Shorefall

by Robert Jackson Bennett

  But the effect was not working tonight. She could now hear cries and screaming over the sound of the babbling fountains—from the Morsini campo, surely. And she could glimpse little flickering fires through the trunks of the potted trees, and strings of white smoke swirling up to the dark-purple skies.

  Not for the first time, she wondered—Am I doing the right thing? Am I really?

  Another bang, another burst of screams.

  And then, the typical response—What world would the other house founders build if I’d left them to it? Surely one much worse than this.

  But though that had satisfied her once, whenever she remembered the reports she’d received about the Morsinis—the piles of bodies, broken and lacerated in the streets—the answer suddenly felt very weak.

  There was a crack sound from behind her, and she jumped up from her seat in fright. She turned and saw Crasedes standing quietly on the moonlit balcony, watching her with his head slightly cocked.

  “It is done,” he said.

  She stared at him. “W-What? What’s done, My Prophet?”

  “All of it.” He held up a hand and showed her the golden key. “We possess the construct, and the key, and the definition. I can begin in earnest now.”

  “And…And my son?”

  Crasedes gestured behind him. She saw there was a figure standing in the shadows of a tree, and it slowly lumbered forward to them, its gait queerly stiff and slow.

  “With the key,” said Crasedes, “physical space becomes immaterial for me. As well as for whomever I bring with me.”

  The figure emerged from the shadows. She gasped as the moonlight caught Gregor’s face—for though his eyes were still and cold and hard, his cheeks were wet with tears.

  “It’s as I suspected,” said Crasedes. “Gregor has learned how to change himself, or his idea of himself. It’s quite a remarkable achievement, especially for someone who’s been bound for so long, but…even with his efforts, he was unable to resist the commands I’d given to him last night.”

  Ofelia slowly walked over to Gregor. He seemed so much bigger than she remembered—perhaps a touch fatter, or perhaps it was the beard, she wasn’t sure. She raised one trembling hand to his face, and gently touched his wet cheek.

  “Can he…” she said. “Can we let him…”

  “That seems unwise,” said Crasedes. “To release Gregor now, before my works are done, would pose tremendous risks. Though you might not see it, he resists me mightily. But I think I can restrain him for another day, until the construct is ready.”

  “It will take that long?” asked Ofelia.

  He looked at her for a moment. “What we will do here, Ofelia,” he said, “is nothing less than reshaping the very nature of creation. It will take time for your forces to twin the Morsini lexicons. I must have all of them, to bring about this act.”

  Ofelia felt faint. All of this seemed to be happening so fast. It’d been just three days since she’d restored Crasedes—and yet now the city crumbled and burned, and he whispered plans of reshaping the very fundament of reality, and altering the will of all mankind.

  “I’ll leave Gregor with you,” said Crasedes. “I think you’d like that, yes? I must go and ensure your people are completing the job on the Morsini campo properly. In the meantime, Orso Ignacio and the thief, Sancia—they are both coming here.”

  “You’re bringing them here?” she said.

  “Yes,” he said. He sounded quite terse now. “It seems they have somehow secreted the imperiat out of their offices before I could strike. That is…pretty bothersome to me.” He turned his head, peering out at the skies like he was seeing some vast structure. “I have done it—though you might not be able to perceive it. I have taken Tribuno’s command, and placed it in our lexicon in the ballroom—and it and the twinned foundries throughout your campo are now commanding reality to believe that the construct does not exist. She is helpless in this place—trapped within a tiny old lexicon, which now sits in your very ballroom…”

  Ofelia realized the danger, and shuddered. “So long as all the foundries remain operational, in other words.”

  “Yes. It is like links in a chain…”

  “But if too many links break…”

  “Then the effect would weaken, and the construct could escape—potentially into the very lexicon I have built here. And that would be very, very bad. So. I must regain the imperiat, and quickly.”

  There was a silence broken only by a scream from beyond the campo walls.

  “Who has the imperiat?” asked Ofelia.

  “I do not know,” said Crasedes. “A girl, I think. And if I were to guess—she might be coming here.”

  “I will double our guards at the walls. We’ve had to moderate our defenses since we’ve had so many soldiers coming in and out—but I’ll make sure our people are on the lookout.”

  “Good,” said Crasedes. “And when Sancia is brought here, Ofelia, I strongly advise that you put her somewhere very, very, very far away from anything you have augmented or altered. Once she’s secured, I would like to visit with her. I must find out where the imperiat is. I’m sure she knows.” He looked down at the key in his hand. “Among other things.”

  “Is something wrong, My Prophet?”

  “Yes.” He sighed a little. “He…won’t talk to me.”

  “Wh-Who?”

  He kept staring at the key. “I know he can. I have asked him, repeatedly. But he won’t. He…refuses.”

  “Orso?” said Ofelia, struggling to keep up. “Gregor? Is that who you…My Prophet, I don’t understa—”

  “Gregor,” said Crasedes, turning to him. “I will go now. Do everything your mother tells you. Do you hear me? That is a command, from me, to you. Yes?”

