Роберт Беннет - Foundryside

“Really?” said Orso, astonished.

“Yes. Father grew secretive in the later years, as you know. When he was buying up all that historical junk, spending thousands of duvots a day. He wanted to move freely, without anyone being aware of it.”

She told him when and where he could expect to receive Tribuno’s blood, and where the secret entrance could be found. “It’ll open up for whoever’s carrying the blood,” she said. “Though you must keep the blood cooled — if it decays too much, it’ll be useless. This means you’ll have a short time period to get this done — you need to do it in three nights, essentially.”

“Three days to prepare?” he said. “God…”

“It gets worse,” said Estelle. “Because the Mountain will probably figure out that the person you’ve sent in is not my father — eventually. I doubt if they’ll be able to leave the way they came in.”

Orso thought about it. “We can fly her out, maybe. Use an anchor somewhere in the city, pull her to it — she’s done such things before.”

“A dangerous flight. But it might be your only option.”

He glanced at her. “And if we pull this off — what happens to you, Estelle?”

She smiled weakly and shrugged. “Who knows? Maybe they’ll let me take charge. Maybe I’ll get a moment of freedom before they bring in another ruthless merchant to run things. Or maybe they’ll suspect me immediately, and execute me.”

Orso swallowed. “Please take care of yourself, Estelle.”

“Don’t worry, Orso. I always do.”

For the next two days, they worked.

Sancia had seen the Scrappers scrive and alter devices before, but that was nothing compared to this. Berenice brought in raw iron ingots and, using the scrived cauldrons and devices they’d procured, they began to build the capsule from scratch, plate by plate and rib by rib. By the end of the first day it had started to resemble a huge metal seedpod, about six feet long and three feet in diameter, with a small hatch set in the center. But though the sight of Berenice, Claudia, and Giovanni fabricating this thing out of raw metal was amazing, it didn’t exactly make Sancia feel relaxed.

“Doesn’t seem like there’s a lot of breathing room in there,” she said.

“There will be,” said Berenice. “And it will be quite safe. We’ll apply bracing and durability sigils to the entirety of the capsule, along with waterproofing, of course.”

“How in the hell is this thing going to move around?” said Sancia.

“Well. That’s been tricky. But your friends here have come up with a clever idea that might work.”

“Floating lanterns,” said Gio cheerfully.

“What do they have to do with this?” asked Sancia.

“Floating lanterns are scrived to believe they’ve got a big balloon in them,” explained Claudia, “and then, on the campos, they follow guided paths along markers placed on the ground.”

“Only, this marker will be on the barge,” said Gio. “It’ll keep you a set distance below the water.”

“And…how do I get out of the water?”

“You hit this switch here.” Berenice pointed to the interior of the capsule. “This will make the capsule float up and surface.”

“Then you climb out, shut the hatch,” said Gio, pointing to a button on the outside of the capsule, “hit this, and it’ll sink. Then you’re all set. Somewhat. Except for the Mountain bit.”

“Orso’s working on that,” said Berenice testily.

“One would hope,” said Gio.

Sancia stared at the capsule. She imagined being crammed inside the tiny thing. “God. Now I sort of wish I’d let Gregor lock me up.”

“Speaking of which,” said Claudia, looking around, “where is the captain?”

“He said he had business to attend to,” said Berenice. “Back on the campo.”

“What business could possibly be more important than this?” asked Claudia.

Berenice shrugged. “He mentioned putting a matter to rest — something that’d been bothering him. When I saw the look on his face, I didn’t ask more.” She quickly scrawled out a line of sigils. “Now. Let’s make sure this thing is really waterproof.”

Gregor Dandolo was good at waiting. Most of military life was nothing but waiting: waiting for orders, waiting for supplies, waiting for the weather to change, or just trying to out-wait your opponent, baiting them into doing something.

Yet Gregor had been waiting in front of the Dandolo Chartered Vienzi site foundry for three hours now. And, since he had much better things to do that day, and since theoretically Tomas Ziani’s thugs could try to kill him even there, this was really pushing it.

He looked back at the front gates of the Vienzi site foundry. He’d been told this was where he could find his mother, and this did not surprise him: the Vienzi was one of the newest Dandolo foundries, built to perform some of the company’s most complicated production. He’d known that few were allowed inside, but he’d assumed that he, being Ofelia’s son, would be granted entrance. And yet, he’d been simply told to wait.

I wonder what percentage of my life , he thought, has been spent waiting for my mother’s attentions. Five percent? Ten percent? More?

Finally there was a creak from the massive foundry gates, and the giant oak door began to swing open.

Ofelia Dandolo did not wait for the gate to fall completely open. She slipped through the crack, small and white and frail against the huge door, and calmly walked toward him.

“Good morning, Gregor,” she said. “What a pleasure it is to see you so soon again. How is your investigation going? Have you found the perpetrator?”

“I have encountered, how shall I put this…more questions,” said Gregor. “Some of which I’ve been turning over for some time. But I thought it was time to discuss a certain matter with you, personally.”

“A matter ,” said Ofelia. “What threateningly bland language. What would you like to talk to me about?”

He took a breath. “I wanted to ask you…about the Silicio Plantation, Mother.”

Ofelia Dandolo slowly raised an eyebrow.

“Do you know…know anything about that, Mother?” asked Gregor. “About what it is? What they did there?”

“What I’ve heard , Gregor,” she said, “are mostly rumors that you’ve been involved, somehow, in some of the violence in the wake of the Foundryside blackout. Armed gangs fighting in the streets. Carriages crashing into walls. And somewhere, among it all, my son. Is this true, Gregor?”

“Please stop trying to change the subject.”

“Rumors of you and some street urchin,” said Ofelia, “being shot at by a team of assassins. That must be fantasy, mustn’t it?”

“Answer me.”

“Why are you asking me this, anyway? Who poured this poison in your ear, Gregor?”

“I will make my question clear beyond doubt,” said Gregor forcefully. “Is Dandolo Chartered — my grandfather’s company, my father’s company, and your company, Mother — is it involved in the gruesome practice of attempting to scrive the human body and soul?”