Foundryside (The Founders Trilogy #1) - Robert Jackson Bennett Page 0,146

said Clef.

The door inched open just a little more, and a little more…

cried Clef. The door was now cracked open about four inches.

Sancia tried to think of something to do, anything. She couldn’t be caught in here, especially not with Clef, not with the thing Tomas Ziani needed to complete his imperiat—and especially now that she knew he might be the one and only wand of Crasedes.

She looked at the door, and thought.

It was barely open more than a crack. But it might be enough.

She grabbed the flask of Tribuno Candiano’s blood and wedged it in the door, keeping it open. Then she took Clef away, grabbed the hardened cask attached to the air-sailing rig, and popped it open.

screamed Clef.

she said.

She stuffed him in the hardened cask, crammed it and the air-sailing rig out onto the balcony, and tore off the bronze tab.

With a snap, the air-sailing rig deployed. The thing hurtled out of her hands. She watched as the black parachute drifted out over the Candiano campo, rocketing off to what she hoped was safety.

Then the side of her head lit up with pain.

She wanted to scream. She had to scream, the agony was so fierce, so terrible. Yet she couldn’t—not because the pain was overwhelming, but because suddenly she couldn’t move at all. She couldn’t even blink, or breathe—she felt her body rapidly running out of oxygen.

Something was changing in her mind. The plate in her skull was like hissing acid in her bones—but she felt something invading her thoughts, taking them over. It was like when Clef had used her body to speak to Orso, but…so much worse.

She took a breath—yet it was not a voluntary gesture. It was as if her body had become a puppet, and her controller had realized her needs and forced as much oxygen into her lungs as possible. She could no longer control her own organs.

She watched, helpless, as her body was forced to turn around. Then she walked, stiffly and strangely, over to the door out to the hallway. She lifted a hand, slapped at the knob, opened the door, and awkwardly staggered out.

A dozen Candiano guards stood around her in the hallway, all armed, all armored, all ready to attack her if need be. Standing behind them was a young man, tall and stoop-shouldered, with curly hair and a scraggly beard—Tomas Ziani. He held a strange device in his hands—it looked like an oversized pocket watch, yet it was made of gold, and it was whining slightly as he manipulated it…

“It works!” he said, delighted. “I wasn’t sure it would. It started whining in my pocket the instant you walked into the office, just as it had in the Greens.”

Sancia, of course, said nothing—she was as still as a statue. Yet inside, in her mind, she was screaming and spitting and ranting in rage. She wanted nothing more than to fall on this young man and tear him to pieces, clawing and biting at him—but she was forced to be still.

Tomas Ziani seemed to remember himself. He walked through the throng of soldiers and looked her over. “Now…” He examined her belt. “Ah. That’s what I was looking for. Our informants said you were fond of these…”

She couldn’t see what he was doing, but she felt him slip out one of her dolorspina darts. “This ought to do the trick, I think…” he said.

Then she felt a pain in her arm, and she knew nothing more.

* * *

Gregor Dandolo stood huddled in the shadows, watching the streets. Then he jumped when he heard the clank.

He looked at the anchoring plate. He’d secured it to the campo streets pretty well, he’d thought, but the thing had just leapt in the air…

Perhaps she’s turned on the air-sailing rig, he thought. He peered into the night sky, watching the Mountain.

Then he saw it—a single black dot, rapidly approaching.

“Thank God,” he said.

He watched as the air-sailing rig flew close, then twirled around twice as it made its descent. Yet he saw that something was wrong.

Sancia was not in the air-sailing rig. It appeared to be just the parachute.

He watched as the