Foundryside: A Novel (The Founders Trilogy)

by Robert Jackson Bennett

  There was a woman in the room with her. A woman made of gold.

  Sancia stared at her. The woman stood in the corner of the dark cell, tall and queerly motionless. Sancia had no idea where the woman had come from, since she’d looked around when she’d awoken and seen—she was sure of it—no one. Yet there she was.

  What the hell, she thought. What else weird could happen tonight?

  The woman was nude, but somehow every bit of her was made of gold, even her eyes, which sat blank and still like stones in her skull, watching her. Sancia would have normally thought the woman was not a person at all, but a statue; yet she could not help but feel a tremendous, powerful intelligence in those blank, golden eyes, a mind that watched her with a disturbing indifference, like Sancia were no more than a raindrop wriggling its way down a windowpane…

  The woman stepped forward and looked down at her. The side of Sancia’s head grew warm.

  The woman said, “When you awake, get him to leave. Then I will tell you how to save yourself.” Her manner of speech was powerfully odd, like she knew the words but had never heard anyone speak out loud before.

  Sancia, still lying on the stone floor, stared up at the woman, confused. She tried to say, “But I am awake.”

  Yet then, somehow, she realized she wasn’t.

  * * *

  Sancia awoke with a start, snorting and reaching out. She stared around herself.

  She didn’t…seem to have moved at all. She was still alone, still in the dark cell—which looked the exact same—still lying on her back in the exact same position. Yet the woman of gold was gone.

  Sancia peered into the shadowy corners, disturbed. Was it a dream? What is wrong with me? What’s wrong with my brain?

  She rubbed the side of her head, which ached terribly. Maybe she was going mad. She shivered, thinking of what had happened in Ziani’s office. It seemed like the imperiat could not only shut down scrived devices, as it had in the Greens, but also control them. Which meant, circuitously enough, that since Sancia had a scrived device in her skull, that it could also control her.

  Which Sancia found deeply horrifying. She’d grown up in a place where she’d had no say in her decisions. To have someone literally take her will away from her…

  I need to get out of here. Now.

  She stood, walked over to a wall, and felt the blank stone. Her abilities still worked, it seemed: the wall told her of itself, of the many rooms it adjoined, of spider webs and cinder and dust…

  I’m in a foundry, she realized. But she’d never heard of a foundry that made so little noise before.

  An old one, then. One fallen into disuse?

  She took her hand away. I’m still on the Candiano campo, aren’t I? That’s the only campo where a scriving foundry would sit totally vacant. She wondered if she was in the Cattaneo, but she didn’t think so. The Cattaneo had felt more advanced than this.

  Then the side of Sancia’s head grew hot again, so hot it felt like her flesh was sizzling. Before she could cry out, all thoughts fell away from her—and then, again, she lost control of her body.

  She watched herself as she stood up, took three shuffling steps, and turned to wait in front of the iron door.

  There were footsteps from outside, then a clinking and clanking. Then the door fell open to reveal Tomas Ziani standing there, imperiat in his hand, blinking in the darkness.

  “Ah!” he said, seeing her. “Good. You look alive and well.” He wrinkled his nose. “You are an ugly little thing, aren’t you. But…” He adjusted a wheel on the imperiat, then held it up to her, slowly waving it through the air—until it finally drew close to the right side of her head. The imperiat began to whine softly.

  “Interesting,” he said softly. “Amazing! All those scrivers who thought we’d never see a scrived human—yet I’m the one to find one! Let’s have a look at you, then. Come along.” He fiddled with the imperiat, waved a hand, and Sancia, helpless, followed him out of the cell.

  * * *

  He marched her through the foundry’s crumbling, dark passageways. It was a shadowy, gloomy place, silent except for an occasional distant drip of water. Finally they came to a large open room, lit by scrived lights placed on the floor. Standing at the far wall of the room were four Candiano guards, all of whom looked quite seasoned. There was a deadness to their eyes as they looked at Sancia that made her skin crawl.

