He laughed to himself in disbelief, and stood and hobbled away.
10
The next morning, Gregor held his head high as he walked through the southern gates of the outermost Dandolo Chartered wall. As he moved from Commons to campo, the change was abrupt, and severe: from muddy pathways to clean cobblestone; from the odor of smoke and dung and rot to the faint aroma of spiced meat being grilled nearby; and then, of course, there were the people in the streets, whose clothing changed to being clean and colorful, whose skin became clear and unblemished, who suddenly walked without any ailment or deformity or drunkenness or exhaustion.
It never failed to amaze him: you walked exactly one dozen feet, and fell out of one civilization and into another. This was the outer campo too, not even one of the nicer parts. Behind each door, he thought, another world waits. And another and another and another…
He counted his steps as he walked across the threshold. “One,” he said. “Two…Three and four…”
The guardhouse door popped open, and a Dandolo house guard in full scrived armor trotted up to keep pace with him. “Morning, sir!” called the guard.
“Good morning,” said Gregor. Four steps — they’re getting slow.
“Going far, Founder?” asked the guard. “Would you like me to call you a carriage?”
“My formal title, lieutenant,” he said, glancing at the guard’s helm for his rank, “is Captain. Not Founder.”
“I see, Foun…I mean, I see, sir.” He coughed nervously. “But the sachet you carry, ah, it notified us tha—”
“Yes,” said Gregor. “I know what my sachet told you. Either way, there’s no need for a carriage, lieutenant. I am content to walk.” He bowed to the man, touching his brow with two fingers. “Good morning!”
The guard, confused, stopped and watched Gregor leave. “Good day, sir…”
Gregor Dandolo walked from the outer campo wall to the second wall gates. And, again, he had to turn down another offer of a carriage — as he did at the third wall, and the fourth, penetrating deeper and deeper into the Dandolo Chartered campo. The guards offered the carriages with a nervous eagerness, because Gregor’s sachet was flagged as founder lineage — and the idea of founderkin just walking around the campo on their own two feet was unthinkable to most Tevannis.
The truth of it was, he would have loved a carriage ride — his head still ached from that poison that girl had put in him, and he’d already walked damn near across Tevanne the night before, looking for Sark. But Gregor ignored all offers. He ignored them just as he ignored the flocks of floating lanterns that coiled above the Dandolo campo streets, and the bubbling fountains, and the tall, white stone towers, and the beautiful women picking their way through the campo parks, adorned in silk robes and sporting faces painted with intricate, curling patterns.
This could have been his — as the son of Ofelia Dandolo, he could have lived in these gleaming streets like the most pampered princeling in all the world. And maybe, once, he would have.
But then Dantua had happened. And Gregor, and perhaps the world, had changed.
Though from the way everyone on the Dandolo campo was acting, maybe the world had changed again, just last night. People looked grave, solemn, and shaken, and they talked quietly, in hushed, anxious tones.
Gregor understood how they felt all too well. Scriving was the foundation of their entire society. After the blackouts last night, they were no doubt worrying their entire way of life could crumble to pieces, much like the Zoagli block, and take them with it.
Finally he came to the campo illustris — the administrative facility, where the elites governed all merchant house duties. It was a massive, white structure, with a huge, vaulted ceiling supported by a curling vanguard of riblike buttresses. Countless officials trotted up and down the clean white steps at the front, gathering in clumps to discuss business in hushed tones. They stared at Gregor as he walked by, tall and only somewhat washed and wearing his leather armor and Waterwatch sash. He gave them no notice, leapt up the steps, and strode into the building.
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.
It could be worse, he thought. It could be like the Mountain of the Candianos, which is practically its own damn city, if not its own nation.
He trotted up the back spiral staircase until he came to the fourth floor, where he took a winding hallway to a huge, imposing wooden door. Gregor hauled it open and walked in.
The room within was long, ornate, and it ended in a huge, grand desk that sat before an undistinguished door. A man sat at the desk, small and plump and bald, and he looked up as Gregor entered. Even though Gregor was quite far away, he could hear the man’s miserable sigh at the sight of him: “Oh, for God’s sakes…”
Gregor walked across the room to the desk, glancing to either side as he did. The walls were covered with paintings, and he knew most of them by heart, especially the more recent ones. He eyed them as he walked through the room — he’d been so distracted with his case, he’d forgotten to prepare himself for this.
The painting he most dreaded sat at the end of the room, behind the desk. It showed a man, nobly built, nobly arraigned, and nobly positioned, standing behind a chair with his chin and chest thrust out. In the chair sat a tall, handsome, dark-skinned woman with curling black hair. Beside her stood a young boy of about five, dressed in black velvet, and sitting in her lap was a fat infant, wrapped in gold robes.
Gregor stared at the painting — especially at the woman in the chair, and the fat infant. His gaze lingered on the baby. That is how she still thinks of me, he thought. Despite all my deeds and scars and accomplishments, I am still a fat, gurgling infant to her, bouncing in her lap.
His eyes moved to the boy in black velvet — his brother, Domenico. He looked at the face of the painted boy, so earnest and hopeful, and felt a shard of sorrow somewhere within him. The child that had posed for this painting could never have known he’d die in less than ten years alongside his father in a carriage crash.
The bald man at the desk cleared his throat, and said, “I…assume…that…” The words seemed to reluctantly drip out of him, like poison from a wound. “That you wish to…see her.”
Gregor turned to him. “If I could, sir,” he said chipperly.
“Now. You want to see her…now? Of all times?”
“If I could,” said Gregor again. “Sir.”
The bald man considered it. “You are aware,” he said, “that we have had a major scriving incident just last night. One we are still recovering from.”
“I did hear rumor of that, sir.” Gregor smiled at him. He kept smiling, showing all of his large white teeth, while the bald man glowered back.
“Fine,” said the bald man, exasperated. “Fine, fine…” He sat forward and rang a bell. The door behind him opened, and a young man of about twelve dressed in Dandolo house colors popped out.
The bald man opened his mouth, but struggled with what to say. He gestured to Gregor, then at the door, and, seeming to surrender, wearily said, “You see?”