“That’s quite enough, Byron,” the Sphinx said. “You make us sound like museum pieces, the way you talk. Please, everyone have a seat.”
Iren sat gingerly upon the lip of her chair, partly because she distrusted the antique with her full weight, but also because she wanted to be ready to spring up should the need for action arise. She hadn’t taken her eyes off the trudging engine since it had demanded her chains, and now was forced to crane her neck uncomfortably to one side to keep Ferdinand in view. And all of this was done while still holding on to Voleta’s hand.
Seeing that their host did not intend to sit, Senlin remained standing, though he migrated to the mantel over the fire, a spot which he found quite comfortable. The Sphinx tracked his movement, but raised no argument.
“Now, I was about to prove to you that you don’t care about the hods, your fellow tourists, or even your crew.”
“Yes, please, enlighten me.”
“Your name is Thomas Senlin.”
“It is,” Senlin said, refusing to give the Sphinx the satisfaction of appearing surprised. “We shared a mutual friend in the Red Hand, I believe. I’m sorry to report he’s passed on.”
“Oh, has he?” The light of the fire threw a fiery eclipse on the edge of the Sphinx’s mask.
A single leaf fell from the ash behind them. It pirouetted in the windless room and landed with an audible tick on the tile.
“I know where Marya is,” the Sphinx said.
Senlin repressed a gasp. Though this was exactly what he’d hoped to discover from the Sphinx’s company, he found a complex, almost fearful sense of doubt well inside him at the announcement. “I don’t believe you.”
“She still has the red sun helmet. She keeps it hidden inside a wardrobe, and only pulls it out occasionally at night when she thinks no one is watching. But my eyes are everywhere.”
“Where is she?”
“You could be at her side by this time tomorrow.”
“I know she’s in Pelphia,” Senlin insisted.
“Very good. I will provide you a salary and a ship, a new, superior ship, and you can fly to Marya this very evening. You can hire a crew, find yourself a hardy bunch of airmen, and after your reunion with Marya, you may resume Billy Lee’s work and live quite well by it. Once or twice a year, I require a few new recruits, which you will provide, but the rest of the time, the ship is yours to fly as you please. When you tire of the life, you may return the ship and go about your business.”
Senlin released the mantel he had begun to grip, his knuckles white. Ferdinand’s bulk shifted warily, but Senlin moved away from their enigmatic host. He strode calmly to the leaf that lay upon the polished marble. Pinching it by the stem, he returned with the fragile green eye to the fireside. “What about my crew?” he asked with his back to them.
“They will remain here with me,” the Sphinx said. “You will have Marya, and they will be given all the improvements and opportunities they could ever want. The only thing that will be lost is this charade of an adventure you all seem to have agreed to.”
Senlin held the leaf out to the fire, inspected its tender skeleton. “I’m sorry, Edith,” he said. “I hope you can forgive me.”
Chapter Five
“Some scholars believe the Sphinx must be a supreme mesmerist to bring so many to ruin. He spellbinds his victims into self-destruction. Other students of the Sphinx, however, contend that, rather than hypnosis, he practices the black art of legal contracts.”
- The Myth of the Sphinx: A Historical Analysis by Saavedra
In some ways, Edith expected the betrayal.
A part of her even suspected she deserved it. Not as a criminal deserves to be punished, but in the way that a long-time houseguest, who has strained all convention and hospitality, deserves to be asked at last by an embarrassed host to leave.
She had dabbled in a better life and with better company than she had any right to. And though they had helped her forget the base existence she’d grown accustomed to under Billy Lee’s command, though they had let her pretend she might be deserving of admiration and perhaps even affection, Senlin’s betrayal brought the ruse to an end.
Though was it fair to call it a betrayal? Was it reasonable to expect a devoted and determined husband to forego a reunion with his wife in deference to a friend who fate had thrust upon him?
Because she understood his choice so well, she was quick to put on a brave face when he looked her way, his strong features sharpened by the intensity of his expression.
