He’d concealed it quite cleverly, he thought. Much like his door, he’d scrived the book to sense his blood, so that only he (or someone with a lot of his blood) could read it. The instant he touched a hand to the covers, a slot in the spine opened up, and he could slip out the page hidden inside.
A page that was covered with figures. Extremely bad figures, he now thought as he reviewed it. Amounts he’d pilfered from this department or that department, jobs and tasks that had been paid for but did not really exist. Discovering any one of these figures would lead to serious charges. But discovering all of them…
I got stupid, he thought, sighing. The idea of that key was too good. And now…
Then there was a tinny ping! noise from his desk.
He sat up, dug through the papers, and found the twinned plate.
One tab had popped off. He stared at it. That means Dandolo has found the thief.
He watched the plate closely. Then, to his dismay, there was another ping! The second tab popped off.
“Oh shit,” he moaned. “Oh God.” This meant that Dandolo had the thief—and the thief had the key.
Which meant he was going to have to start calling in favors. Favors he desperately did not wish to call in.
But before he could move, something strange happened.
The plate twitched. He turned it over, and saw that something was happening to the back.
Someone was writing there, gouging letters deep into the metal, and it was not Berenice’s clear, perfect script. This was harsh and jagged, and it spelled out one word.
“Run?” said Orso, perplexed. He scratched his head. Why would Berenice message him to run?
He looked around his workshop, and he didn’t see anything he needed to run from. There were his definition tomes, his scriving blocks, his test lexicon, and the open window on the far wall…
He paused.
He didn’t remember opening the window.
There was a creak from somewhere in his workshop. It was something akin to the creak of a floorboard as you walk across the room—but this did not come from the floor. It came from the ceiling.
Orso slowly looked up.
A man was crouched on his ceiling, in full defiance of gravity, dressed in black, wearing a black cloth mask.
Orso’s mouth dropped open. “What in he—”
The man fell on him, knocking Orso to the floor.
Cursing, Orso struggled to get up. As he did, the man calmly walked over to Orso’s desk, snatched up his page of secret accounts, walked back, and kicked Orso in the stomach. Hard.
Orso collapsed again, coughing. Then his attacker slipped a loop over his head, and pulled it tight around his neck. He gagged and his eyes watered. The man hauled him to his feet, the cord cutting into his windpipe, and whispered in his ear, “Now, now, poppy. Don’t struggle too much, eh?” He jerked the cord back, and Orso nearly blacked out. “Just come along, then. Come along!”
His attacker shoved him toward the window, then ripped the cord hard, pulling Orso along like a dog on a leash. Orso clawed at the cord, coughing, but it was tight and ferociously strong. The man glanced out the window. “Not quite high enough, is it?” he mused aloud. “We do want to make sure. Come along, poppy!”
Then—unbelievably—the man slipped out the window and stood on the side of the building as if it were the ground. He adjusted something on his stomach, nodded, and ripped Orso out after him.
* * *
Sancia stared as the carriage hurtled through the gates, one after the other. She realized, to her alarm, that they were careening into the deepest enclaves of the Dandolo campo, where the richest, most powerful people resided. She’d never even dreamed she’d get into such areas—especially not under these circumstances.
“There,” said Berenice. “The Hypatus Building is just ahead.”
They peered through the front window of the carriage. A sprawling, elaborate, three-story structure emerged from the rosy glow of the streets. It looked dark yet peaceful, as most buildings would in the middle of the night.
“It…doesn’t look like anything’s wrong,” said Gregor slowly.
Then something moved in the window on the third floor, and they watched, horrified, as a man in black climbed out the window, stood on the side of the wall, and hauled out a struggling human form, dangling from a rope of some kind by the neck.
“Ohh dear,” said Gregor.
Berenice shoved the acceleration lever forward, but it was too late—the man in black hopped up the wall and tugged the helpless person onto the roof.
“No,” said Berenice. “No!”
“What can we do?” asked Gregor.
“The way up onto the roof is the south tower! It’ll take forever to get there!”
Sancia looked at the side of the building, thinking. Perhaps this was the opportunity she’d been waiting for—she was well aware she was now dealing with some powerful people, and she was at their mercy.
Which she did not like one bit. It would be handy to put them in her debt.
“So, that’s your guy, right?” she asked. “Orso, or whatever?”
“Yes!” said Berenice.
“The guy whose box I stole?”
“Yes!” said Gregor.
“And…you want him to live?”
“Yes!” said Gregor and Berenice at the same time.
Sancia stuck Gregor’s stiletto into her belt and tugged off both her gloves. “Pull up close to the corner of the building there,” she said.
“What are you going to do?” asked Gregor.
Grimacing, Sancia rubbed her temple with two fingers. This would be too much, she knew. “Something real dumb.” She sighed. “I sure hope this asshole is rich.”
* * *
“Up, up, up we go!” said the man. He hauled Orso up over the edge of the roof, adjusting the device on his belly as he did. Then he dragged Orso across the roof to the east side of the building, which overlooked the square.
