Foundryside: A Novel (The Founders Trilogy)

by Robert Jackson Bennett

  She leapt up and grabbed the top of the doorframe, then pulled herself up, paused to rebalance, and placed her right foot on the top of the frame. Then she hauled herself up until she stood on the doorframe.

  Two second-floor windows were on her right and left, old and thick with oily, yellowed glass. Sancia pulled out her stiletto, slipped it into the crack in one window, flipped back the latch, and pulled the window open. She sheathed her stiletto, lifted herself up, and peered in.

  Inside were rows and rows of shelves, filled with what looked like parchment boxes. Probably records of some kind. The area was deserted, as it ought to be at this time of night—close to one in the morning by now—but there was a light downstairs. A candle flame, perhaps.

  Downstairs is where the safes are, thought Sancia. Which won’t be unguarded, even now…

  She crawled inside, shutting the window behind her. Then she crouched low and listened.

  A cough, then a sniff. She crept through the shelves until she came to the railing at the edge of the second floor, and peered down into the first floor.

  A single Waterwatch officer sat at a desk at the front door, filling out paperwork, a candle burning before him. He was an older man, plump and timid-looking, with a slightly lopsided mustache and a crinkled blue uniform. But it was what was behind him that really interested Sancia, for there sat a row of huge iron safes, nearly a dozen of them—and one of them, she knew, was the safe she’d come for.

  But now, she thought, what to do about our friend down there?

  She sighed as she realized what her only option was. She took her bamboo pipe out and loaded it with a dolorspina dart. Another ninety duvots spent on this job, she thought. Then she gauged the distance between herself and the guard, who was tsking and scratching out something on the page before him. She placed the pipe to her lips, aimed carefully, breathed in through her nose, and then…

  Before she could fire, the front door of the Waterwatch offices slammed open, and a large, scarred officer strode through, clutching something wet and dripping in one hand.

  She lowered the pipe. Well. Shit.

  * * *

  The officer was tall, broad, and well-muscled, and his dark skin, dark eyes, and thick black beard suggested he was a pureblood Tevanni. The hair atop his head was cut close, and his appearance and bearing immediately made Sancia think of a soldier: he had the look of a man used to having his words listened to and acted upon immediately.

  This new arrival turned to the officer seated at the desk, who looked no less surprised than Sancia to see him. “Captain Dandolo!” said the officer at the desk. “I thought you’d be out at the piers tonight.”

  The name was familiar to Sancia. Dandolo was the name of one of the four main merchant houses, and she’d heard that the new waterfront captain had some kind of elite connections…

  Ah, she thought, so this is the striper who’s taken it upon himself to reform the waterfront. She drew back into the shelves, though not so far that she couldn’t see.

  “Something wrong, sir?” said the officer at the desk.

  “One of the boys heard a sound out in the stacks, and found this.” His voice was terribly loud, like he spoke to fill up every room he was in with whatever he had to say. Then he held up something ragged and wet—and Sancia immediately recognized it as the remains of her air-sailing rig.

  She grimaced. Shit.

  “Is that a…kite?” said the officer at the desk.

  “No,” said Dandolo. “It’s an air-sailing rig—what the merchant houses use for mercantile espionage. It’s an unusually poor version, but that’s what it seems to be.”

  “Wouldn’t the walls have notified us if someone unauthorized crossed over the barrier?”

  “Not if they crossed over high enough.”

  “Ah,” said the sergeant. “And you think…” He looked over his shoulder at the line of safes.

  “I’m having the boys comb the stacks as we speak,” said Dandolo. “But if they’re mad enough to fly into the waterfront with this thing, maybe they’re mad enough to go for the safes.” He sucked his teeth. “Keep an eye out, Sergeant, but stay at your post. I’ll look around. Just to see.”

  “Right, sir.”

  Sancia watched with growing horror as Dandolo mounted the stairs, the wood creaking under his considerable weight.

