in his parlor or chase after the two aeronauts taking liberties with his home. “What do you mean ‘borrow my books?’”