Foundryside (The Founders Trilogy #1) - Robert Jackson Bennett Page 0,7

the center of this ball was a tiny, perfect clutch of sigils—and as she held it, she heard a soft whispering in her ear.

She looked at the ball of lead, then the box on the crates. This scrumming box, she thought, putting the lead ball back in her pocket, had damned well better work. Or I’ll be trapped here like a fish in a pot.

* * *

Sancia jumped the short fence around the Waterwatch offices and ran to the wall. She crept to the corner of the building, then ducked her head out. No one. But there was a large, thick doorframe. It stuck out about four or five inches from the wall—plenty of room for Sancia to work with.

She leapt up and grabbed the top of the doorframe, then pulled herself up, paused to rebalance, and placed her right foot on the top of the frame. Then she hauled herself up until she stood on the doorframe.

Two second-floor windows were on her right and left, old and thick with oily, yellowed glass. Sancia pulled out her stiletto, slipped it into the crack in one window, flipped back the latch, and pulled the window open. She sheathed her stiletto, lifted herself up, and peered in.

Inside were rows and rows of shelves, filled with what looked like parchment boxes. Probably records of some kind. The area was deserted, as it ought to be at this time of night—close to one in the morning by now—but there was a light downstairs. A candle flame, perhaps.

Downstairs is where the safes are, thought Sancia. Which won’t be unguarded, even now…

She crawled inside, shutting the window behind her. Then she crouched low and listened.

A cough, then a sniff. She crept through the shelves until she came to the railing at the edge of the second floor, and peered down into the first floor.

A single Waterwatch officer sat at a desk at the front door, filling out paperwork, a candle burning before him. He was an older man, plump and timid-looking, with a slightly lopsided mustache and a crinkled blue uniform. But it was what was behind him that really interested Sancia, for there sat a row of huge iron safes, nearly a dozen of them—and one of them, she knew, was the safe she’d come for.

But now, she thought, what to do about our friend down there?

She sighed as she realized what her only option was. She took her bamboo pipe out and loaded it with a dolorspina dart. Another ninety duvots spent on this job, she thought. Then she gauged the distance between herself and the guard, who was tsking and scratching out something on the page before him. She placed the pipe to her lips, aimed carefully, breathed in through her nose, and then…

Before she could fire, the front door of the Waterwatch offices slammed open, and a large, scarred officer strode through, clutching something wet and dripping in one hand.

She lowered the pipe. Well. Shit.

* * *

The officer was tall, broad, and well-muscled, and his dark skin, dark eyes, and thick black beard suggested he was a pureblood Tevanni. The hair atop his head was cut close, and his appearance and bearing immediately made Sancia think of a soldier: he had the look of a man used to having his words listened to and acted upon immediately.

This new arrival turned to the officer seated at the desk, who looked no less surprised than Sancia to see him. “Captain Dandolo!” said the officer at the desk. “I thought you’d be out at the piers tonight.”

The name was familiar to Sancia. Dandolo was the name of one of the four main merchant houses, and she’d heard that the new waterfront captain had some kind of elite connections…

Ah, she thought, so this is the striper who’s taken it upon himself to reform the waterfront. She drew back into the shelves, though not so far that she couldn’t see.

“Something wrong, sir?” said the officer at the desk.

“One of the boys heard a sound out in the stacks, and found this.” His voice was terribly loud, like he spoke to fill up every room he was in with whatever he had to say. Then he held up something ragged and wet—and Sancia immediately recognized it as the remains of her air-sailing rig.

She grimaced. Shit.

“Is that a…kite?” said the officer at the desk.

“No,” said Dandolo. “It’s an air-sailing rig—what the merchant houses use for mercantile espionage. It’s an unusually poor version, but that’s what it