“I’m trying to be nice,” Iren said, rolling her head and squeezing her eyes shut.
“Well, thank you. To my point! There are many men in the Basement who spend all day pumping water on these machines called beer-me-go-rounds. The name says it all, really; the men pump and are paid a pitiful amount of bad beer. Even so, there is never a shortage of men willing to pump, and there are dozens of beer-mes, so amounts of water are being drawn every hour from the deep wells under the valley.”
“I don’t care,” Iren said.
“In the Parlor, people pay to roam around in costumes, acting important, and bickering, sometimes with swords. For this privilege, they must do two things: pay, which is diabolical, and work. The real task of the ‘visitor’ is to keep the fires stoked. The whole thing is an elaborate means of making and maintaining fires to produce heat, and cheaply so. The pumped water is heated inside the chimneys through what must be the most esoteric system of plumbing in the history of the world. The heated pipes run all throughout the Parlor, up to the Baths, where they converge into a single source. The Baths act as both a regulator of heat and pressure. Excess steam is vented, and tourists pay to romp in the byproduct of this immense engine.”
Iren scowled now, though he recognized it as her thinking-scowl. “Spit it out.”
“We think of the Tower as an attraction or a market, but it’s neither. It is an engine. The whole bottom four ringdoms are just a single, immense dynamo. Water, fire, steam, and then it turns into spark here, in New Babel!” Senlin held up his hands, as if to receive applause. Iren continued to hunker before him like an implacable toad. He dropped his hands in exasperation. “Where does all that energy go? A small amount trickles out locally to gross, dim bulbs and static overflows, yes, but think of it: hundreds of thousands, perhaps millions of men and women are working tirelessly to produce an energy that is not for them. So, who built it? Who is it for? What are they doing with all this power? Why are we paying for it and suffering to make something that does not help us— that in fact enslaves us?”
Iren’s eyes scanned back and forth as she considered this. Though uneducated, she was far from unthinking, and Senlin knew she was capable of grasping the intrinsic injustice of what he’d revealed. He was disappointed by her conclusion, which began with a full-chested sigh. “So what?” she said at last. “It’s unfair. The Tower is crooked. The sky is black. So what?”
“So we stop acting like it’s not.” Senlin said, and in a rush of foolhardy earnestness, reached across the carpeted foot well and set his hand on her thick wrist. She could’ve easily broken his hand, but she let it lay where it was. “We run away.”
She gave a silent toothy leer at this, the expression suggesting she’d just recollected a private joke. Senlin felt the coach jostle onto rougher cobble and turn first one way then quickly another. “I like you,” she said. “You don’t give up, even when you should. I don’t think you’re wrong about the Tower. I like your theory. It’s funny. It’s maybe true. But…” and here, she leaned back, and squared her shoulders, causing the lustrous paneling to creak behind her. “The last time I took this ride, I strangled a Port Master and threw his body from the port.”
A slight tremor awoke in Senlin’s arm, and he felt the flesh pimple up and grate against his sleeve. “Is that what happens next?”
“Next, you talk to Goll about the money you’ve been stealing. I really hope you can charm him. If anyone can talk their way out, it’s probably you. But I wouldn’t tell him about your theory. He likes to be the one telling theories.”
“Well. Thank you for that, and for your honesty. For what it’s worth, I think you’ll do a fine job strangling me.” His delivery did not quite match his cavalier pronouncement.
“If it comes to that, I hope you fight back. You’ve learned a lot. You were getting better. You don’t lunge about as much. Lunging is bad. Keep your feet under you as long as you can. Be patient when you fight. Stand your ground.”
“I will,” Senlin said with rediscovered calm. He looked at his hand, and the tremor in his arm ceased as if it were a blown out candle.
The carriage rocked to a stop, and when Iren opened the door, Senlin saw only darkness outside. The city had vanished: its coal stink and mechanical racket; its fog, thick as dreams; and its horde of lonely hearts— all gone. Iren exited the carriage and cracked her back. The driver passed an oil lantern down to her that was hardly brighter than a match. It occurred to him that he did not know where he was. If she planned to murder him, she could hardly have chosen a more private and obscure place to do it.
