Arm of the Sphinx (Books of Babel Book 2)

by Josiah Bancroft

  “I imagine you have a copy of the Everyman’s Guide?”

  “All eight volumes,” the doctor said, tugging at the points of his vest. “And the index. How could I have come without them?”

  “What about Tolbert’s Oral History of the Tower?”

  “I own a first edition.”

  “And Franboise’s Anthropologies of Babel?”

  “Of course! And since you’re quizzing me: I also have John Clark’s Reflection on a Pillar and Phillip Borge’s the Stylus of Nations. As I said, I’m no boy in a barrel! I come prepared. I have brought scores of books that elucidate the Tower from every angle, every approach.”

  “Well, I am taking them.”

  “You cannot. I need them; I need them for reference. How am I to know the customs where we alight? How am I to navigate the courts of nobles and the institutions of learning without a guide? You would leave a blind man in a strange forest?”

  “I would send a blind man back home,” Senlin said, trying for calm amid the doctor’s growing distress. “This may be difficult to believe, but I am saving you and your daughter from disaster. The Tower you expect to find and the one that stands just there outside your sills are not twins but opposites. I was like you once. I came to the Tower expecting to improve my knowledge of the world. But truth is not something the Tower parts with gladly. Certainly none of it seeped into those treacherous guides and philosophies.”

  “Please don’t insult me! If they’re so valueless, why steal them? No, you are pleading with your own conscience here, and I won’t let you use me to assuage your guilt. I opened my door to you. I extended my hand, and this is my reward?” The doctor’s collar strained about his swelling neck. He raised his chin to Senlin, standing nearly on the toes of the Captain’s boots. “You are a thief. A pirate! And like any pirate, you were not born to the life; you were driven to it by your own cynicism. You act as if you deserve enrichment at my expense, and then you have the audacity to excuse this, this—narcissism with the feeble assurance that you are doing me a favor?”

  “Believe me, if you approach Pelphia, you will be shot down.”

  “Bah! You pose as some sort of scholar, reciting book titles and speaking of knowledge. But what sort of scholar goes around ruining and changing his name? A charlatan, that’s who!”

  A short cry sounded from a room in the house, and the doctor lurched toward the door, crying, “Nancy! Nancy! Don’t you lay a hand on her!”

  Senlin caught him by the shoulders before he could leave, and the panicked doctor wheeled about and slapped Senlin fiercely on the cheek.

  The blow sobered the doctor more than it hurt Senlin, who merely exercised his jaw and tightened his grip on the Pencastle’s shirt. When their eyes met again, the doctor saw in the pirate captain’s gaze a challenge he did not feel ready to meet, and his posture softened.

  For his part, Senlin found the doctor’s argument convincing. He had tried to remain as he was and become only what he must. He had tried to be the gentleman pirate, the scholarly cad, and had failed on both counts. Perhaps his stubborn duplicity had contributed to his sickness, had stoked his tormenting visions.

  Senlin didn’t know whether he wanted to congratulate the doctor on his diagnosis or throttle him for the insult.

  Nancy rushed into the room, followed closely by Iren and Edith, both carrying sacks that bulged with the corners of books. “Please, please,” Nancy said through tears, clutching a thick little book, “don’t take my diary. It is my confidant; it is my little soul. Take the silver! Take the china! Please leave my book.”

  Her pleading pierced Senlin. He dropped his hold on her father. “I’m sorry we have traumatized you. You may keep your book, Nancy.”

  “I’m sure my daughter is much consoled. Don’t pretend you have been reasonable. This is not reason. This is violence!”

  “It is exasperation,” Senlin said, looking sick with loathing and anger.

  “You robber! You bully! I don’t believe you were ever anything else.”

  Edith stepped forward briskly and boxed the man on the ear. “That’s enough,” she said as Pencastle swung back around, cradling his ear. “Just because you don’t recognize mercy doesn’t mean you haven’t been shown it.”

  “But why must he take my books?” the doctor pleaded, his chin gleaming with spittle, his composure utterly shattered.

  “Because the Tower has asked for them,” Senlin said.