  Beside these thugs was a long, low table. On it were all sorts of books, papers, and stone carvings—along with a huge rusty, cracked old metal box that looked, she thought, like the test lexicon back in Orso’s workshop.

  Sancia tried to look harder at the items on the table, but since she didn’t have control over her own eyes she got no more than a fleeting glance. Still, she managed to think—This is Tribuno’s collection, isn’t it? The trove of Occidental treasures that Ziani mentioned…

  Then she saw what waited in the middle of the room. And though she couldn’t move, the urge to scream flooded her mind.

  It was an operating table, complete with restraints for the patient’s wrists and ankles.

  Tomas Ziani did something to the imperiat, and she stopped moving. Then she watched in horror as two Candiano guards picked her up, laid her flat on the table, and strapped her in.

  No, no, no, she thought, panicked. Anything but that…

  They did something to her restraints, turning a small, metal key on the sides. A whispering and chattering filled her ears.

  They’re scrived, she thought. The restraints are scrived.

  The guards departed.

  I’m not getting out of here, am I?

  Tomas walked to stand over her, still holding the imperiat. “Now, let’s see,” he muttered. “If what Enrico said is correct, this should…” He adjusted something on it.

  Sancia felt her will return—her body was her own again.

  She flew forward and snapped her teeth, trying her hardest to take a bite out of Tomas. She nearly did, but he stumbled backward, surprised. “Son of a bitch!” he cried.

  Sancia snarled at him, bucking and arching her back and heaving at her restraints—but since they were augmented, they didn’t budge an inch.

  “Filthy little…” growled Tomas. He made a move to strike her, but when she didn’t flinch, he backed down, probably concerned she might try to bite his hand.

  “You want us to put her down?” said a guard.

  “Did I say anything to you?” said Tomas.

  The guard looked away. Tomas walked around to the edge of the table and turned a crank. The scrived restraints on her wrists and ankles slowly slid out along the surface of the table, stretching her out until she was spread-eagle, unable to move. Then he walked back around, raised a fist high, and slammed it down on Sancia’s stomach, driving the air out of her.

  Sancia flexed and coughed, gasping for breath. “There,” he said savagely. “That’s how it is, yes? You do as I say, or else I get to do what I want. See?”

  She blinked tears from her eyes and glared at him. His gaze had a sadistic gleam to it.

  “I’m going to ask you some questions now,” he said.

  “Why did you kill Sark?” Sancia gasped.

  “I said I’d ask the questions.”

  “He wasn’t anything to you. He had no one to betray you to. He didn’t even know who you were.”

  “Shut up,” snapped Tomas.

  “What did you do with his body?”

  “God, you’re mouthy.” He sighed. He turned a wheel on the imperiat, and, as if she were descending into cold seawater, her will abandoned her again.

  “There,” said Tomas. “I rather like this. I wish more people had them. I could just turn them on or off as I pleased…”

  Sancia lay limp and still on the operating table. Trapped in her body yet again, she silently screamed and rav
ed—until she noticed that her head happened to be facing the far wall of the room, where the table with all the Occidental treasures lay.

  It was hard to look without having any control over her eyes, but she did her best. She couldn’t tell much from the materials there—lots of papers, lots of books—but the lexicon-like box at the end of the table…that was interesting. It wasn’t exactly a lexicon—it wasn’t a hundred feet long and broiling hot, for one thing—but it did have what looked like an array of scrived discs running along its top, though the discs were horribly old and corroded.

  Really, most of the box was falling apart, with one notable exception: there was a seam running around the middle of the box, and set in the seam in the front was a large, complicated, golden contraption with a slot in its center…

  I know a lock when I see one, thought Sancia, looking at the gold device. And that’s a serious one. Someone didn’t want anyone getting into that thing—whatever it is.

  Which, of course, made her wonder—what was inside? What could be so valuable that the Occidentals had made a device solely for locking it away?

  And now that she thought about it—why did it look somewhat familiar?

  Then she felt his hands. One on her knee, slowly slipping to the inside of her thigh and sliding up to her crotch. The other gripped her wrist, his fingers biting into her flesh and bone. “One hand gentle,” he whispered to her. “And one hand firm. That’s the wisdom of kings—yes?”

