Ink, Iron, and Glass

by Gwendolyn Clare

  There was a time when those words would have filled her with resentment. Now Elsa was beginning to understand that this belief served to hinder Porzia’s scriptological ambitions. Porzia was brilliant, but she still thought of her world as the One True World, and her own perceptions were hobbling her.

  “The fundamental architecture of all scribed worlds is rooted in the architecture of this universe, which renders the real and the artificial functionally indistinguishable from each other. If an alchemist were to take my blood and yours and compare them side by side under a microscope, he would detect no differences. What is scribed is real.”

  Porzia nodded, frowning, struggling to absorb this idea.

  “Finding Jumi will be another matter, though.” Elsa tucked the book away again. “In a world the size of Veldana, we could design some kind of device to detect her proximity, but Europe is much too large for that.”

  A grin slowly formed on Porzia’s lips, brightening her expression like a rising sun. “We’ve got a pair of excellent scriptologists here. Isn’t the solution obvious? We write a world designed to locate your mother.”

  Elsa grinned back at her—Porzia was really starting to get it now, starting to think like a Veldanese. “That’s the best idea you’ve had all day.”

  “It’s only, what, nine in the morning?” Porzia pointed out.

  “We’ve got time, then,” said Elsa. “Let’s see what else we can come up with.”

  * * *

  Leo holed up in his laboratory with his tools and a live bug that Burak had saved for him to examine. He flipped it upside down, clamped its legs to hold it stationary, and adjusted his magnifying glass stand. Then he carefully unscrewed the brass casing on the bug’s underside, grateful he owned a spare set of clockmaker’s tools—he couldn’t bear facing Elsa to ask for the kit she had borrowed. It was so much easier to hide in the familiar mess of his lab than to face the impossible mess his life had become.

  Machines were pure and objective. He could poke around in the gears and learn what they were made to do, and why, and even by whom. Machines could be fully, completely understood. People were a different story. After the depth of his father’s deception, how could he ever trust himself to know another person? Mere days ago, he’d possessed such confidence in his ability to read a person the way Porzia might read a book, handpicking all the little revealing details of their behavior and appearance, and now that version of himself seemed like a stranger. In light of his utter failure to comprehend his own family, the life of a hermit had begun to sound awfully appealing.

  With this clockwork device, at least, he was equal to the task. Observe, disassemble, analyze. He selected a pair of fine-tipped pliers and yanked out the half-wound mainspring with a metallic twang. With the power source removed, the still flailing tips of the legs slowed down, as if stuck in molasses, and then stopped altogether. Leo carefully pulled out the tiny gears one by one, lining them up in order on his worktable.

  As he explored what should have been familiar territory, a hollow feeling settled in his gut. The electromagnetic inductor was much too small, and over here—were those miniature components designed for wireless transmission? The Order’s network of Hertzian machines had been designed by a master of wireless telegraphy out of Bologna, but no one could make such a function fit inside this tiny compartment. It simply wasn’t possible—not with mechanics alone.

  Leo’s first thought was that this looked like something Elsa would build, like how her freeze ray combined mechanics and alchemy. But no, that wasn’t precisely correct. Every pazzerellone developed unique quirks in their designs, and these quirks did not remind him of Elsa’s. Yes, the bug had been designed by a polymath, but this signature belonged to a different one—an uncomfortably familiar signature, though Leo had not seen its like in years. The closer he looked, the more certain he became.

  His brother Aris had designed the bugs.

  * * *

  With the exception of her very first projects, for which Jumi would edit her syntax, Elsa had always scribed alone. Having help with the conception and design of a worldbook was an entirely new experience. What unique properties would this world need? How could they leverage existing physical principles to produce the effects they wanted? It surprised Elsa how much faster she and Porzia arrived at an optimal design by working together.

  By midafternoon, they’d finished mapping out the theoretical framework and were ready to start committing the worldtext to the page, so they moved the whole operation up to Porzia’s study. Her rooms were set up much like Elsa’s, though her study was a little larger and much neater, since Elsa hadn’t yet taken the time to clean up the supplies she’d been using for worldbook repair.

