Foundryside (The Founders Trilogy #1) - Robert Jackson Bennett Page 0,119

complicated design means more rules, and more rules mean more loopholes. We have a much more immediate problem, though. How fast are you these days, Berenice?”

“How fast, sir? I average thirty-four strings a minute,” she said.

“With successful articulation?”

“Of course.”

“Full strings, or partials?”

“Full. Inclusive up to tier four for all Dandolo language components.”

“Ah,” said Gregor. “What are we, uh, talking about here?”

“If we’re breaking into the Mountain, even Berenice can’t handle all that work. And besides, she’s no canal man. We’d need more scrivers. Or thieves. Or scrivers who are thieves.” Orso sighed. “And we can’t do it here. Not only will Gregor’s mother notice us plotting treason right in her scrumming workshops, but this place isn’t safe from the assassins. We’d need a full crew, and a new place to work. Without those, this whole thing is just a daydream.”

Sancia shook her head. I’m going to regret this. “Orso—I need to know…how rich are you?”

“How rich? What, you want a number or something?”

“What I’m saying is, do you personally have access to large sums of cash you can quickly retrieve without raising eyebrows?”

“Oh. Well. Certainly.”

“Good. All right.” She stood. “Then get up. We’re all taking a trip.”

“Where to?” asked Gregor.

“Into the Commons,” said Sancia. “And we’re going to need to tread lightly.”

“Because there are still thugs out there who want us dead?” asked Berenice.

“There’s that,” said Sancia. “And we’re going to bring a hell of a lot of money with us.”

* * *

Four lanterns—three blue, one red, hanging above a warehouse door. Sancia scurried up, looked around, and knocked.

A slot in the door opened and a pair of eyes peeked out. They looked at her and sprang wide. “Oh God! You? Again? I just assumed you were dead.”

“You’re not so lucky,” said Sancia. “I’ve brought you a deal, girl.”

“What? You’re not here to ask for a favor?” said Claudia from the other side of the door.

“Well. A deal and to ask for a favor.”

“Should have known,” said Claudia with a sigh. She opened the door. She was dressed in her usual leather apron and magnifying goggles. “After all, how could you have the resources to offer us a deal?”

“They’re not my resources.” She handed a leather satchel out to Claudia.

Claudia looked at it mistrustfully, then took it and looked inside. She stared. “P-paper duvots?”

“Yeah.”

“This has to be…a thousand, at least!”

“Yeah.”

“What’s it for?” asked Claudia.

“That bit there is to calm you down so you listen. I’ve got a job for you. A big one. And you need to hear me out.”

“What, are you playing at being Sark now?”

“Sark didn’t ask for anything this big,” said Sancia. “I need you and Gio to help on this job specifically, full-time, for a matter of days. And we also need a secure space to work in, and all kinds of scriving materials. If you can get me that, there’s a hell of a lot more money where that came from.”

“That is a big ask.” Claudia turned the leather satchel over in her hands. “So that’s the job bit?”

“That’s the job bit.”

“What’s the favor bit?”

“The favor bit,” said Sancia, looking her hard in the eye, “is you forget everything you ever heard about Clef. Ever. Now. This instant. You’ve never heard of him. I’m just some thief who comes to you to get tools and credentials to get into the campos, and nothing else. You do that, and you get your money.”

“Why?” asked Claudia.

“Never mind why,” said Sancia. “Just erase all of that from your brain, get Gio to do the same, and you’ll both be rich.”

“I’m not so sure I like this, San…”

“I’m going to make a signal now,” said Sancia, “and they’re going to walk up. When they do, don’t start screaming.”

“Start screaming? Why would I…” She stopped as Sancia raised a hand, and Berenice, Gregor, and Orso emerged from the shadows and joined her at the door.

She stared in horror, mostly at Orso, who was cursing after having stepped in a puddle. “Holy…holy shit…” she whispered.

Orso looked up at Claudia and the warehouse. He wrinkled his nose. “Dear God,” he said. “They work here?”

“You had better let us in,” said Sancia.

* * *

Orso paced around the Scrappers’ workshop like a farmer buying chickens at a seedy market. He examined their scriving blocks, their sigil strings on the walls, their bubbling cauldrons full of lead or bronze, their air fans strapped to carriage wheels. Claudia had ushered all the other Scrappers out before letting them in, but now she and Giovanni