That must be the thief — whoever they are.
But there was another note at the end that he found deeply curious — scrawled in the margins of the paper were two words: Dandolo Hyp??
Gregor stared at the words.
He knew that they did not refer to him — they had to be shorthand for “Dandolo Hypatus.” And that was very, very troubling.
A hypatus was a merchant house officer who acted as something akin to a head of research, experimenting with sigillums to dream up new methods, techniques, and tools. Most hypati were madder than a speared striper, mostly because they often didn’t survive long — experimental scrivings had a tendency to inflict gruesome death on anyone involved with them. And then there was the backstabbing the position attracted: since every scriver on a campo wanted to be a hypatus, betrayals and even assassinations were common hazards of the job.
But the Dandolo Chartered hypatus was Orso Ignacio — and Orso Ignacio was notorious, if not legendary, for being an amoral, arrogant, duplicitous, and fiendishly clever campo operator. He’d lasted nearly a decade as hypatus, which had to be a record in Tevanne. And he hadn’t risen from within the ranks of Dandolo Chartered — he’d originally been employed at Company Candiano, though Gregor had heard rumors he’d departed that house under leery terms. It was a known fact that the whole damned merchant house had almost collapsed mere weeks after his departure.
Yet as unsavory as Orso Ignacio’s reputation might be — would he be willing to hire an independent thief to rob Gregor’s waterfront? Since Gregor was the son of Ofelia Dandolo — the head of the entire Dandolo Chartered merchant house — this seemed totally insane. But then, hypati were generally agreed to be insane, or close enough to it.
Gregor considered what he knew. Only one thing had been stolen that night — a box, entered into the safes under the name of “Berenice.” Which could have been a false name, for all Gregor knew.
So — was Orso Ignacio the buyer? Or was he the one being robbed? Or is this small note here just nonsense, a complete coincidence?
He wasn’t sure. But he now intended to find out.
Gregor heard something, and sat up. There were footfalls in the hallway — all heavy boots. And it sounded like there were a lot of them.
He didn’t wait to listen and see if the new arrivals came to Sark’s door. Instead he took Whip out and walked quietly into the bedroom, where he hid behind the open door, peering through the crack in the hinge at the living room beyond.
Could this be Sark? Has he returned?
There was a tremendous crack as someone kicked the door down.
Ah, no, he thought. Probably not Sark.
Gregor watched as two men in dark-brown clothing and black cloth masks walked into Sark’s rooms. But what really caught Gregor’s eye were their weapons.
One bore a stiletto, the other a rapier — and both were scrived. He could see the sigils running along the lengths of the blades, even from where he was.
He sighed inwardly. Well. That’s going to be a problem.
Gregor was familiar with scrived weapons. Scrived armaments, though prohibitively expensive, were the primary reason why the city of Tevanne had been so successful in warfare. But you couldn’t just glance at a scrived weapon and know what it was scrived to do. It could be anything.
For example, the common blades used in the Enlightenment Wars were scrived so that they’d automatically target the weakest part of whatever they were swung at, and then target the weakest part of that weakest part, and then to target the weakest part of that weakest part of the weakest part, and then strike that exact area. Operating off of these commands, the blades would be able to cut through a solid oak beam with little force.
But that was just one possibility. Other scrivings convinced the blades they were hurtling through the air with amplified gravity — this was what Whip’s head was scrived to do, for example. Others had been scrived specifically to break down and destroy other metals, like armor and weapons. And still others burned incredibly hot when whirled through the air, giving them the possibility of setting one’s opponent alight.
All of these possibilities ran through Gregor’s head as the two thugs stalked through Sark’s rooms. So what I need to do, he thought, is make sure they never get to use them.
He watched as the two men examined the open back of the stove. They crouched and peered in, then exchanged a glance, perhaps worried.
They turned and approached the balcony door. One gestured to the other, silently pointing out that the lock had been broken in. Then they started walking toward the bedroom, with the one with the rapier in the lead.
Still hidden behind the door, Gregor waited until the first of his opponents had stepped into the bedroom, with the second one right behind him. Then he kicked the door as hard as he could.
The door hurled shut, smashing the second thug in the face. Gregor could feel the wood resonate with the blow, and felt satisfied with the damage done. The thug with the rapier turned around, raising his weapon, but Gregor snapped Whip forward and cracked him in the face.
But the man did not crumple, whimpering, as Gregor had been expecting. Instead the thug stumbled back, shook himself, and charged forward again.
The man’s mask, thought Gregor. It must be scrived to deflect strikes. Maybe all of his scrumming clothing’s scrived!
Gregor dove to the side as the man’s rapier slashed through the wall like it was made of warm cheese. Though it was dark in the rooms, he could tell that the rapier was, like Whip’s head, scrived to amplify its gravity, crashing through the air like a man ten times as strong had swung it. Which, Gregor knew from experience, was a dangerous weapon to face — but also a dangerous weapon to wield.
Gregor rose and flicked Whip out. The truncheon’s head flew forward and smashed the man on his knee, hard enough to knock him over — but he stayed standing. Not good, thought Gregor. Their outfits must have cost a fortune…
He did not have time to reflect on the cost of their armaments, though, because then the second thug barged in, almost knocking the door off its hinges. The thug with the rapier then pivoted, sword in his hand, trying to pin Gregor into the corner.
Gregor grabbed the mattress on Sark’s bed and flung it at his two assailants. The man with the rapier slashed it in two, sending feathers flying everywhere. Gregor used this momentary distraction to hurl yet more furniture at them — a chair, a small desk — though his goal was not to harm them, but to clutter the room, making it harder to move.
The man with the rapier hacked his way through, cursing. But now the space was too small for them both to confront him — only the one with the rapier could engage.
He led the man back, toward the window of the bedroom, and got in position. His attacker gave a rough shout, and thrust forward with the rapier, aiming for Gregor’s heart.
Gregor fell to the side and sent Whip’s head flying at the man’s feet.
His attacker tripped. And ordinarily this would not have meant much — but Gregor’s attacker had just thrust his rapier forward, expecting to plunge it into Gregor’s chest, and the weapon accelerated as it flew; and now that there was nothing to stop it, it just kept hurtling forward, pulling the man along like someone trying to walk a large dog that’s just seen a rat and bolted after it.
The sword plunged right through the window behind Gregor — and took its owner with it. Gregor stood and watched with grim pleasure as the thug sailed down three floors and crashed onto the wooden sidewalk.