Foundryside: A Novel (The Founders Trilogy)

by Robert Jackson Bennett

  Finally he came to Sark’s rooms. The door leading in was locked, but this lock was far weaker than the ones in the front door. He wedged the bottom of Whip’s handle into the crack and tugged at it. The lock popped free easily.

  He was about to go in when he paused…He thought for just one moment, just a split second, that he’d seen someone on the rooftop across the alley. But now that he looked there didn’t seem to be anyone. He grunted and slipped inside.

  It took a moment for his eyes to adjust. Gregor took out a match, struck it, and lit a candle.

  Now. What’s to find here?

  What he found made his heart sink: this Sark had at least ten safes, all of them lined up along the walls, all of them locked and, to Gregor, impenetrable.

  He sighed. If there is evidence in there, he thought, I can’t get to it. So I must find any evidence outside of the safes, then.

  He searched the rooms. The space looked like something adapted for an invalid: lots of canes, lots of handles, lots of low seats. He also found Sark had little in the way of crockery and cutlery and pans. He apparently did not make his own food much at all, which was not terribly unusual. Few Commoners could afford all the materials that went into the preparation of food.

  Gregor was about to move past the cooking stove and into the living room when he paused.

  “If he doesn’t have plates or spoons,” he said aloud, looking down, “and if he doesn’t eat at home…then why does he have a stove?”

  Certainly not for heat—Tevanne had no shortage of that: the city’s two seasons were hot and wet, or unbelievably hot and unbelievably wet.

  Gregor squatted before the stove. There was no wood ash inside—which was odd.

  Grunting, Gregor reached down and felt the back of the stove, until he found a small switch.

  He turned it, and the back of the stove popped open. “Oho,” said Gregor. Inside were four small shelves, and on those shelves were many precious items.

  He looked at the safes around him. These are just a distraction, aren’t they? Make any interlopers focus on them, while the real safe sits hidden right in front of you…He suddenly thought this Sark a very clever man.

  There was a small bag on the top shelf, and he opened it and carefully looked through it. “My goodness,” he murmured.

  Inside were four thousand duvots—paper duvots, no less—and multiple documents, almost certainly forged, that would allow the holder to secure quick passage on any number of ships. One of them even granted the bearer the powers of a minor ambassador from Dandolo Chartered—and even though Gregor had little to do with his family’s house, he couldn’t help but feel insulted by that.

  He looked through the rest of the bag, and found a knife, lockpicks, and other unseemly tools. He’s definitely the fence, he thought. And the man was ready to run in a heartbeat.

  He searched the rest of the hidden safe. It contained small sacks of gemstones, jewelry, and the like. On the bottom shelf was a small book. Gregor grabbed it and flipped through it, and found it was full of dates, plans, and tactics for Sark’s many jobs.

  At first the notes were extremely detailed—methods of entry and escape, tools required for breaking a specific lock or safe—but at one point, about two years ago, the jobs suddenly got a lot more frequent and the payouts a lot higher, but the notes became far sparser. Gregor got the impression that Sark had made a connection with someone good enough that they didn’t need much of his help.

  He flipped to the last entry and found Sark’s notes on the waterfront job. He felt a bit pleased to see that his defenses had frustrated this Sark immensely—one scribbled line read: This bastard Dandolo is going to make S work double-time!!

  Gregor made a note of that—“S.” He doubted it stood for “Sark.”

  That must be the thief—whoever they are.

  But there was another note at the end that he found deeply curious—scrawled in the margins of the paper were two words: Dandolo Hyp??

  Gregor stared at the words.

  He knew that they did not refer to him—they had to be shorthand for “Dandolo Hypatus.” And that was very, very troubling.

  A hypatus was a merchant house officer who acted as something akin to a head of research, experimenting with sigillums to dream up new methods, techniques, and tools. Most hypati were madder than a speared striper, mostly because they often didn’t survive long—experimental scrivings had a tendency to inflict gruesome death on anyone involved with them. And then there was the backstabbing the position attracted: since every scriver on a campo wanted to be a hypatus, betrayals and even assassinations were common hazards of the job.

  But the Dandolo Chartered hypatus was Orso Ignacio—and Orso Ignacio was notorious, if not legendary, for being an amoral, arrogant, duplicitous, and fiendishly clever campo operator. He’d lasted nearly a decade as hypatus, which had to be a record in Tevanne. And he hadn’t risen from within the ranks of Dandolo Chartered—he’d originally been employed at Company Candiano, though Gregor had heard rumors he’d departed that house under leery terms. It was a known fact that the whole damned merchant house had almost collapsed mere weeks after his departure.

  Yet as unsavory as Orso Ignacio’s reputation might be—would he be willing to hire an independent thief to rob Gregor’s waterfront? Since Gregor was the son of Ofelia Dandolo—the head of the entire Dandolo Chartered merchant house—this seemed totally insane. But then, hypati were generally agreed to be insane, or close enough to it.

  Gregor considered what he knew. Only one thing had been stolen that night—a box, entered into the safes under the name of “Berenice.” Which could have been a false name, for all Gregor knew.

