smile and bowed once more.
Moretti clapped his hands. “And today we shall see your famous strata box, yes? Your new lexicon technique?”
“Yes,” said Orso, unlocking the chest and throwing it open. He pulled out a giant, thick tome and set it on the table. “We have all the scriving definitions and protocols here for you to review. These we will hand over after the demonstration. Most of them will make better sense when you’ve seen how they’re actually used.”
An older Michiel scriver with a thick lisp—something Sancia thought was an affectation—said, “And this is the technique you used during the night of the Mountain? The one that allowed you to use the gravity tool, and attack the Candianos?”
Orso paused, clearly unsure what to say. Though it was true that this technique had allowed them to effectively destroy one of the four merchant houses of Tevanne, the Foundrysiders had just assumed this would be a rather sensitive subject among the remaining three, and decided to avoid it.
And yet…the Michiel scrivers didn’t seem bothered at all. They watched Orso with expressions of mild interest, like awaiting news of whether or not someone’s cousin was getting married.
“Uh, yes,” said Orso with a cough. “That is correct. Though it is a more refined version.”
“Fantastic,” said the scriver, nodding. “Fascinating.”
“You mustn’t think you can’t talk candidly here, Orso,” said Moretti. “They were a competitor of ours, after all. Thanks to you, we were able to acquire much of the Candiano enclaves for a song.” He poured a glass of wine and raised it to them. “Including the Mountain.”
“Oh,” said Orso, flustered. “Then…we will proceed with our wo—”
“Don’t you wish to confirm the payment first?” asked Moretti.
Orso froze, and Sancia instantly knew why: he had forgotten about the money altogether, and was wondering if this had given the game away.
“Uh, of course,” Orso said. He bowed. “I did not wish to impose.”
Moretti grinned, drank his wine, and snapped his fingers. A servant boy walked forward with a small wooden chest. “Don’t be concerned. Sixty thousand duvots is no imposition at all.”
The servant boy opened the chest. The Foundrysiders stared at the piles of golden and silver duvots within.
Scrumming hell, thought Sancia. That is the most money I have ever seen in my goddamn life.
But she remembered what Orso had told her—The hell with the money. If we do this right, we’ll walk away with something more valuable than every gold candlestick and scriving rig in the Hypatus Building put together.
Yet it looked like Orso was having trouble remembering this too. “Very good,” he said in a strangled voice. “Thank you, Armand…”
“Certainly,” said Moretti, clearly pleased to see his effects at work. The servant boy shut the chest with a snap and took it away to the corner.
Moretti poured himself a fresh glass of wine with a flourish. “You have my approval to proceed.” He drained it and grinned at them. “Astonish me, please.”
* * *
—
“To do the demonstration,” said Orso, “we will need a single box, preferably iron or steel. Bronze is a little flimsy. And it will need to be of about the same size as the test lexicon here.”
Moretti sashayed over to a giant cushion. He flicked his hand at a young boy and said, “Please fetch one for him.” The young boy fled, and Moretti flopped down on the cushion. The other scrivers followed suit, draping themselves over the couches and the chairs. Moretti dipped a plum deep into a pot of chocolate, and noisily ate it as he watched Sancia and Berenice go to work on the test lexicon.
The art of scriving was almost always a two-step process. The first step seemed very simple: a scriver placed a small, imprinted plate on the object that they wished to alter, often somewhere inside it—mostly to keep the printings from being marred. This plate was stamped with a handful of sigils, usually anywhere from about six to ten, and once the plate had been adhered to the object, these sigils would begin convincing it to disobey reality