Foundryside: A Novel (The Founders Trilogy)
Page 38
Sancia walked toward it. Then she saw what lay beyond, and gasped.
The Mountain, she realized, was a giant shell. And being inside of it was like being inside a hollowed-out…
Well. Mountain.
She stared at the rings and rings of floors beyond, all gold and green and shimmering, all lined with windows as the people within them lived and worked and toiled. She was four floors above the main level of the space, which was indescribably vast, lit by massive, brilliant floating lanterns carved of glass and crystal. Huge brass columns ran in staggered formations across the marble floor—and some of the columns appeared to be moving, sliding up or down. It took her a moment to realize the columns were actually hollow, and had tiny rooms in them that rose or fell, ferrying people up to dangling stations above. Those must be the lifts Orso mentioned, she thought. Huge banners hung in between the stations, the giant, bright-gold Candiano loggotipo glimmering in the glow of the scrived lights below. All of it formed an endless, circling wall of light and color and movement.
It was like another world, just like Orso had said. And all of it was enabled by…
The side of her head grew bright hot and her eyes watered. She gritted her teeth as the sound of so many scrivings hit her, drilling into her, biting into her mind.
The eruption of murmurs warbled, then diminished rapidly, until it was a bearable level—though it did not vanish.
She gasped, relieved.
Sancia rose, took a breath, and started off into the Mountain.
* * *
Gregor carefully navigated through the outer paths of the Candiano campo. He stuck to the edges of the streets, moving through the shadows. It was an odd experience—he’d never really spent much time on other campos before.
He saw the cross-streets Orso had described ahead. He started across a small square toward it—but then he paused ever so slightly.
Gregor abruptly turned right, away from the cross-streets. He walked to a small alley, stepped into a doorway, and stopped and watched the square and the streets around him.
There was no one. Yet he’d suddenly had an overpowering feeling that someone had been following him—there’d been a movement somewhere, out of the corner of his eye.
He waited, not moving. Perhaps I imagined it, he thought. He waited a bit longer. I need to hurry, he thought. Or else Sancia will try to jump off the Mountain with nowhere to fly to. He walked to the cross-streets, knelt, and started installing the anchor in the cobblestone.
* * *
What struck Sancia most about the Mountain was not just the size of the thing, but also the emptiness of it. She roved through huge banquet halls with vaulted ceilings, indoor gardens with pink, circling floating lanterns, immense counting offices filled with rows and rows of desks—and most were almost empty, occupied by only one or two people. She’d heard rumors that the Mountain was haunted, but maybe it just felt haunted because it seemed so abandoned.
She knew she needed to find a lift, and she needed to use it without attracting attention. She finally found a more populated segment of the Mountain, full of residents and employees. They sped past her or ambled this way and that as they went about their daily lives, ignoring her; but then, they would—Orso had supplied her with clothing that made her look like a mid-level functionary.
She spied a few important-looking young men and followed them until they finally came to a lift. They stood around, waiting on the little room to arrive, and chatted in bored tones. Finally the round brass doors opened for them—presumably the rig checked their blood to make sure they could use it—and they walked inside, chatting and gesturing. Then the doors shut, and the lift rose.
The lift doors opened again, and she stepped inside. There was a brass panel by the door, with a round dial set in the middle. The dial was labeled with numbers running from 1 to 15, and it was currently pointed at 3.
She set the dial to 15, and the doors shut and the lift began to rise.
They rode in silence.
Then Sancia heard a voice. It was just like when she heard Clef’s voice—but this voice was not Clef’s. It was the voice of an imperious old man, and his words echoed loudly in her head as he said,
Sancia nearly fell over with shock. She stared around herself, and confirmed they were alone in the lift.
The doors of the lift opened. Sancia walked out onto the fifteenth floor, which appeared to be more industrial than residential. Everything here was blank gray stone and iron doors and pipes. A sign above read SCRIVING BAY 13.
Sancia barely had any mind for this, though. Someone was talking, to her and to Clef. Someone could apparently overhear them, like two people gossiping at a taverna. The idea was simply mad.
said Clef.
She walked down a long hallway, opened a door—it unlocked instantly for her—and found herself moving through what seemed to be some kind of party, with scrivers quaffing bubble rum out of glass tankards while a band of women—most scantily dressed—played flutes and brass instruments.
The scrivers ignored Sancia, who was dressed as a functionary. She passed through and walked out the door on the other side, desperately searching fo
r another lift.
She was in a short hallway, with an open door at the end.