Foundryside (The Founders Trilogy #1) - Robert Jackson Bennett Page 0,33

of them older than seventeen.

“Come on, then,” said Gregor gently to them. “Come on.”

He led the children down the hallway, across the battered, broken taverna, and down the stairs to the alley, where the three guards were still whimpering. The children watched as Gregor searched the body of the unconscious, toothless guard for his fifty duvots.

“Now what?” asked a boy.

“You have nowhere else to go, I assume?” said Gregor.

The line of children stared at him. This question, clearly, was preposterous.

He wondered what to do. He wished there were some charity or home he could send them to. But the Commons, of course, had no such thing.

He nodded, and pulled out his satchel. “Here. This is five hundred duvots. You lot could put this to far better use than Antonin ever could. If we divide it evenly, we ca—”

But he never finished, because then one of the youngest girls snatched the satchel out of his hand and ran for it.

In a blink of an eye, all the other children were chasing her, screaming threats: “Pietra, if you think you’re keeping all that, we’ll cut your damned throat!”

“Try and catch me, you worthless stripers!” the girl howled back.

Gregor watched, stunned, as the children ran away. He started after them, about to shout at them to stop, when he remembered he had other things to do tonight.

He sighed deeply, listened to the fading sounds of these bickering children, so monstrously abused. He liked to imagine he was accustomed to such horrors, but sometimes the futility of it all overwhelmed him. No matter how I try, Tevanne remains Tevanne.

Then he walked down the alley to where he’d hung up his Waterwatch sash. He unfolded it, then slid it back over his head. As he adjusted it, he noticed a splotch of blood on his shoulder. Frowning, he licked a finger and rubbed it clean.

His shield arm hurt. A lot. And it was likely he’d made a good deal of enemies tonight. But it was wisest to move before word could spread.

Now, thought Gregor, on to this Sark.

8

Sancia sat on her building’s rooftop and stared out at the crooked Foundryside streets below. She came up here only occasionally, usually to make sure she wasn’t being watched. And tonight, she needed to be sure, since tonight was her night to meet Sark at the fishery and tell him they needed to get the hell out of Tevanne.

She wondered how she’d explain Clef to him. Despite all the Scrappers had told her, she still didn’t know much about him—about what he really was, or could do, or why. And Clef had not spoken to her since that night. She almost wondered if she’d imagined their conversations.

She looked out at the city. All of Tevanne was smeared with starlit smoke and steam, a ghostly cityscape sinking into the fog. The huge white campo walls surfaced among the ramble of the Commons like the bones of a beached whale. Behind them stood the towers of the campos, which glowed with soft, colorful luminescence. Among them was the Michiel clock tower, its face a bright, cheery pink, and beyond that was the Mountain of the Candianos, the biggest structure in all of Tevanne, a huge dome that reminded her of a fat, swollen tick, sitting in the center of the Candiano campo.

She felt lonely, and small. Sancia had always been alone. But feeling lonely was different from just being alone.

Sancia sat up.

He sounded sullen.

There was a pause.