Foundryside: A Novel (The Founders Trilogy)

by Robert Jackson Bennett

  “Remembered what?” asked Sancia.

  “What you did,” said Orso. “What you’d done. Who you were. You’d walk into a bathing room at the same time every day and find a bath already drawn for you, piping hot. Or you’d walk down the hall to your lift at the usual time and find it waiting for you. The changes would be subtle, and slow, just incremental adjustments—but, slowly, slowly, people got used to the Mountain knowing what they were doing inside of it, and adjusting for them. They got used to this…this place predicting what they’d do.”

  “It learned?” said Gregor. “A scrived structure learned, like it had a mind of its own?”

  “That I don’t know. It seemed to. Tribuno designed the thing in his later years, when he’d gotten strange, and he never shared his methods with me. He’d grown hugely secretive by then.”

  “How could it know where people were, sir?” asked Berenice.

  A guilty look came over Orso’s face. “Okay, well, I did have something to do with that…You know the trick with my workshop door?”

  “It’s scrived to sense your blood…Wait. That’s how the Mountain keeps track of everyone inside? It senses every resident’s blood?”

  “Essentially,” said Orso. “Every new resident has to log a drop of blood with the Mountain’s core. Otherwise it won’t let them into where they need to go. Your blood is your sachet, getting you in and out. Visitors are either restricted to visitor areas, or they have to carry around sachets of their own.”

  “That’s why the Mountain is so secure,” said Sancia quietly. “It knows who’s supposed to be there.”

  “How could it do all that?” asked Gregor. “How could a device be so powerful?”

  “Hell, I don’t know. But I did once see a specification list for the Mountain’s core—and it included cradles for six full-capacity lexicons.”

  Berenice stared at him. “Six lexicons? For one building?”

  “Why go to all that effort?” asked Gregor. “Why do all this in secret, and never capitalize on it, never share it?”

  “Tribuno’s ambitions were vast,” said Orso. “I don’t think he wanted to mimic the hierophants—he wanted to become one. He grew obsessed with a specific Occidental myth. Probably the most famous one about the most famous hierophant.” He sat back. “Besides his magic wand, what’s the one thing everyone knows about Crasedes the Great?”

  “He kept an angel in a box,” said Berenice.

  “Or a genie in a bottle,” said Gregor.

  “He built his own god,” said Sancia.

  “They all amount to the same thing, don’t they?” said Orso. “A…a fabricated entity with unusual powers. An artificial entity with an artificial mind.”

  “And so,” Gregor said slowly, “you think that when he made the Mountain…”

  “I think it was something of a test case,” said Orso. “An experiment. Could Tribuno Candiano make the ancestral home of the Candianos into an artificial entity? Could it act as a draft effort at an artificial god? It was a theory he’d mentioned to me before. Tribuno believed that the hierophants had once been men—ordinary human beings. They’d just altered themselves in unusual ways.”

  “He thought they were people?” said Gregor. “Like us?” This idea was utter nonsense to most Tevannis. To say that the hierophants were once men was akin to saying the sun used to be an orange, grown on a tree.

  “Once,” said Orso. “Long ago. But look around you. See how scriving has changed the world in a handful of decades. Now imagine that scriving could also change a person. Imagine how they could change over time. His suspicion, I think, was that their elevation came from this artificial being they’d made. The men built a god, and the god helped them become hierophants. He believed he could walk in their footsteps.”

  “Creepy,” said Sancia. “But none of this makes me any more eager to get in there. If we even can.”

  Orso sucked his teeth. “It seems insurmountable, but…There’s always a way. A complicated design means more rules, and more rules mean more loopholes. We have a much more immediate problem, though. How fast are you these days, Berenice?”

  “How fast, sir? I average thirty-four strings a minute,” she said.

  “With successful articulation?”

  “Of course.”

  “Full strings, or partials?”

  “Full. Inclusive up to tier four for all Dandolo language components.”

  “Ah,” said Gregor. “What are we, uh, talking about here?”

  “If we’re breaking into the Mountain, even Berenice can’t handle all that work. And besides, she’s no canal man. We’d need more scrivers. Or thieves. Or scrivers who are thieves.” Orso sighed. “And we can’t do it here. Not only will Gregor’s mother notice us plotting treason right in her scrumming workshops, but this place isn’t safe from the assassins. We’d need a full crew, and a new place to work. Without those, this whole thing is just a daydream.”

  Sancia shook her head. I’m going to regret this. “Orso—I need to know…how rich are you?”

  “How rich? What, you want a number or something?”

  “What I’m saying is, do you personally have access to large sums of cash you can quickly retrieve without raising eyebrows?”

  “Oh. Well. Certainly.”

  “Good. All right.” She stood. “Then get up. We’re all taking a trip.”

  “Where to?” asked Gregor.

  “Into the Commons,” said Sancia. “And we’re going to need to tread lightly.”

  “Because there are still thugs out there who want us dead?” asked Berenice.

  “There’s that,” said Sancia. “And we’re going to bring a hell of a lot of money with us.”