He said, “I’m sorry I didn’t pay you better mind when you told me the Sphinx was conniving and manipulative. You were right; he is monstrous.”
She could not help but beam with relief when he turned to the Sphinx and continued hotly, “What a tepid seduction! You offer a false choice and then behave as if you’ve graced me with the keys to the Tower. My reunion with my wife has no bearing on your ability to torment us. Don’t pretend that I have any say in the matter. I will not be complicit in your villainy. Even if I were to accept your ludicrous condition and abandon my friends to be with my wife, she would find me a heartless, dishonorable stranger. If this is how you treat your guests, then please show us the door.”
The Sphinx did not hurry to reply. At Senlin’s warming back, the garrulous fire chattered and whistled. Ferdinand expelled a long breath of steam from vents on either side of his lunar face.
When at last the Sphinx spoke, it was prefaced by brittle laughter. “No, you’re not like Lee at all. Do you have The Brick Layer’s Granddaughter with you?”
Senlin’s indignation turned to confusion. “I beg your pardon?”
“Ogier’s painting, do you have it, or did you leave it on your ship?” The Sphinx began to ferry back and forth across the floor. His restlessness was exhausting to their nerves but fascinating to observe. Senlin supposed the Sphinx had miniature feet or else took mincing steps; such was the sleekness of his gait.
“Girl with a Paper Boat you mean? Yes, I have it,” Senlin said.
“You should find a number discreetly painted in the bottom right corner.”
Doubtful that he would have missed such a detail, Senlin unfurled the work, and scrutinized the spot in question. To his chagrin, he found a digit hiding among the brushwork. “Look at that. I believe it’s a three. What does it signify?”
“Its place in the series. There are sixty-four versions. One for every ringdom. A gift from the Brick Layer.”
Senlin could recall a time when the number of ringdoms seemed the greatest mystery of all. Now he absorbed the news with only the dimmest interest. “Who is the Brick Layer? The Tower’s architect? The builder?”
“He would never have said so. Hods built most of what lies beneath. As for architects, there were thousands, and tens of thousands of artisans and tradesmen beside. The Brick Layer thought of himself as a foreman.” The Sphinx stopped under the canopy of the wizened ash tree; the light from the lens, strained by leaves into many points, fell upon his black robe in a galactic sprawl.
An inquisition’s worth of questions occurred to Senlin concerning the Brick Layer’s vision and his reason for stacking humanity so tenuously high, but he was quite certain the Sphinx’s patience was not inexhaustible, and there were more concrete questions he needed answers to. “Why are so many people determined to forge this painting?”
“What do you mean?”
“I saw five copies locked up in a cell inside the Golden Zoo. Then there was Ogier, or the imposter claiming to be Ogier, who drove himself mad trying to recreate this work from memory and sketches.”
“Five, five, five,” the Sphinx muttered. “Five already.”
“Perhaps the imposter painted the copies for him,” Senlin offered in a speculative tone. He found it interesting the Sphinx was so upset by the number of copies in Marat’s possession. This at least confirmed Senlin’s suspicion that he had information the Sphinx might be willing to bargain for.
“No, I’m sure they’re not
forgeries. They’re not copies either. Though very similar, they are quite unique; they are part of the series.” The Sphinx emerged from the tree’s starry light and returned to the fireside.
“And they’re all of the girl? Seems a tad obsessive. And I don’t understand why anyone would care so deeply about them. Surely there are greater works to squabble over,” Senlin said, making room for the hatch mark of a man at the mantel.
“They cared because they agreed to care. At first, the Brick Layer tried to see everyone who came to visit him, to hear every complaint and request— he was quite a social fellow, especially in his dotage— but it just wasn’t feasible. There were too many people to let the doors hang open. Even then, there were those who would harm him if they could. Hence the paintings. The Brick Layer gave one to each ringdom with the understanding that only those who carried the painting would be admitted. It was like a token.”
“And the paintings couldn’t be forged?”
“No, that was Ogier’s genius, and the genius of the series. They are absolutely irreplaceable and unrepeatable.”
