“You mean, it’s a soup?” Voleta interjected. She crossed the room, and the cistern seemed to swell in size. The glass wall of the reservoir towered over her, but even on narrow inspection, the liquid that filled it was a bland and colorless murk.
“No, it’s not a soup, or a pudding, or a gravy. Don’t pretend to be so stupid. I know you had to pretend while you were pinned up in the Steam Pipe, but you don’t have to pretend anymore. Believe me, I’m not going to be intimidated by the intellect of an eighteen-year-old. Now look at it! That is a chemically engineered medium that is able to hold an electric charge.”
“Is that what Mister Winters needs for her arm?”
“Yes, it is.” From under his robes, the Sphinx produced the same silver tuning fork he had used to transform the swarm of butterflies into a rain of ashes. He touched the fork to the hardy spigot at the base of the vat; a bright spark cracked the air. The medium lit up where the current had crossed into it, the red light undulating and flowing outward like an agitated cloud. The glow weakened the further it spread until it paled into nothing at all. “Obviously this is only a reservoir. The medium still must be charged in the electric crèche.”
“The electric crèche? What is that?”
“That’s where lightning is born.”
“Have you ever been struck?”
“By lightning? Of course! How do you wake up in the morning? Shocks are good for the heart.”
“I would very much like to see that,” she said.
Voleta turned to find the Sphinx had taken off her mask.
Chapter Thirteen
“G is for grumble, groan and for grouch: such as the one who is quick to cry, ‘Ouch!’”
- The Unlikable Alphabet, a Primer for Children by Anon.
In her bedroom, which was by far the most luxurious, ridiculous room she’d ever slept in, Iren lay on her back in the middle of the floor.
She hadn’t always been on the bedroom floor. It only felt that way. It had probably been no more than an hour. She could hear the clock in the room, but she couldn’t see it. She tried not to think about the ticking because when she did, she ground her teeth.
Part of her wanted to blame the bed. It was soft to the point of numbness. A hammock had a reliable bottom to it. This bed was a white linen pit.
But it wasn’t the bed that had put her on the floor. Not directly. It was the dream.
In the dream, she had been ancient and feeble. She lived in a hovel with holes in the roof. She seemed to have shrunk. The chains she had once worn as casually as jewelry were now too heavy for her to lift. She had no work, no friends. At night, she could hear men move outside her hut. They peeked in through the holes in her roof. The only reason they left her alone, she knew, was because she had nothing left to steal.
She woke trembling with frustration.
Her intent had been to tire herself out with a little exercise. Sit-ups were a good, quiet exercise, and she could do hundreds. Or, at least, usually she could do hundreds. Tonight, she got as far as fifty-three when a sudden pain in her back speared her to the ground.
It hurt less if she lay perfectly still. It was only a cramp, and cramps were nothing new. But this one lingered. She sincerely hoped her mushy bed was the culprit. Otherwise she would have to blame something worse, something inevitable.
She decided she would give the cramp until morning to go away, and then she would get up if it killed her. No one was ever going to find her lying on the floor of a frilly bedroom, unable to rise. Not Iren, the cracker of hulls, the mule of ships, the hurler of chains. Never.
But one can only lie on the ground seething for so long before the mind begins to wander, and hers wandered to Mister Winters. What would Edith do without her arm if the Sphinx never gave it back? She was resilient enough and brave, and would probably lead a sufficient life, perhaps even a happy one.
But her engine had been so much more than sufficient. It was the perfect arm. It was tough and strong, and it would never grow any weaker, nor slower, nor subject to pain. If it broke, you replaced it.
If it broke, you replaced it.
Iren didn’t notice when she began to grind her teeth again.
That beneath the shroud and mirrored mask, the Sphinx was an aged woman was only the second most surprising thing about the revelation.
The foremost surprise, as far as Voleta was concerned, was the hovering tea tray upon which the Sphinx sat, cross-legged and smiling, it must be said, a little smugly. The floating silver tray stained the hollow inside of the black robe and the floor with a sanguine light. This explained the Sphinx’s gliding gate and his inconsistent height. Her. Her inconsistent height.
