Arm of the Sphinx (The Books of Babel, #2)

by Josiah Bancroft

“Now it makes sense why the tapestry is full of symbols, little pictures, and hatch marks rather than letters and numbers. It’s so the locals can read it, so it is of some use to them. You are their historian.” “I am not!” she said sharply. She wagged her bone comb at him. “I am a recorder. A recorder takes things down. A historian makes things up.” He saw that he’d goaded her, and though he was clearly at her mercy, he couldn’t stop himself from arguing the point. “Well, that’s hardly fair.” “I agree. It is unfair. A historian begins with an ending, and then he concocts a pleasing cause. It’s a fairytale.” “That’s a ludicrous accusation. History is the narrative of time, and like any narrative, any story, there are some details that are necessarily glossed over, some that are included under the umbrella of anecdote and analogy. But the thrust of the story is not perverted by small omissions. If anything it is clarified.” “Of course it is clarified! That’s because all the confusing and muddling and disagreeing parts have been removed. It’s clear because it’s untrue! Who are these pious men writing the story of time anyway? To whom are they devoted? Every historian I’ve ever heard of has a benefactor or a master or a duty to his country. History is a love letter to tyrants written in the blood of the overrun, the forgotten, the expunged!” Her former decorum had fallen away entirely now, and Senlin glimpsed in her vehemence her son’s passions. There was a little of that mani...