The man dropped Orso and turned around. “Now, don’t get testy, poppy!” he said. He kicked Orso in the stomach again. Orso curled up, whimpering, and barely noticed as the man slipped the loop off of his head. “Can’t leave any evidence, dearie. You must be immaculate. Simply sparkling.” He walked around and kicked Orso again, rolling him toward the edge of the roof.
“This will be handy,” said the man, pocketing Orso’s page of accounts. “All your pilfered money, all for a key. Once everyone finds this, no one will suspect a thing.” He gave Orso another brutal kick, again pushing him toward the edge.
No, Orso thought. No! He tried to fight, to grab hold of the roof, to push back against his attacker, but the blows kept coming, landing on his shoulder, his fingers, his stomach. Orso watched through teary eyes as the edge of the roof came closer and closer.
“A bitter, old screw,” said the attacker with savage relish. “Deep in debt.” Another kick. “In over his head.” Another kick. “A dumb bastard who has thoroughly shat where he ate.” He paused to position the final blow. “Who’d be surprised to think you’d go and kill yourse—”
Then someone small and dressed in black came sprinting down the edge of the rooftop and tackled the man, knocking him to the ground.
Gasping, Orso looked up and watched as the two people in black wrestled. He had no idea who this new arrival was—it appeared to be a small, bloody, and somewhat dirty-looking young woman—but she tore into the man with savage intensity, slashing at him with a stiletto.
Yet the man was far more skilled in combat. He rebounded quickly, dodging her attacks and managing to land a fierce blow on her chin, knocking her to the side. She coughed and cried, “Dandolo! Are you scrumming coming or not?”
Orso’s attacker dove at the woman hard enough that the two rolled over and over again, tumbling right toward…
/> Orso watched as they rolled close. “Oh no,” he whispered.
The two combatants knocked him toward the edge. He felt numb and slow and stupid as his body tipped over. He reached out frantically, scrabbling for a handhold, and then his fingers finally found purchase on the edge…
Orso let out a rather undignified shriek as he dangled from the edge of the roof. The man and the young woman were just above him, almost on top of his fingers, wrestling and clawing at each other. Orso’s attacker finally overpowered the young woman and climbed on top, fingers around her throat, clearly intending to choke her to death, or throw her off the roof, or both.
“Stupid little whore,” the man whispered. He leaned down on her throat. “Just a bit more, just a bit more…”
The young woman, gagging, clawed at the device on his stomach, twisting and turning it.
Then something on the device slid into place.
The man froze, horrified, let her go, and looked down.
And then he simply…erupted.
Orso nearly let go of the roof in shock as the blood rained down on him in a hot wave. It stung his eyes and spattered into his mouth, a coppery, saline taste. If he had not been terrified, he would have been unspeakably disgusted.
“Ah, shit,” said the young woman, sputtering and coughing. She tossed away some remnant of the dead man—something akin to two plates held together with cloth. “Not again!”
“H-help?” stammered Orso. “Help. Help!”
“Hold on, hold on!” she said. The young woman rolled over, wiped her hands on the roof—her clothing was not an option, as it was just as bloody as her palms—and grabbed his wrists. With surprising strength, she hauled him up and dumped him onto the roof.
Orso lay on the roof, gasping in pain and horror and confusion and staring up at the night sky. “What…What…What was…”
The young woman sat next to him, heaving with exhaustion. She looked terribly ill. “Captain Dandolo’s on his way up. Idiot is probably still looking for the stairs. You’re Orso, right?”
He looked at her, still shocked. “What…Who…”
She nodded at him, panting. “I’m Sancia.” Her face went slack, and she suddenly vomited onto the side of the roof. She coughed and wiped her mouth. “I’m the one who stole your shit.”
* * *
Sancia turned her head and vomited again. It felt like her brain was burning up. She’d pushed herself much too far tonight, and her body was breaking down.
She lugged the man to his feet and limped with him across the roof. He was shaking, blood-spattered, and he kept coughing and gagging after what the cord did to his throat—but he still looked better than she felt. Her skull was fire and her bones were lead. If she managed to stay conscious, she’d count herself lucky.
She felt herself getting weaker as they hobbled over the peaks. The door to the south tower opened, and light spilled across the red-tile rooftop. The blade of light was a golden, buttery smear in the dark, and no matter how hard she blinked, she couldn’t focus on it.
She realized her vision was blurred, like a drunk’s. The man—Orso—seemed to be saying something to her, but she couldn’t understand it.
This startled her. She knew she was doing bad, but not that bad.
“I’m sorry,” she mumbled. “My head…It…My head really…”
She felt herself listing to the side, and knew that she needed to get the man away from one of the peaks—because she was about to collapse.
She got him to a decently flat part, then let go of him and knelt to the ground. She knew she didn’t have long.
She fumbled for Clef, slipped him out of her sleeve, and stuffed him deep into her boot.
Maybe they wouldn’t think to look there. Maybe.
Then she leaned forward until her forehead touched the roof. Things went dark.
14
“…Say we just haul her out and dump her somewhere. She might have done us all a favor and up and died.”
“She’s not dead. And she saved your life.”
