Роберт Беннет - Foundryside

She looked at him levelly. “No. It is not.”

Gregor nodded. “A second question,” he said. “ Was it ever involved in such a practice?”

There was a soft hiss as Ofelia exhaled through her nose. “Yes,” she said softly.

He stared at her. “It was. It was ?”

“Yes,” she said reluctantly. “Once.”

Gregor tried to think, yet he found he could not. Orso had said as much, and the comment had slowly worked its way into Gregor’s mind like a needle — yet he’d been unable to believe it. “How could…How could you…”

“I did not know,” she said, shaken, “until after your father died. Until after your accident, Gregor. When I took over the company.”

“You’re saying father was the one involved in it? It was his program?”

“It was a different time, Gregor,” said Ofelia. “The Enlightenment Wars were just beginning. We didn’t understand what we were truly doing, neither as rulers of the Durazzo, nor as scrivers. And all of our competitors were doing the same. If we hadn’t pursued this as well, we might have been ruined.”

“Such excuses,” said Gregor, “all end the same way, Mother. With graves, and heartache.”

“I put a stop to it when I took charge!” she said fiercely. “I killed the project. It was wrong. And we didn’t need it anymore anyway!”

“Why not?”

She paused, as if she hadn’t meant to say that. “Be-because scriving had changed so much by then. Our lexicon technology had given us an impregnable position. The scriving of the body was no longer worth researching. It was impossible anyway.”

Gregor did not say, of course, that he was now acquainted with a living specimen that suggested otherwise. “I…I just so wish that we had one good thing,” he said, “ one good thing in Tevanne that was not born from ugliness.”

“Oh, spare me your righteousness,” she snapped. “Your father did what was deemed necessary . He did his duty. And ever since Dantua, you, Gregor, have been fleeing your duties as a rat might a wildfire!”

He stared at her, scandalized. “What…How can you say that? How can you—”

“Shut up,” she said. “And come with me.” She turned and started walking back into the Vienzi site.

Gregor paused for a moment, glowering, then did as she asked.

The guards and operators did double takes as Gregor entered the gates, but they stood down at the sight of Ofelia, jaw set and eyes glittering with fury. Gregor saw that the Vienzi site was indeed far more advanced than any scriving foundry he’d yet been in. Pipes of formulas and waters and reagents rose out of the stone foundation in countless places, and twisted and tangled together before sinking into the walls. Tremendous cauldrons and crucibles glowed with a manic, cheery red light, brimming with molten bronze or tin or copper. Yet Ofelia ignored all of this, and led Gregor to a warehouse in the back of the yard.

This warehouse was heavily guarded. Dandolo officers in scrived armor stood at attention before its doors. They glanced at Gregor, but said nothing.

Gregor walked inside, wondering what on the foundry yard could possibly call for such defenses. And then he saw it.

Or he… thought he saw it.

Sitting in the middle of the warehouse was a shadow, a ball of almost solid darkness. He thought he could identify a shape in the darkness, but…it was difficult to tell. A handful of moths flitted in and out of the shadows, and when they entered that vague line of darkness they almost seemed to disappear.

“What…what is that?” asked Gregor.

Ofelia didn’t answer. She strode across the warehouse to a panel of bronze dials and switches on the walls. She flipped one, and the circle of shadow vanished.

A wooden frame in the outline of a person stood in the exact center of where the ball of darkness had been — and hanging on this frame was a scrived suit of armor.

But it was a tremendously strange suit of armor. Built into one arm was a black, glittering polearm, half massive ax, half giant spear. Built into the other was a huge round shield, and installed behind it a scrived bolt caster. But the strangest thing about it was the curious black plate situated on the front of its cuirass.

“Is this a…a lorica?” asked Gregor.

“No,” said Ofelia. “A lorica is a big, loud, ugly armament of open warfare, a scrived suit intended solely for slaughter. It is also illegal , since it augments gravity in manners that violate our unspoken laws. But this…this is different.” She touched the black plate on its front with a finger. “The rig is fast, graceful — and difficult to see coming. It absorbs light to a phenomenal degree — making it almost impossible to discern with the eyes. Something Orso designed.”

“Orso made this?”

“He made the method. But this method is critical to our house’s survival.”

Gregor frowned at the suit as an uncomfortable idea entered his mind. “This…this is a tool of assassins,” he said.

“You’ve heard the rumors as well as I have,” said Ofelia. “Flying men with espringals, leaping over campo walls. Sieges and bloodshed in the Commons. We enter a dangerous era now, Gregor — an age of escalation and broken promises. The houses have grown complacent, and ambitious men have gained seats of power. It is inevitable — one day, some bright young man will say, ‘We’re quite skilled at waging war abroad — so why not do it here?’ And when that happens, we must be ready to respond.”

Gregor knew she was right — whether she knew it or not, that description perfectly fit Tomas Ziani — but the words filled him with horror. “Respond how?”

She steeled herself, her face serious. A moth flitted around her head in a lazy circle before meandering away. “We must leave them leaderless,” she said, “and unable to respond. A single, quick strike.”

“You’re not serious.”

“If you think the Morsinis or the Michiels or even the Candianos aren’t doing the same, you’re being foolish, Gregor,” she said. “They are. I’ve seen the intelligence reports. And when it happens, Gregor…I want for you to lead our forces.”

His mouth fell open. “ What? ”

“You have more experience in the field than any living Tevanni,” she said. “You have spent your life in war, as your city asked you to. Your war was harder than others, and I regret that. But now, I ask you, as…as your mother, Gregor. Please. Please, leave all these diversions of yours, and come back to me.”

Gregor swallowed. He looked at his mother, then at the shadowy armor, and thought for a long time.

“I don’t remember Domenico,” he said suddenly. “Did you know that?”

She blinked, surprised. “W-what?”

“I don’t remember my brother. I remember him dying. But that’s all. Of Father, I have nothing. No memory at all. Both of them are lost to me, since the accident.” He turned back to her. “I want to miss them, but I don’t know how. Because I never really knew them. To me, Mother, they are both just creatures in a painting that hangs outside your office. Noble ghosts I can never quite live up to. But do you grieve them? Does their loss wound you, Mother?”

“Gregor…”

“You lost Domenico and Father,” he said, voice shaking. “And you lost me. I nearly died in Dantua. Would you risk me again? Again? Is that how you think of me? As something so expendable?”