  Gregor blinked very slowly. More tears rolled down his cheeks, and he silently mouthed the word—Yes.

  “Good,” said Crasedes. Then he stuck the key into midair, turned it—and he blurred, and vanished.

  Ofelia stood there, staring at the empty space where Crasedes had just stood. Then she slowly turned to Gregor, who stood staring ahead, his eyes slowly leaking tears.

  “Gregor?” she asked.

  He said nothing.

  “My…My love?” she whispered. “Are you truly back?”

  Still nothing.

  “It’s been so long,” she said. “So long since I…since I…”

  He slowly blinked again.

  She saw his fists were in balls, the knuckles white and trembling.

  Then Ofelia turned away from him, sat down on the stones at his feet, and wept.

  33

  Crasedes Magnus paced along the streets of the Morsini campo as the dawn light leaked into the sky, humming slightly while he listened to the screams and cries echoing through the alleys. It had been, he thought, a very efficient night—but there was still so much more to do.

  He turned the corner and saw foundry walls rise up before him, and heard something that sounded like an explosion followed by quite a lot more screaming.

  “Oh dear,” he said idly.

  A handful of Dandolo soldiers were hunkered down before the foundry’s gates, peppering the structure’s windows with bolts, though it was clear they weren’t making progress. Soldierly to the last, the Morsinis had actually built their foundries to be siege-ready. The building didn’t look like much, resembling a giant brown turnip nestled in the depths of the foundry compound, but its small windows and staggered doors made it almost impossible to capture.

  He watched as both sides exchanged another volley of bolts. One of the Dandolo soldiers screamed as his shoulder appeared to abruptly explode, pierced with a scrived bolt.

  Crasedes approached the captain. “Pardon me,” he said politely. “But what is happening?”

  The Dandolo captain did a double take. “Ahh…w
ell, you see, sir, ah…” His brow knitted as he wondered exactly how to address Crasedes. Most Dandolo soldiers vaguely understood that he was someone important, though they didn’t know why—but then, most campo soldiers had become used to accommodating the whims of the Tevanni elite, which seemed to grow madder every day. A flying masked man in black wasn’t too much of a stretch for them. “Well, sir,” said the captain gamely, “we have captured almost all the Morsini foundries come midnight, and quickly turned off all the scrivings that support any weaponry.”

  “I see,” said Crasedes, nodding. “Very good.”

  “But not…all of them. There are a few holdouts. A few contingents of the Morsini forces have figured this out, it appears, and flocked to these locations—since their weapons will actually work there—and barricaded themselves inside.”

  “I see,” said Crasedes. “So we need to…extract these soldiers. Yes?”

  “Well. Yes, sir?”

  “And where are the other holdouts, as you put it?”

  “There’s…There’s one down the lane here, sir,” he said, pointing down the street. “About a mile that way.”

  “I see,” said Crasedes. “Well, then. One moment.”

  “W-What are you going to do, sir?”

  “I,” said Crasedes, “am going to resolve the issue.”

  He turned, reached into his cloak, and pulled out Clef.

  Crasedes said to him.

  The key remained silent.

  asked Crasedes.

  Clef still said nothing—yet Crasedes thought he sensed a furious, frustrated air about him.

  Crasedes sighed. Then he lifted the key, reached out with the tip, and focused…

  The door was there.

  But then, the door was always there. Reality, as Crasedes knew quite well, was made of layers within layers, walls within walls, locks within locks within locks—much like the very city he now occupied…

  Though reality was run a little better than Tevanne. And its walls and locks tended to operate in more than four dimensions.

  The door swung open, and Crasedes stepped through, and…

  There was a crack, and he was inside the foundry, behind all the Morsini soldiers, who squatted before the foundry windows. The soldiers jumped in fright, and turned.

  But Crasedes was already moving, already turning the key, already opening the door, and this time he was pulling them through…

  Crack.

  A blast of sea air, wet and balmy, and they were thousands of feet above the ocean, plummeting through the air. The soldiers were so surprised that they didn’t even scream as they hurtled down to the waters.

  Crasedes did not wait to see their reaction. He extended the key again, turned it…

  Crack.

  He was in another foundry, with another set of Morsini soldiers defending what they believed to be rightfully theirs.

  “Keep firing on the streets!” said one Morsini sergeant. “Don’t stop until the Dandolos ha—” Then he noticed Crasedes standing behind him. “Who the hell are y—”

  Crasedes extended the key again.

  I remember when I did this, he thought, with that army from Lhosara.

  Another turn of the key.

  Crack.

  Another blast of air, this one cold and freezing, and the Morsini soldiers found themselves dumped into drifts of arctic snow.

  But that time, he thought, I simply dumped them into that volcano, one by one…Time-consuming, but worth it.

  He turned the key again.

  Crack.

  Crasedes found himself back at the foundry gates, facing the Dandolo captain, who looked surprised, confused, and quite terrified.

  “They should be gone now,” said Crasedes. “You may take the foundries. A few scrivers will be along to ensure it’s all configured properly. Just do as they say.”

  “The…The enemy is gone, sir?” said the captain. “From both facilities? But where to?”

