Shorefall

by Robert Jackson Bennett

  But Orso realized pretty quickly that someone had already noticed them: there was the sound of footfalls in the hallway, and he glimpsed lamplight on the walls outside.

  “Just do it now!” he snapped. He reached into his pack and pulled out another one of Claudia’s plates, placed it on the ground outside the doorway, and turned it on.

  Gregor approached the wall, gauged where best to strike, and stabbed a seam of masonry with his scrived rapier. It slid into the wall about halfway up the blade. When he withdrew it, there was a tiny, focused leak that doused him with water. But the wall did not crumble—it held fast.

  “I shall have to make many of these,” he said as he wiped his face. “I think…”

  The sound of footfalls outside increased. Orso turned back around and caught the highly unusual sight of a snarling Dandolo soldier running face-first into the invisible wall blocking the door. He was so close Orso even saw his nose burst with blood as it broke on the steel surface.

  The soldier fell back, gasping with surprise. Then two more arrived and helped him to his feet. “Another one of your damned walls?” said the first soldier, his nose now bleeding heavily.

  The three soldiers began hacking at the invisible wall with their scrived rapiers.

  Orso stepped back. “Gregor…”

  “I’m going!” said Gregor. He was stabbing little perforations across the wall, one after another, all at the seams of the masonry. “This damned thing has to give sometime…”

  The soldiers looked to be making quick work of the steel wall. Orso swallowed and slapped the button on the left shoulder of his cuirass—which should have put the invisible steel box around him. Yet he couldn’t quite tell if it had actually worked, for there was nothing to see.

  Then he heard Gregor say, “Orso? Orso! Watch ou—”

  Orso turned to see the leaks in the walls had turned to geysers, which then quickly became floods—and then the stones came crumbling down, and a huge wall of water rushed toward him.

  “Oh, shit!” cried Orso. He felt himself being lifted off the ground, and a sharp pain in his armpits, and he shut his eyes and braced himself, expecting to be doused with water…but though the water hit his legs, his face was spared.

  He opened his eyes, and saw why: his invisible box had indeed been activated, creating a nice little buffer around him, though the water had shoved him toward the door, very hard.

  Then he looked over his shoulder—he seemed to be trapped facing one way, like the cuirass was fixed in one position within the invisible box—and gasped in horror. It appeared his invisible box had been smashed up against the invisible wall he’d just set up at the doorway—right when one Dandolo soldier had been trying to climb through the hole they’d made in it.

  Orso stared at the ruined face and skull of the soldier, which seemed to be crushed between two panes of glass. Then there came an alarmingly loud whine of straining metal…

  He looked back and saw the room was now almost completely filled with water. Too much pressure, he realized. The wall I set up is about to collap—

  Then there was a crack of metal breaking, and he was suddenly flying end over end, and then he knew no more.

  * * *

  —

  “They did it!” shouted Berenice. “Look, look!”

  Sancia turned and saw the water was rapidly retreating, allowing them to descend the stairs into the lexicon chamber.

  They started down, slipping a little on the slick stone steps, and waded forward as the water receded. Both of them produced scrived lanterns to light the way.

  Sancia flexed her scrived sight, but was unsurprised to see that the room ahead remained dark: from what the Mountain had described, it’d had to deactivate the lexicon just before it flooded in order to prevent catastrophe. It might be little more than a wreck by now.

  I just hope this goddamn hierophantic definition is still in decent shape, she thought. Otherwise we did all this for nothing.

  They walked into the lexicon chamber, the mud and muck sucking at their feet. Sancia spied many traps and security rigs in the walls—all of them ruined, luckily. Finally their lights washed over the thick glass wall of the lexicon itself, though it was now crusty and smeared with algae and other growth. It had shattered under the pressure of the water on the lower left side, so they had to stoop and carefully crawl through in order to get to the giant rig within.

  Once inside, Sancia looked around and did a double take. The floor of the chamber was littered with scriving definitions that had apparently washed out of the lexicon. The exposed ones were rusted over, but the spares had been carefully packaged and were presumably in fine condition. Any one of these intricately wrought metal plates would be worth a fortune on the black market—especially considering they’d been made by Tribuno Candiano himself.