A box hung around her neck, the grill of a speaker on the face of it. A voicepipe curved toward her sunken mouth, where a cone caught her words. This contraption, Voleta surmised, was how she disguised and amplified her voice.
The Sphinx’s face was a patch quilt of leathery skin and metal plates. One cheek was copper, the other was a sagging jowl. One eye was a twisting brass loupe. One ear was real, and bore that fleshy voluptuousness unique to the ears of the aged, but the other was a perfect golden shell. Her teeth, which she bared in a great smile, where all made of jewels: diamonds, sapphires, emeralds, and rubies. This shriveled woman, with hair as white and thin as steam, chewed her food with a king’s ransom.
Yet, for all her patches, Voleta clearly saw the character of the woman, and in this, she perceived a kindred spirit.
“You look like you’ve led an interesting life,” Voleta said.
The Sphinx turned the voicepipe away from her mouth. “Several,” she said. Her natural voice was quavering but sharp.
“Can I take a ride on your tea tray?”
“If you’ll answer a question first,” the Sphinx said.
“I was wondering when you’d get around to that. All right. Go on. Do your worst.”
“Is Thomas Senlin conspiring with the hods?”
“Conspiring? The Captain? I shouldn’t think so. Marat locked them up, and they had to fight their way out.”
“A cover perhaps? Were you there when he spoke to Luc Marat?”
“No, I never saw him.”
“Then you don’t know what was said. Did you see him imprisoned?”
“I found them in a cell,” she said, and then after a short deliberation added. “It wasn’t locked at the time.”
“You don’t find that suspicious?”
“I know the Captain. He has scruples. They can be actually quite irritating at times.”
“A scrupulous pirate who has a taste for crumb?” The Sphinx scoffed.
“I didn’t say he was perfect. Why are you so suspicious? He’s the single most harmless man—”
“Harmless? Lee is killed. The Stone Cloud is ruined. My engine is damaged and all the batteries lost, leaving Edith no alternative but to come here, to my home with him in tow. It all seems a tad convenient.”
“‘Convenient’ is the last word any of us would use to describe it. You are paranoid.” Voleta blew her breath on the glass wall of the murky vat and drew a face in the fog.
“I am experienced. You say your captain has principles? Those are easily appealed to and plied. It doesn’t take much of an imagination to guess what Marat might’ve said to convince your Captain that his cause was just. And didn’t he reproach me for my lack of charity toward the hods? Perhaps your captain was converted.” The words came out with a sneer, showing the gleam of a ruby tooth.
“If you mean, has he been affected by the pitiful states of humanity we’ve seen along the way, then yes. Probably. We all have. We’ve been flying along on threads and coal dust, eating pigeons like they were ambrosia and dreaming of a safe place to alight. And here you are, sitting on a flying tea tray like it’s not the most miraculous thing.”
“Every piece of technology I have ever released to the world has been immediately adopted by the murderers and warmongers. Look at how good they have gotten at killing eac
h other with balloons! Imagine what they would do with my tea trays and titans. Now, I would be the first to admit there is trouble and inequity in the world, but freeing the hods is not going to set the Tower aright.”
“I don’t think the hods need liberating.”
“What do you mean?” The Sphinx’s loupe twisted to a more narrow focus.
“They take off their collars and trade their shackles. I can’t imagine why.”
“What else did you see?”
“I saw some of the babblers kill a hod to get at his cargo.”
“What was he carrying?”
“Black powder, about twenty pounds worth.”
“You’re very observant.”
“I am. And I never saw one thing to make me think the Captain is conspiring with anyone. The only plot he’s interested in is the one that takes him back to his wife.” Voleta turned her head to kiss Squit who sat preening on her shoulder.
“And yet, here you all are,” the Sphinx said.
“Here we all are. Now, what about my ride on your tea tray?”