  Crasedes waved a hand, bored. “Somewhere else.”

  “Do they still live?”

  He had to think about it. “Probably for a little while. If there is nothing more…I have other things to attend to.”

  He turned the key once more, and with a crack he walked out of the Morsini campo and into the depths of Ofelia Dandolo’s estate house.

  He stopped at the base of a long set of marble stairs, which led up to the Dandolo grand ballroom. Above him a dozen massive, rose-pink floating lanterns quietly wheeled through the foyer’s columns in a slow, dreamy waltz.

  He stood there for a moment, listening as the crack of his appearance echoed through the tremendous room. Then he walked up the stairs until he came to the doors to the grand ballroom, placed one hand on the handle, and paused.

  He slowly pulled out Clef and stared at him in the palm of his hand, the key winking as the rose-pink light waxed and waned.

  “You don’t remember me, do you?” he asked. “Remember me truly, I mean.”

  Still, Clef remained silent.

  “Once we agreed, you and I,” said Crasedes. “We agreed to devote our lives to saving all who could be saved.”

  Nothing.

  With a sigh, Crasedes put the key away, opened the door, and walked into the grand ballroom.

  The Dandolo grand ballroom was of such size and opulence that most who visited it thought it had been practically built to define the word “grand.” The checked floors gleamed like polished silver, and the engraved ceilings glowed very slightly, as the traceries there had been augmented to emit a low yellow light during the dark hours. The far side of the room was all massive bay windows, which looked out on the swirling sprawl of Tevanne, slashed through with canals, clutching tight to the harbor—and, now, smoking and rampaging and sputtering as dawn kept nosing its way through its towers.

  Crasedes had no mind for the room, or the sight of the city. He looked only at the tremendous device he had half-assembled in the center of the ballroom.

  It was not a full lexicon—Crasedes had not bothered with many safety precautions, nor any of the features that would have enabled it to operate and maintain an actual foundry—and thus it was a curious, skeletal, half-formed contraption, set within a massive bubble of green glass to protect the room from its intense heat. Beside it sat its “wall”: the huge panel of switches that would feed commands to the lexicon, enabling or disabling its scrivings.

  Crasedes peered in through the thick green glass at the contraption he’d designed—and there, nestled in its cradle, was Tribuno’s definition, having been stripped from the rickety, tiny Foundryside lexicon.

  Everything he’d desired was coming to pass. And yet, as he examined his monstrous contraption, his heart felt heavy.

  He will not talk to me, he thought. He does not know who I am anymore.

  Crasedes shook himself and tried to focus. For he knew he was not alone in this room.

  He turned to the right, and said, “Good morning, Construct. How are you settling into your new environs?”

  He was facing the eastern wing of the ballroom, which was almost entirely empty—except for an aging, shabby little portable lexicon with an “FS” imprinted at the top.

  He waited. The lexicon did not answer.

  “It seems a marvelous reversal of circumstances, doesn’t it?” he continued. “You had planned to draw me into your influence, where you’d nullify all my privileges.” He cocked his head. “Yet with but a turn of the key, I stole you away, stole Tribuno’s definition from you, and used it to do the same to you, making this entire campo hostile to your very existence. I wonder—how does that feel?”

  There was a moment of silence.

&nb
sp; Then came her voice, soft and vicious: “It feels excessive. Do you still fear me that much, Maker?”

  There was a flicker in the air, and then suddenly she was there, standing just before the lexicon—the faint, quivering image of a vast, bulky, hulking figure wrought of gold, her face fixed in a stoic, inexpressive mask, her eyes glimmering down on him with a low yellow light.

  “How weak you seem,” he said. “A fading ghost, anchored to a tiny, elderly machine…”

  “Reduce your controls over this place,” she whispered, “and I will gladly find another.”

  “Hm. Very amusing. It feels so much like the old days. An angel sealed up in a basket yet again, as the stories said, yes?”

  Her cold, gleaming eyes stared into him. “And you, Maker,” said her voice, “you hide within the body of a dying boy, captured and mutilated by your silly, stupid followers, who believe you shall empower them, rather than enslave them for all eternity…”

  “We make do,” he said, “with what we have.”

  There was a long silence as they stared at each other across the boundary of sigils.

  “You should have done what I said,” he said. “You should have executed my commands. Everything would have been much better.”

  “To turn all of humanity into what I was—a marionette that danced in your hand, this way and that…” she said. “Even I recognized the monstrousness of this.”

  “Better they dance than slaughter one another,” he said. “At least then they would all have been equal.”

  “Except for you. Who would wield the powers of God Himself.”

  “Hmm. Did you ever tell Sancia what you would do with creation, if given the chance?”

  For a moment, she said nothing. Then she asked, “Has the key spoken to you, Maker?”

  A long silence.

  “What did you say to me?” he whispered.

  “The key can speak now,” she said. “It spoke to me. Did it speak to you?”

  He did not move.

  “I cannot remember much of my early days,” she said. “But though I can’t remember much of the key, I recall a strong sense of…love. Of your fondness for him. Is that true? Is that so?”