22
Orso stood in front of the closed-down taverna and tried not to sweat. He had many reasons to—for one, he was wearing quite a lot of clothes, in a clumsy attempt to disguise himself. For another, he was on the Candiano campo using a false sachet that Claudia and Giovanni had supplied him with. And for another, there was a significant chance that none of this ploy could work. She might not come—and then they’d have wasted another day.
He turned around and looked at the taverna. It was old and crumbling, its moss clay cracking, its windows broken or gone. The canal it overlooked was not the blossoming, picturesque stream Orso remembered, but a fetid, reeking mire. Nearly all of the balconies were gone, apparently fallen away—but one remained.
Orso stared at the balcony. He remembered how it had looked twenty years ago—the lights around it bright and beautiful, the smell of wine and flowers. And how beautiful she’d looked that night, until he’d spoken his heart.
That’s not true, he thought. She was still beautiful, even after that.
He sighed and leaned against the fence.
She won’t come, he thought. Why would she come to this painful memory? Why am I even here?
Then he heard footsteps in the alley behind.
He turned and saw a woman approaching, dressed like a house servant, wearing a muddy-colored dress and a dull, unadorned wimple that covered most of her face. She walked right up to him, her eyes steady and still.
“The theatrics of youth,” she said, “are unbecoming to aged folk such as we.”
“I’m a hell of a lot more aged than you are,” he said. “I think I have more right to say what’s unbecoming and what isn’t. I’m amazed you’re here. I can’t believe you still had it, that it worked!”
“I kept the hand-harp for lots of reasons, Orso,” said Estelle. “Some sentimental. But also because I made it, and I think I did a good job.” She was referring to the twinned hand-harps she’d scrived, back when she and Orso had been young and attempting to be surreptitious with their relationship. It had been their way of communicating: pluck a certain series of strings, and the other harp would make the same tune. Each note had been a code for where and when they should meet, and this taverna had once been a favorite of theirs.
Orso had always kept his harp, perhaps out of fondness—he’d had no idea he’d need it again one day, certainly not for this.
She peered at the taverna. “So many things have dried up and faded away on the campo,” she said quietly, “that it feels odd to mourn the loss of a single taverna. Yet I do.”
“If I could have gotten a message to you to meet somewhere else,” he said, “I would have.”
“Shall we go inside?” said Estelle.
“Really? It looks like it’s falling apart.”
“You’re the one who started me reliving my memories, Orso, when you plucked the harp. I wish to continue.”
They walked up the steps and through the broken doors. The vaulted ceilings were still intact, as were the tiled floors, but that was about it. The tables were gone, the bar had fallen to pieces, and vines were erupting from the walls.
“I take it,” she said quietly as she walked through the ruins, “that you’re not here to whisk me away, and make me your own.”
“No,” said Orso. “I have something to ask of you.”
“Of course. A sentimental tool, a sentimental place, used for unsentimental ends.”
“I need something from you, Estelle. Something mad.”
“How mad? And why?”
He told her only what she needed to know. She listened quietly.
“So,” she said. “You…think my father was close to figuring out how the hierophants made their tools. And you think my husband is now trying to duplicate his efforts—and has killed many people in the process.”
“Yes.”
She stared out the windows at the one remaining balcony. “And you need my father’s blood. To make it through the Mountain, to steal this device from Tomas, and cripple his efforts.”
“Yes. Will you help us?”
She blinked slowly. “That was the place, wasn’t it?” she whispered.
He looked, and saw she meant the balcony before them. “Yes,” he said. “It was.”
“I want to see it.”
“It looks terribly unsafe.”
“I said see, not stand on.” She walked over to the doors, reached out to open them, and then winced and grabbed her side. “Agh…I’m sorry. Orso—can you…?”
“Certainly,” he said. He walked over to the doors and opened them for her.
“Thank you,” she said. She looked out at the balcony and the dreary sight of the canal below. She sighed, like the sight of it pained her.
“Are you hurt, Estelle?” he said.
“I fell recently. I hurt my elbow, I’m afraid.”
“You fell?”
“Yes. While climbing the stairs.”
He watched her for a long time, looking her over. Was he imagining it, or was she standing somewhat…crooked? As if walking on a ginger knee?
“You didn’t fall, did you,” he said.
She said nothing.
“It was Tomas,” he said. “He did this to you. Didn’t he?”
She was still for a long time. “Why did you leave, Orso? Why did you leave the house? Why did you leave me there, alone, with my father?”
Orso was silent as he thought about how to answer. “I…I asked you to marry me,” he said.
“Yes.”
“On this very balcony.”
“Yes.”
“And…you said no. Because of the inheritance laws on the campo, everything you owned would go to me. You said you wanted to prove to your father that you could be as good as him, that you could be a scriver, a leader, someone who could guide the house. You thought he could change the rules for you. But…I knew he wouldn’t ever do that. Tribuno was a foresighted man in many ways. But he was also terribly…traditional.”
“Traditional,” she echoed. “What a curious word that is. So bland, and yet often so poisonous.”
