Foundryside (The Founders Trilogy #1) - Robert Jackson Bennett Page 0,53

exasperated. “Fine, fine…” He sat forward and rang a bell. The door behind him opened, and a young man of about twelve dressed in Dandolo house colors popped out.

The bald man opened his mouth, but struggled with what to say. He gestured to Gregor, then at the door, and, seeming to surrender, wearily said, “You see?”

The boy nodded and ducked back into the doorway. They waited.

The bald man glared at Gregor. Gregor smiled back at the bald man. Then, after what felt like hours, the boy popped back out again.

“She will see you, Founder,” he said, his voice low and passive—the tone of someone used to being spoken over.

“Thank you,” said Gregor. He bowed to the man, and followed the boy into the sanctum beyond.

* * *

To be the descendant of a merchant house founder was to wield an almost incomprehensible degree of wealth, power, and resources in Tevanne. One of the Morsini sons only took meetings in his private gardens, while mounted atop a giraffe bedecked in a jeweled saddle cover and bridle. Tribuno Candiano’s sister had apparently had a silk dress designed for each day of the year: each gown was labored over by dozens of seamstresses, worn once, and then promptly disposed of.

So it was probably inevitable that Ofelia Dandolo, as not only of founder lineage but also head of the house itself, was a supremely impressive person. But what Gregor found most impressive about his mother was that she actually worked.

She was not like Torino Morsini, head of Morsini House, who was hugely fat and often hugely drunk, and usually spent his time trying to stuff his aged candle into every nubile girl on his campo. Nor was she like Eferizo Michiel, who had retired from the burdensome life of responsibility to pass his days painting portraits, landscapes, and nudes—quite a lot of nudes, actually, Gregor had heard, chiefly of young men.

No—Ofelia Dandolo passed her days, and indeed most of her nights, behind desks: she read and wrote letters behind desks, sat through meetings behind desks, and listened to her countless advisers prattle on and on from behind desks. And since that madness in Foundryside and the Greens last night, Gregor was not at all surprised to find her seated behind her desk in her personal office, reviewing reports.

She did not look up as he walked in. He stood before her, hands clasped behind his back, and waited for her to finish. He eyed her as she read a report: she was wearing evening attire, and her face was painted in an ornate pattern, with a red bar across her eyes and blue curls emanating from her blue lips. Her hair was also done up in an elaborate bun. He suspected she’d received news of the Foundryside blackout during a party of some sort, and had been working ever since.

She was still grand, and beautiful, and strong. But she was also looking her age, he thought. Perhaps it was the job. She’d taken over for the merchant house after Gregor’s father had died in the carriage accident, and that had been, what, twenty-three years ago? Twenty-four? He’d assumed she’d eventually start relinquishing duties, but his mother had not—instead, she’d taken on more and more responsibilities until she practically was Dandolo Chartered, and all of its policies and decisions emanated solely from her person.

Ten years of that would kill a normal person. Ofelia Dandolo had managed two decades—but he wasn’t sure she had a full third in her.

“Your brow is damp,” she said quietly—without looking up.

“Pardon?” he said, surprised.

“Your brow is damp, my dear.” She scratched out a response to the report, and set it aside. “With sweat, I assume. You must have walked a long way. I will assume you refused a carriage from all the house guards? Again?”

“I did.”

She looked at him, and a lesser person would have winced: Ofelia Dandolo’s amber eyes shone bright against her dark skin, and they had the curious power of making her will feel almost palpable. A glare from her felt like a slap. “And I will assume you took smug delight in confusing and disappointing them?”

Gregor opened his mouth, unsure what to say.

“Oh, never mind,” she said, setting her report aside. She looked him over. “I hope, Gregor, that you’ve come to offer aid to your campo. I hope that you heard about the disasters in Foundryside, about how all the scrivings failed in what seems to have been a half-mile radius across the Commons, and came