  Shit! Shit!

  She considered her options. She could go back to the window, open it up, slip outside, and stand on the doorframe below, waiting for Dandolo to leave. But this took a lot of risks, since she could be seen or heard by the man.

  She could shoot Dandolo with the dolorspina dart. That would likely cause him to go tumbling back down the stairs, alarming the sergeant below, who could then raise the alarm. She debated if she could reload in time to hit him too, and found this plan no better.

  Then she had a third idea.

  She reached into her pocket and pulled out the knot of twine and the scrived lead ball.

  She’d intended to save this final trick as a distraction while she made her escape. But then, she did need to escape from this current situation.

  She put away her pipe, gripped each end of the twine knot, and looked up at the approaching captain, who was still climbing the stairs in front of her.

  You’re an asshole for scrumming this up for me, she thought.

  She gripped the ends of the twine knot, and ripped it untied in one fast motion.

  Sancia vaguely understood how the scriving mechanism worked: the interior of the lead ball was lined with sandpaper, and the twine was treated with fire potash, so when it was ripped through the sandpaper, it ignited. Just a small flare, but that was enough.

  Because the scrived ball in her hands was linked with a second lead ball, which was far, far away in the box atop the paper crates in the cargo stacks. Both balls were altered to be convinced that they were actually the same ball—and thus, whatever happened to the one happened to the other. Dunk one in cold water, and the other would grow rapidly cool. Shatter one, and the other would shatter as well.

  So this meant that when she pulled the twine and ignited the flare inside, the second ball in the cargo stacks suddenly grew burning hot too.

  But the second ball was packed in quite a lot more fire potash—and the box it sat in was filled to the brim with flash powder.

  The instant Sancia ripped the twine through the lead ball, she heard a faint boom way out in the cargo stacks.

  The captain paused on the stairs, bewildered. “What the hell was that?” he said.

  “Captain?” called the sergeant downstairs. “Captain!”

  He turned away from Sancia and called down the stairs, “Sergeant—what was that?”

  “I don’t know, Captain, but, but…There’s smoke.”

  Sancia turned toward the window and saw that the scrived device had worked quite well—there was now a thick column of white smoke out in the cargo stacks, along with a cheery flame.

  “Fire!” shouted the captain. “Shit! Come on, Prizzo!”

  Sancia watched, pleased, as the two of them sprinted out the door. Then she dashed downstairs to the safes.

  Let’s hope it keeps burning, she thought as she ran. Otherwise I might crack the safe, and get the prize—but I’ll have no tricks left to get me off the waterfront.

  * * *

  Sancia looked at the line of safes. She remembered Sark’s instructions—It’s safe 23D. A small wooden box. The combinations are changed every day—Dandolo is a clever bastard—but it should be no issue for you, girl. Should it?

  She knew it shouldn’t. But then, she was now working with a much tighter deadline than she’d previously planned for.

  Sancia approached 23D and took her gloves off. These safes were where civilian passengers stored away valuables with the Waterwatch—specifically, passengers unaffilia
ted with the merchant houses. If you were affiliated with one of the merchant houses, it was assumed you’d store your valuables with them directly, because they, being the manufacturers and producers of all scrived rigs, would have far better security and protection than just a bunch of safes with combination locks.

  Sancia placed one bare hand on 23D. Then she leaned her bare forehead against it, took the tumbler wheel in her other hand, and shut her eyes.

  The safe blossomed to life in her mind, telling her of iron and darkness and oil, the chattering of its many toothed gears, the clinkings and clankings of its stupendously complicated mechanisms.

  She slowly started turning the wheel, and felt instantly where it wanted to go. She slowed the combination wheel down, and…

  Click. One tumbler fell into place.

  Sancia breathed deep and started turning the wheel in the opposite direction, feeling the mechanisms clicking and clanking inside the door.

  There was another boom out in the cargo yard.