“Well, I’m surprised he didn’t foresee the consequence of dolling out so few passes to so much political influence and technological wizardry. Of course people like Commissioner Pound snapped up the paintings. Didn’t the Brick Layer realize he was legitimizing, if not necessitating, the rule of tyrants?”
“You can’t hold the Brick Layer responsible for the injustices committed by governments he did not form. He was an engineer, not a politician. He never wanted anything to do with politics.”
“So he is no longer among us?”
“No, no, no.” The Sphinx’s mirrored face threw a slowly turning pan of light upon the wall. “He’s long deceased. I try to carry on his work as best I can, though there are many ringdoms who’ve forgotten about him and his granddaughter and the pledges they once made.”
“Since you are continuing his work, it stands to reason that you might consider my proposal. I bear his token after all.” Senlin wagged the painting he’d rolled again before returning it to his breast pocket.
“It’s more than a token, Mr. Senlin,” the Sphinx said. “But yes, let us for the sake of argument pretend that you are entitled to my ear— what would you like to propose?”
“I have reason to believe there is a revolution afoot that may, if it takes hold, upset the balance of things. I have, in fact we all have, firsthand knowledge of this plot which I think would be of some interest to you.”
“You’re talking about Luc Marat.”
“Yes. I know how many men he has under him, how many weapons. I know that he has virtually taken over an entire ringdom and broken open the Black Trail. I have conversed with him and heard his philosophy. I have looked him in the eye and gauged his resolve.”
“Well, go on. Tell me.”
Senlin resisted the urge to smile, though he felt he had the Sphinx hooked upon a line. “No, not until we come to an agreement. I will tell you what I know, but first, you must consider our humble requests. Our ship is in need of repair—”
The Sphinx interrupted with a slice of his gloved hand. “Let’s not understate the facts. You ship is in need of a eulogy.”
“It was airworthy before your iron leech ate our sails.”
“Is that all?”
“Second, I request a letter of introduction on our behalf that will guarantee a favorable reception in Pelphia, and any information that you have about the exact whereabouts of Marya. And finally, I ask that you give Mister Winters back her arm, along with a stock of fuel, as soon as it is repaired.”
“That seems quite an expensive trade for information I likely already possess. Rebuilding your ship alone will cost a small fortune.”
“Our financial situation is not especially robust at the moment,” Senlin said, though the subtext was clear: they were broke. “We are between windfalls, you might say.” And they weren’t especially good pirates, either. “I would entertain a counter offer.”
“Ah, wonderful. The details. My favorite part.” The Sphinx clapped his hands and held them together as if he’d just caught a fly. “Byron, fetch your desk.”
The stag left the room very briefly and returned with a shallow box suspended from his neck by a strap. He would have resembled a girl selling oranges if it weren’t for his attitude, which was as reverent as a footman carrying in the crown. The hanging desk supported a black typewriter and two wings: one held blank paper, the other waited to be filled. Byron threaded a sheet into the roller, raised his long, almost willowy fingers over the keys, and waited for the dictation to begin.
The Sphinx spoke quickly, and Byron transposed his words into a rhythm so rapid it made the air ring.
Senlin did not let the Sphinx’s conditions go by without comment. He interjected his own conditions, which the Sphinx laid new stipulations to, which required Senlin to counter, and the Sphinx to reply. In this way, the contract was bickered into existence.
The Sphinx insisted that he be allowed to interrogate each member of the crew, separately, independently, and at his leisure, until he was satisfied that he had heard all pertinent information regarding the supposedly fomenting revolution.
Granted, but only if no attempt be made during these interviews to coerce the interviewees into surgical or mechanical augmentation of any kind whatsoever.
Granted, with the understanding that the aeronauts of the Stone Cloud may, of their own free will, decide to investigate the gifts of the Sphinx without objection or interference from their captain or first mate.
Granted, under the condition that the captain or first mate be allowed to review any resulting contracts before they are signed.
