Shit, Sancia thought. This is harder than I thought it’d be.
She thought rapidly, then asked: <Is there anything else that can make you feel key-calm besides the key?>
A short pause. Then: <Yes.>
<What is it?>
<What is what?>
<What is the thing that makes you feel key-calm?>
<Key induces key-calm.>
<Right! I know! But what besides the key could induce key-calm?>
<Key-calm induces key-calm.> Pause. <As does secret.>
Sancia blinked. <Secret?>
<Secret what?> said the shackles.
<What is the secret that makes you key-calm?>
<Secret is secret.>
<Yes, but what is it?>
<What is what?>
Sancia took a breath. This was, to say the least, incredibly frustrating. She understood now what Clef had shown her, long ago when he’d opened the Candiano door: scrivings were like minds, but they were not smart minds. And Clef was better at talking to them than she was. But then, he’d grown much more powerful as he’d corroded.
She asked: <Is the secret a key?>
<No. Key is key.>
<Is the secret another scriving?>
<No.>
That was surprising. If a scriving wasn’t activated or deactivated by another scriving command — then what?
<Is the secret a hard thing?> she asked.
<Hard? Uncertain.>
She tried to think of a clearer term for it. <Is the secret made of metal?>
<No.>
<Is it wooden?>
<Is what wooden?>
She gritted her teeth. She realized she’d need to phrase each question exactly right. <Is the secret wooden?>
<No.>
Sancia glanced at the guards. They were still debating something furiously. They hadn’t noticed the slight movements she’d been making for the past few minutes — but she knew she didn’t have all the time in the world. <Is the secret…someone’s blood?>
<No.>
<Is the secret someone’s touch?>
<No.>
<Is the secret someone’s breath?>
A long, long pause.
<Is the secret someone’s breath?> she asked again.
Finally, the shackles answered. <Uncertain.>
<Why are you uncertain?>
<Uncertain about what?>
<Why are you uncertain whether the secret is someone’s breath?>
Another pause. Then the shackles said, <Secret is breath but breath is not essence of secret.>
<How is the secret not a breath?>
Silence. It seemed the shackles had no idea how to answer that.
So. What was breath that was not a breath? Or not just breath, at least. If she could figure that out, then she could escape.
But before she could think more on it, there was a distant shouting, which grew to a scream, and then the door slammed open and Tomas Ziani stormed in.
“Useless!” he shouted. “Scrumming useless! We found the goddamn capsule, but it was just that — a capsule, and nothing more! She either lied to us, or she’s exactly as worthless as I suspected!”
Sancia watched them carefully through a crack in her eyelids. She found she could see the augmentations in their blades, in their shields, in their clothing. And there was one scriving on Tomas’s person that shone with an unpleasant, queer red light, like a sunbeam filtering through bloody water…
The imperiat, she thought. I can see it…My God, it’s horrible…
Tomas wheeled to look at Sancia. “What the hell is the matter with her?”
“She, uh, started screaming about two hours ago,” said one of the guards. “Then she passed out. She was bleeding from…Well. Everywhere, it seemed. I’ve never seen anything like it.”
“Again?” said Tomas. “She started bleeding again?” He looked at Enrico, who sprinted in behind him. “What’s going on with her? Apparently she keeps spurting blood out of her scrumming face!”
Sancia kept her eyes shut. She focused on the shackles, and asked: <How is the secret’s breath not a breath?>
The shackles were silent. It seemed they didn’t understand.
<How does the secret’s breath deliver key-calm?> she asked desperately.
<Breath does not deliver key-calm,> said the shackles.
<But the secret is breath, right?>
<Uncertain. Partially.>
<What is the rest of it, the part that’s not breath?>
<Secret.>
“Is she dead?” asked Tomas’s voice.
“She’s breathing,” said Enrico.
“And is this kind of thing just, like, regular when you’re a scrived person?”
“Ah…as I have only had about ten minutes of engagement with a scrived human, sir, it would be difficult to say.”
She heard Tomas grow close. “Well. If she’s passed out…maybe she’s done us a favor. Maybe now’s the time to rip that damned plate out of her skull without her causing a fuss.”
<How is secret delivered to you, along with breath?> asked Sancia, panicking.
<Via mouth?> said the shackles, as if bemused by the question.
<Is spit a component of the secret?> asked Sancia.
<No,> said the shackles.
“Sir…I am not sure if rash action is wise,” said Enrico’s voice.
“Why not? If Orso’s thug makes it out of here with the key, then we need to be getting pretty goddamn rash!”
“We’ve barely questioned her, sir. She is the only person in Tevanne to have ever touched the key. That makes her a resource in itself!”
“That plate in her head might make the key irrelevant,” said Tomas. “Or at least that’s what you said.”
“The operative word being might,” Enrico said. An unsettling pleading tone entered his words. “And we also don’t know how to extract the plate! Proceeding without caution might damage the thing we’re trying to salvage!”
Sancia, who still hadn’t moved an inch, wondered what else to ask the shackles. But then she saw something.
A handful of scrivings had just come into view. New ones, and they were bright — because they were powerful, she saw. Incredibly powerful.
And they were moving.
She cracked her eye just a bit, and saw that the scrivings were on the other side of the wall, approaching the door.
Someone was coming. Quietly and slowly, someone was coming. And they had a lot of potent toys at their disposal.
Uh-oh, thought Sancia.