  Elsa sat at Porzia’s writing desk with a new worldbook open before her, scribing in the bare necessities—air, gravity, Euclidean geometry. Porzia stood in front of her shelves, considering and discarding possible reference books.

  Elsa finished a sentence about temperature and paused, tapping the end of the fountain pen against her chin thoughtfully. “We need a reference map.” She fished around in a drawer, found a wooden-handled stitch cutter, and held it out to Porzia. “You’ll have to take a page from the atlas.”

  Porzia stared wide-eyed at the stitch cutter as if the little implement might bite her. “You can’t be serious. You want me to destroy the binding on Mamma’s good atlas? She’ll be furious!”

  “It’s just a regular book—it’s not as if I’m asking you to tear apart a worldbook.”

  “Atlases are very expensive to print,” Porzia said.

  Elsa pressed the tool into the other girl’s reluctant hand. “If you insane Europeans weren’t constantly invading one another and moving the boundaries all around, we could use an older map. But as things are, I need the most current version.”

  Porzia sighed. “Oh, fine, you’re right. Copying the map would take too long. We’ll have to paste it into the worldbook.” She went for the door, grumbling, “Mamma is going to kill me for this.”

  While Porzia was in the library extracting the map, Elsa finished scribing the fundamentals into the worldbook and looked through Porzia’s notes. They had yet to decide upon the exact methodology for scribing the locator machine that would complete the world. Linking the scribed representation of southern Europe to the real-world geography would be reasonably simple—it required a tweaked version of the same principle she’d used for the doorbook. And locating a particular person was not so different from locating a particular place. Elsa scowled down at the loose sheets of paper scribbled all over with ideas. The real problem was how to identify the person she wanted the locator to target.

  Porzia returned with a loose page from the atlas, and she peered over Elsa’s shoulder to see what part she was stuck on. “We should break for the night. Get some food and sleep, and look at it with fresh eyes tomorrow.”

  Elsa let out a heavy sigh. “But we’re so close!”

  “If by ‘so close’ you mean ‘almost halfway done,’” said Porzia. “You may be indefatigable, but I was up doing research most of last night. And anyway, we should wait on a response from Firenze before we go charging off after Garibaldi. For all we know, the Order’s already hatching their own plan to rescue your mother.”

  Elsa pressed her fingers against her eyes. She was tired, and Porzia was right to worry. A mistake now could prove catastrophic later—such was the nature of scriptology. But there was no way to know if her telegram had gotten through to Alek, or to be sure he would correctly interpret her message. And every hour that passed might be the hour that ended her mother’s life. There was no time.

  Porzia went to bed, but she left the gaslight in the study burning so Elsa could continue to work long into the night.

  14

  I HOLD THAT THE MARK OF A GENUINE IDEA IS THAT ITS POSSIBILITY CAN BE PROVED.

  —Gottfried Leibniz

  The moon glowed faintly from behind a veil of clouds, barely visible, but the mirror-smooth
surface of the river Arno shone like liquid gold in the light from the gaslamps. Leo spotted Rosalinda as soon as he got close to the old bridge. She leaned against the sidewall, looking stiff and severe, as if she might merge with the stone and become a gargoyle.

  As Leo walked up beside her, she said, “Thank you for coming.” As if there were any doubt that he would.

  “After yesterday, I’m not entirely sure Porzia hasn’t banned you from the house. I thought I’d better come to you, and not the other way around.”

  Rosalinda nodded solemnly, no trace of amusement crossing her features. “How are you?”

  Leo bit the inside of his cheek. “Fine.”

  She exhaled through her nose, almost a snort, but she let the lie go unchallenged. “I made some inquiries. There’s a rumor circulating through the Carbonari network that your father has acquired a very dangerous weapon, and that the weapon is … scriptological in nature.”

  “A weapon made with a worldbook?”

  “If the rumors are to be believed. But this could explain why Ricciotti needed to forcefully conscript your friend’s mother—assuming it is Ricciotti who took her.”