  Sancia raged in disgust against the invisible bonds on her mind.

  “I know you had the key,” said Tomas Ziani quietly. He kept massaging her thigh, kept throttling her wrist. “You opened the box you stole, you looked inside. You took the key, and used it to evade me. I’m sure you sent it over the balcony before we caught up to you…My question now is—where did it go?”

  She felt cold as she listened to this. He’d known about everything—but at least he didn’t know where Clef was.

  “I’m going to bring you back up,” whispered Tomas in her ear, his breath hot on her cheek. He released her wrist, and patted her thigh. “Try and bite me again, and I’ll enjoy myself with you. All right?”

  There was a pause, and she slowly felt her will return to her. Tomas looked at her with cold, hungry eyes. “Well?” he asked.

  She considered what to do. It was clear that Tomas was the sort of person who’d delight in killing her, just as a boy might torture a mouse. But she didn’t want to give away much of what she knew. Hopefully Gregor had gotten Clef off the campo—which meant maybe he also got to Orso, and they might be planning some kind of rescue. Maybe.

  But how did Tomas know she was scrived? How could the imperiat detect the plate in her head? And worse—how had he known she was going to be in Tribuno’s office? Had the imperiat detected her? Or had they been betrayed?

  “The air-sailing rig went back to the Dandolo campo,” said Sancia.

  “Wrong,” said Tomas. “We know it touched down in the Candiano campo.”

  “Then something went wrong. It wasn’t supposed to. It doesn’t matter anyway. Ofelia Dandolo is going to crush you like a bug.”

  He yawned. “Is she.”

  “Yes. She knows you’re behind this. She knows it was you who attacked Orso, and her own damned son.”

  “Then why isn’t she here, defending you?” asked Tomas. “Why are you here all alone?” He grinned when she didn’t answer. “You’re not too quick with your bullshit, are you? But don’t worry—we’ll find whoever caught your package. The second you entered the Mountain, I had them shut all the gates. Whoever was helping you is still trapped here—and if they try and get out, they’ll be shot to pieces. If they haven’t already gotten killed, that is.”

  Shit, thought Sancia. God, I hope Gregor got out…

  “Tell me now,” said Tomas, “and I might let you live. For a while.”

  “The other houses aren’t going to let you get away with this,” said Sancia.

  “Sure they will,” he said.

  “They’ll rise up against you.”

  “No, they won’t.” He laughed. “You want to know why? Because they’re old. All the other houses were raised on traditions, and norms, and rules, and manners. ‘You can do what you like out on the Durazzo,’ their grand old daddies said, ‘but in Tevanne, you conduct yourself with respect.’ Oh, they have their spy games here and there, but it’s all so polite and orderly, really. Like all incumbents, they got old, and fat, and slow, and complacent.” He sat back, sighing thoughtfully. “Maybe it’s the scriving thing—always thinking up rules…But victory belongs to those who move as fast as possible, and break all the rules they need. Me? I don’t give a shit about traditions. I’m more honest about it. I’m a businessman. If I’m making an investment, the only thing I care about is the highest possible yield.”

  “You don’t know shit,” said Sancia.

  “Oh, some Foundryside whore is going to lecture me on economic philosophy?” He laughed again. “I needed some entertainment.”

  “No. Dumbass, I’m from the goddamn plantations,” she said. She grinned at him. “I’ve seen more horrors and torture than your dull little mind could ever dream up. You think you’re going to beat me into submission? With those frail arms, and those delicate wrists? I highly scrumming doubt it.”

  He made to strike her again, but again, she didn’t flinch. He glared at her for a moment, then sighed and said, “If he didn’t think you were valuable…” Then he turned to one of his guards. “Go and get Enrico. I guess we’re going to have to hurry this shit along.”