  Chapter Ten

  “In the natural world there are two varieties of awe: the carnal awe associated with reproduction, and the hypnotic awe experienced by the prey of certain predators, such as the stoat.

  “After years of observation, I am still not sure which variety of awe the Tower inspires.”

  - Reflections on a Pillar, John Clark

  Voleta Boreas had never been one for daydreams or idle reflection. Why anyone would pretend to be elsewhere when there was so much of the present to experience was an absolute mystery to her. She disliked sleep, too, for similar reasons. Sleep was like an eclipse: an unsettling interruption of a perfectly good day. She did nap, but only in precarious spots, on rails, prows and in the rigging, because it was impossible to sleep deeply while balanced on an edge. She was vigilant, tireless and constantly seeking novelty.

  In short, she was the perfect lookout.

  From the moment they had alighted from the port of Goll, she had made it her business to keep the crew of the Stone Cloud safe from ambush. She possessed a singular talent for peering into the gnat-swarm of merchants, cruisers, warships, and tourists and identifying trouble while it was still distant and evadable.

  Spotting pirates was an art. Just as any shell could be home to a hermit crab, any ship could be a pirate ship. (They were proof enough of that!) Despite the insistence of countless adventure stories, pirates never flew black banners or boney flags. They often looked quite innocent. The only reliable way to separate the pirates from the law-abiding public was to mark their course. Ships that prowled in circles, or shadowed other ships, or leapt rapidly between currents made her suspicious. If such a vessel ever veered to intercept the Cloud, Voleta would call for a course change, and they would escape before the trap could be sprung.

  Though it wasn’t just pirates she had to worry about.

  A trail of looted merchants lay in their wake, any of which might like a crack at them. And then there was the Ararat, the Commissioner’s flagship, which carried enough guns to decapitate a mountain.

  The Captain was convinced Commissioner Pound would stop at nothing to get his stolen painting back, and he extolled Voleta on a near daily basis to keep an eye out for the dreadnaught. She needed little goading to be vigilant; they were all well acquainted with Pound’s brutal tactics. He had sunk an innocent merchant and devastated an entire port just to get at the Captain.

  Early in their voyage Voleta had asked why they didn’t just sell or dump the painting since it was such a trouble. The Captain replied, “I would throw it overboard in an instant if I thought it would make an end to the Commissioner’s chase. But, unhappily for us, the painting is both a repellent and a lure. Pound won’t blast us from the sky so long as he thinks we have it, but neither will he call off his pursuit until he has pried it from our grasp.”

  Fortunately for them, the Ararat cast a unique silhouette— like a pillbox hanging from three black plums— which made it easy to identify. The Stone Cloud, on the other hand, was innocuous and easily overlooked. Voleta had spent many hours on the soft crown of the ship’s envelope seated in a dimple of warm silk, watching the skies for that awful profile. She had spotted the Ararat in the distance on several occasions, and they had taken the precaution of ducking inside a cloud for a few hours. The evasions had become almost routine.

  Yet, today was far from routine. Today, for the first time in memory, Voleta daydreamed.

  It was Squit’s fault. The squirrel loved to be chased, and Voleta loved to oblige her, especially when everyone else aboard was in
a foul mood, which they inexplicably had been since returning with sacks of books from the flying cottage. While the rest of the crew grumped below, Voleta pursued the flying squirrel through the rigging.

  For nearly a half hour, Squit eluded her with ease. After a great deal of effort, Voleta managed to herd the wily thing onto the top of the envelope. The squirrel’s paws drummed across the balloon like fingers on a tabletop. Voleta reached for her, but rather than retreat, Squit darted forward, ran up her sleeve, popped out her collar, and tickled up her neck into her hair. It felt like an electric jolt had run up her arm and out the top of her head.

  Exhausted and exhilarated, she threw herself down onto the voluminous mattress. Squit curled into a ball inside her tresses and quickly fell asleep. Voleta lay in a daze, staring up at the naked sky.

