Foundryside (The Founders Trilogy #1) - Robert Jackson Bennett Page 0,58

Not scrumming likely.”

“I…see,” said Gregor. Though in truth he was nowhere close to seeing.

Orso’s assistant exhaled softly, as if to say—Here he goes again.

Orso grinned at Gregor over his shoulder. “Want to come closer? Take a look?”

Gregor knew Orso was goading him—the closer you got to a lexicon, the more uncomfortable it felt. But Gregor wanted to put Orso’s guard down, however he could—and allowing himself to be toyed with was one option.

Squinting in pain, he walked over to the glass wall and looked in at the lexicon. It resembled a huge metal can lying on its side, only the can had been cut into tiny slivers or discs—thousands of them, or maybe even millions. He knew in vague terms that each disc was full of scriving definitions—the instructions or arguments that convinced scrived devices to work the way they ought to—though he was aware that he understood this to about the same degree that he understood that his brain was what did all his thinking for him.

“I’ve never seen one this close before,” said Gregor.

“Almost no one has,” said Orso. “The stress of all that meaning, forcing reality to comply with so many arguments—it makes the thing hot as hell, and damned difficult to be around. And yet, last night this device—all its assertions about reality—went poof, and turned off. Like blowing out a damned candle. Which, as I have just generously described to you, ought to be impossible.”

“How?” asked Gregor.

“Beats the ever-living shit out of me!” said Orso with savage cheer. He joined the girl at the scriving blocks and watched as she plugged in strings one after the other, the tiny metal cubes flying in and out as her fingers danced over the tray with blinding speed. Each time, a tiny glass at the top of the tiles would glow softly. “Now all kinds of goddamn strings work!” he said. “They work perfectly, implacably, and inarguably! How comforting. It’s like the whole thing never happened.”

“I see,” said Gregor. “And, may I ask—who is this, exactly?” He nodded at the girl.

“Her?” Orso seemed surprised by the question. “She’s my fab.”

Gregor did not know what a “fab” was, and the girl seemed uninterested in answering, ignoring them as she tested string after string of sigils. He decided to move on.

“Was it sabotage?” he asked. “Another merchant house?”

“Again—beats the ever-living shit out of me,” said Orso. “I’ve checked all the infrastructural scrivings that keep the thing afloat, and those strings are all working away, cheery as can be. The lexicon itself doesn’t show any damage. It shows no sign of having been properly or improperly reduced. If the dumb piece of shit who’s in charge of maintenance could confirm the thing’s regularly scheduled checkups, I could rule that out. And the tiles are all arranged in some pretty basic, boring, conventional configurations. Right?”

His assistant nodded. “Correct, sir.” She gestured to the walls behind her. “Manufacturing, security, lighting, and transport. That’s the extent of the wall’s load.”

Gregor looked at the walls and slowly realized what she meant. “The wall” was the industry term for a tremendous wall of thousands of white tiles, covered in sigils, which slid up or down on a short track. Each tile represented a scriving definition: if the tile was in the up position, the definition was inactive, and thus did not work; if it was in the down position, then it did.

This sounded simple, but only a scriver with decades of high-level training could look at a wall and tell exactly what was going on. A lexicon’s wall, of course, was carefully watched and maintained: if someone slid the wrong tile up, and deactivated a crucial definition, it could, say, render all the scrived carriages in the Dandolo campo suddenly unable to stop. Which would be bad.

Or, if someone slid several critical tiles down, and activated some extremely complicated definitions, then it could overload the lexicon, and then…

Well. That would be much, much worse.

Because a lexicon was essentially a giant violation of reality—that was why it was so unpleasant to be close to one. The consequences of a lexicon going haywire were too horrific to contemplate. And this was the chief reason that the city of Tevanne, with all of its power, corruption, and fractious merchant houses, had yet to experience much deliberate turmoil: as the entire city was essentially maintained by a system of huge bombs, that tended to make people cautious.

“How troublesome,” said Gregor.

“Yes. Isn’t it?” Orso peered at him suspiciously. “Doesn’t