  “Maybe,” Leo said. “Except … you were right.”

  “About?”

  “Aris. He’s definitely alive, and he’s with our father. Helping him attack my home.” His throat felt raw and tight, as if he’d swallowed an entire lemon slice by slice.

  Aris the polymath, who could compose worldtext in three languages by the age of twelve. What did Ricciotti need Jumi for, when he already had Aris on his side?

  “Well,” Rosalinda said, “the only part of which I’m certain is that we don’t have all the information yet.”

  Leo’s mouth twisted into a rueful grin—it was such a very Rosalinda sort of thing to say. An axiom of spycraft for every occasion. As if uncertainty could be a comfort now. Oh good, his father and brother were only probably in possession of a scribed weapon—a dangerous perversion of pure science, and the embodiment of everything the Order stood against.

  Lord, how could he tell Porzia about this? Concealing the assassination attempt from the Order was already putting enough strain on Porzia’s loyalties. Leo honestly couldn’t guess whether or not she’d agree to withhold this news as well.

  “Is there anything you can do?” Leo asked tentatively. “You have connections.…”

  Rosalinda huffed, frustrated. “The Carbonari can’t get involved in pazzerellone affairs without an express invitation from the Order. You know that, Leo. I’ve already bent the rules dangerously far just providing you with information.”

  “Of course. I know.” The Carbonari were already in open rebellion against two governments—the Papal States and the Two Sicilies—and they could not afford to make enemies here in Sardinia. Especially not powerful pazzerellone enemies.

  Rosalinda said, “Ricciotti is not as clever as he thinks he is. You will find him—but I can’t help you with whatever you’re planning to do then.” Her hands, pressed against the stone, were tense.

  “This is why you kept training me, even after the fire. It was all to prepare me for this.” Leo ducked his head, avoiding her gaze. “Wasn’t it?”

  Rosalinda took his chin in her hand, lifting it up; Leo wouldn’t have let anyone else touch him like that, but this was Rosalinda. She appraised him with those stern eyes of hers. “I could have made a fine agent out of you, Leo, perhaps the finest I ever trained for the Carbonari. But you’re right—it wasn’t them I’ve been training you for.”

  “I would have, you know.” His voice came thin and hoarse. “I would have fought for you.”

  “You have your own battles to fight now.” She moved her hand to the back of his neck and drew him into a fierce embrace.

  Leo froze, bewildered by her sudden tenderness. Rosalinda had never been prone to fits of maternal nurturing the way Gia was, and though he knew she cared about him as a teacher cares for a pupil, he’d never imagined she felt a parental sort of affection.

  Rosalinda pulled back to look him in the eye, holding his face in her calloused hands. “You can defeat them. You’re stronger and faster than your father and Aris both.”

  Leo stared at her. Her eyes were hard as a hawk’s, and what wrinkles she had spoke more of determination than worry or joy. Could it be that this unsentimental woman loved him, when his own father had not found him worthy of love?

  “Stronger and faster, but not smarter,” he whispered.

  Rosalinda harrumphed. “Smart enough, dear boy,” she said. “Smart enough.”

  * * *

  Alek lowered himself stiffly onto the stone bench in the gardens behind the Order’s headquarters, and he waited. The sky was turning pale, but the sun had yet to crest the horizon. From within a nearby shrub, a songbird whistled a melancholy tune.

  He pulled the folded telegram out of the pocket of his waistcoat, smoothed the creases as best he could, and read the words again. No, he had not mistaken Elsa’s meaning—she was asking permission to proceed with Jumi’s rescue.

  “This isn’t like you,” Gia said, settling onto the bench beside him. “Clandestine meetings at dawn.”

  “I need a favor.”

  Gia looked at him steadily. “You want me to go back to Casa della Pazzia.”

  “I have no obligations waiting for me in Pisa—it would look suspicious if I leave.”

  “So instead of running off to collude with Jumi’s daughter, you want me to go in your place,” she said. “The Order is divided on the matter of how to deal with Garibaldi’s return. Filippo needs my support here.”