“Come on, Thomas Senlin,” Iren said. “It’s a short walk.”
Chapter Fifteen
“I can’t stop thinking about that cocky, yellow-haired woman who tried to blackmail me. She must’ve felt so very clever. She really believed she’d make a fortune off of me and redeem her life. It wasn’t a bad plan. But she was doomed by insignificance and ignorance and hope. And it may be no different for me.”
- Every Man’s Tower, One Man’s Travails by T. Senlin
Senlin could see nothing beyond the bubble of orange light. An impatient echo answered the clomp of their boots. He felt buried in the dark, and miles away from anything familiar. Fifty paces in, they came upon a wall that was smooth as wet sand and set with a black iron door. Iren hung her lamp on a peg and pulled a ring of skeleton keys from under her leather apron. She cycled through, found and fitted a key, and then pushed the slab open.
The expanse on the other side could’ve held the entire stockyard. The building may have been a factory or a warehouse once, though no machines or shelves were present now. It was empty except for the house.
An idyllic stone cottage stood in the middle of the floor, proud and serene, as if it had every natural right to be there. But what a feat of wealth and will to conjure such a thing! Other than the chimney, which was an odd, tenuous piece of brickwork that stretched to the warehouse ceiling, the house was quite picturesque. The gables had been recently painted and the grout between stones stood out, white as meringue. Every window beamed warmly. Figures moved behind the curtains, which curled and kinked to make room for peering eyes. The shutters and gutters were immaculately fitted, though why a house, inside a warehouse, inside a ringdom, inside a Tower needed such things was beyond him. It was as if he’d finally arrived at the smallest doll in a set of nesting dolls.
Senlin hardly had time to absorb the surprise before Iren hustled him nearer to it. The front door was decorated with an evergreen wreath, a trifle that could not have been cheap to import. The door flew open under Iren’s first knock and she was beset by a pack of children. They threw themselves at her. They climbed her legs and pulled upon her chain belt, squealing all the while. She bent down and, speaking in a gentle falsetto, greeted each of them by name. The children, who seemed to range from three to eleven years of age, were boisterous and smartly dressed in colorful frocks. Not a one was more than four-and-a-half feet tall, and they all were crowned with familiar tangles of dark hair.
Finn Goll stood behind them inside his home, hands buried proudly in the pockets of a corduroy housecoat. The children recovered their manners and made a path for the guests. Fresh bread and a hardwood fire perfumed the foyer. A plump, pretty woman restlessly folded and refolded a decorative towel in the doorway to Senlin’s left, which appeared to lead to a dining room. To his right, there was an inviting den. The fire in the hearth cheered a set of plush chairs. Goll introduced the woman, who blushed all the way down to her throat, as Mrs. Abigail Goll. This began a round of bows and curtseys which the children picked up and began to mimic with increasing hilarity, until their silly court was abruptly adjourned by the clapped hands of Mrs. Goll.
The lady of the house excused herself to look after lunch, and Finn Goll waved Senlin toward the fireside. Iren prattled a little more with the children, and then, despite their reluctance, separated herself. She stood by the mantel as if it were a guard post. As soon as Goll sat
down across from Senlin, the children fled the room.
“Well, that wound them up. We don’t have a lot of guests. Except for Iren, of course. They love her,” Goll said, and something about his ease sharpened Senlin’s anxiety. He did not trust this new facet of Goll’s character. Senlin had not forgotten that Goll had appeared in the Basement as a harmless merchant. Perhaps this was another act. The children, the woman, and the gingerbread house— all could’ve been staged. But if it was an elaborate charade, what was the point of it?
“They seem wonderful,” Senlin said politely. He glanced at Iren for some clue of what he had blundered into here, but she was determined to ignore him. She had said something about an accusation of stealing, which was a joke, of course. Senlin was the only honest man in the port.
“Their mother is to credit for that. I would spoil them rotten if it were up to me.” Goll took up a horn pipe from a pedestal ashtray and began tamping tobacco into the bowl. “You don’t have children, do you?”
