“Sneak off somewhere. Down that road, or that one.” He pointed. “I’ll hold them up. I think they’re here for me, anyways. Get back to the crypt if you can. I’ll try and find you.”
“But sir…”
“Now,” he snapped.
She backed away, watching him for a moment, then turned and ran down a side road into the Commons.
Orso took a breath, puffed himself up, and marched toward the soldiers. “Evening, boys! How are you doing tonight? Uh, I am Orso Ignacio, and I—”
“Orso Ignacio!” shouted one of the soldiers. “Hypatus of Dandolo Chartered! You are hereby ordered to raise your hands and place your body and self upon the ground!”
“Yep,” said Orso. “Yep. Got it.” He lay down on the ground and sighed. “God. What a night.”
IV
FOUNDRYSIDE
Any given innovation that empowers the individual will inevitably come to empower the powerful much, much more.
—TRIBUNO CANDIANO, LETTER TO THE COMPANY CANDIANO CHIEF OFFICERS’ ASSEMBLY
42
“The nature of the case is quite clear,” said Ofelia Dandolo, her harsh, cold voice echoing in the council chambers. Her fellow committee members nodded, their faces reserved yet severe. “Despite all that we have heard about Occidental nonsense…about rituals, and ancient mysteries, and murder, and treachery…Despite all of this unprovable fancy, at the end of the day, we have a man. A man who fabricated an incredibly dangerous, illegal device, which he then activated at his own test lexicon. A man who then used that device to invade and make war upon the Candiano campo. And finally, a man who then helped a second conspirator, still at large, to get to the famous Mountain of the Candianos, and then, using that same device, managed to almost completely destroy it.” Ofelia peered over the edge of the judicial lectern. “People died. Many people. This was an act of war. And thus, it is the decision of the Judiciary Committee of the Tevanni Council of Merchant Houses to respond to it as warfare.”
Orso sat in the tall, narrow cage hanging from the ceiling of the judiciary chambers, his long legs swinging through the gaps at the bottom, his chin in his hand. He yawned loudly.
“As the chair of the judiciary committee, I now ask: Does the defendant have anything to add to their final defense?” asked Ofelia Dandolo.
Orso raised his hand.
Ofelia looked around. “Anything at all?”
“Hey!” said Orso. He waved his hand.
“No?” She sniffed, surprised, and picked up the ceramic gavel to end the trial.
Orso sprang to his feet. “What about all the witnesses? The people who saw what happened in the Mountain? What about all the people who nearly died of mysterious attacks on the goddamn Candiano campo?”
Ofelia raised the gavel, her eyes cold. Her fellow committee members stared into the lecterns before them. “The committee decides what is pertinent to each case, and which witnesses shall give evidence,” she said. “It has made clear its decisions regarding each of those issues of which you speak. Such matters are closed, and are beyond the realm of defense.” She banged the gavel on the lectern. “The trial is concluded. I will now confer with the committee regarding your sentencing.” She leaned back in the chair and whispered with the other men at the lectern. All of them seemed to be nodding seriously.
Ofelia stood up at the lectern. “The judiciary committee,” she pronounced, “sentences you t—”
“Let me guess,” said Orso sourly. “Harpering.”
“To death by harpering,” she said, irritated. “Any final comments from the defendant?”
Orso raised his hand.
Ofelia exhaled softly through her nostrils. “Yes?”
“So, just to make sure here,” said Orso, “the judiciary committee must have unanimous consent from all active Tevanni merchant houses when sentencing someone to death for inter-house conflicts, right?”
Ofelia’s brow creased ever so slightly. “Yes…”
“Well, then. Then you can’t sentence me to death.”
The committee members exchanged an uncomfortable glance. “And why not?” demanded Ofelia.
“Because you need to have representatives from all the active, chartered merchant houses,” said Orso. “And you don’t.”
“What? Yes, we do!” she said. “Without Candiano, that leaves Dandolo, Morsini, and Michiel! It’s perfectly clear!”
“Is it?” said Orso. “When’s the last time you checked the charters?”
She froze. She looked back at her fellow committee members, who just shrugged. “W-why?” she asked.
“Why ask me? Check the charters.”
Ofelia summoned over an aide, gave them an order, and they all sat back to wait. “This,” said Ofelia, “is most assuredly an attempt to simply delay the court…”
Minutes later, the aide came back, pale and quaking. He walked up to the lectern and handed her a small scroll. She unfurled it, read it—and then her mouth fell open.
“What…what in all the hell is Foundryside Limited?” she thundered.
“I don’t know,” said Orso innocently. “What does it say it is?”
“You…you…” She stared at Orso, her face turning the color of a ripe peach. “You went and founded your own damned merchant house?”
He shrugged and grinned. “It’s easier to do than you think. No one ever tries, you see, because they know they’ll just get crushed.”
“But you must have at least ten employees to start a merchant house!” she snapped.
He nodded. “I have that.”
“You do?”
“Yes.”
“But…but you must also have operational property!”