  “Please, Gia. I know this is a lot to ask, but Jumi is like a daughter to me,” he said. “What would you do if Porzia were in her place?”

  Gia pursed her lips at him. “That’s a low blow, old friend. And what am I to do with the girl? I thought you wanted her safe.”

  He dropped his chin to his chest. “Elsa was never going to leave this alone, I should have known that. And I never thought…” He paused, the unbelievable situation momentarily robbing him of words. “These pazzerellones don’t care about rescuing Jumi. Some of them actually believe she’s working with Garibaldi.”

  “I received a telegram, too—from Porzia, asking for help. Not in so many words of course, but…” Her voice trailed off and she frowned thoughtfully for a minute. “Do you think it’s wise to encourage them? They’re hardly more than children. What would you have me do?”

  “Tell them the truth,” said Alek. “Tell them not to wait for help from the Order, because there is none coming. Tell them to save Jumi.”

  “This is madness. They’re too young to face such dangers.”

  “You’ll be there to guide them, at least. We were just as reckless in our youth, and for lesser reasons.”

  “And how well did that work out for the Pisano brothers?” she said sharply. “Have you forgotten?”

  “Of course not.” Speaking of low blows, Alek thought. A muscle in his jaw tightened at the memory of what they’d had, and all they’d lost. “We can’t lock our children away from the world forever, Gia. Better they act with our support than behind our backs.”

  “God forgive me,” she said with a sigh. “I’d better go if I’m to catch the morning train.”

  * * *

  Leo paced Porzia’s too-small sitting room from one side to the other and back again. How Faraz could stay seated—the very picture of patience and calm—he could not fathom. Midday had come and gone with Elsa and Porzia remaining closed up in the study. “Why is this taking so long? What do you imagine the girls are doing in there?”

  “Scriptological feats of genius never before conceived of, I’d assume.” Dryly, Faraz added, “It might be another minute or two. I hear it takes time to bend the laws of reality.”

  “Not as much as you’d think, when Elsa’s involved,” Leo muttered.

  “Will you sit down? You’re making Skandar nervous.” Clinging to Faraz’s shoulder, the little beast fanned its wing
s and batted uncertainly at the air.

  “Oh, well, if the tentacle monster’s nervous…,” Leo said sarcastically, but he tried taking a seat anyway. He quickly found that sitting still only worsened the anxious tension in his chest, so he hopped back up and resumed pacing.

  Finally, Elsa and Porzia emerged from their scriptological sanctum. Elsa cradled a book in one arm, and Porzia was holding a portal device.

  Leo stopped midpace. “Is it done?”

  “We’ve designed a tracker,” said Porzia. “Now we just need to input a target.”

  “And how long is that going to take? What does that even mean?” He threw his hands in the air, his already frayed patience giving way.

  “Leo,” Elsa said quietly, putting a calming hand on his arm. “It means we can use the tracker to locate anyone. Including your father.”

  He looked at where she was touching him—delicate brown fingers against the white cloth of his sleeve. Strange, how such a small gesture could evaporate all that pent-up frustration.

  When he didn’t reply, she pulled her hand away, embarrassed. “Are you well?”

  Leo cleared his throat. “There’s something I need to tell you all: Rosalinda heard a rumor that my father has acquired a very powerful weapon. Something made using scriptology.”

  He could see Elsa’s mind racing. “Do you think Garibaldi’s compelling Jumi to create scriptological weapons?”

  Porzia said, “All the more reason to confirm whether or not Garibaldi took Jumi, and to get her away from him.”

  “Yes.” Leo took a deep breath and let it out. “Yes, right. Let’s do this.”

  Elsa shook her head as if to clear it. “I’m going to need an object that belonged to your father to target the tracking device.”

  “I have his pocket watch,” Leo said, unfastening the chain from the buttonhole on his waistcoat.

  “But you’ve been carrying that thing around for years,” Faraz protested. “If the tracker relies on some intangible sense of possession, won’t the watch’s ownership have switched by now?”