  Sancia opened her eyes. Pretty sure I didn’t do that one…

  She looked back at the window on the western side of the offices, and saw that the greasy glass panes were dancing with greedy firelight. Something must have caught out there, something much more flammable than the paper crate she’d intended to set alight.

  She heard shouting, screaming, and cries out in the yard. Ah, hell, she thought. I need to hurry before the whole damned place burns down!

  She shut her eyes again and kept turning the wheel. She felt it clicking into place, felt that perfect little gap approaching…and the scar on her head burning hot, like a needle in her brain. I’m doing too much. I’m pushing myself too damned far…

  Click.

  She sucked her teeth. That’s two…

  More screams from outside. Another soft boom.

  She focused. She listened to the safe, letting it pour into her, feeling the anticipation of the mechanism within, feeling it wait with bated breath for that one final turn…

  Click.

  She opened her eyes and turned the handle on the safe. It opened with a clunk. She swung it open.

  The safe was filled with an abundance of items: letters, scrolls, envelopes, and the like. But at the back was her prize: a wooden box, about eight inches long and four inches deep. A simple, dull box, unremarkable in nearly every way—and yet this bland thing was worth more than all the precious goods Sancia had ever stolen in her life combined.

  She reached in and picked up the box with her bare fingers. Then she paused.

  Her abilities had been so taxed by the evening’s excitement that she could tell something was curious about the box, but not immediately what—she got a hazy picture in her mind of pine wood walls within walls, but not much more. It was like trying to look at a painting in the dark during a lightning storm.

  She knew that wasn’t important, though—she was just meant to get it, and not ask questions about its contents.

  She stowed it away in a pouch on her chest. Then she shut the safe, locked it, and turned and ran for the door.

  As she exited the Waterwatch offices, she saw that the little fire was now a full-on blaze. It looked like she’d set the entire damned cargo yard alight. Waterwatch officers sprinted around the inferno, trying to contain it—which meant likely all of the exits were now available for her to use.

  She turned and ran. If they find out I did this, she thought, I’ll be harpered for sure.

  She made it to the eastern exit of the waterfront. She slowed, hid behind a stack of crates, and confirmed that she was right—all the officers were tending to the blaze, which meant it was unguarded. She ran through, head aching, heart pounding, and the scar on the side of her head screaming in pain.

  Yet just as she crossed, she looked back for one moment, watching the fire. The entire western fifth of the waterfront was now a wild blaze, and an unbelievably thick column of black smoke stretched up and curled about the moon above.

  Sancia turned and ran.

  3

  A block away from the waterfront, Sancia slipped into an alley and changed clothing, wiping the mud from her face, rolling up her filthy thieving rig, and putting on a hooded doublet, gloves, and hosiery.

  She cringed as she did so—she hated changing clothes. She stood in the alley and shut her eyes, wincing as the sensations of mud and smoke and soil and dark wool bled out of her thoughts, and bright, crunchy, crispy hemp fabric surged in to replace them. It was like stepping out of a nice warm bath and jumping into an icy lake, and it took some time for her mind to recalibrate.

  Once this was done, she hurried away down the street, pausing twice to confirm she’d not been followed. She took a turn, then another. Soon the huge merchant house walls swelled up on either side of her, white and towering and indifferent—Michiel on the left, Dandolo on the right. Behind those walls were the merchant house enclaves—commonly called “campos”—where the merchant houses ran their clutch of neighborhoods like their own little kingdoms.

  Clinging to the bases of the walls was a tall, rambling stretch of ramshackle wooden tenements and rookery buildings and crooked chimneys, an improvised, makeshift, smoky tangle of soaking warrens stuffed between the two campo walls like a raft trapped between two converging ships.

  Foundryside. The closest thing Sancia had to a home.