It was seventeen minutes after five o’clock in the morning when the bitter muscle in Iren’s back relaxed at last. She rolled onto her stomach, afraid to breathe too deeply, and very gingerly, pushed herself up to her knees. Rising without bending her back was a challenge, but she managed it, if not gracefully.
She knew it was precisely seventeen minutes after five because she looked the gaudy granddaughter clock in the face when she picked it up with a strangling grip and dashed it upon the floor.
The moment of pique passed, and Iren groaned at the shambles she’d made. She wandered if her temper had always been so short. She was sure she had just woken everyone. Voleta, a light sleeper, was no doubt running to see what all the excitement was about. She always ran towards crashes and bangs, never away.
Iren looked at the door expectantly.
A moment passed and brought no visitors. She began to breathe again.
Since she was completely awake, she decided that she might as well start breakfast.
As a matter of principle, she refused to wear the bathrobe that had come with the room. It was a little small, but very soft and very white. It looked like a bright flag of surrender, a signal to the world that the wearer had chosen to break in their funeral shroud in preparation for its eventual debut. Voleta had seemed to be just as leery of the mummy wrapper the first night she saw it. But the next morning she had come to breakfast in the bathrobe, and she had hardly taken it off since. Which was exactly what Iren was afraid of.
Dressing for the day, Iren cautiously tested her back and was satisfied with the present limits of her flexibility. It ached, but at least it wasn’t petrified.
She snuck into the sitting room, dark except for a sole reading lamp, expecting to have the space to herself.
But Voleta was already in the kitchen, wearing her bathrobe and eating sugar straight from the sugar bowl.
“What are you doing?” Iren said.
“Eating sugar.” She spoke around the spoon in her mouth.
“Didn’t you hear a noise a few minutes ago?”
“No, I just got back— from bed.”
Iren squinted at her. “Back from bed?”
“I mean out of bed. I just got out of bed. Why are we having a morning inquisition? You singe the coffee! I’ll burn the toast!” She stamped the spoon upon the counter and threw open the pantry doors.
Chapter Fourteen
“L is for liar, lip-server, and lout; such as the boy who has more than one mouth.”
- The Unlikable Alphabet, a Primer for Children by Anon.
Voleta had not gotten her ride upon the Sphinx’s tea tray, and she felt a little cheated by it. There had been time of course for the Sphinx to ask her questions, but the minute it was her turn, the Sphinx declared the hour too late to start another adventure, and sent Voleta off to bed.
Tonight, Voleta would make sure there was time for the Sphinx to keep her promise.
She retired early, ostensibly to read, but actually to begin the somewhat tender process of dousing herself with the coconut oil she had taken from the kitchen. The oil made it much easier to squeeze through the ducts, and much less likely that she would be peeled like a potato in the process. The oil had the added effect of soothing the cuts, gouges, and scrapes she had acquired on previous outings.
By the time she was ready, the sitting room outside her door was dark, and all the rooms were quiet. She put on her vagabond nightgown, which was filthy and ragged from crawling through the walls, and wriggled her way through the open vent.
She hadn’t gotten very far when she heard voices. Adam and Edith were talking, their conversation carried by the ductwork as effectively as the speaking tubes of a ship. Voleta turned her head nearer the shaft that led to her brother’s room and listened. She caught her brother’s words first.
“Is she in any danger?” She knew at once he was talking about her. He always had that earnest, weary tone of voice whenever she was the subject.
“Honestly, no, Voleta is too immature and undependable. The Sphinx is looking for reliable, improvable souls.”
“Improvable souls. That doesn’t sound like her.”
It was strange to hear her brother and someone she considered a friend speak so candidly about her. What’s more, Voleta didn’t really identify with the person they were describing. She thought she was generally very dependable, and only immature in her refusal to parrot the ludicrous and sanctimonious behaviors of adults, many of whom were spoiled children at heart. She wasn’t immature; she was self-possessed, for heaven’s sake, and not afraid to tell the bullies off. The fact that she did was evidence that she was improving; she was growing and learning things and pressing against the boundaries of her courage. And the fact that her brother, her own flesh and blood, could not recognize this— well, it hurt her feelings in a way she hadn’t known they could be hurt.
