Роберт Беннет - Foundryside

And he might still have access , thought Orso, to the smartest scriver in all of Tevanne.

“Does Tomas ever see Tribuno?” he asked.

“Sometimes,” said Estelle, now deeply suspicious.

“Does he talk to him? And, if so, what about?”

“This is now thoroughly out of line,” she said. “What’s going on, Orso?”

“I told you. There’s some shit going on in the city. Estelle…If Tomas was going to…to make a play at me, to come at me — you’d tell me, wouldn’t you?”

“What do you mean, come at you?”

Orso pulled down the edge of his scarf with a finger and allowed her a glimpse of his bruised neck.

Her eyes opened wide. “My God, Orso…Who…who did that to you?”

“That’s what I’m trying to find out. So. If Tomas was going to make a play like this for me — would you warn me?”

“Do…do you really think Tomas could have done that?”

“I’ve had some civilized and proper people try to kill me over the years. Do you know anything, Estelle? And, again, if you did — would you tell me?”

She stared at him, and a mixture of expressions passed over her face: surprise, anger, resentment, then sadness. “Do I owe you that?”

“I think so,” said Orso. “I never asked you for much.”

She was silent for a long while. “That’s not true,” she said. “You…you did ask me to marry you. But after that…no, you never asked me for anything else again.”

They stood in the hallway, surrounded by servants, not knowing what to say.

Estelle blinked rapidly. “If I thought Tomas was a threat to you, I would tell you, Orso.”

“Even if it betrayed Candiano interests to do so?”

“Even if it did that.”

“Thank you.” He bowed deeply to her. “I…I appreciate your time, Lady Ziani.” He turned and walked away.

He kept his head level and his arms stiff as he moved. Once he was about a few hundred feet down the hall, he ducked beside a column and watched the Company Candiano crowd.

He could tell when Tomas Ziani and the others emerged — the servants all sat up straight, keenly aware that their masters were now here. But not Estelle. She stood seemingly frozen, staring into space. And when her husband came and took her hand and led her away, she barely seemed to notice.

Sancia was still asleep when there was a knock at the door. “Sun is setting,” Gregor’s voice said. “Our chariot shall be here soon.”

Sancia groaned, hauled herself off the sheetless bed, and staggered downstairs. All the injuries and scrapes from the past two days felt like they’d grown until her whole body was a bruise. When she saw Gregor she realized he must feel the same way: he was standing crooked, so as to not put pressure on his back, and he had his bandaged arm pulled close to his chest.

After a while, the front door opened and Berenice walked in. She looked at the two of them. “Good God,” she said. “I’ve seen cheerier faces in a mausoleum. Come on. The carriage is ready. I’ll warn you, though — he’s in a foul mood.”

“He doesn’t seem like the kind of guy who has good moods,” said Sancia, following her.

“Then this is a worse mood,” said Berenice.

She drove them back to the hypatus department just as the sun slipped behind the clouds.

Sancia asked.

he said. He sounded chipper and cheerful again.

She tried not to let her concern show in her face.

said Clef.

The hypatus offices were still and dark. They used a back entrance to a small, forgotten staircase, and they climbed until they found Orso waiting at the top, next to his workshop.

asked Clef.

“Took you damned long enough!” snapped Orso. “God, I thought I’d die of scrumming old age up here!”

“Good evening, Orso,” said Gregor. “How was the committee meeting?”

“Dull and short,” said Orso. “But not…entirely useless. I had some ideas — and if we can find that damn rig, I can confirm if those ideas are right.” He stood and pointed at Sancia. “You. Are you ready to do this again?”

“Sure,” said Sancia.

“Then please,” he said. “Astound us.”

“All right. Give me a second.” She looked down the stairs. To her, it was all just a sea of noise, of whispers and chanting.

There was a silence. She assumed he was searching, and would answer her after he found something.

But then things…changed.

The murmurings and chanting grew louder, and then the sounds seemed to stretch…And bubble…And blur…

Then words emerged among them — words she could hear .

<���…bring heat, bring it up, bubble it up, and store it away, there it goes, keep the heat there, oh, please, how I love to make the tank hot…>

<���…will NOT let anyone in, absolutely NO ONE, they CANNOT enter unless they possess KEY, key is VERY IMPORTANT, and I…>

<���…rigid form, rigid form, rigid form, pressure at the corners, I am like the stone in the depths of the earth…>

Sancia realized she could hear the scrivings, that she could understand them— without touching them. She nearly fell over from shock. She was fairly sure she’d just heard some kind of water tank, a lock, and a scrived support structure, all from somewhere in the building.

she said.

The voices returned to quiet chanting. said Clef.

said Clef. There was a pause.

Clef coughed.

She noticed Orso glaring at her impatiently.

think so…>

There was another pause…and then the voices flooded back into her head, an avalanche of words and desires and anxious fears.

Except some of the voices grew louder or softer, rapidly, one after another. It was as if Clef were sorting through a stack of papers, looking at each one before passing on to the next — except it was happening inside her brain. The sensation was profoundly disorienting.

Then one voice arose from the chaos: <���…I am a reed in the wind, dancing with my partner, my mate, my love…I dance as they dance, I move as they move, I trace our dance within the clay…>

said Clef.

said Clef.

“I’ve got it, I think,” said Sancia.

“Then lead the way,” said Gregor.

Listening to the whispering device, Sancia wandered through workshops filled with half-built devices, rows of cold furnaces, wall after wall of bookshelves. Clef led her down the stairs, across the mezzanine, and then to a side hall, which then led to another stairway. Then he led her down flight after flight of stairs, to the basement, which seemed to double as a library. Orso, Berenice, and Gregor followed, bearing small, scrived lights, not speaking — but Sancia’s head was filled up with words.

She was still getting used to this. For so long she’d been accustomed to scrivings being nothing more than murmurings in the back of her head. To have Clef clarify them was like having someone wipe away a layer of sand to reveal words written on the path before you.

But if I’m hearing this from him , wondered Sancia, what else am I picking up? And what’s he picking up from me? She wondered if she would start to think like Clef, to act like him, and never even notice it.