One need not be royalty to be in high demand. Even the plowman and the dairymaid are thought exotic in the ringdoms of Babel.
—Everyman’s Guide to the Tower of Babel, IV. X
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 tar-paper 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 who 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 whoever 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 dim-wittedness. 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 curtsy. “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, discreetly 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 of 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 mustache. It was the mustache of a pensive but proud character. His shirtsleeves 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 mustachioed man offered his hand. “I am Dr. 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 gentleman 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 dithering. 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’?”
“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 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.