  She passed through an alley, and was greeted by a familiar scene. Firebaskets sparked and hissed at the street corners ahead. A taverna on her left was still thriving even at this hour, its old yellow windows glimmering with candlelight, cackles and curses spilling through the drapes across the entrance. Weeds and vines and rogue nut trees tumbled out of the flooded alleys as if launching an ambush. Three old women on a balcony above watched her passage, all picking at a wooden plate, upon which sat the remains of a striper—a large, ugly water bug that turned a rather pretty, striped violet pattern when boiled.

  The scene was familiar, but it didn’t make her any more relaxed. The Tevanni Commons were Sancia’s home, but her neighbors were just as ruthless and dangerous as any merchant house guard.

  She took back passageways to her rookery building, and slipped in through a side door. She walked down the hallway to her rooms, felt the door with a bare index finger, then the floorboards. They told her nothing unusual—it seemed things hadn’t been tampered with.

  She unlocked all six of the locks on the door, walked in, and locked it again. Then she crouched and listened, her bare index finger stuck to the floorboards.

  She waited ten minutes. The throbbing in her head slowly returned. But she had to be sure.

  When nothing came, she lit a candle—she was tired of using her talents to see—crossed her room, and opened the shutters of her windows, just a crack. Then she stood there and watched the streets.

  * * *

  For two hours, Sancia stared out the tiny crack at the street below. She knew she had good reason to be paranoid—she’d not only just pulled off a twenty-thousand-duvot job, she’d also just burned down the damned Tevanni waterfront. She wasn’t sure which was worse.

  If someone had happened to look up at Sancia’s window and catch a glimpse of her, they likely would’ve been struck by the sight. She was a young girl, barely older than twenty, but she’d already lived more than most people ever would, and you could see it in her face. Her dark skin was weather-beaten and hard, the face of someone for whom starvation was a frequent occurrence. She was short but muscular, with bulky shoulders and thighs, and her hands were calloused and hard as iron—all consequences of her occupation. She sported a lopsided, self-applied haircut, and a lurid, jagged scar ran along her right temple, approaching close to her right eye, whose whites were slightly muddier than those of the left.

  People did not like it when Sancia looked at them too hard. It made them nervous.

  After two hours of watching,
Sancia felt satisfied. She closed her shutters, locked them, and went to her closet and removed the false floor. It always discomfited her to open up the floor there—the Commons had no banks or treasuries, so the whole of her life’s savings was squirreled away in that dank niche.

  She took the pine box out of her thieving rig, held it in her bare hands, and looked at it.

  Now that she’d had some time to recover—the screaming pain in her skull had subsided into a dull ache—she could tell right away what was odd about the box, and it bloomed clear in her mind, the shape and space of the box congealing in her thoughts like wax chambers in a beehive.

  The box had a false bottom in it—a secret compartment. And inside the false bottom, Sancia’s talents told her, was something small and wrapped in linen.

  She paused, thinking about this.

  Twenty thousand duvots? For this thing?

  But then, it was not for her to think about. Her purpose had been to get the box, and nothing more. Sark had been very clear about that. And Sancia was well favored by their clients because she always did as she was asked—no more, no less. In three days, she’d hand the box off to Sark, and then she’d never think about it again.

  She put the box in the false floor, closed the floor, and shut the closet.

  She confirmed that her door and shutters were secure. Then she walked over to her bed, sat, placed her stiletto on the floor beside her, and breathed deep.

  Home, she thought. And safe.

  But her room did not look much like a home. If anyone had happened to peer inside, they’d have thought Sancia lived like the most ascetic of monks: she had only a plain chair, a bucket, an unadorned table, and a bare bed—no sheets, no pillows.

  Yet this was how she was forced to live. She preferred sleeping in her own clothes to sleeping in sheets: not only was it difficult to adjust to lying in yet more cloth, but bedsheets were prone to lice and fleas and other vermin, and the feeling of their many tiny legs picking their way across her skin drove her absolutely mad. And when her scar burned hot, she couldn’t bear to have any of her other senses overloaded either—too much light and too many colors was like having nails in her skull.