“No, my nuptials were a little too brief for that.” Senlin could hardly keep the bitterness from his voice. He wanted to vent his grievances, but he recalled Iren’s advice to let Goll talk, and so said no more.
“I have six children. My oldest boy is away at school. I live and die for family, Tom. They give me purpose.” He set a match to the bowl and drew on the stem. “So many people come to the Tower to fritter a fortune. Very few make one. They get fat in lounge chairs, roll around in the dark with tarts, and can’t imagine a better waste of time or wealth. The Parlor, the Baths, the Boudoir, they’re all tourist traps. It’s dreadful down here.” The pipe gurgled gently as Goll paused to smoke. Senlin’s gaze roamed over the little cameos and dented baby cups on the mantel. Painted china, obviously done by a child’s hand, and decorative tankards completed the effect: this was no sham; this was Goll’s home. Senlin’s attention returned to his host when the man’s voice developed a passionate lilt. “…But all these tourists and pilgrims don’t realize what’s just overhead. Wonderful, prosperous, peaceful lands are in the bowers. The trouble with mudbugs, Tom, is they get one foot off the ground and think they’ve mounted heaven.” He laughed, his breath ruining a pretty ribbon of smoke. “You have to go much higher, past all the traps and slums. There are ringdoms up there worthy of children. But it’s not a cheap neighborhood. It takes a fortune and savvy and a hundred other things to get there and stay there. You have to be leery of impostors, and overcome your greed, and make peace with your sacrifices. There will always be more than you prepared for.”
“Indeed,” Senlin said, trying to appear agreeable and attentive. Really, he felt baffled and worried. Why had Goll brought him into his inner sanctum? Was this some sort of an exit interview for a failed employee who would never see the light of day again?
“I worked in the Steam Pipe before I bought it, back when I was a poor lad. It’s a good business for knocking the dew off a boy. It showed me the world as it was, not as one hopes it to be. It was shocking, of course. Many people never get over that shock.” Goll seemed to chase a memory, appeared to not like where it led, and returned again to the present with a wry little smile. “But I did.”
He leaned forward, setting aside his pipe. “I spent years wringing shekels out of wretches. I pulled gold threads from the coattails of rich men. I have thieved and saved for years, all in preparation of my ascent out of this cesspool. When I get discouraged, I think of my children and the lives I will give them. And Tom, this is why you are here today. You have discouraged me and made me think of my children. It seems you’ve been going around handing out money to the men.” He rounded his chest, and his voice rose to possess the room. “My money! My men!”
Senlin stiffened against the soft padding. So that was his crime: he’d given a raise to the porters. It had been a paltry sum that had no effect on the bottom line, but, apparently, it was the same as theft to Goll.
“You have complicated a simple job,” Goll continued. “Collect my money. Don’t educate, don’t reform, don’t teach the porters ballet. Collect my money!” He beat the armrest fiercely, his sudden anger flushing across his face.
“When I began, you were losing ten, twenty minas a week to theft and rot and inefficiency,” Senlin replied. “My errors, as you conceive of them, only increased your profit.”
“You misunderstand the arrangement.” Goll began an exaggerated pantomime of the sort one might use when training a dog or disciplining a child. “If the port makes more money because you’re doing your job, that money isn’t yours. It’s mine. It’s always mine. And there are other ways, more frugal ways, to inspire men to work.”
“Oh, I have been very inspired by my beatings,” Senlin said. His hand drifted into his pocket. The iron of the jailor’s key was warm. At this intimate range, the little pistol would be quite effective. Using it would ruin any chance of escape, of course, but perhaps the chance was already ruined. Senlin wondered whether he would find any consolation in revenge. “You accuse the tourists of being shortsighted, but you are no better. You whip your men toward theft and conspiracy and revolt, and then punish them for it.”
“What did I tell you before? There is no shortage of desperate men. They have no power because they have no value, and I pay them an according wage. If you pay them more, they just throw it at whores, drink and white crumb.”
