Foundryside (The Founders Trilogy #1) - Robert Jackson Bennett Page 0,199
than anyone. I’ve already got three supply deals in the pipeline. And we also came up with some cunning, monetizable shit during all of our desperate plotting. So long as we stay functioning and solvent, we all duck the loop. Though we’re going to get bombarded by the other houses, and soon.” He took a breath. “So. That brings us to what I wanted to discuss with you. Because though I’d like to pretend I can do this all myself…I know I can’t.”
She stared at him. “Wait. Orso, are…are you offering me a job?”
“No,” he said. “I’m not. I’m saying that, if you were to ask for a position here at the good and noble merchant house of Foundryside Limited, I’d give it to you. In fact, at this stage of our development, it’d essentially make you a founder, Sancia.”
“Me? A founder?”
“In the most technical sense of the word, yes,” said Orso. “Someone who has started something—though no one will have any idea how it’ll finish. It could all go very poorly. So if you want to be free of Tevanne…to get out of here, and go live your own life…then do that instead. You’ve earned it. I want you to feel entirely free to have it, if you want. Because I’m scrumming charitable as hell, you see.”
He looked at her. She looked back.
“There’s more to it than just me,” said Sancia.
“Who else could there be?” asked Orso.
“Gregor,” said Sancia. “He’s alive. And I have him.”
Orso looked dumbfounded. “He’s what? Gregor Dandolo is alive?”
“Yeah. And he’s…well, it looks like he’s like me. A scrived human. He’s been scrived all along—I just don’t know by who.”
She filled him in on the rest. He listened, shocked. “Someone scrived Gregor Dandolo…boring, dull, stodgy Dandolo…to be a goddamn killing machine?” he asked.
“Basically. He fought it, though. He could have taken my head off, but…he broke himself, somehow. I’ve been trying to take care of him. I’ve got him hidden at the crypt now, recovering. But he’s in a strange way, Orso. He’s lost everything. And he needs our help. After all he’s done, he deserves it.”
Orso sat back, dazed. “Well. Shit. I’d be happy to take him in…and if we can get him back on his feet, he’d make an excellent chief of security. If he can recover, that is.” He looked at her. “Now…would you be willing to take a position with us?”
“There’s one more thing.”
He sighed. “Of course there is.”
She took Clef out and slid him across the desk to Orso.
He gaped at the key. “Really?”
“Don’t be happy. This is a problem, not a gift. He…he doesn’t work anymore, or talk. We need to fix him. We’ve got to fix him. Since he’s the only one who can tell us what really happened, and what’s really going on.”
Orso scratched his head. “Usually when someone haggles over the conditions of one’s employment,” he said, “it’s about pay, or lodgings. Not insane mystical conundrums.”
“You want me,” said Sancia, “you have to take all my baggage with me. There’s a lot more than there used to be.”
“So—is that a yes?”
“Is Berenice here?” she asked.
“She is. She’s overseeing the construction work.”
She thought about it. “What did she say?”
“She said she’d wait to hear what you said.”
Sancia smiled. “Of course she did.”
43
Ofelia Dandolo walked across the Dandolo campo to her front gate, across her courtyards, and into her mansion. She paced down the front hallway, then through a set of doors, then downstairs to the basement level, and then to the back, to an undistinguished-looking cabinet door.
She opened the door. Within was a small, blank room. Ofelia shut her eyes, pressed her hand against the back wall, and waited.
The wall melted away as if it were made of smoke. Behind it was a tiny, cramped spiral staircase, leading down.
Ofelia lit a scrived light and walked down the stairs. It took a long time, for there were many, many steps.
Finally she came to a small wooden door. She waited for a moment, took a breath, and opened the door.
Beyond was a huge stone cellar, with a vaulted ceiling and many, many columns. There was no light within, but she did not need one, and a light would not work here, anyway—for the room was full of moths.
Ofelia carefully walked through the whispering, fluttering storm of moths. She came to the small stone seat in the middle of the room. She sat, and waited. She waited for a very long time.
Finally she saw him, glimpsed him—just a shred of his form, lost amidst the swirl of wings.
She swallowed and took a breath. “I assume,” she said softly, “that…that you are aware of how things have progressed, my prophet.”
He did not move or speak. He just stood there, a figure concealed by the flurry.
“I don’t…I don’t know what happened with my son,” she said. “We spent so much time preparing Gregor…And he’s done so much for us in the wars, arranging your designs…But now, to have him fail…”
Still he did not speak.
“The construct is free,” said Ofelia. “Is…is it possible to withstand this blow? It seems like this is the worst of all possibilities.”
There was a long silence. Then he finally spoke, and as always, he spoke in her mind, loudly and clearly: