Роберт Беннет - Foundryside

She didn’t… seem to have moved at all. She was still alone, still in the dark cell — which looked the exact same — still lying on her back in the exact same position. Yet the woman of gold was gone.

Sancia peered into the shadowy corners, disturbed. Was it a dream? What is wrong with me? What’s wrong with my brain?

She rubbed the side of her head, which ached terribly. Maybe she was going mad. She shivered, thinking of what had happened in Ziani’s office. It seemed like the imperiat could not only shut down scrived devices, as it had in the Greens, but also control them. Which meant, circuitously enough, that since Sancia had a scrived device in her skull, that it could also control her.

Which Sancia found deeply horrifying. She’d grown up in a place where she’d had no say in her decisions. To have someone literally take her will away from her…

I need to get out of here. Now.

She stood, walked over to a wall, and felt the blank stone. Her abilities still worked, it seemed: the wall told her of itself, of the many rooms it adjoined, of spider webs and cinder and dust…

I’m in a foundry , she realized. But she’d never heard of a foundry that made so little noise before.

An old one, then. One fallen into disuse?

She took her hand away. I’m still on the Candiano campo, aren’t I? That’s the only campo where a scriving foundry would sit totally vacant. She wondered if she was in the Cattaneo, but she didn’t think so. The Cattaneo had felt more advanced than this.

Then the side of Sancia’s head grew hot again, so hot it felt like her flesh was sizzling. Before she could cry out, all thoughts fell away from her — and then, again, she lost control of her body.

She watched herself as she stood up, took three shuffling steps, and turned to wait in front of the iron door.

There were footsteps from outside, then a clinking and clanking. Then the door fell open to reveal Tomas Ziani standing there, imperiat in his hand, blinking in the darkness.

“Ah!” he said, seeing her. “Good. You look alive and well.” He wrinkled his nose. “You are an ugly little thing, aren’t you. But…” He adjusted a wheel on the imperiat, then held it up to her, slowly waving it through the air — until it finally drew close to the right side of her head. The imperiat began to whine softly.

“Interesting,” he said softly. “Amazing! All those scrivers who thought we’d never see a scrived human — yet I’m the one to find one! Let’s have a look at you, then. Come along.” He fiddled with the imperiat, waved a hand, and Sancia, helpless, followed him out of the cell.

He marched her through the foundry’s crumbling, dark passageways. It was a shadowy, gloomy place, silent except for an occasional distant drip of water. Finally they came to a large open room, lit by scrived lights placed on the floor. Standing at the far wall of the room were four Candiano guards, all of whom looked quite seasoned. There was a deadness to their eyes as they looked at Sancia that made her skin crawl.

Beside these thugs was a long, low table. On it were all sorts of books, papers, and stone carvings — along with a huge rusty, cracked old metal box that looked, she thought, like the test lexicon back in Orso’s workshop.

Sancia tried to look harder at the items on the table, but since she didn’t have control over her own eyes she got no more than a fleeting glance. Still, she managed to think— This is Tribuno’s collection, isn’t it? The trove of Occidental treasures that Ziani mentioned…

Then she saw what waited in the middle of the room. And though she couldn’t move, the urge to scream flooded her mind.

It was an operating table, complete with restraints for the patient’s wrists and ankles.

Tomas Ziani did something to the imperiat, and she stopped moving. Then she watched in horror as two Candiano guards picked her up, laid her flat on the table, and strapped her in.

No, no, no , she thought, panicked. Anything but that…

They did something to her restraints, turning a small, metal key on the sides. A whispering and chattering filled her ears.

They’re scrived , she thought. The restraints are scrived.

The guards departed.

I’m not getting out of here, am I?

Tomas walked to stand over her, still holding the imperiat. “Now, let’s see,” he muttered. “If what Enrico said is correct, this should…” He adjusted something on it.

Sancia felt her will return — her body was her own again.

She flew forward and snapped her teeth, trying her hardest to take a bite out of Tomas. She nearly did, but he stumbled backward, surprised. “Son of a bitch!” he cried.

Sancia snarled at him, bucking and arching her back and heaving at her restraints — but since they were augmented, they didn’t budge an inch.

“Filthy little…” growled Tomas. He made a move to strike her, but when she didn’t flinch, he backed down, probably concerned she might try to bite his hand.

“You want us to put her down?” said a guard.

“Did I say anything to you?” said Tomas.

The guard looked away. Tomas walked around to the edge of the table and turned a crank. The scrived restraints on her wrists and ankles slowly slid out along the surface of the table, stretching her out until she was spread-eagle, unable to move. Then he walked back around, raised a fist high, and slammed it down on Sancia’s stomach, driving the air out of her.

Sancia flexed and coughed, gasping for breath. “There,” he said savagely. “That’s how it is, yes? You do as I say, or else I get to do what I want. See?”

She blinked tears from her eyes and glared at him. His gaze had a sadistic gleam to it.

“I’m going to ask you some questions now,” he said.

“Why did you kill Sark?” Sancia gasped.

“I said I’d ask the questions.”

“He wasn’t anything to you. He had no one to betray you to. He didn’t even know who you were.”

“Shut up ,” snapped Tomas.

“What did you do with his body?”

“God, you’re mouthy.” He sighed. He turned a wheel on the imperiat, and, as if she were descending into cold seawater, her will abandoned her again.

“There,” said Tomas. “I rather like this. I wish more people had them. I could just turn them on or off as I pleased…”

Sancia lay limp and still on the operating table. Trapped in her body yet again, she silently screamed and raved — until she noticed that her head happened to be facing the far wall of the room, where the table with all the Occidental treasures lay.

It was hard to look without having any control over her eyes, but she did her best. She couldn’t tell much from the materials there — lots of papers, lots of books — but the lexicon-like box at the end of the table…that was interesting. It wasn’t exactly a lexicon — it wasn’t a hundred feet long and broiling hot, for one thing — but it did have what looked like an array of scrived discs running along its top, though the discs were horribly old and corroded.

Really, most of the box was falling apart, with one notable exception: there was a seam running around the middle of the box, and set in the seam in the front was a large, complicated, golden contraption with a slot in its center…