“He mentioned it to me, once. Asked me why we weren’t engaged yet. I told him you were considering your options. And he said, ‘If you want, Orso—I could just make her.’ As if I would ask for that. As if having you by force was the same as having you. So there I was. Stuck between two people I found increasingly unpleasant or…painful.”
“I see,” she said quietly.
“I’m…sorry,” said Orso. “I’m sorry for all that’s happened to you. If I’d known how things were going to go—if I’d known how deeply in debt Tribuno had gone, I’d…”
“You’d what?”
“Have tried to steal you away, I guess. Flee the city. Go somewhere new, and leave all this behind.”
She laughed quietly. “Oh, Orso…I knew you were still a romantic, down underneath it all. Don’t you see? I’d never have left. I’d have stayed and fought for what I felt I was due.” She grew solemn. “I’ll help you.”
“You…you will?”
“Yes. Father gets bled frequently for his condition. And I know a way into the Mountain. A way designed just for him, one Tomas has never known about.”
“Really?” said Orso, astonished.
“Yes. Father grew secretive in the later years, as you know. When he was buying up all that historical junk, spending thousands of duvots a day. He wanted to move freely, without anyone being aware of it.”
She told him when and where he could expect to receive Tribuno’s blood, and where the secret entrance could be found. “It’ll open up for whoever’s carrying the blood,” she said. “Though you must keep the blood cooled—if it decays too much, it’ll be useless. This means you’ll have a short time period to get this done—you need to do it in three nights, essentially.”<
br />
“Three days to prepare?” he said. “God…”
“It gets worse,” said Estelle. “Because the Mountain will probably figure out that the person you’ve sent in is not my father—eventually. I doubt if they’ll be able to leave the way they came in.”
Orso thought about it. “We can fly her out, maybe. Use an anchor somewhere in the city, pull her to it—she’s done such things before.”
“A dangerous flight. But it might be your only option.”
He glanced at her. “And if we pull this off—what happens to you, Estelle?”
She smiled weakly and shrugged. “Who knows? Maybe they’ll let me take charge. Maybe I’ll get a moment of freedom before they bring in another ruthless merchant to run things. Or maybe they’ll suspect me immediately, and execute me.”
Orso swallowed. “Please take care of yourself, Estelle.”
“Don’t worry, Orso. I always do.”
23
For the next two days, they worked.
Sancia had seen the Scrappers scrive and alter devices before, but that was nothing compared to this. Berenice brought in raw iron ingots and, using the scrived cauldrons and devices they’d procured, they began to build the capsule from scratch, plate by plate and rib by rib. By the end of the first day it had started to resemble a huge metal seedpod, about six feet long and three feet in diameter, with a small hatch set in the center. But though the sight of Berenice, Claudia, and Giovanni fabricating this thing out of raw metal was amazing, it didn’t exactly make Sancia feel relaxed.
“Doesn’t seem like there’s a lot of breathing room in there,” she said.
“There will be,” said Berenice. “And it will be quite safe. We’ll apply bracing and durability sigils to the entirety of the capsule, along with waterproofing, of course.”
“How in the hell is this thing going to move around?” said Sancia.
“Well. That’s been tricky. But your friends here have come up with a clever idea that might work.”
“Floating lanterns,” said Gio cheerfully.
“What do they have to do with this?” asked Sancia.
“Floating lanterns are scrived to believe they’ve got a big balloon in them,” explained Claudia, “and then, on the campos, they follow guided paths along markers placed on the ground.”
“Only, this marker will be on the barge,” said Gio. “It’ll keep you a set distance below the water.”
“And…how do I get out of the water?”
“You hit this switch here.” Berenice pointed to the interior of the capsule. “This will make the capsule float up and surface.”
“Then you climb out, shut the hatch,” said Gio, pointing to a button on the outside of the capsule, “hit this, and it’ll sink. Then you’re all set. Somewhat. Except for the Mountain bit.”
“Orso’s working on that,” said Berenice testily.
“One would hope,” said Gio.
Sancia stared at the capsule. She imagined being crammed inside the tiny thing. “God. Now I sort of wish I’d let Gregor lock me up.”
“Speaking of which,” said Claudia, looking around, “where is the captain?”
“He said he had business to attend to,” said Berenice. “Back on the campo.”
“What business could possibly be more important than this?” asked Claudia.
Berenice shrugged. “He mentioned putting a matter to rest—something that’d been bothering him. When I saw the look on his face, I didn’t ask more.” She quickly scrawled out a line of sigils. “Now. Let’s make sure this thing is really waterproof.”
* * *
Gregor Dandolo was good at waiting. Most of military life was nothing but waiting: waiting for orders, waiting for supplies, waiting for the weather to change, or just trying to out-wait your opponent, baiting them into doing something.
Yet Gregor had been waiting in front of the Dandolo Chartered Vienzi site foundry for three hours now. And, since he had much better things to do that day, and since theoretically Tomas Ziani’s thugs could try to kill him even there, this was really pushing it.