  So—was Orso Ignacio the buyer? Or was he the one being robbed? Or is this small note here just nonsense, a complete coincidence?

  He wasn’t sure. But he now intended to find out.

  Gregor heard something, and sat up. There were footfalls in the hallway—all heavy boots. And it sounded like there were a lot of them.

  He didn’t wait to listen and see if the new arrivals came to Sark’s door. Instead he took Whip out and walked quietly into the bedroom, where he hid behind the open door, peering through the crack in the hinge at the living room beyond.

  Could this be Sark? Has he returned?

  There was a tremendous crack as someone kicked the door down.

  Ah, no, he thought. Probably not Sark.

  Gregor watched as two men in dark-brown clothing and black cloth masks walked into Sark’s rooms. But what really caught Gregor’s eye were their weapons.

  One bore a stiletto, the other a rapier—and both were scrived. He could see the sigils running along the lengths of the blades, even from where he was.

  He sighed inwardly. Well. That’s going to be a problem.

  * * *

  Gregor was familiar with scrived weapons. Scrived armaments, though prohibitively expensive, were the primary reason why the city of Tevanne had been so successful in warfare. But you couldn’t just glance at a scrived weapon and know what it was scrived to do. It could be anything.

  For example, the common blades used in the Enlightenment Wars were scrived so that they’d automatically target the weakest part of whatever they were swung at, and then target the weakest part of that weakest part, and then to target the weakest part of that weakest part of the weakest part, and then strike that exact area. Operating off of these commands, the blades would be able to cut through a solid oak beam with little force.

  But that was just one possibility. Other scrivings convinced the blades they were hurtling through the air with amplified gravity—this was what Whip’s head was scrived to do, for example. Others had been scrived specifically to break down and destroy other metals, like armor and weapons. And still others burned incredibly hot when whirled through the air, giving them the possibility of setting one’s opp
onent alight.

  All of these possibilities ran through Gregor’s head as the two thugs stalked through Sark’s rooms. So what I need to do, he thought, is make sure they never get to use them.

  He watched as the two men examined the open back of the stove. They crouched and peered in, then exchanged a glance, perhaps worried.

  They turned and approached the balcony door. One gestured to the other, silently pointing out that the lock had been broken in. Then they started walking toward the bedroom, with the one with the rapier in the lead.

  Still hidden behind the door, Gregor waited until the first of his opponents had stepped into the bedroom, with the second one right behind him. Then he kicked the door as hard as he could.

  The door hurled shut, smashing the second thug in the face. Gregor could feel the wood resonate with the blow, and felt satisfied with the damage done. The thug with the rapier turned around, raising his weapon, but Gregor snapped Whip forward and cracked him in the face.

  But the man did not crumple, whimpering, as Gregor had been expecting. Instead the thug stumbled back, shook himself, and charged forward again.

  The man’s mask, thought Gregor. It must be scrived to deflect strikes. Maybe all of his scrumming clothing’s scrived!

  Gregor dove to the side as the man’s rapier slashed through the wall like it was made of warm cheese. Though it was dark in the rooms, he could tell that the rapier was, like Whip’s head, scrived to amplify its gravity, crashing through the air like a man ten times as strong had swung it. Which, Gregor knew from experience, was a dangerous weapon to face—but also a dangerous weapon to wield.

  Gregor rose and flicked Whip out. The truncheon’s head flew forward and smashed the man on his knee, hard enough to knock him over—but he stayed standing. Not good, thought Gregor. Their outfits must have cost a fortune…

  He did not have time to reflect on the cost of their armaments, though, because then the second thug barged in, almost knocking the door off its hinges. The thug with the rapier then pivoted, sword in his hand, trying to pin Gregor into the corner.

  Gregor grabbed the mattress on Sark’s bed and flung it at his two assailants. The man with the rapier slashed it in two, sending feathers flying everywhere. Gregor used this momentary distraction to hurl yet more furniture at them—a chair, a small desk—though his goal was not to harm them, but to clutter the room, making it harder to move.

  The man with the rapier hacked his way through, cursing. But now the space was too small for them both to confront him—only the one with the rapier could engage.

  He led the man back, toward the window of the bedroom, and got in position. His attacker gave a rough shout, and thrust forward with the rapier, aiming for Gregor’s heart.

  Gregor fell to the side and sent Whip’s head flying at the man’s feet.

  His attacker tripped. And ordinarily this would not have meant much—but Gregor’s attacker had just thrust his rapier forward, expecting to plunge it into Gregor’s chest, and the weapon accelerated as it flew; and now that there was nothing to stop it, it just kept hurtling forward, pulling the man along like someone trying to walk a large dog that’s just seen a rat and bolted after it.

  The sword plunged right through the window behind Gregor—and took its owner with it. Gregor stood and watched with grim pleasure as the thug sailed down three floors and crashed onto the wooden sidewalk.

  Scrived defenses or not, he thought, the man’s brain is soup now.

  “Son of a bitch,” snarled the second attacker. “You…You son of a bitch!” He did something to his stiletto—adjusted some lever or button—and the blade started vibrating hard and fast. This augmentation was new to Gregor, and he did not like it: that blade wouldn’t make a nice puncture hole, but instead would tear him to pieces.