“So what! She also robbed me and burned down your damned waterfront! God, I’d never have imagined the fabled lone survivor of Dantua could be so soft.”
“She is the only person who could possibly know who’s behind all this. I doubt if you know much, Orso. From the looks of things, you’ve just been up here panicking.”
“I don’t need this shit. She’s a blood-spattered, grimy girl in my office! I could have the house guard come in and arrest her if I wanted!”
“If that happened, then they would ask me questions. And I would be obliged to answer them, Hypatus.”
“Oh, son of a bitch…”
Sancia felt consciousness flickering somewhere in the hollows of her head. She was lying on something soft, with a pillow under her head. People were talking around her, but she couldn’t make sense of it. The fight on the rooftop was a handful of broken moments scattered through her mind. She picked through each one, trying to fit them together.
There was a man on the roof of a campo building, she thought. About to be killed…
Then she heard them: thousands and thousands and thousands of hushed, chattering voices.
Scrivings. More scrivings than I’ve ever been around. Where the hell am I?
She cracked an eye and saw a ceiling above her. It was an odd thing to think, but it was undoubtedly the most ornate ceiling she’d ever seen in her life, made of tiny green tiles and golden plaster.
She glimpsed movement nearby and shut her eye all the way again. Then she felt a cold rag being pressed against her head. She felt the rag speak to her, the cool swirl of water, the twist of so many fibers…It pained her greatly in her weakened state, but she managed not to flinch.
“She’s got scars,” said a voice nearby—a girl’s. Berenice’s? “Lots of them.”
“She’s a thief,” said a raspy man’s voice. She’d heard it on the rooftop, she remembered—that must be Orso. “Probably a hazard of the damned job.”
“No, sir. This looks more like surgery. On her skull.”
There was a silence.
“She climbed the side of this building like a monkey in the canopies,” said Gregor’s voice quietly. “I’ve never seen anything like it. And she says she can hear scrivings.”
“She said she what?” said Orso. “What rot! That’s like saying you can taste a goddamn sonata! The girl must be a raving loon.”
“Maybe. But she knew where those men in the gravity rigs were. And there was something she did, with one of the rigs…I doubt if even you’ve ever seen anything like it. She made it—”
Sancia realized she needed to stop this line of discussion. Gregor was about to describe Clef’s trick with the gravity plates; and Orso, apparently, was the man who’d owned or at least tried to own Clef, so he might be able to identify what he could do—which meant he might hear Gregor’s story and realize Sancia was still walking around with him.
She sucked in a breath, coughed, and started to sit up.
“She wakes,” said Orso’s voice sourly. “Oh goody.”
Sancia looked around. She was lying on a sofa in a large and dazzlingly sumptuous office: rosy scrived lights flickered along the walls, a huge wooden desk stretched along one half of the room, and every inch of the walls was covered in shelves and books.
Sitting behind the desk was the man she’d saved—Orso—still stained with blood, though his throat was black and blue under the dried gore. He was glaring at her over a glass of bubble rum—an outrageously expensive liquor she’d stolen and sold before, but never tried. The gravity plates from the man who’d exploded on the roof sat on the desk before him, crusted with blood. Gregor Dandolo stood next to him, arms crossed, one forearm wrapped in bandages. And beside her, on the sofa, sat the girl, Berenice, who watched everything with a calm look of detached
bemusement, as if this were all a birthday party entertainment gone thoroughly awry.
“Where the hell am I?” asked Sancia.
“You’re in the Dandolo campo inner enclaves,” said Gregor. “In the Hypatus Building. It’s a sort of research buildi—”
“I know what the goddamn hypatus does,” said Sancia. “I’m not an idiot.”
“Mm, no,” said Orso. “Stealing my box was very much an idiot thing to do. That was you, yes? Can we cop to that?”
“I stole a box,” said Sancia. “In a safe. I’m only just now figuring out who you are.”
Orso scoffed. “You’re either ignorant or a liar. So. It’s Sancia, is it?”
“Yeah.”
“Never heard of you. Are you a canal operator?” asked Orso. “What house do you work for?”
“None.”
“An independent, eh?” He poured another glass of bubble rum and tossed it back quickly. “I never did much canal work on other houses, but I understood the independents didn’t last long. About as reusable as a wooden knife. So. You must be good, if you’re still breathing. Who was it? Who hired you to steal from me?”
“She said she doesn’t know,” said Gregor.
“Can’t she speak for herself?” said Orso.
Gregor glanced at Orso, then Sancia. “Let’s find out. Sancia—do you know what was in the box?”
At that, Orso froze. He glanced at Berenice, then stared resolutely at the floor.
“Go on,” said Gregor.
“I already told you,” said Sancia. “My client said not to open the box.”
“That is not an answer,” said Gregor.
“It’s what they said.”
“I don’t doubt that.” He turned back to Orso. “I doubt if you find that odd either, Hypatus. Because these criminals knew, just as you did, that its contents were Occidental—weren’t they?”
Even though he was covered in blood, Sancia could see Orso going pale. “What…What do you mean, Captain?” he asked.
Foundryside: A Novel (The Founders Trilogy) Page 21
