Роберт Беннет - Foundryside

They hadn’t intended this, surely. They hadn’t planned for her to become this thing. If they had, they would have tied her up better. And they wouldn’t have sent the one-eyed scriver alone to check on her in the night.

The creak of the door, the spear of light stabbing into the shadows.

“Are you awake, poppet?” he’d called sweetly. “I doubt it…”

He’d probably thought she’d be dead. He certainly hadn’t expected her to be hiding in the corner, lock and chain in hand.

She’d waited until he’d stepped inside. Then she’d sprung.

Oh…Oh, to hear the sound of the thick, heavy lock striking his skull. Oh, to hear him crumple to the ground, gagging, shocked. Then she was on him, wrapping the chain around his throat and pulling it taut, tighter, and tighter, and tighter.

Wild, agonized, and covered in blood, she’d slipped out and roved through the darkened house, feeling the boards beneath her, the walls on either side of her, feeling all these things, feeling everyone in the house all at once…

The house had become her weapon. And she’d used it against them.

She’d locked their bedroom doors, one by one. Locked everything as they slept, except one way out. And then she’d gone downstairs to where they’d kept the alcohol, and the kerosene, and all those reeking fluids, and found a match…

A struck match sounds like a kiss in the dark, sometimes. She remembered thinking that, watching the flame crack to life and then flutter down to the pools of alcohol running across the floor.

No one had made it out. And as she’d sat and watched, she’d realized — master or slave, all screams sounded alike.

Silence filled the library. Nobody moved.

“How did you come to Tevanne?” asked Gregor.

“Snuck aboard a ship,” Sancia said softly. “Easy to stow away when you have the floorboards and the walls to tell you who’s coming and going. When I got off, I stole the name ‘Grado’ from a winery sign I saw, since everyone just expected me to have a last name. Hardest thing was figuring out the limits of what I could do. Touching everything, being everything…it nearly killed me.”

“What’s the nature of your augmentation?” asked Orso.

She tried to describe it — knowing what objects were feeling, what they’d felt, the sheer avalanche of sensation that she constantly fought to keep at bay. “I try to…to touch as few things as possible,” she said. “I can’t touch people. That’s too much. And if the scrivings in my skull get overtaxed, they burn, just burn, like hot lead in my bones. When I first came to Tevanne, I had to wrap myself in rags like a leper. It didn’t take me long to realize that what had been done to me was some kind of scriving. So I tried to find out how to get fixed. How to make me human again. But nothing in Tevanne is cheap.”

“That was why you stole the key?” asked Berenice. “To pay for a physiquere?”

“A physiquere who wouldn’t turn and sell me out to a merchant house,” said Sancia. “Yeah.”

“What?” said Orso, startled. “A what?”

“A…a physiquere,” she said. “One that can fix me.”

“A physiquere…who can fix you?” he said faintly. “Sancia…My God. You are aware that you are probably the only one of your kind alive , yes? I know I’ve never seen a scrumming scrived human in my life, and I’ve seen boatloads of mad shit! The idea of a physiquere who can just, I don’t know, patch you up — it’s preposterous!”

She stared at him. “But…but I’d been told that…that they’d found a physiquere who knew what to do.”

“Then either they were lying,” said Orso, “or being lied to. No one knows how to do what was done to you, let alone reverse it! They were probably going to either take your money and cut your throat, or take your money and sell you to the closest house!”

said Clef, dismayed.

Sancia was trembling. “So…so what are you saying? Are you saying I’m stuck like this…forever?”

“How should I know?” said Orso. “I told you, I’ve never even seen this before.”

“Sir,” hissed Berenice. “Some…tact? Please?”

Orso looked at her, and then Sancia, who was now white and quivering. “Oh, hell…Listen. After all this, you can stay here. With me, and Berenice. And maaaybe I try to figure out how in the hell they made you, and how to reverse it.”

“Really?” said Gregor. “That’s charitable of you, Orso.”

“It damned well isn’t!” he said. “The girl’s a goddamn marvel, who knows what kind of secrets she’s literally carrying around in her head!”

Gregor rolled his eyes. “Of course.”

“Do you think you could actually figure it out?” said Sancia.

“I think I have a better chance than every other dumb bastard in this city,” said Orso.

Sancia considered it.

“I’ll consider it,” she said.

“Terrific,” said Orso. “But let’s not get too tickled over the idea yet. There’s some devilish asshole out there who wants us all dead. Let’s make sure we’re going to have a future before we start planning for one.”

“Right,” said Sancia. “Do you think you can rig up another tailing scriving?” she asked Berenice. “Like the one you used on Gregor?”

“Of course,” she said. “Those aren’t tricky at all.”

“Good.” She looked at Gregor. “And you — are you able to come with me to follow this bastard?”

To her surprise, Gregor looked uncertain. “Uh…Well. That is…unlikely.”

“Why?”

“Probably for the same reason Orso can’t assist either.” Gregor cleared his throat. “Because I am moderately recognizable.”

“He means he’s famous,” said Orso, “because he’s Ofelia Dandolo’s scrumming son.”

“Yes. And if I were to be seen strolling around the other campos — that would raise alarms.”

“But I’m going to need someone with me,” said Sancia. “I’ve been shot at by these assholes so many times, it’d be nice to have someone to shoot back for a change.”

Gregor and Orso looked at each other, then at Berenice. She sighed deeply. “ Ugh . Fine. Fine! I don’t know why I’m always the one following people around the city, but…I suppose I can assist.”

“But…” said Sancia. “I mean, I’m sure Berenice is very organized and helpful, but I was hoping for someone a bit more…robust?”

“Although Captain Dandolo is admirably large of arm,” said Orso, “the nice thing about scriving is that it makes this ”—he tapped his head—“a much more tangibly dangerous weapon. And in that regard, young Berenice has little competition. I’ve seen the things she can make. Now. Shut up and get to work.”

Sancia sat alone in the library broom cupboard and dozed.

It was not sleep — sleeping now, while she waited for the spy, would be disastrous. Rather, it was a kind of meditation she’d taught herself long ago, slumbering while alert and aware. It was not as restful as actually sleeping — but it didn’t leave her as vulnerable.