He looked back at the front gates of the Vienzi site foundry. He’d been told this was where he could find his mother, and this did not surprise him: the Vienzi was one of the newest Dandolo foundries, built to perform some of the company’s most complicated production. He’d known that few were allowed inside, but he’d assumed that he, being Ofelia’s son, would be granted entrance. And yet, he’d been simply told to wait.
I wonder what percentage of my life, he thought, has been spent waiting for my mother’s attentions. Five percent? Ten percent? More?
Finally there was a creak from the massive foundry gates, and the giant oak door began to swing open.
Ofelia Dandolo did not wait for the gate to fall completely open. She slipped through the crack, small and white and frail against the huge door, and calmly walked toward him.
“Good morning, Gregor,” she said. “What a pleasure it is to see you so soon again. How is your investigation going? Have you found the perpetrator?”
“I have encountered, how shall I put this…more questions,” said Gregor. “Some of which I’ve been turning over for some time. But I thought it was time to discuss a certain matter with you, personally.”
“A matter,” said Ofelia. “What threateningly bland language. What would you like to talk to me about?”
He took a breath. “I wanted to ask you…about the Silicio Plantation, Mother.”
Ofelia Dandolo slowly raised an eyebrow.
“Do you know…know anything about that, Mother?” asked Gregor. “About what it is? What they did there?”
“What I’ve heard, Gregor,” she said, “are mostly rumors that you’ve been involved, somehow, in some of the violence in the wake of the Foundryside blackout. Armed gangs fighting in the streets. Carriages crashing into walls. And somewhere, among it all, my son. Is this true, Gregor?”
“Please stop trying to change the subject.”
“Rumors of you and some street urchin,” said Ofelia, “being shot at by a team of assassins. That must be fantasy, mustn’t it?”
“Answer me.”
“Why are you asking me this, anyway? Who poured this poison in your ear, Gregor?”
“I will make my question clear beyond doubt,” said Gregor forcefully. “Is Dandolo Chartered—my grandfather’s company, my father’s company, and your company, Mother—is it involved in the gruesome practice of attempting to scrive the human body and soul?”
She looked at him levelly. “No. It is not.”
Gregor nodded. “A second question,” he said. “Was it ever involved in such a practice?”
There was a soft hiss as Ofelia exhaled through her nose. “Yes,” she said softly.
He stared at her. “It was. It was?”
“Yes,” she said reluctantly. “Once.”
Gregor tried to think, yet he found he could not. Orso had said as much, and the comment had slowly worked its way into Gregor’s mind like a needle—yet he’d been unable to believe it. “How could…How could you…”
“I did not know,” she said, shaken, “until after your father died. Until after your accident, Gregor. When I took over the company.”
“You’re saying father was the one involved in it? It was his program?”
“It was a different time, Gregor,” said Ofelia. “The Enlightenment Wars were just beginning. We didn’t understand what we were truly doing, neither as rulers of the Durazzo, nor as scrivers. And all of our competitors were doing the same. If we hadn’t pursued this as well, we might have been ruined.”
“Such excuses,” said Gregor, “all end the same way, Mother. With graves, and heartache.”
“I put a stop to it when I took charge!” she said fiercely. “I killed the project. It was wrong. And we didn�
��t need it anymore anyway!”
“Why not?”
She paused, as if she hadn’t meant to say that. “Be-because scriving had changed so much by then. Our lexicon technology had given us an impregnable position. The scriving of the body was no longer worth researching. It was impossible anyway.”
Gregor did not say, of course, that he was now acquainted with a living specimen that suggested otherwise. “I…I just so wish that we had one good thing,” he said, “one good thing in Tevanne that was not born from ugliness.”
“Oh, spare me your righteousness,” she snapped. “Your father did what was deemed necessary. He did his duty. And ever since Dantua, you, Gregor, have been fleeing your duties as a rat might a wildfire!”
He stared at her, scandalized. “What…How can you say that? How can you—”
“Shut up,” she said. “And come with me.” She turned and started walking back into the Vienzi site.
Gregor paused for a moment, glowering, then did as she asked.
The guards and operators did double takes as Gregor entered the gates, but they stood down at the sight of Ofelia, jaw set and eyes glittering with fury. Gregor saw that the Vienzi site was indeed far more advanced than any scriving foundry he’d yet been in. Pipes of formulas and waters and reagents rose out of the stone foundation in countless places, and twisted and tangled together before sinking into the walls. Tremendous cauldrons and crucibles glowed with a manic, cheery red light, brimming with molten bronze or tin or copper. Yet Ofelia ignored all of this, and led Gregor to a warehouse in the back of the yard.
This warehouse was heavily guarded. Dandolo officers in scrived armor stood at attention before its doors. They glanced at Gregor, but said nothing.
Gregor walked inside, wondering what on the foundry yard could possibly call for such defenses. And then he saw it.
Or he…thought he saw it.
Sitting in the middle of the warehouse was a shadow, a ball of almost solid darkness. He thought he could identify a shape in the darkness, but…it was difficult to tell. A handful of moths flitted in and out of the shadows, and when they entered that vague line of darkness they almost seemed to disappear.
Foundryside Page 34
