Foundryside (The Founders Trilogy, #1)

by Robert Jackson Bennett

Sancia narrowed her eyes at the rapier. She thought she could hear a whispering in her mind as he walked away, a distant chanting. She’d assumed the blade was scrived, but that faint whispering confirmed it—and she knew a scrived blade could cut her in half with almost no effort at all.

That was how scrivings worked: they were instructions written upon mindless objects that convinced them to disobey reality in select ways.

Because there were downsides to these abilities. Sancia had to keep a lot of her skin concealed at all times, for it’s difficult to, say, eat a meal with the fork you’re holding spilling into your mind. But there were upsides, too. A facility with items is a tremendous boon if you’re looking to steal those items. And it meant Sancia was phenomenally talented at scaling walls, navigating dark passageways, and picking locks—because picking locks is easy if the lock is actually telling you how to pick it.

Sancia sat on her bed, bent forward, rocking back and forth with anxiety. She felt small and alone, as she often did after a job, and she missed the one creature comfort she desired the most: human company.

Sancia was the only person who’d ever been in her room, or in her bed, for touching people was unbearable: it wasn’t quite like she heard their thoughts, because people’s thoughts, despite what most believed, were not a smooth, linear narration. They were more like a giant, hot cloud of bellowing impulses and neuroses, and when she touched a person’s skin, that hot cloud filled up her skull. The press of flesh, the touch of warm skin—these sensations were perhaps the most intolerable of all for her.

Scriving designs took a great deal of effort and talent to compose, and were the most protected property of any merchant house.

Though Sancia had often been offered work to go after merchant house designs, she and Sark always turned it down, since house-breakers who ran such jobs often wound up pale, cold, and bobbing in a canal.

She also knew that the fact that the plate had been forcibly implanted inside her would not matter one whit to the merchant houses: a scrived human was somewhere between an abomination and a rare, invaluable specimen, and they’d treat her accordingly. Which was why her operation would be so expensive: Sancia would have to pay a black-market physiquere more than the merchant houses were willing to reward them for handing her in—and the merchant houses were willing to pay a lot.

All closed things wish to open. They’re made to open. They’re just made to be really reluctant about it. It’s a matter of asking them from the right way, from inside themselves.>

But that nonchalant comment of Sark’s—They used to own you, you know what they’re like—it echoed in her head. She was surprised to find how much she resented it, and she wasn’t sure why. She’d always known when she was doing work for the merchant houses, and it’d never inspired her to play the job wrong before.

You’re saying…feeling out and tricking scrived items is what you do? Even though you didn’t know what it was you did, just five minutes ago?> <I…I guess?> Clef said, now sounding confused again. <I can’t…I can’t quite remember…>

Scriving formed the foundation of the Tevanni empire. It had won countless cities, built up an army of slaves, and sent them to work in the plantation isles. But now, in Sancia’s mind, that foundation was beginning to shift, and crack… Then her skin went cold. If I were a merchant house, she thought to herself, I’d do everything in my power to destroy Clef, and make sure no one ever, ever knew he’d existed.

If you needed a lock fixed, or a door reinforced, or a blade altered, or if you just wanted light or clean water, the Scrappers would sell you rigs that could do that—for a fee, of course. And that fee was usually pretty high. But it was the only way for a Commoner to get the tools and creature comforts reserved for the campos—though the quality was never totally reliable.

<Is a bad plan better than no plan? I’m not sure.> <Sometimes you’re tons of help, and other times you’re no help at all.>

As Gregor paced through the illustris, he reflected that the whole place felt more like a temple than an administrative building: too many columns, too much stained glass, too many floating lanterns drifting amongst the vaulted ceilings, suggesting a divine light above. But perhaps that was the intended effect: perhaps it made those who worked here believe they worked the very will of God, rather than the will of Gregor’s mother.

“And…you want him to live?” “Yes!” said Gregor and Berenice at the same time. Sancia stuck Gregor’s stiletto into her belt and tugged off both her gloves. “Pull up close to the corner of the building there,” she said. “What are you going to do?” asked Gregor. Grimacing, Sancia rubbed her temple with two fingers. This would be too much, she knew. “Something real dumb.” She sighed. “I sure hope this asshole is rich.”

Her current problem was that despite saving Orso’s life, her own still offered no value to these men. One bore the authorities assigned to him by the city, the other carried with him all the privileges of the merchant houses—and she was just a Commons thief who, as far as they were aware, no longer possessed the treasure everyone was seeking. Either one of them could have her killed, if they wished.

<But…But if that’s how you were made, Clef…it seems like you weren’t always a key. It seemed like, for a second there, you used to be a person.> More silence. Then: <Yeah. Weird, right? I’m not sure what to think of that. Perhaps that’s why I remember the taste of wine, and what it feels like to sleep, and the smell of the desert at night…> He laughed sadly. <I don’t think I was supposed to know.>

<Don’t hate Captain Dandolo,> said Clef as she set him down. <I think he’s broken, just like you and me. He’s just trying to fix the world because it’s the only way he knows to fix himself.>

Sancia stood in the tub, soaked a cloth in hot water, and scrubbed herself clean. As she did, she told herself she was not a slave anymore. She told herself she was free, and strong, that she’d been alone for years, and she’d be alone again one day, and she would, as always, survive. Because surviving was what Sancia did best. And as she scrubbed at her filthy, scarred skin, she tried to tell herself that the drops on her cheeks were just water from the spigots, and nothing more.

“Or they could scrive a soldier’s mind,” said Gregor. “Make them fearless. Make it so they don’t value their own lives. Make them do despicable things, and then forget they’d ever done them. Or make them bigger, stronger, faster than all other soldiers…”

She had never known her parents. Either she or they had been sold before she could know them, and instead she’d become, like so many slave children, a communal burden on the shifting assortment of women all crammed together in the quarters on the plantation. In some ways, Sancia’d had not one mother but thirty, all indistinct.

There are many dangers here, child, she’d said once. Many. Many ugly things you’re going to have to do. It will be a great contest for you. And you’re going to think: How do I win? And the answer is—so long as you are alive, you are winning. The only hope you should ever have is to see the next day, and the next. Some here will whisper of liberty—but you can’t be free if you aren’t alive.

“This is a rich man’s fight,” said Sancia. “A rich man’s game. And we’re all just pieces on the board to you. You think you’re different, Orso, but you’re just like all the rest of them!” She put her finger in his face. “My life’s not a hell of a lot better since I escaped the plantation. I still starve a lot and I still get beaten occasionally. But at least now I get to say no when I want to. And I’m saying it now.” She turned and walked out.

One day I’ll live a life that doesn’t force me to make such cold-blooded decisions, she thought. But today is not that day.