“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…
I know a lock when I see one, thought Sancia, looking at the gold device. And that’s a serious one. Someone didn’t want anyone getting into that thing—whatever it is.
Which, of course, made her wonder—what was inside? What could be so valuable that the Occidentals had made a device solely for locking it away?
And now that she thought about it—why did it look somewhat familiar?
Then she felt his hands. One on her knee, slowly slipping to the inside of her thigh and sliding up to her crotch. The other gripped her wrist, his fingers biting into her flesh and bone. “One hand gentle,” he whispered to her. “And one hand firm. That’s the wisdom of kings—yes?”
Sancia raged in disgust against the invisible bonds on her mind.
“I know you had the key,” said Tomas Ziani quietly. He kept massaging her thigh, kept throttling her wrist. “You opened the box you stole, you looked inside. You took the key, and used it to evade me. I’m sure you sent it over the balcony before we caught up to you…My question now is—where did it go?”
She felt cold as she listened to this. He’d known about everything—but at least he didn’t know where Clef was.
“I’m going to bring you back up,” whispered Tomas in her ear, his breath hot on her cheek. He released her wrist, and patted her thigh. “Try and bite me again, and I’ll enjoy myself with you. All right?”
There was a pause, and she slowly felt her will return to her. Tomas looked at her with cold, hungry eyes. “Well?” he asked.
She considered what to do. It was clear that Tomas was the sort of person who’d delight in killing her, just as a boy might torture a mouse. But she didn’t want to give away much of what she knew. Hopefully Gregor had gotten Clef off the campo—which meant maybe he also got to Orso, and they might be planning some kind of rescue. Maybe.
But how did Tomas know she was scrived? How could the imperiat detect the plate in her head? And worse—how had he known she was going to be in Tribuno’s office? Had the imperiat detected her? Or had they been betrayed?
“The air-sailing rig went back to the Dandolo campo,” said Sancia.
“Wrong,” said Tomas. “We know it touched down in the Candiano campo.”
“Then something went wrong. It wasn’t supposed to. It doesn’t matter anyway. Ofelia Dandolo is going to crush you like a bug.”
He yawned. “Is she.”
“Yes. She knows you’re behind this. She knows it was you who attacked Orso, and her own damned son.”
“Then why isn’t she here, defending you?” asked Tomas. “Why are you here all alone?” He grinned when she didn’t answer. “You’re not too quick with your bullshit, are you? But don’t worry—we’ll find whoever caught your package. The second you entered the Mountain, I had them shut all the gates. Whoever was helping you is still trapped here—and if they try and get out, they’ll be shot to pieces. If they haven’t already gotten killed, that is.”
Shit, thought Sancia. God, I hope Gregor got out…
“Tell me now,” said Tomas, “and I might let you live. For a while.”
“The other houses aren’t going to let you get away with this,” said Sancia.
“Sure they will,” he said.
“They’ll rise up against you.”
“No, they won’t.” He laughed. “You want to know why? Because they’re old. All the other houses were raised on traditions, and norms, and rules, and manners. ‘You can do what you like out on the Durazzo,’ their grand old daddies said, ‘but in Tevanne, you conduct yourself with respect.’ Oh, they have their spy games here and there, but it’s all so polite and orderly, really. Like all incumbents, they got old, and fat, and slow, and complacent.” He sat back, sighing thoughtfully. “Maybe it’s the scriving thing—always thinking up rules…But victory belongs to those who move as fast as possible, and break all the rules they need. Me? I don’t give a shit about traditions. I’m more honest about it. I’m a businessman. If I’m making an investment, the only thing I care about is the highest possible yield.”
“You don’t know shit,” said Sancia.
“Oh, some Foundryside whore is going to lecture me on economic philosophy?” He laughed again. “I needed some entertainment.”
“No. Dumbass, I’m from the goddamn plantations,” she said. She grinned at him. “I’ve seen more horrors and torture than your dull little mind could ever dream up. You think you’re going to beat me into submission? With those frail arms, and those delicate wrists? I highly scrumming doubt it.”
He made to strike her again, but again, she didn’t flinch. He glared at her for a moment, then sighed and said, “If he didn’t think you were valuable…” Then he turned to one of his guards. “Go and get Enrico. I guess we’re going to have to hurry this shit along.”
The guard left. Tomas walked over to a cupboard, opened a bottle of bubble rum, and sulkily drank from it. Sancia was reminded of a child who’d had his favorite toy taken away from him. “You’re lucky, you know,” said Tomas. “Enrico thinks you’re a potential resource. Probably because he’s a scriver, and most scrivers seem to be idiots. Awkward, ugly little people who’d prefer strings of sigils to the press of warm flesh…But he did say he wanted to get a look at you before I had my fun.”
“Great,” she muttered. Her eye fell on the table of Occidental treasures.
“Ridiculous, isn’t it?” said Tomas. “All this old garbage. I paid a fortune to steal this box from Orso.” He patted the cracked, lexicon-looking thing. “Had to hire a bunch of pirates to intercept it. But we can’t even get the damned thing open. Scrivers seem to know everything—except the value of money.”
She looked at the box for a moment longer. She started to think she knew why it looked familiar.
I’ve seen it before, she thought. In Clef’s vision, in the Cattaneo…there was that thing, wrapped in black, standing on the dunes…and beside it, a box…
There was the echo of footsteps. Then a rumpled, pale, puffy-eyed clerk in Candiano colors emerged from a hallway. Sancia recognized him as the clerk from the Cattaneo foundry, the one Tomas had addressed in the room with the nude girl. He was a bit pudgy and soft-faced, like an overgrown boy. “Y-yes, sir?” he said. Then he saw Sancia. “Uh. Is that one of your…ah, companions?”
“Don’t be insulting, Enrico,” said Tomas. He nodded at the imperiat. “You were right. I turned it on. It told me where she was.”
“You…you did?” he said, astonished. “That’s her?” He laughed and ran to the imperiat. “How…how amazing!” He did the same thing Tomas had done earlier, waving the imperiat next to her head and listening to it whine. “My God. My God…A scrived human being!”
“Enrico is the most talented scriver on the campo,” said Tomas. He said this sullenly, as if he resented the very idea. “He’s been neck deep in Tribuno’s shit for years. He’s probably sporting a stiffer candle right now than when he caught his mother bathing.”
Enrico turned bright pink, and he turned the imperiat down until it was a low whine. “A scrived human…Does she know where the key is?”
“She hasn’t said so yet,” said Tomas. “But I’ve been soft with her. I thought I’d let you take a look at her before I started cutting off her toes and asking her hard questions.”
A chill ran through Sancia’s body. I’ve got to get away from this sadistic little shit.
“So, she’s scrived,” said Tomas. “So what? How does that make her different? And how does that help us make imperiats, like you said?”
“Well, I don’t know if it will,” said Enrico. “But it’s an interesting acquisition.”