“That is not always the case. They have lovers and pasts, and they were all children once themselves.” Senlin’s fingertip rested on the scalloped trigger of the key, and he tilted the barrel up inside his pocket, guessing at the line of fire. “You are not alone in the Tower, Mr. Goll, much as you would like to think so, much as you have tried to hide yourself away.” He wondered how quickly Iren would snap his neck after he fired. Would she thank him first?
“You really are a fool, Tom, and I pity you.”
“Isn’t that why you have brought me here? To exercise your pity? Or was it to show off your family and to convince yourself of your noble character before you have me killed?” Senlin felt a weight on his shoulder, and glancing over, he saw the walnut-like knuckles of Iren’s hand. The pressure pressed his pocket into the chair, making the shot impossible for the moment. “Or do you expect everyone to be friends to your family?”
“Nobility and friendship are nothing but snake oil sold to old mothers and dumb farmers. I expect you to look out for yourself. You’re so determined to make friends and to be fair and noble that you’ve sabotaged yourself again and again. Then you turn your nose up at me for looking after my interests. It’s a joke!” Goll fumed. “You’re in ruin and you will stay ruined until you recognize there is only one family in the world, one man, one Tower to climb.”
“Yet, you told me to give up on Marya.”
“Because it’s in my best interest that you do, you loblolly idiot!” Goll kneaded his fleshy face until it glowed red. He motioned vaguely at the fire, and Iren released Senlin’s shoulder to add another log. With the pressure of her hand gone, he could aim the pistol again. “I am telling you two things: work selfishly, and give me my due. That’s it. I don’t want to have to find a new Port Master, and you don’t want to have your neck wrung.” Goll pulled a ledger from his coat pocket and flipped through it. Iren stirred the fire, her back momentarily turned. If Senlin was going to fire, it had to be now. “By my count…” Goll licked his thumb and turned a page. “…your raise cost me three mina, seven and a half shekels. That is the amount I will deduct from your wages. You will remit the raise, and if the men complain, you will choose an example from the ranks and hang him from the port. If you do all this, we can carry on together. If not, I’ll carry on alone. Which will it be?”
Senlin pictured Goll’s surprise at being shot: the startled wound, bloodless for a moment; the smoking hole amid the wales of his housecoat; and the last inventory that flies behind the eyes of a dying man.
A storm of little feet thundered overhead. The children were running through the halls. Their drumming turned someth
ing in Senlin’s chest, and the rage drained from him. He was ashamed of what he’d almost done. It would’ve been suicide twice over. Even if he’d gotten away with it, which was hardly likely, shooting an unarmed man in his home while his children played upstairs would’ve made an end of the old, decent headmaster. The last vestige of the man who married Marya would be lost. And what sort of monster would remain? No, if he ever surrendered his conscience, even in the pursuit of dear, sweet Marya, he would become unrecognizable to himself and to her. Then there could be no reunion, and it would all have been for nothing.
“We’ll carry on together,” Senlin said, aware of the irony, though he hid it.
“That’s good to hear,” Goll said.
Senlin was glad, of course, to discover that he wasn’t about to be strangled, but he still wanted to know whether Goll believed Adam’s story about Rodion’s intention to invade the port. Did Goll intend to do anything about it? Senlin needed to turn the conversation toward an answer. “Well, if there’s nothing else, I have to get back to sign a ship’s manifest before they run off with who knows what.” Senlin leaned forward and patted his knees, preparing to rise and go.
“What ship?”
Senlin settled back. “The Stone Cloud. A disreputable little sloop with an abrasive captain. Pirates, probably.”
“What’s her export?” Goll tried to make the question seem casual, but Senlin saw through the effort, and knew at once that Adam had succeeded in raising Goll’s suspicions.
“Nothing unusual. A few tanks of gas, a bit of coal, and some private parcels for delivery. She’ll be running light.”
“You imagine any reason Rodion would be interested in her?” Goll’s pretense at disinterest was slipping quickly.
“The whoremonger?” Senlin gave a noncommittal shrug. “Well, the first mate is a woman. Maybe he wants to have a look at her. I’m only joking. She has a false arm. She’s probably not right for the stage. I only met Rodion the once, but he seemed… pleasant.”
Senlin Ascends (The Books of Babel Book 1) Page 36