carracks and a caravel in the Enlightenment Wars, though. And the caravel was at port, so it didn’t really count…”
There was a beat of silence.
“All right,” said Orso. “So. We have Gregor. But he alone can’t exactly help us against a scrumming galleon! We’ll not only need a ship, but where are we going to find a tool that could possibly be of use against what’s essentially a giant scrived weapon?”
“Well,” said Sancia. “We do have me.”
There was another beat of silence.
“Okay,” said Orso. “Another good point. This is all coming together, apparently! But how are we going to get you on it?”
Berenice shot to her feet. “I have an idea!” she said. “Give me a moment or two.”
“To do what?” said Orso.
“To do what? We have the pooled knowledge of hundreds of scrivers right behind us! I can think of a dozen designs that could be useful here!”
“But searching the stacks could take hours!” said Orso.
“No, no!” said Berenice. “I remember exactly where they are!” Which was probably true, Sancia thought. Berenice had a marvelous talent for memorization: that was what had made her such a talented fabricator and scivoli player.
“Water…” Berenice said to herself, thinking. “And processing, and steam…Yes! I have it!” She turned and vanished into the stacks of the library.
“I will go and secure us a vessel,” said Gregor. “I assume I can dip into the Michiel payment for this?”
“God Almighty,” sighed Orso. “Four hours ago, I was dead drunk, victorious, and passed out in my bed. Now we’re off to spend our winnings to wage war on giant ships and ancient personages! I’d give ten times the Michiel money just to turn back the clock!” He put his face in his hands. “Take what you need and go, I suppose.”
Gregor strode away. Orso and Sancia stood in the library staring wearily at each other.
“I should not have drunk that rum last night,” said Orso.
“And I shouldn’t have touched that wine,” said Sancia.
“But I believe we’re now going to have to do something neither of us wants to do,” said Orso. He looked at her, his face grim. “I think it’s time to dig up the horror in the basement.”
* * *
—
Orso grunted with exhaustion as he brought the pickax down again. Its point bit into the stone corner of the basement with a high-pitched ting!
“I wish…” he gasped. He brought it down again—ting! “That we…” Ting! “Had not sent Gregor…” Ting! “Away.” Ting! He leaned against the pickax, his chest heaving and his face covered in sweat. “I mean, this is really his kind of job, isn’t it?”
Sancia sipped weak cane wine from a flagon and watched him impatiently.
“Why did we bury this thing in cement, again?” asked Orso.
“Because we wanted to make it hard as hell for us to dig it back up again. Keep going.”
“Oh, Lord…Take me now.” Orso swung the pickax down again and again.
“What do we know about what he can do?” asked Sancia.
“Who, Crasedes?” asked Orso. “Well. We know he could move things about without having to touch them, including himself—I assume that’s how he could fly, at least. Beyond that, we have little more than stories.” Another smash of the pickax. “Tales of him popping out of nowhere. Tales of him manipulating light, water, air, time,…and death, of course.”
“Like what Ofelia’s going to attempt. Resurrection is just manipulating death, right?”
Orso shook his head and brought the pickax down once more. “There are stories of Crasedes dying dozens of times and bringing himself back one way or another. Pleasant trickster tales where he pulls one over on Papa Monsoon, or whichever personification of death you prefer. If those are true, then whatever they’re about to attempt now seems different.”
“Why?”
“Because it’s taken him a thousand years to come back?” Another ting! of the pickax. “Death wasn’t a problem for the Crasedes of the old stories. This sure seems like it’s been a hell of a problem for