  “Holy shit,” she gasped.

  “Yes.”

  “These…These could be worth thousands…if not millions!”

  “Focus,” said Berenice. “And remember neither of us has the time or the training to discern which definition is actually useful. You could grab one thinking it could power a giant war machine only to find out later it makes the latrines run.”

  Grumbling, Sancia stooped and began peering through the muck and the sediment layered inside the remains of the lexicon. They combed through the mud like oyster farmers rooting for the day’s supper, but they could find no sign of the little cone.

  “What if it got washed away?” asked Sancia. “I mean, it’s a cone, so it might have caught more water…”

  Berenice studied the flow of water around the ruined lexicon. She marked the way the mud lay on the stones, the way it coiled around the walls…

  “Back outside, I think,” she said. “Past the broken glass.”

  They crawled back through, and they held their lamps high as they followed the river of mud beyond, until it finally ended in a large, filth-filled drainage pipe set in the floor—one whose wire mesh at the top had caved in a long time ago.

  “Shit!” cried Sancia. “Could the damned thing have been washed down this goddamn pipe?”

  Berenice narrowed her eyes. “Hmm. It looks like it’s full of mud and other residue…which makes me think there might be another filter or blockage in the pipe, one that’s still intact. One that could have caught it, in other words. But I’m not sure how to get the muck ou—”

  “Enough of this shit,” said Sancia. She knelt by the muck-filled pipe. “Hold my feet in case I fall.”

  “You can’t be seri—”

  But then Sancia dove into the muck, hands-first, and shut her eyes tight.

  She was immersed in a cold, clammy substance that was somehow both disgustingly slimy and gritty. Blind and deaf, she felt around in the innards of the pipe, her fingers tracing over stones, and screws, and regular scriving definitions…

  Come on, come on…

  Her lungs begged for air, but she stretched farther down into the pipe until her fingertips brushed up against a metal grate.

  The second filter.

  She blindly probed its edges, parsing through bundles of filth and tangles of wire…

  And then she remembered.

  I’m looking for a hierophantic rig…So I should be able to see the goddamn thing, of course!

  She flexed her scrived sight. Even though her eyes were closed, she instantly spied something glimmering an unpleasant blood red through her eyelids…

  She closed her fingers around the object, and then began kicking. She felt Berenice grab her by the knees and begin to pull her up.

  When she was finally dragged into the open air again, she still didn’t dare open her eyes or her mouth.

  “Did you get it?” asked Berenice. “Did you get it?”

  Sancia pointed at her face with one muddy finger.

  “Oh.�
�� She felt Berenice kneel behind her, then wipe her face clean with a cloth.

  Sancia gasped for air once her mouth was clear of muck. “Oh, God…Oh, God, it smells, I didn’t realize how it smells…”

  “Are you all right, my love?”

  Sancia sat up and looked down at her right hand. She opened her fingers and wiped the mud away to reveal a small golden metal cone, intricately engraved with scrivings…

  “I,” she said, grinning triumphantly, “am just scrumming fine.”

  * * *

  —

  Orso gasped, shook water from his face, and tried to understand what he was seeing.

  His cuirass was still projecting his invisible steel box, but it seemed he’d fallen over—which meant the face of the box was pressed to the ground, and since the cuirass had apparently been scrived to be equidistant from the sides of the box at all times, he was now suspended in the air, facedown, trapped in the cuirass, his arms and legs dangling below.

  The hallway was now flooded with water, but only a foot high. However, because the box had no bottom, it had flooded as well—and if the water had been a few feet higher, it would have undoubtedly submerged Orso’s head, and he would have helplessly drowned, trapped inside his cuirass.

  He stared into the surface of the water, which was mere inches from his nose. “Shit,” he gasped. “Oh shit.”

  He reached up and pushed the button on his left shoulder. The invisible box vanished, and he fell face-first into the scummy waters.