She had already begun to turn away, her ears ringing and her jaw in a knot, when her brother’s voice rang again.
“There’s nothing wrong with Voleta. She’s reliable enough, and certainly goodhearted, and sometimes helpful. I suppose I’d like some reassurance that you won’t put her out on a ledge somewhere.”
“Of course. Never.”
“Not even when she irks you,” her brother said.
“She is part of my crew, Adam, and I am responsible for her.”
Voleta felt like an absolute cad. Not only was she guilty of eavesdropping, but she’d also begun drawing unfounded conclusions about the people who loved her with hardly a moment’s hesitation. Was she really so insecure? Their differences notwithstanding, Adam had always been a faithful brother. She must never take him for granted.
She crawled on, and soon, the familiar voices thinned and melded with the eternal hum of the Sphinx’s home.
The Sphinx waited for her under the piano tree. Voleta was a little surprised to see she had dispensed with the shroud and mirror. Though of course she had. What would’ve been the point of resuming the disguise? Still, it would be a while before the picture of the Sphinx she held in her head matched the reality.
“Before you even say it, my dear, I had Byron put out a tea tray just for you.” The Sphinx swept her arm toward a silver platter propped in one of the fireside chairs.
Approaching it, Voleta was disappointed to discover the tea tray was exactly that, right down to the braided handles and dainty filigree. “How am I supposed to fly on this?”
“I was wondering the same thing,” the Sphinx said and wrung her hands with artificial concern. She showed Voleta the jewelry of her smile.
“I wanted a ride on your—”
“—on my levitator? Don’t be absurd.”
“Oh, don’t look so pleased with yourself. You knew what I meant.”
“I did. And no, you may not ride on my tea tray.”
“You’re going to play it that way, eh?” Voleta set her fists on her hips and cocked her
head. “All right. May I see the lightning?”
“Yes, you may,” the Sphinx said, and her levitator dipped forward to affect a bow.
Voleta liked to think she had a good sense of direction. But the Sphinx’s lair was such a baffling collection of chambers, passages, and elevators she had long since despaired of finding her way back. If the Sphinx ever left her, she’d be helplessly lost.
At least, that was what she wanted the Sphinx to believe.
Voleta had developed a reasonably clear picture of where the major attractions lay in reference to one another. There was some rhyme to the arrangement. The ringdom models were relegated to two levels. Another floor, the one with their apartment, was mostly accommodations, including a most depressing stable. The Sphinx’s experiments and private dwellings were kept on the three floors underneath that, and so on.
Tonight, they were in a new area, which she believed was two levels under the piano tree and fifteen, no sixteen, doors off from the elevating corridor.
“I can hear you counting under your breath,” the Sphinx said, turning on her disc so she could catch Voleta’s eye. Voleta, who’d been murmuring so quietly she could hardly hear herself, was impressed by the acuity of the Sphinx’s golden ear. “Are you planning an escape or some sort of burglary, perhaps?”
Without flinching, Voleta replied, “You would prefer it if I was?”
“Don’t be silly.”
“Yes, I’m counting doors. I don’t like being lost or led around by the nose. Do you? Do you like being lost?”
“No, but I don’t like people muttering behind my back either.”
Voleta threw up her hands. “If you insist.” She pointed at the next door they passed. “Seventeen! I don’t understand your paranoia in the least. You live in an impregnable, secret fortress that’s guarded by an army of obedient machines. According to you, you have an eye in every window and a man in every port. Eighteen! You’re sitting on the tippy-top of the mountain. Everybody beneath you either doesn’t think you exist or is terrified to think that you do. What could I or the Captain or anyone possibly do to hurt you? Nineteen!”
Arm of the Sphinx (Books of Babel Book 2) Page 31
