Роберт Беннет - Foundryside

His mother’s voice in his ear: “Are you ready, my love? Are you ready to save us all?”

Gregor stared at the lorica. He had seen such things before, and he knew what they were meant for: war, and murder.

He whispered, “I am ready.”

On the other side of the city, at the top of the Mountain, Estelle Candiano stared into the mirror and breathed.

Slow, deep breaths, in and out, in and out, filling every part of her lungs. She was doing such delicate work, and the breathing helped steady her hands — if she made one mistake, just one tiny stroke out of place, the whole thing would be ruined.

She dipped the stylus in the ink — heavy with particulates of gold, tin, and copper — looked in the mirror, and continued painting symbols onto her bare chest.

It was tricky work, doing it backwards. But Estelle had practiced. She’d had all the time in the world to practice, alone and ignored in the back rooms of the Mountain for nearly a decade.

The common sigils are the language of creation , she thought as she worked. But Occidental sigils are the language with which God spoke to creation. She dipped the stylus back in the ink, and began a new line. And with these commands, with these authorities, one may alter reality if one wishes — provided you are careful.

One stroke more, then another, finishing the sigils…Her left hand was already covered in them, as well as her forearm, upper arm, and shoulder, a twisting, curling lattice of shimmering black symbols, crawling up her arm to swirl about her heart.

There was a cough, and a gurgle. She looked over her shoulder in the mirror at the figure lying in the bed behind her. A small, wet, beady-eyed man, gasping for breath.

“Please stay still, Father,” she said softly. “And hold on.”

Then she glanced at the clock on the wall. Ten twenty now.

Her eyes darted to the window. The sprawling nightscape of Tevanne stretched out below the Mountain. Yet all seemed quiet, and still.

“Captain Riggo!” she called.

Footsteps, and then the office door opened. Captain Riggo walked in and saluted. He did not glance at Tribuno Candiano, wheezing and lying there in his soiled sheets. He did not pause at the sight of a bare-breasted Estelle, painting symbols upon her skin. Captain Riggo possessed the virtue that Tevanne valued most of all: the ability to ignore what was right in front of his eyes for a huge sum of money.

“Yes, ma’am,” he said.

Estelle sat perfectly still, stylus hovering above her skin. “Is anything happening out there?”

“No, ma’am.”

“Not on the campo?”

“No, ma’am.”

“Not in the Commons?”

“Not as far as we can tell, ma’am.”

“And our forces?”

“They sit ready, and can be deployed with but a word, ma’am.”

Her eyes narrowed. “ My word.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

She considered this. “You are dismissed,” she said. “Notify me the moment you hear anything. Anything .”

“Yes, ma’am.” He smartly turned, strode out, and shut the door.

Estelle resumed painting the symbols on her body. Her father gasped, smacked his lips, and fell silent.

She made one stroke, then another…

Then she froze.

Estelle blinked for a moment, then sat up and looked around the room.

Empty. Empty except for her herself and father, that was, and all of his and Tomas’s antiquities, sitting on the massive stone desk.

“Hm,” she said, troubled.

For a moment she’d suddenly had the strangest and most intense feeling that there had been someone else in the room with them — a third person, standing just behind her, watching her closely.

She took a breath, looking around — and then her eye fell on the curious old box that Tomas had stolen before Orso Ignacio could get it, the cracked, ancient, lexicon-looking thing with the gold lock.

Estelle Candiano looked at the box, at the lock, at the keyhole. An idea wriggled its way into her mind, wild and insane.

The keyhole is an eye. It watches your every move.

“That’s mad,” she said softly.

Then, louder and with more assurance, as if hoping the box might hear her: “That’s mad.”

The box, of course, did nothing to acknowledge this comment. She looked at it for a moment longer, then turned and resumed painting the sigils on her breast. After my elevation , she thought, perhaps all these old tools Father dug up will make sense. Perhaps I will crack open that box, and see what treasures spill forth.

Then her eye paused on the object placed right next to the box — the large, oddly toothed key she’d taken off Orso’s man, with the butterfly-shaped head. It had been useful in giving her the last few sigils she’d needed to complete the ritual, but she still didn’t know the full extent of its nature.

Or perhaps I don’t need to break the box open , she thought. We shall see — won’t we?

Out in the streets of the Commons, just east of the Candiano walls, Sancia and the Scrappers moved.

“I wish you could turn those damned shadows off ,” said Giovanni, panting as they ran through the alleys. “It’s like I have a literal blind spot running alongside me.”

“Just shut up and run, Gio,” said Sancia. Though she found it odd herself, frankly. Orso had affixed a few samples of the shadow materials to a leather jerkin for her — a slap-dash, laughably shoddy solution — but she was now veiled in constant shadow, and it was difficult for her to see what her hands or feet were doing.

Finally they approached the eastern Candiano gates. They slowed and crept along the side of a tottering rookery, peering beyond. Sancia saw the gleam of helmets in the gate towers, huddling in the windows. Probably a dozen men, each with high-powered espringals that could punch a hole in her wide enough to toss a melon through.

“Ready?” whispered Claudia.

“I guess,” said Sancia.

“We’ll go down this alley,” Claudia said, pointing backward, “to draw their eyes away from you. We’ll wait two minutes, then fire. The instant you see it, you run.”

“Got it,” said Sancia.

“Good. Good luck.”

Sancia ran along the rookery to the side facing the path to the Candiano gates. Then she pressed her back to the wood and waited, counting out the seconds.

When she got to two minutes, she crouched. Any minute now…

Then there was a hiss over her shoulder. Something flew high up above the building tops — and then the sky erupted with lights.

Sancia sprinted forward, pumping her arms and legs as hard as she could. She was aware that the Scrappers’ stun bomb — cleverly attached to a scrived bolt — would only last for a handful of seconds. Even though she was little more than a drop of shadow to the naked eye, that didn’t mean she’d be safe without that distraction.