  He fought to his feet, gasping and moaning—his brain felt like it was still spinning in his head—and looked around. A few lamps were lit in the hallway, but everything was dark and wet and gleaming—and he couldn’t see Gregor.

  “Gregor?” he called. “Gregor?”

  A large figure lumbered around the distant corner, sloshing through the water, and stopped when it saw him.

  “Gregor?” he said hesitantly.

  The figure was then joined by two others—these wearing Dandolo helmets that gleamed in the light.

  “Oh hell,” said Orso quietly.

  The three soldiers waded down the hallway to him. As they passed one lamp, Orso saw they were all Dandolos, of course: and they were very large, and wet, and angry-looking.

  “You bastard little shitling,” snarled the one in the middle, who seemed the biggest. He pulled out his rapier.

  Orso stood, slapped the button on his chest, and turned back on his invisible barrier. Then he tried to walk backward, away from them—but the cuirass stopped him, holding him in place.

  He looked around and saw the wall of the hallway was very close. He must have turned it on so the invisible steel passed through the stone, immobilizing him.

  Oh God, he thought. I’m trapped.

  And he knew, of course, that scrived rapiers would have no issue penetrating a steel wall.

  “I, uh…” said Orso. He thought desperately, tugging at his cuirass. “This is all a big misunderstanding, I…I used to live here and…”

  “I ought to gut you,” said the big soldier, “like a damned…”

  He stopped. A boom echoed through the Mountain, followed by a great deal of distant yelling and screaming.

  “What the hell is that?” asked the soldier on the right. “Wait…look at your spotter.”

  The big soldier looked down at his people finder, and they saw nearly every light was lit up—suggesting that the Mountain was suddenly filled with many, many people who did not bear the Dandolo sachets.

  “What?” said the big soldier. “Who is this now? What the hell is going o—”

  The hallways of the Mountain filled up with an amplified voice: “SOLDIERS OF DANDOLO CHARTERED! BY THE AUTHORITY OF MICHIEL BODY CORPORATE, YOU ARE HEREBY COMMANDED TO STAND DOWN FROM YOUR POSTS AND DEPART FROM THIS ENCLAVE IMMEDIATELY!”

  The soldiers looked at one another, then at Orso.

  “The Michiels?” asked the soldier on the left. “What are they doing here?”

  “THIS PROPERTY WAS UNLAWFULLY TRANSFERRED TO DANDOLO CHARTERED BY AN OFFICIAL WHO HAS HAD ALL AUTHORITIES REVOKED POSTHUMOUSLY,” boomed the amplified voice. It sounded strangely scratchy and stuttered. Orso thought he knew the exact sound rig they were probably using. “NEGOTIATIONS ARE CURRENTLY UNDER WAY BETWEEN BOTH CAMPOS. YOU ARE ORDERED TO STAND DOWN, RETURN TO THE ATRIUM, AND EVACUATE THE PREMISES UNTIL NEGOTIATIONS ARE CONCLUDED. DO NOT ENGAGE IN COMBAT! I REPEAT, DO NOT ENGAGE IN COMBA—”

  There was another faint boom, and the speaker stopped. Orso guessed that someone had indeed engaged in combat.

  They listened to the cries and screams and shouts echoing down the hallway. Orso could tell the soldiers weren’t sure what to do: go and surrender, go and fight, or wait for the fight to come to them?

  The big one slowly turned to look back at Orso. “This is your doing, isn’t it.”

  “No, no!” said Orso. “It isn’t!”

  He stepped closer, rapier drawn. “Did you open the doors?”

  “No!”

  “Let them in?”

  “No, I’m just as surprised as you a—”

  He shook his head, furious. “I can’t believe it…We’re going to get shot to pieces in this ancient damned dome, and all because of some sneaky little striper.”

  “If you’re going to kill him, Ernesto,” said the soldier on the right, “then go ahead and get it over wi—”

  But he never finished the comment. Suddenly his mouth opened wide and he gasped and choked, his arms shot out at odd angles. Orso, blinking, realized the soldier had something protruding from his chest—the blade of a scrived rapier.

  “What!” cried the soldier on the left.

