Foundryside (The Founders Trilogy #1) - Robert Jackson Bennett Page 0,6

the crates, which were about twenty feet below. She was slowed somewhat by the rapidly dissolving parachute—but not enough to make her comfortable.

She watched as the giant crates flew up to her.

Ah, hell.

She hit the corner of the crate so hard that it knocked the wind out of her, yet she still retained sense to reach out and snag the wooden corner, grabbing hold and clutching to its side. The sailing rig caught some wind, and was ripped out of her hands and went drifting away.

She hung fast to the side of the crate, breathing hard. She’d trained herself to fall, to catch onto walls in an instant, or bounce or slide off of surfaces—but she’d rarely had to use such training.

There was a clank from somewhere to her right as the sailing rig fell to the ground. She froze and just hung there for a moment, listening for any alarms being raised.

Nothing. Silence.

The waterfront was a big place. One noise was easy to disregard.

Hopefully.

Sancia took her left hand away from the crate, dangling by just one hold, and used her teeth to pull off her glove. Then she pressed her bare left hand to the crate, and listened.

The crate told her of water, and rain, and oil, and straw, and the tiny bite of many nails…

And also how to climb down it.

Step two—getting in the waterfront—had not gone quite as planned.

Now on to step three, she thought wearily, climbing down. Let’s see if I can avoid screwing that one up.

* * *

When Sancia made it to the ground, at first all she did was breathe hard and rub her bruised side.

I made it. I’m inside. I’m there.

She peered through the cargo stacks at the building on the far side of the waterfront: the Waterwatch offices—the police force for the waterfront.

Well. Almost there.

She pulled off her other glove, stuffed both of them in her pockets, and placed her hands on the stone surface at her feet. Then she shut her eyes and listened to the stone.

This was a hard trick, for Sancia: the ground around her was a wide area, so it was a lot to listen to all at once. But she could still listen, still let the stones spill into her mind, still feel the vibrations and trembling all around her as people…

Walked. Stood. Ran. Shifted feet. Sancia could feel all of them just as one could feel fingers running down one’s own bare back.

Nine guards nearby, she thought. Heavy ones—big men. Two stationary, seven on patrols. There were doubtlessly many more than that on the waterfront, but her abilities could only see so far through the stones.

She noted their positions, their directions, their speed. For the ones close to her she could even feel their heels on the stones—so she knew which way they were facing.

The scar on the side of her head started getting painfully warm. She winced and took her hands away—but the memory of the guards remained. Which meant this would be like trying to navigate a familiar room in the dark.

Sancia took a breath, slipped out of the shadows, and started off, dodging through crates, slipping under carts, pausing always just-so as guards made their rounds. She tried not to look at the crates as she moved. Most bore markings from the plantations, far out in the Durazzo Sea, and Sancia was well acquainted with such places. She knew that these raw goods—hemp, sugar, tar, coffee—had not been harvested or produced with anything resembling consensual labor.

Bastards, thought Sancia as she slipped through the crates. Bunch of rotten, scrumming bastards…

She paused at one crate. She couldn’t read its label in the dark, but she placed a bare finger against a wooden slat, listened carefully, and saw within it…

Paper. Lots of it. Blank, raw paper. Which should do nicely.

Time to prepare an exit strategy, she thought.

Sancia pulled her gloves on, untied one pocket on her thigh, and pulled out her final scrived tool for the evening: a small wooden box. The box had cost her more than she’d ever spent on a job in her life, but without it, her life wouldn’t be worth a fig tonight.

She placed the box on top of the crate. This should work well enough. She hoped so. Getting out of the waterfront would be a hell of a lot harder if it didn’t.

She reached back into her pocket and pulled out what looked like a simple knot of twine, running through a thick ball of lead. In