“Have that too,” he said. “Real estate in Foundryside is damn cheap.”
She stood up. “Orso Ignacio, you…you…”
“Ah-ah,” he said chidingly. He raised a finger. “I think you’re supposed to address me as ‘Founder,’ now. Right?”
An icy silence filled the chambers.
Orso leaned forward, grinning through the bars. “So. Since Foundryside Limited is now a fully operational merchant house—and since we don’t have any representation on the judiciary committee—seems like it’d be a violation of the laws to convict me. And especially to execute me.”
Ofelia swallowed, her hands in fists at her side. She looked back at her committee members, who looked uncertain and alarmed. “What a brilliant tactic!” she said acidly.
“Thank you,” said Orso.
“Do you know why it’s never been tried before, Founder Ignacio?”
“Ah. No?”
“Because people are right. Newly founded merchant houses do get crushed by the established houses. And I suspect that a house that has just used these laws to escape a conviction of murder and sabotage will receive so, so, so much more hostility from the established houses that…why, I can’t imagine such a house would survive a month, if a week. I know I certainly wouldn’t go to work for one.” She glared at him, her eyes glittering nastily. “And there is no statute of limitations on your crimes. Once your house goes under, you’ll be right back in that cage, with nothing to protect you from the loop.”
Orso nodded. “I’d be afraid of that, Founder Dandolo, if it were not for one thing.”
“And what, pray tell, is that?”
He leaned forward in his cage, grinning evilly. “We took out the oldest merchant house in Tevanne in one night,” he said. “If I were a merchant house…Well. Personally, I would not go screwing about with Foundryside Limited.”
* * *
Sancia slowly climbed the wooden stairs, wondering exactly what in the hell she was walking into.
It had been a chaotic two days—sneaking Gregor from place to place, living in ditches like fugitives, trying like mad to reach her old contacts. The
crypt had proven to be totally empty, and almost all of her contacts were gone—but those that remained had all said the same thing: If you want to find the Scrappers, go to Foundryside, to the Diestro rookery. Only it’s not called that anymore.
Well then, she’d asked, what the hell is it called?
Foundryside Limited, they’d all said. Don’t you know? It’s the new merchant house.
Which was unheard-of. And yet it’d been true: she’d walked through the door of the Diestro to find not just Claudia and Giovanni hard at work, but dozens of craftsmen and laborers who were renovating the entire building into something that resembled…
Well. A merchant house. A small one, and a dirty one—but still a merchant house.
Neither Claudia nor Giovanni had answered any of her questions. They’d just pointed at the stairs, and said: He wants to talk to you first. Before any of us do, anyways.
And so here she was. Walking up the stairs, totally unsure about what awaited her.
The stairs ended in a large room that was nearly empty, except for a desk in the back. Orso Ignacio stood behind it, reviewing some schematics for what looked like a lexicon. He looked up at her as she approached. “Ah, finally,” he said. He grinned. “Sancia, my dear girl. Take a seat.” He noticed there wasn’t a chair. “Or just stand comfortably, I guess.”
“Orso,” she said. “Orso, what the hell is going on? What is this place? Where have you been?”
“Well, the last question’s easy,” he said blithely. “I just got out of a trial where everyone wanted to kill me.” He sat. “As for the other questions…That’s a bit more complicated.”
“But…Orso…did you start your own damned merchant house?”
“I did,” he said, nodding.
She stared at him. “Really?
“Really.”
“And you…you bought this building?”
“Yep. Well, Claudia bought it for me, with my money. But yes. You need property and a good number of employees to be a chartered merchant house, and Claudia gave me both. Nice girl. Thanks for introducing us, by the way.”
“You made a deal with the Scrappers? All of them? And they get what, to be employed at a somewhat real merchant house?”
“Not just employment,” said Orso. “Ownership. They get to be founders. I supplied the starting capital, they supply the labor and raw resources, and we all share a piece of the profits. It’s not as mad as it sounds.” He thought about that. “Well, it is pretty mad, but I thought it was a smart play. Company Candiano’s been on the decline for ages, and Estelle and Tomas’s mad shit was the last straw for lots of employees—and clients. Clients who still have needs, of course—but now that people are fleeing Company Candiano like mad, again, what merchant house do you think the clients are going to?”
“The one spearheaded by Tribuno Candiano’s former lieutenant,” said Sancia.
He grinned wickedly. “Exactly. I know more about Candiano processes than anyone. I’ve already got three supply deals in the pipeline. And we also came up with some cunning, monetizable shit during all of our desperate plotting. So long as we stay functioning and solvent, we all duck the loop. Though we’re going to get bombarded by the other houses, and soon.” He took a breath. “So. That brings us to what I wanted to discuss with you. Because though I’d like to pretend I can do this all myself…I know I can’t.”
She stared at him. “Wait. Orso, are…are you offering me a job?”
“No,” he said. “I’m not. I’m saying that, if you were to ask for a position here at the good and noble merchant house of Foundryside Limited, I’d give it to you. In fact, at this stage of our development, it’d essentially make you a founder, Sancia.”