  The guard left. Tomas walked over to a cupboard, opened a bottle of bubble rum, and sulkily drank from it. Sancia was reminded of a child who’d had his favorite toy taken away from him. “You’re lucky, you know,” said Tomas. “Enrico thinks you’re a potential resource. Probably because he’s a scriver, and most scrivers seem to be idiots. Awkward, ugly little people who’d prefer strings of sigils to the press of warm flesh…But he did say he wanted to get a look at you before I had my fun.”

  “Great,” she muttered. Her eye fell on the table of Occidental treasures.

  “Ridiculous, isn’t it?” said Tomas. “All this old garbage. I paid a fortune to steal this box from Orso.” He patted the cracked, lexicon-looking thing. “Had to hire a bunch of pirates to intercept it. But we can’t even get the damned thing open. Scrivers seem to know everything—except the value of money.”

  She looked at the box for a moment longer. She started to think she knew why it looked familiar.

  I’ve seen it before, she thought. In Clef’s vision, in the Cattaneo…there was that thing, wrapped in black, standing on the dunes…and beside it, a box…

  There was the echo of footsteps. Then a rumpled, pale, puffy-eyed clerk in Candiano colors emerged from a hallway. Sancia recognized him as the clerk from the Cattaneo foundry, the one Tomas had addressed in the room with the nude girl. He was a bit pudgy and soft-faced, like an overgrown boy. “Y-yes, sir?” he said. Then he saw Sancia. “Uh. Is that one of your…ah, companions?”

  “Don’t be insulting, Enrico,” said Tomas. He nodded at the imperiat. “You were right. I turned it on. It told me where she was.”

  “You…you did?” he said, astonished. “That’s her?” He laughed and ran to the imperiat. “How…how amazing!” He did the same thing Tomas had done earlier, waving the imperiat next to her head and listening to it whine. “My God. My God…A scrived human being!”

  “Enrico is the most talented scriver on the campo,” said Tomas. He said this sullenly, as if he resented the very idea. “He’s been neck deep in Tribuno’s shit for years. He’s probably sporting a stiffer candle right now than when he caught his mother bathing.”

  Enrico turned bright pink, and he turned the imperiat down until it was a low whine. “A scrived human…Does she know where the key is?”

/>   “She hasn’t said so yet,” said Tomas. “But I’ve been soft with her. I thought I’d let you take a look at her before I started cutting off her toes and asking her hard questions.”

  A chill ran through Sancia’s body. I’ve got to get away from this sadistic little shit.

  “So, she’s scrived,” said Tomas. “So what? How does that make her different? And how does that help us make imperiats, like you said?”

  “Well, I don’t know if it will,” said Enrico. “But it’s an interesting acquisition.”

  “Why?” demanded Tomas. “You said we needed Occidental items to complete the alphabet. That only then could we start making our own imperiats. What does this grubby slut have to do with it?”

  “Yes, sir, yes. But…well. Here.” Enrico looked at her, his face slightly ashamed, like he’d caught her undressed. “Which…which plantation was the procedure done on?”

  She narrowed her eyes at him. She could tell she frightened him.

  “Answer him,” said Tomas.

  “Silicio,” she said reluctantly.

  “I thought as much,” said Enrico. “I thought so! That was one of Tribuno’s personal plantations! He went there quite a lot himself, at the start of things. So the experiments being done out there were likely orchestrated by him.”

  “So?” said Tomas, impatient.

  “Well…we’ve theorized so far that the imperiat was a hierophantic weapon. A tool to use against other hierophants or other scrivers during some kind of Occidental civil war, to detect and control and suppress their rigs.”

  “And?” said Tomas.

  “My suspicion is that the imperiat doesn’t identify normal scrivings,” said Enrico. “Otherwise it would have been wailing the second we got close to Tevanne. It only identifies scrivings that it feels could be a threat—in other words…it only identifies Occidental scrivings. So…do you see?”

  Tomas stared at him, then at Sancia. “Wait. So you’re saying…”

  “Yes, sir.” Enrico wiped sweat from his brow. “I think she is an anomaly in two manners, and they must be interrelated. She is the only scrived human we have ever seen. And written inside her body…the very things that power her, that make her work, are Occidental sigils—the language of the hierophants.”