  The blade withdrew and the sergeant dropped to the ground, revealing Gregor Dandolo standing behind him, rapier in his hand. The soldier on the left spun to face him, but he was far, far too slow: Gregor pivoted and struck out with his rapier as fast as lightning, opening up his throat. Orso saw hot blood splash his invisible barrier, and the soldier collapsed into the waters, pawing at this throat.

  The big soldier wheeled around, raised his rapier, and advanced on Gregor. Even though he was still stunned, Orso realized he had never actually seen a real swordfight before. In Tevanne, where so many lexicons allowed you to use augmented bolts or blades, most people died suddenly and quickly—not so much a consequence of art and skill as sheer power and, usually, surprise.

  Dying was very easy in Tevanne. Artfully fighting was not.

  Yet this was what Gregor and his combatant engaged in, however briefly: two men with two blades scrived to amplify their speed and weight, dueling within the dripping hallway, their rapiers crashing into each other with near-deafening clangs. The blows were outrageously quick, but Orso could see there was a method to it: for example, you couldn’t just lift your sword to block your opponent’s, as a scrived blade moved faster the more you moved it, so your opponent’s sword would easily swat your rapier from your hand. Instead, you had to swing your own blade at the exact right speed and in the exact right direction to deflect the blow, which would hopefully open up your opponent for your own counterattack.

  Orso could also see that Gregor was a lot better at this than his opponent. He didn’t just attack the man—he engaged in what was clearly a process, opening the man’s stance with a series of strikes, and then…

  One, two, three. First the man’s leg was lopped off at the knee, then his arm as he fell, and then suddenly he was missing his head. Orso felt warm drops patter his cheeks and arms, but that was nothing compared to Gregor, who was doused with great fans of blood splashing his chest and thighs.

  Gregor looked surprised, and stared down at what was left of the man with an expression of faint dismay, like he’d left home and just realized he’d forgotten something.

  “Oh,” Gregor said faintly. “Oh dear…
”

  Orso slapped the cuirass button again, and this time it finally worked: the barrier vanished, and he fell forward into the water. Then he crawled to Gregor, who was still standing there with a shaken, horrified look on his face.

  Orso reached out to touch him. The man was absolutely covered in blood, from head to toe. “Gregor? Are you…are you all righ—”

  “I…I remember,” whispered Gregor. Tears ran down his face, mingling with the blood on his cheeks. “I remember. I remember…” Then his face went slack, and he stopped speaking.

  Then the hallway filled with light. They both turned and saw soldiers pouring around the corner, scrived lights held high and espringals pointed. One of them bellowed, “Lay down arms, lay down arms!”

  Orso reached forward, pulled the rapier out of Gregor’s bloody hand, and tossed it into the water. Then he held his hands up as they advanced.

  * * *

  —

  Gregor Dandolo saw sand, and beaches, and the moon at sea.

  He saw caves, and tunnels, and torchlight on stone walls.

  He saw moths dancing around him, a storm of bright, fragile, white wings.

  His older brother, Domenico, whimpering in the darkness.

  And then he saw nothing—just darkness, cold and silent and dreadful.

  His mother’s voice floated through the darkness to him: Oh, Gregor. Wake up, my love. Please, wake up…

  He heard something flutter in the darkness. He felt his heart twitch, then pump—once, twice—and his lungs suddenly burned for air.

  He took in a breath, and as he did his vision returned to him, and he saw a stone ceiling above him—perhaps a cave, flickering with torchlight.

  Then his mother was there, kneeling above him. She was younger than he remembered—her hair was longer, and her face was clear of familiar creases and wrinkles. Five years younger? Ten? He wasn’t sure. She was weeping, her hands running over his chest where he lay on the stone floor, saying—What did they do to you? What did they do?

  Gregor looked down and saw he was clad in a dreadfully familiar rig: a lorica, with one arm set in a huge, retractable pole arm, and the other in a bolt caster. The cuirass of his lorica was torn in many places, however, and he could see his own flesh below, with huge gaping wounds in his chest and abdomen…