Foundryside (The Founders Trilogy #1) - Robert Jackson Bennett Page 0,178

we have made you to do—you must fight.”

She pointed over his shoulder. Gregor turned to look.

But as he looked, he realized two things.

The first was that he suddenly understood why the walls of the room seemed to be rippling, why there was that fluttering and whispering in his ears…

The room was full of moths.

Moths swirled and danced and flittered all along the walls, along the ceiling, a sea of white moths flowing around and under and over all of them, their wings like flickering bone.

The second thing he realized was that there was someone standing behind him, and he saw them out of the corner of his eye as he turned, just a glimpse.

It was a man. Maybe. A human figure, tall and thin, wrapped in strips of black cloth like a mummified corpse, and wearing a short, black cloak.

And it was watching him.

Gregor turned to look, but in a flash, the figure was gone. In its place was a column of moths, a storm of them, a swirling vortex of soft, white wings.

He stared at the moths. He realized there was something within the column—they were swirling around something, dancing around it, something white.

The column of moths slowly lifted like a curtain, and he saw.

A wooden stand, and hanging upon it a scrived suit of black 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. And set in the center of the cuirass—a curious black plate.

His mother’s voice in his ear: “Are you ready, my love? Are you ready to save us all?”

Gregor stared at the lorica. He had seen such things before, and he knew what they were meant for: war, and murder.

He whispered, “I am ready.”

36

On the other side of the city, at the top of the Mountain, Estelle Candiano stared into the mirror and breathed.

Slow, deep breaths, in and out, in and out, filling every part of her lungs. She was doing such delicate work, and the breathing helped steady her hands—if she made one mistake, just one tiny stroke out of place, the whole thing would be ruined.

She dipped the stylus in the ink—heavy with particulates of gold, tin, and copper—looked in the mirror, and continued painting symbols onto her bare chest.

It was tricky work, doing it backwards. But Estelle had practiced. She’d had all the time in the world to practice, alone and ignored in the back rooms of the Mountain for nearly a decade.

The common sigils are the language of creation, she thought as she worked. But Occidental sigils are the language with which God spoke to creation. She dipped the stylus back in the ink, and began a new line. And with these commands, with these authorities, one may alter reality if one wishes—provided you are careful.

One stroke more, then another, finishing the sigils…Her left hand was already covered in them, as well as her forearm, upper arm, and shoulder, a twisting, curling lattice of shimmering black symbols, crawling up her arm to swirl about her heart.

There was a cough, and a gurgle. She looked over her shoulder in the mirror at the figure lying in the bed behind her. A small, wet, beady-eyed man, gasping for breath.

“Please stay still, Father,” she said softly. “And hold on.”

Then she glanced at the clock on the wall. Ten twenty now.

Her eyes darted to the window. The sprawling nightscape of Tevanne stretched out below the Mountain. Yet all seemed quiet, and still.

“Captain Riggo!” she called.

Footsteps, and then the office door opened. Captain Riggo walked in and saluted. He did not glance at Tribuno Candiano, wheezing and lying there in his soiled sheets. He did not pause at the sight of a bare-breasted Estelle, painting symbols upon her skin. Captain Riggo possessed the virtue that Tevanne valued most of all: the ability to ignore what was right in front of his eyes for a huge sum of money.

“Yes, ma’am,” he said.

Estelle sat perfectly still, stylus hovering above her skin. “Is anything happening out there?”

“No, ma’am.”

“Not on the campo?”

“No, ma’am.”

“Not in the Commons?”

“Not as far as we can tell, ma’am.”

“And our forces?”

“They sit ready, and can be deployed with but a word, ma’am.”

Her eyes narrowed. “My word.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

She considered this. “You are dismissed,” she said. “Notify me the moment you hear anything. Anything.”

“Yes, ma’am.” He smartly turned, strode out, and shut the door.

Estelle resumed painting the symbols on her body. Her