  * * *

  Four lanterns—three blue, one red, hanging above a warehouse door. Sancia scurried up, looked around, and knocked.

  A slot in the door opened and a pair of eyes peeked out. They looked at her and sprang wide. “Oh God! You? Again? I just assumed you were dead.”

  “You’re not so lucky,” said Sancia. “I’ve brought you a deal, girl.”

  “What? You’re not here to ask for a favor?” said Claudia from the other side of the door.

  “Well. A deal and to ask for a favor.”

  “Should have known,” said Claudia with a sigh. She opened the door. She was dressed in her usual leather apron and magnifying goggles. “After all, how could you have the resources to offer us a deal?”

  “They’re not my resources.” She handed a leather satchel out to Claudia.

  Claudia looked at it mistrustfully, then took it and looked inside. She stared. “P-paper duvots?”

  “Yeah.”

  “This has to be…a thousand, at least!”

  “Yeah.”

  “What’s it for?” asked Claudia.

  “That bit there is to calm you down so you listen. I’ve got a job for you. A big one. And you need to hear me out.”

  “What, are you playing at being Sark now?”

  “Sark didn’t ask for anything this big,” said Sancia. “I need you and Gio to help on this job specifically, full-time, for a matter of days. And we also need a secure space to work in, and all kinds of scriving materials. If you can get me that, there’s a hell of a lot more money where that came from.”

  “That is a big ask.” Claudia turned the leather satchel over in her hands. “So that’s the job bit?”

  “That’s the job bit.”

  “What’s the favor bit?”

  “The favor bit,” said Sancia, looking her hard in the eye, “is you forget everything you ever heard about Clef. Ever. Now. This instant. You’ve never heard of him. I’m just some thief who comes to you to get tools and credentials to get into the campos, and nothing else. You do that, and you get your money.”

  “Why?” asked Claudia.


  “Never mind why,” said Sancia. “Just erase all of that from your brain, get Gio to do the same, and you’ll both be rich.”

  “I’m not so sure I like this, San…”

  “I’m going to make a signal now,” said Sancia, “and they’re going to walk up. When they do, don’t start screaming.”

  “Start screaming? Why would I…” She stopped as Sancia raised a hand, and Berenice, Gregor, and Orso emerged from the shadows and joined her at the door.

  She stared in horror, mostly at Orso, who was cursing after having stepped in a puddle. “Holy…holy shit…” she whispered.

  Orso looked up at Claudia and the warehouse. He wrinkled his nose. “Dear God,” he said. “They work here?”

  “You had better let us in,” said Sancia.

  * * *

  Orso paced around the Scrappers’ workshop like a farmer buying chickens at a seedy market. He examined their scriving blocks, their sigil strings on the walls, their bubbling cauldrons full of lead or bronze, their air fans strapped to carriage wheels. Claudia had ushered all the other Scrappers out before letting them in, but now she and Giovanni sat there, watching Orso dart around their quarters with terrified looks, like a panther had broken into their home as they slept.

  He walked over and looked at the sigils scrawled on a blackboard. “You’re…making a way to control carriages remotely,” he said slowly. It wasn’t a question.

  “Uh,” said Giovanni. “Yes?”

  Orso nodded. “But it’s not expressing right. Is it, Berenice?”

  Berenice stood and joined him. “The orientation’s wrong.”

  “Yes,” said Orso.

  “Their calibration tools are far too complicated,” she said.

  “Yes.”

  “The rig probably gets confused, isn’t sure which way it’s facing. So it likely just shuts down after a couple dozen feet or so.”

  “Yes.” Orso looked at Giovanni. “Doesn’t it?”

  Gio looked at Claudia, who shrugged. “Um. Yes. So far. More or less.”

  Orso nodded again. “But just because it doesn’t work…that doesn’t mean it’s bad.”

  Claudia and Gio blinked and looked at each other. They slowly realized that Orso Ignacio, legendary hypatus of Dandolo Chartered, had just given them a compliment.

  “It’s…something I’ve worked on for a long time,” said Gio.

  “Yes,” said Orso. He looked around the room, taking it all in. “Worked on with crude tools, secondhand knowledge, fragments of designs…You’ve improvised fixes to problems no campo scriver’s ever had to deal with. You’ve had to reinvent fire every day.” He looked at Sancia. “You were right.”

  “Told you so,” said Sancia.

  “Right about what?” said Claudia.

  “She said you were good,” said Orso. “And you might be good enough for this. Maybe. What did she tell you about the job?”

  Claudia glanced at Sancia, and Sancia thought she could detect a hint of wrath there, which she couldn’t blame her for. “She said you needed us,” said Claudia. “And a workshop of your own. And materials.”

  “Good,” said Orso. “Let’s try to keep things that simple.”

  “They can’t possibly stay that simple,” said Claudia. “You’re disrupting everything we do here. We’ve got to know more to get on board with this!”

  “Fine,” said Orso. “We’re going to break into the Mountain.”

  They stared at him, incredulous.

  “The Mountain?” Giovanni looked at Sancia. “San, are you mad?”

  “Yes,” said Orso. “That’s why we’re here.”

