The Fall of Babel (The Books of Babel Book 4)

by Josiah Bancroft

I’ve made a mark, but the mark was not mine. I told the stories people wished to hear, not the ones I wished to tell.”

“I’ve met so many bullies in my life, but you are by far the most frightened of them. You call yourself a huntsman but take forty hounds and a dozen men to kill a sickly fox or an old hog. You come back and crow about how brave you are, how intrepid, then you go to your club and wager on the backs of much larger, tougher men. You want to believe you are superior because you have a purse and a box seat, but if any of them ever got you in a corner, they would wring you like a rag. You preyed upon me when I was desperate, you hemmed me in and threatened my child not because you are a mighty hunter but because you are afraid of me. And you should be afraid.”

Through cupped hands, Iren shouted, “Are you all right, Captain?” “Fine! Just fine. I think I swallowed a few leaves.” The surface of the water beneath her began to froth with activity as the clogworms converged to feast upon the woody rope. “Seems I’ve attracted some admirers.” “We’re coming out to get you!” Voleta shouted. “That would be nice.”

Ann didn’t allow herself to look back, not only because it would impede her negotiation of the tables and chairs in the dining room but also because, all things considered, she’d rather be shot in the back.

Reddleman produced the electric candle from his pocket. “Perhaps you should just keep it simple, Captain. Turn the candle on and lead him away.” “Won’t he smell a trap?” “Try to be subtle. Well, I mean, you’ll want to be obvious enough to get their attention, but not so much as to rouse suspicion. Be modestly obvious.” “Just be ready with the bomb,” Edith said, and snatched the candle from his hand like an unhappy customer accepting a bill.

The stupidity, disregard, and entitlement of Queen Hortensia would not bring about a greener spring. Having escaped all consequence, the queen would loaf upon a cloud until her city manager, conscripted airmen, and unlucky hods could mop up her mess. Then she would return and, with the long guns of her navy bristling at her back, assure her remaining subjects that they had all suffered the inconvenience equally. She would defer any responsibility for the spill but would certainly accept credit for the recovery. So it went. So it always went.

The Tower was more than a structure, just as a farm was more than a patch of dirt. A farm was also its crop and livestock, and the sustenance they provided to the women and men who devoted their lives to them. A farm was the children who grew there, the happiness they inspired, the music they made, the traditions they learned. A farm was the love of the land and a keen regard for the stellar bodies that wheeled through the heavens, shepherding in seasons of birth, growth, death, and rebirth. The Tower was not a structure; it was a farm.

Though she had hoped to find affection elsewhere, it came as something of a relief to find there was still love in her heart and a purpose worthy of that passion.

The brash light flared to life in the same instant that the steely cylinder slipped from her grasp. She tried to catch it in the air, but again it eluded her. It felt like she was trying to get ahold of a fish she’d just pulled from a lake. It leapt between her hands twice more, flashing in every direction along the way, then tumbled toward the tiled floor beneath her. She threw out the toe of her boot to catch it, but only succeeded in kicking the electric candle over the low parapet. It turned end over end, falling three stories, before popping upon the cobbles below.

True conspiracies are inflexible and susceptible to discovery, but imaginary plots are ever evolving and, as a result, invulnerable. That is to say, conspiracies are perishable, paranoia is not.

When the Hod King’s pumps fell silent, she halted, switched the beam of her candle on, and waved it about wildly before casting it into the street. He wondered whether his advice had been unclear, or if the captain had simply decided upon a less subtle tactic.

In my time as a thief, I’ve carried many tools of the trade: Lockpicks, marked cards, grappling hooks, and a cigar box full of false noses. But none were as important as how I carried myself. Confidence is the crook’s shield, and bearing is her sword.

Be friendly to your warden. Make your ear an open drain for their worries and complaints. Most of the jailors you’ll meet will have spent more of their lives staring at bars than you. If they are not ambitious, imbecilic, or an unapologetic sadist, they may become an ally.

“Luc, you are the first hound I’ve ever met who wags his tail as he retreats. This isn’t a coronation. No, you are running away. Because you are afraid of the Arm of the Sphinx, and you should be. You may have cobbled yourself a throne, but she will not let you sit on it for long. And you know this to be true.”

“Some people think muttering is a symptom of genius. I assure you: It is not. It is a sign of an unfinished intelligence, a primitive mind. Having to mumble your thoughts aloud is one step removed from counting upon your fingers and toes. You, sir, are an imbecile. And like most dullards, you believe that you are quick-witted—the master of unfathomable designs. In truth, you are a slow and shallow stream. I see right through to the bottom of you.”

“And yet, somehow, I managed to destroy your siege engine, save my friend, and spoil your master’s hour of triumph. Not bad for a trickling brook. And I’d thank you to stop looking at my bottom.”

It is true that what distinguishes the amateur from the professional is not a single stroke of success but rather the lengthy education of repeated failure. Even so, visitors are advised to beware the captains who boast about the many shipwrecks they’ve survived.

The orderly stacks of crockery, the beaming counters, and the racks of balloon whisks, strainers, and spatulas all had a soothing effect on his nerves.

Because the life of excess and ease, of casual tyranny and habitual torment that Wilhelm had enjoyed for decades could never be taken from him now. For all the suffering he had inflicted upon others, upon her, his own discomfort had been but brief. Now, there was no correcting the account. The duke had, in fact, won. And he would continue to win so long as she did not devise some means for keeping him from living and dying in a corner of her mind, over and over, for the rest of her life.

Here was an unflickering candle in a closed jar; here was a winter wind caught in a box that was stocked full of food; here were rugs and sofas, beds and pillows—all plump and colorful as dusky clouds. In nearly every room, crystal clear water waited to flow at the twist of a knob.

I’m sure you and Ann could use a little shore leave. You could take over one of those golden bungalows, nap under the trees, bake pies, and putter around the garden. There really is nothing more restorative than a garden.”

When you think little of yourself, everyone else’s opinion of you becomes more important than your own.

I think that if we really knew how good our lives were while they were good, we’d be too scared to do anything, change anything. We’d never take a risk, or explore, or grow.

What had life been for if not to charge upon the darkness, to show the unknown she was unafraid?

In a voice made hoarse by emotion, he said, “I wandered so far from you. I’ve been so lost. I thought I’d never find my way back again.” While Olivet burbled between them, Marya whispered beside his ear, “I told you, Tom. I told you this is where we’d rendezvous—top of it all, end of the world.”

If mankind ever attempts to colonize the islands of the stars, we should crew the ships with children and put the youngest at the wheel.

On one hand, Edith was saddened to lose a faithful crewman who had, in his final moments, once again proved that his loyalty was not an act. His courage and sacrifice were undeniable, laudable, and indeed the very font of her survival. And yet, his occasional amorality, his interest in experimenting upon the living, and his metaphysical musings had always made her uneasy. She would miss his insights and his geniality, but she would sleep a little better, too. It was with a muddle of guilt and relief that she mourned her pilot’s passing.

“The reason we study and learn, the reason we take only what we need, is because we have all been given a great gift—the gift of civilization, the gift of understanding, the gift of mastery over our environment—and if we misuse these, if we take these things for granted, the ones who will suffer most are our sons and daughters. There is nothing wrong with enjoying the fruits of our ancestors’ labor. We should relish the pudding. But that privilege does not relieve us of our responsibility to be faithful custodians of the world we leave for our children.”