  She wondered how long Squit had been in the little rattan crate she had liberated her from. Days? Months? Had she been bred or had she been captured? Voleta pictured the tender creature pacing back and forth for hours, bumping her head against the same limit like the pendulum of a clock. How had she not gone mad or lame? Voleta imagined herself shrunken down to the size of the squirrel. She imagined digging at the floor of the crate, digging until her fingers bled and the board was stained and gouged, digging until that exercise was all she had and all she was, digging without hope of escape.

  She saw Rodion, her old ringmaster and pimp, standing over her in the dark while she pretended to sleep in her cot. The other girls slept in big, plush beds with fine linen sheets, but they had to share them with horrible men who seemed to be digging at the floors of their own hidden cages… She did not envy those girls. Her own cot, tucked in a corner of her changing room backstage at the Steampipe, was a privilege of her stardom. But her fame did not protect her from Rodion’s lust. She knew what he was thinking as he lurked in her room because he had often told her of his vile dilemma. He’d say, “I can’t decide if I should sell you or spend you myself.”

  She had lay listening to him pant for hours.

  Then a familiar shape broke through the glaze of memory, and she realized she was staring insensibly, blindly at the Ararat.

  She could not believe it. She stuck out her arm, blocking the fortress-like gondola with her thumb and then blinked her eyes back and forth, calculating the distance: half a league. Impossible. The rim of the ship sparkled where helmets, guns and grappling hooks refracted the sunlight.

  The Ararat was preparing for battle.

  They had been spotted.

  *

  Knowing that the Ararat would not immediately blow them from the sky was cold comfort. The crew of the Stone Cloud would be spared a guttering meteoric death only because Pound meant to cripple and board their ship.

  Senlin knew the Commissioner was a vindictive sort. Pound had taken great personal satisfaction in seeing Tarrou, a once beloved fixture of his galas, publically shamed, beaten, and condemned to the life of a hod. And Tarrou had just been a little tardy on his bills. Senlin had burgled and humiliated the tyrant. Their fate would be far worse than slavery, of that he was certain.

  Senlin was resolved to preserve his crew from capture and torture at the hands of the Commissioner. If that meant scuttling the ship and killing all aboard, he would. He couldn’t say whether this determination was cowardly or merciful. He tried not to dwell on it.

  “It’s coming on us fast,” Edith said, shielding her eyes. The Ararat had the sun behind it. The Stone Cloud hung unprotected in the glare. “Up or down, Captain?”

  He finished buttoning his coat and straightened his tricorne as if it were the rudder of his thoughts. The sky was spotless. It was the sort of crystalline day that precedes summer, the sort of day that would’ve once transfixed his students, ruining even his best lesson. Now, as then, he would’ve paid any sum for a cloud.

  There was nowhere to hide, except the pinnacle shroud of the Tower, the so-called Collar of Heaven, which was by all reports a lethal fog. It was far too distant for them to reach in time anyway. No, they had to descend. The Ararat could keep pace with them in a descent, of course, but Senlin suspected the big warship would not be able to rebound and climb again as swiftly. If he could get the Ararat to pursue them to a shallow enough altitude, the Commissioner’s dreadnaught might even be driven into the ground. The Stone Cloud would play the matador’s cape.

  “Mr. Boreas, close the flue and open the vents. We’re going down. How much ballast can we spare?”

  “The tank is full,” Edith said. “Otherwise, we’re running light. We may have to jettison the furniture.”

  “This will be exciting,” he said. “Voleta, Iren, get your hatchets. You’re on line duty. If they get a hook in us, cut it loose.”

  “Aye, sir,” Voleta said but didn’t move. None of them did. They stood as if bolted to the deck, staring over his head at the closing warship.

  The Ararat shared one thing in common with the ships of tourists: it looked nothing like a boat. The ship’s designers had rejected any fanciful homage to a nautical cousin in favor of a more utilitarian and fearsome design. It was a castle: crenelated, hatched for gunners, and possessed of a drawbridge door. It was as black as tar, but beneath that lacquer stood the bones of a forest— hundreds of trees had been stripped and bent and banded together into a hull so toughened it could rebuff a five-pound cannonball. Its belligerent size made it capable of driving another ship into a wall or hammering it to the ground. It couldn’t be fended off, and once seized by its hooks, it could not be escaped.