  “But…but why?” said Claudia.

  “Doesn’t matter,” said Orso. “Just know that someone wants us dead—including, yes, me. The only way for us to stop them is to get into the Mountain. Help us, and you get paid.”

  “And what’s the payment?” said Claudia.

  “Well, that depends,” said Orso. “Originally I was going to pay you some huge sum of money…but having seen what you’re doing here, some alternate options seem available. You’re working with spotty, secondhand knowledge. So…perhaps some of the third- and fourth-tier sigil strings from Dandolo Chartered and Company Candiano would be more valuable to you.”

  Sancia didn’t understand what that meant, but both Claudia’s and Giovanni’s eyes shot wide. They froze, and both seemed to do some rapid calculations.

  “We’d want fifth tier too,” said Claudia.

  “Absolutely not,” said Orso.

  “Half the Dandolo fourth-tier fundamentals are intended to function with fifth-tier strings,” said Giovanni. “They’d be useless without them.”

  Orso burst out laughing. “Those combinations are all for massive designs! What are you trying to do, build a bridge across the Durazzo, or a ladder to the moon?”

  “Not all of them,” said Giovanni, stung.

  “I’ll give you some Candiano fifth-tier strings,” said Orso. “But none from Dandolo.”

  “Any Candiano string from you is going to be outdated,” said Claudia. “You haven’t worked there in a decade.”

  “Possibly. But it’s all you’re going to get,” said Orso. “Select Candiano fifth-tier strings, and the fifty most-used third- and fourth-tier strings for both Dandolo and Candiano. Plus whatever proprietary knowledge you gain during the planning process, plus a sum to be agreed upon later.”

  Claudia and Giovanni exchanged a glance. “Deal,” they said at the same time.

  Orso grinned. Sancia found it a distinctly unpleasant sight. “Excellent. Now. Where the hell are we going to be headquartered?”

  * * *

  Most of the canals in Tevanne were either full or close to it most of the time—but not all.

  Every fourth year in the Durazzo was a monsoon year, when the warm waters bred monstrous storms, and although Tevanne lacked any central authority, water cared not a whit about which campo it flowed into. So, eventually, the merchant houses had decided they were obliged to do something about it.

  Their solution was “the Gulf”—a massive, stone-lined flood reservoir in the north of the city, which could store and dump floodwater into the lower canals as needed. The Gulf was empty most of the time, essentially a mile-wide, artificial desert of gray, molded stone and dotted with drains. Sancia knew it was prone to shantytowns and vagrants and stray dogs, but there were some parts of the Gulf that even they weren’t desperate or stupid enough to inhabit.

  Yet, to her concern, Claudia and Giovanni were leading them to exactly one such spot.

  said Clef’s voice suddenly in her ear,

  Sancia was so surprised she almost leapt into the air.

 

 

  There was a silence.

 

 

  Her skin crawled.

  said Clef quietly.

  She tried to keep the fear out of her face as she listened to this.

  ng’s footsteps.>

  “There it is!” said Giovanni, trotting along the west side of the slanted stone walls. He pointed ahead, and though it was now night, they could see he was pointing to a large, dripping tunnel, blocked off with thick, crisscrossing iron bars.

  “That is a storm drain,” said Gregor.

  “True,” said Gio. “What marvelous eyes, you have, Captain.”

  “Correct me if I’m wrong,” said Gregor, “but the problem with working out of a storm drain is that, when there is a storm, it tends to fill with water—which I, personally, cannot breathe.”

  “Did I say we were going to be working in a storm drain?” said Gio. He led them down a molded stone path to the storm drain and took out a small, thin, scrived strip of iron. He examined the bars, tapped the strip to one section, and then gave the bars a tug. The bottom quarter of the bars swung open, like the gate of a garden fence.

  “Clever,” said Orso, peering at the hinges. “It’s a weak door, and a weak lock—but you don’t need it to be strong if no one knows it’s there.”

  “Exactly.” Gio bowed and extended an arm. “After you, good sir. Mind the sewage.”

  They entered the massive drain. “I have to admit, I’m getting pretty goddamn tired of pipes,” said Sancia.

  “Seconded,” said Berenice.

  “We won’t be here for long,” said Claudia. She and Giovanni produced a handful of scrived lights, slashing rosy hues across the rippled walls. They walked down the tunnel about three hundred feet or so. Then the two Scrappers started peering around them.

  “Oh, goodness,” said Claudia. “I haven’t been here in ages…Where is it?”

  Giovanni slapped his forehead. “Damn! I’m being stupid, I forgot. Just a second.” He pulled out a small, scrived bead of metal, and seemed to twist it, like it was two rotating halves. Then he held it up and let go. The bead zipped over to one wall like it had been ripped along by a string. “There!” said Gio.

  “That’s right,” said Claudia. “I forgot you’d installed a flag.” She walked over to the bead—which was now stuck to the wall—and held up a light. Right below the bead was a tiny slot that was practically invisible if you didn’t know to look for it. Gio took back out the scrived iron strip he’d used on the drainage bars and stuck it into the slot.