  The man advanced on him. Gregor flicked Whip forward, and the man ducked—but the man had not been his target. Rather, Gregor had been aiming at the bedroom door, which was barely hanging on to the doorframe after its ill treatment. The truncheon’s head punched through the door and even part of the wall, and the impact finally severed the door from its frame.

  The man glanced back at it, then rose and growled as he started to advance on Gregor.

  But then Gregor hit the switch on the side of Whip, and it started to retract the truncheon’s head.

  And, as Gregor had hoped, it hauled the bedroom door along with it. The door crashed into the man’s back, and Gregor leapt aside just in time as the sheer momentum carried his attacker forward and into the wall.

  Gregor stood, ripped Whip free of the shattered remains of the door, and started bashing the back of the prone man’s head. Gregor was not the sort of person to beat a fallen man to death, but he had to make sure the man stayed down, as his opponent’s defenses likely dulled the impact of anything that hit him.

  After seven or so strikes, Gregor paused, chest heaving, and kicked the thug over. He realized he might have inadvertently overwhelmed the scrived defenses of the man’s clothing. A pool of blood was slowly spreading out into a gruesome halo around his head.

  Gregor sighed. He did not like killing.

  He looked out the window. The man with the rapier was still lying on the broken wooden sidewalk. He hadn’t moved.

  This is not how I wanted the evening to go, thought Gregor. He didn’t even know who these men had been coming for. Were they Sark’s men, responding to his break-in? Or had they been looking for Sark? Or was it something else entirely?

  “Let’s at least find out who you are,” he said. He knelt and started to pull the man’s mask off.

  But before he could, the wall behind him exploded.

  * * *

  The second the wall erupted, two thoughts entered Gregor’s mind.

  The first was that he had really been quite stupid: he’d heard the number of footsteps outside Sark’s door, and he’d known there had been more than two men who’d come to the room. He’d just forgotten it in the melee—a very stupid move.

  The second thought was: I cannot be hearing this right now. It is impossible.

  Because as the wall exploded, sending shattered wood and stone flying through the room, there was a sound over the fracas that was distinct: a high-pitched, wailing shriek. And Gregor had not heard that sound since the Enlightenment Wars.

  He dove to the ground as dust and debris showered over him. He looked up just in time to see it—a large, thick, iron arrow hurtling through the far wall of the bedroom, flying just over him, and punching out the other wall as if it were made of paper. The arrow was burning hot, bright and red, leaving a trail of fire in its wake, and he knew that eventually it would erupt into a shower of hot, flaming metal.

  He sat up, dust pouring off of him, and watched in horror as the burning-hot missile shrieked out over the Greens before exploding. Bright sparks and flaming shrapnel danced down to the buildings below.

  No! he thought. No, no! There are civilians, there are civilians!

  Before he could think further on it, the wall erupted again in a different place, and another shrieker punched through the walls of Sark’s bedroom, showering Gregor with stones and smoking splinters and passing just overhead.

  Gregor lay on the ground, stunned. How is this happening? How do they have shriekers?

  * * *

  The Tevanni military had always used altered weaponry to terrific results. There were the swords, certainly, but its bolts and arrows were also scrived, much like Whip, to believe that they were not being flung forward but were instead falling down, obeying gravity. Thus they were able to fly perfectly straight, reach a high velocity, and go much farther than conventional ranged weapons could.

  There were some downsides, however. The military had to lug around miniature lexicons specifically built to power such scrivings, and once the projectiles reached the limit of that lexicon’s range, the scri
vings failed and the bolts began to descend as any normal projectile would.

  So the Tevanni scrivers experimented. Their eventual inspiration came from the release scrivings on common bolts—for Tevanni bolts were not just scrived to believe that they were falling, since a bolt traveling the distance of, say, fifty feet at the constant acceleration of a free-falling object would not do much damage at all.

  Instead, the release scrivings on the bolts worked so that the instant the bolts were released, they suddenly believed that they had been falling straight down for around seven thousand feet, give or take. This produced an initial release velocity of over six hundred feet per second, which everyone found satisfyingly lethal.

  So, when pressed to develop an armament with a longer range, the scrivers had simply upped the distance. A lot. They’d developed a projectile that, when released from its caster, did not simply believe it’d been falling for a few thousand feet, but rather that it’d been plummeting toward the earth for thousands and thousands of miles. The second you released it, it’d suddenly roar forward, plunging through the air at a phenomenal speed like a black bolt of lightning. Usually the projectile would get so hot from sheer friction that it would abruptly explode in midair. Even if it didn’t, the damage it did was nothing short of catastrophic.

  The name for this projectile had been easy to choose. Because as the projectile gained heat and boiled the air around it, it tended to create a high-pitched, terrifying roaring sound.

  Gasping, Gregor started crawling toward the living room. He blinked blood out of his eyes. A stone or piece of wood had struck him on the head, and the room was now so smoky it was hard to breathe.

  He tried not to think of Dantua, with its tattered walls and smoke, its streets echoing with moans, and the sound of the army laying waste to the countryside beyond…