  Senlin stamped the deck with his aerorod. His sometimes map, sometimes club rang like a gavel. Everyone startled at the noise.

  “Where is my crew?” he said, searching their eyes that turned and shied and blinked. “Where are the brave souls who once drove off the Ararat without a ship or a single cannon to assist them? Where is that audacious gang who shrugged off their masters and reclaimed their right to pursue their will and whim? This company of mercenaries we face today fight for nothing. They stand for a wage. They stand for ambition, for promotion, for medals on their breast. They fight for a man who commands no respect, a man who must wear a mask because he is allergic to the world. He hides because he is afraid— afraid of us, and well he should be! We fight to be free, and we war for one another. Our friendship makes us dangerous; we take courage in our fidelity. So, I ask again: where is my crew? Where is my crew?”

  His speech broke the plaster of fear that had hardened about their hearts and limbs. They sprang to the helm and the rails. Iren uncrated their motley collection of weapons, their cutlasses and sabers, pistols and muskets. Voleta fetched the line axes and refilled the coal pail, while her brother studied the barometer and anemometer at his station, divining from those antique instruments how far they could fall before the ground would catch them. Edith sealed the hatches and locked the Great Cabin, and then set about helping Iren load the guns with swift and steady hands.

  There was a fluttering sensation in Senlin’s stomach as the ship began the aggressive descent. The wind whistled up about them and the lines groaned with the lightened load. Adam was a reliable pilot, but even so the drop felt a little too precipitous. Senlin hoped he hadn’t cheered the young man into recklessness.

  Below, the Market looked like the cross-section of a lung: the branching aisles, the dense tissue of tarps and tents, and the wider passages of the railroad divided and forked and halved again. Their descent had set them in a sluggish southern current, and the Ararat, on a higher, fleeter draft, was moving quickly to overshadow them. Watching the birds swoop and flock between the narrowing ships, Senlin waited for any sign that the wind was changing in their favor. He saw none. He wished they were a bird, turning and climbing as they pleased, rather than this tumbling leaf!

  “It was a fine speech, Tom, a classic bit of rhetoric. You could’ve been a statesman if you weren’t such a sentimental fool,” the specter of Marya said from his side. Her cheeks were flushed and her mouth full as if she’d just drunk somethin
g that was very hot. She petted him as she spoke. “But you can’t talk the wind into changing. There’s really nothing else to be done now.”

  He was disturbed to see she had begun to saw at one of the thick jute cords that tethered the ship to the hydrogen envelope. He recognized the knife. It belonged in a drawer in the kitchen of his cottage; it was his knife, a knife that he’d used to scale fish and slice fruit. The jute frayed as she worked. “You promised you’d keep them from falling into the Commissioner’s lap. Keep your promise. Grab a knife, Tommy, and start sawing. We’re running out of sky.”

  “Please. Please leave me alone. I can’t—” Senlin said in a strangled whisper.

  “Oh, so you can hear me?” She stopped sawing for a moment and considered his face, wrinkled from pleading. “This is your good knife. You scolded me for using it to trim the broom, once. Do you remember that? You treated me like a child. I wasn’t your wife, really. I was a pupil. We should face that fact together. It was all a little sick, what you did, Headmaster Senlin, taking a wife from your class roll.”

  “Please!” he hissed. “I am sorry. I will tell you how sorry I am in a little while. But please, leave me alone for today. I want to save us, and I cannot, I cannot, if you’re here. You will kill me.”

  The wind scraped at them. The deck quivered. She turned the point of the knife on one fingertip and gave him a speculative look. “I like it when you talk to me, Tom. But you have to promise to do it more often. One day. I’ll give you one day. If you ignore me later, I’ll be very cross.”

  “If I ignore you, it will be because I am dead,” Senlin said, glancing about before he locked eyes with the figment and said, “I promise. We will talk tomorrow.”

  Voleta, who leaned out from the rigging, called down some alarm that was gobbled up by a gust, and Senlin looked away. When he glanced back, Marya was gone.