The boy nodded and ducked back into the doorway. They waited.
The bald man glared at Gregor. Gregor smiled back at the bald man. Then, after what felt like hours, the boy popped back out again.
“She will see you, Founder,” he said, his voice low and passive — the tone of someone used to being spoken over.
“Thank you,” said Gregor. He bowed to the man, and followed the boy into the sanctum beyond.
To be the descendant of a merchant house founder was to wield an almost incomprehensible degree of wealth, power, and resources in Tevanne. One of the Morsini sons only took meetings in his private gardens, while mounted atop a giraffe bedecked in a jeweled saddle cover and bridle. Tribuno Candiano’s sister had apparently had a silk dress designed for each day of the year: each gown was labored over by dozens of seamstresses, worn once, and then promptly disposed of.
So it was probably inevitable that Ofelia Dandolo, as not only of founder lineage but also head of the house itself, was a supremely impressive person. But what Gregor found most impressive about his mother was that she actually worked.
She was not like Torino Morsini, head of Morsini House, who was hugely fat and often hugely drunk, and usually spent his time trying to stuff his aged candle into every nubile girl on his campo. Nor was she like Eferizo Michiel, who had retired from the burdensome life of responsibility to pass his days painting portraits, landscapes, and nudes — quite a lot of nudes, actually, Gregor had heard, chiefly of young men.
No — Ofelia Dandolo passed her days, and indeed most of her nights, behind desks: she read and wrote letters behind desks, sat through meetings behind desks, and listened to her countless advisers prattle on and on from behind desks. And since that madness in Foundryside and the Greens last night, Gregor was not at all surprised to find her seated behind her desk in her personal office, reviewing reports.
She did not look up as he walked in. He stood before her, hands clasped behind his back, and waited for her to finish. He eyed her as she read a report: she was wearing evening attire, and her face was painted in an ornate pattern, with a red bar across her eyes and blue curls emanating from her blue lips. Her hair was also done up in an elaborate bun. He suspected she’d received news of the Foundryside blackout during a party of some sort, and had been working ever since.
She was still grand, and beautiful, and strong. But she was also looking her age, he thought. Perhaps it was the job. She’d taken over for the merchant house after Gregor’s father had died in the carriage accident, and that had been, what, twenty-three years ago? Twenty-four? He’d assumed she’d eventually start relinquishing duties, but his mother had not — instead, she’d taken on more and more responsibilities until she practically was Dandolo Chartered, and all of its policies and decisions emanated solely from her person.
Ten years of that would kill a normal person. Ofelia Dandolo had managed two decades — but he wasn’t sure she had a full third in her.
“Your brow is damp,” she said quietly — without looking up.
“Pardon?” he said, surprised.
“Your brow is damp, my dear.” She scratched out a response to the report, and set it aside. “With sweat, I assume. You must have walked a long way. I will assume you refused a carriage from all the house guards? Again?”
“I did.”
She looked at him, and a lesser person would have winced: Ofelia Dandolo’s amber eyes shone bright against her dark skin, and they had the curious power of making her will feel almost palpable. A glare from her felt like a slap. “And I will assume you took smug delight in confusing and disappointing them?”
Gregor opened his mouth, unsure what to say.
“Oh, never mind,” she said, setting her report aside. She looked him over. “I hope, Gregor, that you’ve come to offer aid to your campo. I hope that you heard about the disasters in Foundryside, about how all the scrivings failed in what seems to have been a half-mile radius across the Commons, and came straight here to see how you could assist. I hope these things — but I do not expect these things. Because I doubt if even this disaster could make you come back to us, Gregor.”
“Was Dandolo Chartered really affected by the blackout?”
She laughed lowly. “Was it affected? A foundry lexicon failed in the Spinola site, right next to the Greens. We were lucky we had two others in the region to keep everything running smoothly. Otherwise things would have graduated from disaster to outright catastrophe.”
This was startling. A foundry lexicon was an intricate, bafflingly complicated, and stupendously expensive device that essentially made all scrived devices work on the campo. “Do you suspect sabotage?”
“Possibly,” she said reluctantly. “Yet whatever happened to us also hit the Michiel campo bordering Foundryside. It doesn’t seem to have discriminated much. But you’re not really here to talk about that — are you, Gregor?”
“No, Mother,” he said. “I’m afraid I am not.”
“Then…what are you interrupting me for, at this worst of all moments?”
“The fire.”
At first she looked surprised, then furious. “Really.”
“Really,” he said.
“Our entire civilization has just been gravely threatened,” she said, “and yet you want to talk about your little project? About resuscitating your…municipal militia?”
“City police,” said Gregor quickly.
She sighed. “Ah, Gregor…I know you were worried the fire had ruined your project, but trust me, that’s the last thing on everyone’s minds right now. Everyone’s probably forgotten all about it! I know I did.”
“I wanted to make you aware, Mother,” said Gregor, stung, “that I believe I am mere moments away from catching the saboteur that set the fire. I was in the Commons last night.”
Her mouth fell open. “You were in the Commons? Last night? When—”
“Yes. When all hell broke loose. I was making inquiries at the time — and was quite successful, if I might say so. I have located the thief, and will almost certainly capture them tonight. When I do so, I would like to bring them before the Tevanni council.”
“Ahhh,” she said. “You want a big, showy, public trial — to clear your name.”
“To make it clear that the Waterwatch project is sustainable,” said Gregor. “Yes. So…if you would begin clearing the way for that process…”
She smirked. “I thought, my dear, that you didn’t like using your family access,” she said.
This was true. His mother was one of the major committee chairs for the Council of Tevanne. The council was entirely populated by merchant-house elites, and generally ensured that the houses didn’t excessively sabotage or plagiarize one another — though the definition of “excessively” was getting more nebulous these days. It was the closest thing the city of Tevanne had to a real government, though in Gregor’s opinion, it was not that close at all.
As such, Gregor could have used his mother’s position to press all kinds of advantages — yet he’d always refrained, thus far. But not today.
“If it is to advance the greater good of Tevanne,” said Gregor, “then I will use any means necessary.”
“Yes, yes. Gregor Dandolo, friend of the common man.” She sighed. “Odd that your solution is to start chucking so many common men in jail.”
Gregor’s natural response would have been—It is not just common men that I wish to jail. But he wasn’t so stupid as to come out and say that.