Роберт Беннет - Foundryside

“Ask questions,” he said. He peered through the crowd. At first he wasn’t sure she’d be there and thought himself absurd for even imagining it. But then he saw her: one woman, standing apart from the group, her posture tall and noble.

Orso stared at her, and instantly regretted this idea. The woman wore a bewilderingly complicated dress, with puffs on her upper sleeves and her hair twisted up in an intricate brooch that was covered in pearls and ribbons. Her face was painted white, with the now-fashionable painted blue bar across her eyes.

“My God,” said Orso quietly. “She went in for all that aristocratic fluffery. I can’t believe it.”

Berenice glanced at the woman. Her eyes grew wide, and she stared at Orso in naked terror. “Don’t, sir.”

He flapped a hand at her. “Go home, Berenice.”

“Don’t…Don’t go talk to her. That would be deeply unwise.”

He understood her fear perfectly: the idea of approaching the daughter of the founder of a competing merchant house was mad. Especially if she was also the wife of the chief officer of that same house. But Orso had built a career on bad choices. “Enough,” he said.

“It would be outrageously inappropriate for you to approach her,” she said, “whatever your…”

He looked at her. “Whatever my what?”

Berenice glared at him. “Whatever your history with her, sir.”

“My own affairs,” said Orso, “are just that— my own. And unless you want to get tangled up in them, I suggest you leave now, Berenice.”

She looked at him for a moment longer. Then, sighing, she walked away.

Orso watched her go. He swallowed and tried to compose himself. Am I doing this for good reason , he wondered, or just to talk to her? He decided not to dither on it anymore. He pivoted on his heel and marched up to the woman.

“That dress,” he said, “looks absurd on you.”

The woman did a double take, her mouth open in outrage. Then she saw him, and the surprise evaporated from her face. “Ah. Of course. Good afternoon, Orso.” She glanced around nervously. Many of the Candiano Company servants were either staring or trying hard not to stare. “This is…very inappropriate, you know.”

“I guess I forget what ‘appropriate’ means these days, Estelle.”

“My experience, Orso, suggests you never knew in the first place.”

He grinned. “Does it? It is good to see you, Estelle. Even if you are stuffed into the back halls like a damned valet.”

She smiled back, or at least tried to. It was not the smile he was familiar with. When he’d known her years ago, Estelle Candiano’s eyes had been bright and alive, and her gaze had been sharper than a stiletto. Now there was something…dull to them.

She looked tired. Even though she was still twelve years his junior, Estelle now looked old.

She gestured ahead, and they moved out of earshot from the rest of the group. “Was it you who killed the meeting?” she asked. “Four hours is a little short, yes?”

“Not I. That would have been your husband.”

“Ah. What did Tomas say?”

“Some rather disparaging things about your father.”

“I see.” An awkward pause. “Were they true things, though?”

“Well, yes. But they still pissed me off.”

“Why? I thought you hated him. When you left Company Candiano, Orso, there was a lot of bad blood between you and my father.”

“Bad blood,” he said, “is still blood. How is Tribuno these days?”

“Still dying,” Estelle said curtly. “And still mad. So. About as bad as one can get.”

“I…see,” he said quietly.

She peered at him. “My God,” she said. “My God! Could that be pity crossing the once-handsome face of the infamous Orso Ignacio? Could it be regret ? Could it be sorrow ? I’d never have believed it!”

“Stop.”

“I never saw this tenderness when you were with us, Orso.”

“That isn’t true,” said Orso sharply.

“I…apologize. I meant tenderness for him .”

“That isn’t true, either.” Orso thought carefully about what to say. “Your father was and probably still is the most brilliant scriver in all the history of Tevanne. He practically built this damned city. A lot of his designs are still keeping everything standing. That means something, even if the man himself changed a lot.”

“Changed…” she said. “Is that the word for it? To watch him decay…To watch him rot, and corrupt himself, chasing after these Occidental vanities, spending hundreds of thousands of duvots on decadent fantasy…I am not sure I’d just call that change. We still haven’t recovered, you know.” She glanced at the crowd behind her. “Look at us. Just a handful of servants, dressed like clerks. We used to practically own the council. We’d walk through these halls like gods and angels. How far we’ve fallen.”

“I know. And you’re not scriving anymore. Are you?”

Estelle seemed to deflate. “N…no. How did you know?”

“Because you were a damn clever scriver back when I knew you.”

They exchanged a look, and both understood there were unspoken words there— Even if your father never recognized it. For though Tribuno Candiano had been a wildly brilliant man, he’d been supremely disinterested in his daughter, and had made it well known that he’d have preferred a son.

And perhaps that was why he’d treated her as he had. For when Tribuno Candiano’s Occidental obsessions had bankrupted his merchant house, he’d essentially auctioned off his daughter’s hand in marriage to pay off his debts — and young Tomas Ziani, scion of the outrageously wealthy Ziani family, had been only too keen to buy the rights.

“What do you mean?” she asked.

“If Tomas was letting you work,” said Orso, “you’d have turned Company Candiano around, I bet. You were good. Damned good.”

“That’s not the place of a chief officer’s wife, though.”

“No. Seems like an officer’s wife’s place is here, waiting in the halls, and being seen waiting in the halls, meek and obedient.”

She glared at him. “Why did you come talk to me, Orso? Just to dig your fingers in old wounds?”

“No.”

“Then what?”

He took a breath. “Listen, Estelle…there’s some shit going on.”

“Are you sure you can talk about this? Or will Ofelia Dandolo have your balls braised for it?”

“She probably would,” he said, “but I’m going to say it anyway. Regarding your father’s materials…His Occidental collection, I mean, all that stuff he bought. Are those still at Company Candiano? Or were those auctioned away?”

“Why?” she demanded.

He remembered how Tomas Ziani had looked at him, smirking. “Just curious.”

“I don’t know,” she said. “All of that is under Tomas’s control now. I’m nowhere close to management, Orso.”

He thought about this. Tomas Ziani was sinfully rich, and had a reputation as a cunning merchant — but a scriver he wasn’t. When it came to sigils, he probably couldn’t tell his ass from a hole in the ground. The idea of him making something as powerful as the listening rig or the gravity plates was laughable.

But Tomas had resources, and ambition. What he couldn’t make himself, he could perhaps buy.