was a silence broken only by a scream from beyond the campo walls.
“Who has the imperiat?” asked Ofelia.
“I do not know,” said Crasedes. “A girl, I think. And if I were to guess—she might be coming here.”
“I will double our guards at the walls. We’ve had to moderate our defenses since we’ve had so many soldiers coming in and out—but I’ll make sure our people are on the lookout.”
“Good,” said Crasedes. “And when Sancia is brought here, Ofelia, I strongly advise that you put her somewhere very, very, very far away from anything you have augmented or altered. Once she’s secured, I would like to visit with her. I must find out where the imperiat is. I’m sure she knows.” He looked down at the key in his hand. “Among other things.”
“Is something wrong, My Prophet?”
“Yes.” He sighed a little. “He…won’t talk to me.”
“Wh-Who?”
He kept staring at the key. “I know he can. I have asked him, repeatedly. But he won’t. He…refuses.”
“Orso?” said Ofelia, struggling to keep up. “Gregor? Is that who you…My Prophet, I don’t understa—”
“Gregor,” said Crasedes, turning to him. “I will go now. Do everything your mother tells you. Do you hear me? That is a command, from me, to you. Yes?”
Gregor blinked very slowly. More tears rolled down his cheeks, and he silently mouthed the word—Yes.
“Good,” said Crasedes. Then he stuck the key into midair, turned it—and he blurred, and vanished.
Ofelia stood there, staring at the empty space where Crasedes had just stood. Then she slowly turned to Gregor, who stood staring ahead, his eyes slowly leaking tears.
“Gregor?” she asked.
He said nothing.
“My…My love?” she whispered. “Are you truly back?”
Still nothing.
“It’s been so long,” she said. “So long since I…since I…”
He slowly blinked again.
She saw his fists were in balls, the knuckles white and trembling.
Then Ofelia turned away from him, sat down on the stones at his feet, and wept.
33
Crasedes Magnus paced along the streets of the Morsini campo as the dawn light leaked into the sky, humming slightly while he listened to the screams and cries echoing through the alleys. It had been, he thought, a very efficient night—but there was still so much more to do.
He turned the corner and saw foundry walls rise up before him, and heard something that sounded like an explosion followed by quite a lot more screaming.
“Oh dear,” he said idly.
A handful of Dandolo soldiers were hunkered down before the foundry’s gates, peppering the structure’s windows with bolts, though it was clear they weren’t making progress. Soldierly to the last, the Morsinis had actually built their foundries to be siege-ready. The building didn’t look like much, resembling a giant brown turnip nestled in the depths of the foundry compound, but its small windows and staggered doors made it almost impossible to capture.
He watched as both sides exchanged another volley of bolts. One of the Dandolo soldiers screamed as his shoulder appeared to abruptly explode, pierced with a scrived bolt.
Crasedes approached the captain. “Pardon me,” he said politely. “But what is happening?”
The Dandolo captain did a double take. “Ahh…well, you see, sir, ah…” His brow knitted as he wondered exactly how to address Crasedes. Most Dandolo soldiers vaguely understood that he was someone important, though they didn’t know why—but then, most campo soldiers had become used to accommodating the whims of the Tevanni elite, which seemed to grow madder every day. A flying masked man in black wasn’t too much of a stretch for them. “Well, sir,” said the captain gamely, “we have captured almost all the Morsini foundries come midnight, and quickly turned off all the scrivings that support any weaponry.”
“I see,” said Crasedes, nodding. “Very good.”
“But not…all of them. There are a few holdouts. A few contingents of the Morsini forces have figured this out, it appears, and flocked to these locations—since their weapons will actually work there—and barricaded themselves inside.”
“I see,” said Crasedes. “So we need to…extract