Granted, but…
At first, Senlin felt relatively clever. He was holding his own against a superior intellect who was obviously more experienced with legal documents. He was definitely holding his own, though he couldn’t imagine a court that could possibly claim any jurisdiction over the Sphinx. The man had an army of mechanical beasts at his beck and call for heaven’s sake! But it didn’t matter, because for the moment Senlin was holding his own.
Almost certainly.
Of course, there would have to be compromises. Only the possession of the painting gave him any credibility and he was in no position to resist if the Sphinx decided to take it back. Ferdinand would settle any argument in a moment.
So Senlin conceded that the ship was in need of extensive repair, and that it would be quite expensive, and wouldn’t it only be reasonable for him and his crew to do the Sphinx a favor in return. Senlin couldn’t say no. It was very clear to him that this man was no heavenward philanthropist. The Sphinx was a businessman.
Edith watched Senlin’s position erode with alarm and a little anger. She had tried to warn him, but Tom was too busy being gallant to listen. And how do you argue with a man when the ghost of his wife is standing behind him?
When Senlin abruptly agreed that he, while joyfully seeking a reunion with his wife, would do a bit of spying for the Sphinx, Edith could not contain an audible groan.
Byron’s fevered pecking stopped. The Sphinx and Senlin looked at her in silence, presuming she would speak. And she did indeed want to say something, but she wasn’t sure exactly what. She didn’t want to be the one who spoiled Senlin’s chance of finding his wife.
Edith was still thinking when the two men resumed their negotiations, speaking almost over each other, their words tangling as Senlin conceded, protested and conceded again, until at last it was done, and the papers presented in a tidy stack and the pages signed, every one.
It was over.
Edith could hardly believe it, and wondered if Senlin understood exactly what had happened. They were all working for the Sphinx now. And it was her fault. She had brought them here. She could have refused. Instead, she had finished Lee’s dirty work for him. She had conscripted her friends.
Through it all, Voleta was having a wonderful time. First, she watched Byron, beating his typew
riter like a drum. What haughty conviction! Voleta caught his eye once, and the poor thing started and then wouldn’t look at her again. She wanted very much to inspect the walking engine, but it was standing off behind her, and she didn’t dare crane around in her chair while Iren was holding her hand. Still holding her hand. It was absolutely ridiculous, and as soon as she could get in a word, which might be some time the way the Captain and Sphinx were going at it, she would lodge a vigorous protest either by blowing a raspberry or throwing a shoe. This was not on.
It was in this black moment that Voleta decided to climb the tree. It was a pretty tree, a good lounging tree with leaves thick as hairs on her head.
No, that wasn’t really true. It was an old tree, an august tree. The leaves were thin, and the knots stood out. She shouldn’t climb it. She might hurt it. Better to let it rot alone in peace. Though it occurred to her that the tree had spent its entire life watching wood burn in the fireplace. Oh, what torture that must have been for the tree!
Perhaps it was not just alone; perhaps it was lonely. Mightn’t the tree prefer to risk some scuffed bark, a lost leaf or two, for the opportunity to be enjoyed and loved by a very good climber? Surely, the tree would like to be climbed. Yes, a climb would be good for the tree.
Voleta looked over at the amazon and smiled like she had just caught a flower in her teeth.
Iren frowned.
Then the Sphinx got all of their attention by saying very loudly, “So, what are we going to do about your addiction to White Chrom, Captain Thomas Mudd Senlin?”
“Pardon?” Senlin said.
Adam had been thinking about Captain Joram Brahe journal. He found that he often thought of it now. After the big meal on this ship, he had dreamed of rivers of silver and bowers of gold.
But then the Sphinx had announced that Captain Thomas Senlin was on the crumb and suddenly the room had all of Adam’s attention.
He had not cared for the crumb addicts he knew in New Babel. They were such a helpless, defeated sort. Finn Goll never had any problem hiring an addict because they could always be relied upon to be desperate for pay. They didn’t ask questions. They didn’t stand up for themselves. The crumb made them dreamy, absent-minded, and strange. That did not sound like the Captain to Adam.
Arm of the Sphinx (Books of Babel Book 2) Page 25