“Me? A founder?”
“In the most technical sense of the word, yes,” said Orso. “Someone who has started something—though no one will have any idea how it’ll finish. It could all go very poorly. So if you want to be free of Tevanne…to get out of here, and go live your own life…then do that instead. You’ve earned it. I want you to feel entirely free to have it, if you want. Because I’m scrumming charitable as hell, you see.”
He looked at her. She looked back.
“There’s more to it than just me,” said Sancia.
“Who else could there be?” asked Orso.
“Gregor,” said Sancia. “He’s alive. And I have him.”
Orso looked dumbfounded. “He’s what? Gregor Dandolo is alive?”
“Yeah. And he’s…well, it looks like he’s like me. A scrived human. He’s been scrived all along—I just don’t know by who.”
She filled him in on the rest. He listened, shocked. “Someone scrived Gregor Dandolo…boring, dull, stodgy Dandolo…to be a goddamn killing machine?” he asked.
“Basically. He fought it, though. He could have taken my head off, but…he broke himself, somehow. I’ve been trying to take care of him. I’ve got him hidden at the crypt now, recovering. But he’s in a strange way, Orso. He’s lost everything. And he needs our help. After all he’s done, he deserves it.”
Orso sat back, dazed. “Well. Shit. I’d be happy to take him in…and if we can get him back on his feet, he’d make an excellent chief of security. If he can recover, that is.” He looked at her. “Now…would you be willing to take a position with us?”
“There’s one more thing.”
He sighed. “Of course there is.”
She took Clef out and slid him across the desk to Orso.
He gaped at the key. “Really?”
“Don’t be happy. This is a problem, not a gift. He…he doesn’t work anymore, or talk. We need to fix him. We’ve got to fix him. Since he’s the only one who can tell us what really happened, and what’s really going on.”
Orso scratched his head. “Usually when someone haggles over the conditions of one’s employment,” he said, “it’s about pay, or lodgings. Not insane mystical conundrums.”
“You want me,” said Sancia, “you have to take all my baggage with me. There’s a lot more than there used to be.”
“So—is that a yes?”
“Is Berenice here?” she asked.
“She is. She’s overseeing the construction work.”
She thought about it. “What did she say?”
“She said she’d wait to hear what you said.”
Sancia smiled. “Of course she did.”
43
Ofelia Dandolo walked across the Dandolo campo to her front gate, across her courtyards, and into her mansion. She paced down the front hallway, then through a set of doors, then downstairs to the basement level, and then to the back, to an undistinguished-looking cabinet door.
She opened the door. Within was a small, blank room. Ofelia shut her eyes, pressed her hand against the back wall, and waited.
The wall melted away as if it were made of smoke. Behind it was a tiny, cramped spiral staircase, leading down.
Ofelia lit a scrived light and walked down the stairs. It took a long time, for there were many, many steps.
Finally she came to a small wooden door. She waited for a moment, took a breath, and opened the door.
Beyond was a huge stone cellar, with a vaulted ceiling and many, many columns. There was no light within, but she did not need one, and a light would not work here, anyway—for the room was full of moths.
Ofelia carefully walked through the whispering, fluttering storm of moths. She came to the small stone seat in the middle of the room. She sat, and waited. She waited for a very long time.
Finally she saw him, glimpsed him—just a shred of his form, lost amidst the swirl of wings.
She swallowed and took a breath. “I assume,” she said softly, “that…that you are aware of how things have progressed, my prophet.”
He did not move or speak. He just stood there, a figure concealed by the flur
ry.
“I don’t…I don’t know what happened with my son,” she said. “We spent so much time preparing Gregor…And he’s done so much for us in the wars, arranging your designs…But now, to have him fail…”
Still he did not speak.
“The construct is free,” said Ofelia. “Is…is it possible to withstand this blow? It seems like this is the worst of all possibilities.”
There was a long silence. Then he finally spoke, and as always, he spoke in her mind, loudly and clearly:
“N-No?”
“So…What shall we do, my prophet?”
There was a long silence.
he said,
Acknowledgments
It is difficult to think of any work of mine that’s changed more during its development than this one. Thank you to my editor, Julian Pavia, and my agent, Cameron McClure, for helping me through the process. And thank you to Ashlee for tolerating many nights where I sat in bed typing away for hours, ignorant of nearly everything around me, and the many times when I did a botched job on the laundry while preoccupied with ideas.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Robert Jackson Bennett is the author, most recently, of the Divine Cities trilogy, which was a 2018 Hugo Awards finalist in the Best Series category. The first book in the series, City of Stairs, was also a finalist for the World Fantasy and Locus Awards, and the second, City of Blades, was a finalist for the World Fantasy, Locus, and British Fantasy Awards. His previous novels, which include American Elsewhere and Mr. Shivers, have received the Edgar Award, the Shirley Jackson Award, and the Philip K. Dick Citation of Excellence. He lives in Austin with his family.
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