Foundryside (The Founders Trilogy #1) - Robert Jackson Bennett Page 0,191

you, of all people, deserve to give it to me, Father.”

Sancia looked around, and her eye fell on Tribuno’s desk. Sitting on the desk was the big, cracked box with the golden lock: the box that held Valeria—perhaps the one thing that could stop Estelle now.

Sancia darted toward the box. Yet before she’d even taken a step, Estelle raised her arm.

Sancia glanced at her, and saw the imperiat in her hand.

“Stop,” said Estelle.

And suddenly, all of Sancia’s thoughts were gone.

40

Stillness. Quiet. Thoughtlessness. Patience. These were the things that she knew, that she did, the tasks she performed.

There was no “she,” of course. To be a “she” was to be a thing that she was not, something she had never been. She knew that. She—it—was an object, an item, waiting quietly to be used.

It had been told to stop—very clearly, though it could not properly remember when or why—and so it had stopped, and now it waited.

It waited, still and silent, because it had no other capacity. It stood and stared blankly ahead, seeing the sights before it—the woman with the dagger, the dying old man, the smoking cityscape beyond—but it did not comprehend these sights.

So it just waited, and waited, and waited, like the scythe waits in the toolshed for its master’s grip, thoughtlessly and perfectly.

Yet a thought emerged: This…isn’t right.

It tried to understand what was wrong, but it couldn’t. Blocking its efforts, blocking all its thoughts, was a single, simple sentiment: You are a tool. You are a thing to be used, and no more.

It agreed. Of course it agreed. Because it remembered the wet snap of the whip, and the smell of blood.

I was made. I was forged.

It remembered the bite and slash of the sugarcane leaves, the reek of the boiling houses where they made molasses, and the fear you carried each day, knowing you could be killed on a whim.

I had a purpose. I had a task.

The creak of the wooden huts, the crackle and crush of the straw in the cots.

I had a place.

And then the fire, and the screams, and the roiling smoke.

And someone…someone stole me. Didn’t they?

There was a force in her mind, wordless yet achingly powerful, insisting that yes, yes, all of this was true, that such thoughts should be accepted and it should sit and wait until its master called for it.

But then it remembered a man, tall and thin, standing in a workshop and remarking: Reality doesn’t matter. If you can change something’s mind enough, it’ll believe whatever reality you choose.

It recalled something else: the sight of a man, wearing armor, weeping and covered with blood, saying—They said I was one thing. But I have changed my mind.

Again, it felt the pressure on its mind, a presence saying: No. No. You are an item, a thing. You must do as you are intended, or else you will be discarded—the fate of all broken things.

It knew this was true—or that it had been true for much of its life. For so long, it had lived in fear. For so long, it had worried about survival. For so long, it had worried about risk, about loss, about death, for so long it had avoided or evaded or fled from any threat, seeking only enough to exist another day.

But now it remembered something…different.

It remembered standing in a crypt, and pulling a key off of its neck, and offering up all of its secrets and promising to risk its life.

It remembered wedging open the door to a balcony, and choosing to save its friend rather than save itself.

And it remembered kissing a girl under the night sky, and feeling so electric and alive, truly alive, for the first time.

Sancia blinked and took a deep, agonizing breath. This bare movement was akin to lifting incalculable weight, for the commands in her mind insisted she was not allowed to do such things.

Then she slowly, slowly took a step toward the box on the table.

“No!” shrieked the woman with the dagger. “No, no! What are you doing, you filthy little girl?”

Though her legs resisted the movement, and her knees and ankles ached with pain, Sancia took another step. “The…the worst thing about this place,” she hissed slowly, forcing the words out, “isn’t that it treats people like chattel.”

“Stop!” screamed the woman. “I command you! I demand it!”

But Sancia took another step. “The worst part,” she whispered, breathing hard, “just the worst part, is that it tricks you.” It was hard to move now—she gritted her