And she remembered the man down in that basement, short and thin and one eye just a blank socket, and she remembered how he was always dabbing at his brow, wiping away sweat.
She remembered how he’d looked at her, and smiled, and wearily said, “Well. Let’s see if this one works, then.”
That had been the first scriver Sancia had ever met.
She often remembered these things when she slept. And whenever she did, two things happened.
The first was that the scar on the side of her head would ache as if it were not a scar, but a brand.
And the second was that she forced herself to remember the one memory that made her feel safe.
Sancia remembered how everything had burned.
It was dark when she awoke. The first thing she did was slip her fingers out of her glove and touch the roof of the foundry.
The roof lit up in her mind. She felt the smoke coiling across it, felt the rain puddling at the base of the stacks, felt her own body, tiny and insignificant, pressing against its huge, stone skin. But most important, she felt she was alone. No one up here but her and Clef.
She started moving. She stood up, yawned, and rubbed her eyes.
<Morning,> said Clef. <Or should I say good eveni—>
There was a sharp crack from somewhere in the distance. Then something slammed into her knees, hard.
Sancia toppled over, crying out in surprise. As she did, she looked down and saw a strange, silvery rope was looping around her shins like a snare. She dimly realized that someone out on the rooftops across from her had hurled or fired this rope at her — whatever it was.
She crashed onto the stone roof. <Damn!> said Clef. <We’ve been spotted!>
<No shit!> said Sancia. She tried to start crawling away, but found she couldn’t. The rope suddenly seemed impossibly heavy, as if it were not made of fibers but rather lead, and no matter how she heaved she could barely drag the coil of rope any farther than half an inch.
<It’s scrived to think it’s denser than it actually is!> said Clef. <The more someone tries to move it, the denser it gets!>
<So can we break i—>
She never finished, because then there was a second crack. She looked up in time to see a silvery rope hurtling toward her from a rooftop nearly a block away. It stretched out like someone opening their arms for an embrace before slamming into her chest, knocking her back onto the roof.
She started to heave at it, but stopped. <Wait. Clef, can I accidentally make it so dense that it could crush my chest?>
<It’s a loop, so it’ll distribute the force — somewhat. You could make it so dense that you fall through the roof, though.>
<Shit!> she said. She looked down at the cords — there seemed to be a locking mechanism on the side, awaiting a scrived key. <Do something! Unlock me!>
<I can’t! I’d have to be touching it!>
Sancia tried to pull him out of her shirt, but the second rope kept her arms tied fast to her body. <I can’t reach you!>
<What do we do, what do we do?>
Sancia stared up at the night sky. <I…I don’t…I don’t know.>
They waited there, looking up, the chants of the scrived ropes echoing in Sancia’s ears. Then, after a long while, she heard footsteps coming close. Heavy ones.
The bruised, scratched face of Captain Gregor Dandolo leaned overhead, a huge espringal on his back. He smiled politely. “Good evening again.”
Apparently Captain Dandolo had the control for the ropes: after adjusting something on his espringal, he was able to reduce their density enough that he could flip her over. He kept her bound, of course. “Something we used back in the wars, when capturing trespassers,” he said merrily. He grabbed the ropes with each hand, and picked her up much as one would a bound pig. “I’d know the smell of the Michiel foundry smoke like I would the scent of jasmine. I had to come here all the time to commission armaments. Flame and heat, as one would expect, are useful when making war.”
“Let me go, you dumb bastard!” she said. “Let me go!”
“No.” He somehow packed an infuriating amount of cheer into that one word.
“You put me in prison and they’ll kill me!”
“Who, your client?” he said, making his way for the stairs down. “They won’t be able to get at you. We’ll put you in the Dandolo jailhouse, which is quite safe. Your only concern will be me, young lady.”
Sancia bucked and kicked and snarled, but Dandolo was quite strong, and seemingly indifferent to her countless swears. He hummed happily as they started down the stairs.
He exited the stairs and hauled her across the street to a scrived carriage bearing the Dandolo loggotipo — the quill and the gear. “Our chariot awaits!” he said. He opened up the back, set her down on the floor, and reactivated the scrivings on the rope — there was some kind of dial on the side of the espringal — until she was pinned to the floor. “I hope this will be comfortable during our short ride.” Then he looked her over, took a breath, and said, “But first, I must ask…where is it?”
“Where’s what?”
“The item you stole,” he said. “The box.”
<Oh, shit,> said Clef. <This guy isn’t as stupid as he looks.>
“I don’t have it!” said Sancia, inventing a story as fast as she could. “I gave it over to my client!”
“Did you,” he said flatly.
<I don’t think he believes you,> said Clef.
<I know that! Shut the hell up, Clef!>
“Yes!” she said.
“Then why is your client trying to kill you, if you did as they asked? That is why you’re trying to escape the city — yes?”
“Yes,” said Sancia honestly. “And I don’t know why they’re out for me, or why they killed Sark.”
That gave him pause. “Sark is dead?”
“Yes.”
“Your client killed him?”
“Yes. Yes!”
He scratched his beard at his chin. “And I suppose you don’t know who your client is.”
“No. We were never to know names, and never to look in the box.”
“What did you do with it, then?”
Sancia decided on a story that was close to the truth. “Sark and I took the box to an appointed place and time — an abandoned fishery in the Greens. Four men showed up. Well-fed, campo sort. One took the box away and said he wanted to confirm it. Left us with the other three. Then there was some signal, and they stabbed Sark, and nearly killed me.”
“And you…fought your way out?”
She narrowed her eyes at him. “Yes,” she said defensively.
His large, dark eyes flicked over her small frame. “All by yourself?”
“I’m decent enough in a fight.”
“What fishery was this?”
“By the Anafesto Channel.”
He nodded, thinking about this. “Anafesto, eh. Well then,” he said. “Let’s go have a look, then!” He shut the door and climbed into the pilot’s seat.
“Look where?” said Sancia, startled.
“To the Greens,” said the captain. “To this fishery of which you speak. Presumably there will be dead bodies inside — yes? Bodies that might suggest exactly who paid you to rob my waterfront?”