“Sure,” said Sancia.
“Then please,” he said. “Astound us.”
“All right. Give me a second.” She looked down the stairs. To her, it was all just a sea of noise, of whispers and chanting. <Clef?>
<Yeah?>
<So, ah, you hear anything?>
<Oh, lots of stuff. But here. Let me focus.>
There was a silence. She assumed he was searching, and would answer her after he found something.
But then things…changed.
The murmurings and chanting grew louder, and then the sounds seemed to stretch…And bubble…And blur…
Then words emerged among them — words she could hear.
<…bring heat, bring it up, bubble it up, and store it away, there it goes, keep the heat there, oh, please, how I love to make the tank hot…>
<…will NOT let anyone in, absolutely NO ONE, they CANNOT enter unless they possess KEY, key is VERY IMPORTANT, and I…>
<…rigid form, rigid form, rigid form, pressure at the corners, I am like the stone in the depths of the earth…>
Sancia realized she could hear the scrivings, that she could understand them—without touching them. She nearly fell over from shock. She was fairly sure she’d just heard some kind of water tank, a lock, and a scrived support structure, all from somewhere in the building.
<Holy…holy shit!> she said.
The voices returned to quiet chanting. <What?> said Clef. <What is it?>
<I…I could hear them! I could hear what they were saying, Clef! All the devices, all of them!>
<Huh,> said Clef. There was a pause. <Yeahhhh, I was worried that might happen.>
<That what might happen?>
<As I grow stronger, more of my thoughts may leak into you. Into your brain, your mind. I’m, uh, overpowering you a little, I think.>
<You mean I’m hearing what you hear?>
<And feeling what I feel, yeah. So.> Clef coughed. <I guess this could get weird.>
She noticed Orso glaring at her impatiently. <Is it dangerous?>
<I don’t think so…>
<Then let’s just ignore it for now. Find the recording rig before these bastards start worrying, and we’ll figure this out later!>
<All right, all right…It’s, like, a thing that captures sound, right?>
<I guess! I barely understand any of this shit!>
<Hm. Okay.>
There was another pause…and then the voices flooded back into her head, an avalanche of words and desires and anxious fears.
Except some of the voices grew louder or softer, rapidly, one after another. It was as if Clef were sorting through a stack of papers, looking at each one before passing on to the next — except it was happening inside her brain. The sensation was profoundly disorienting.
Then one voice arose from the chaos: <…I am a reed in the wind, dancing with my partner, my mate, my love…I dance as they dance, I move as they move, I trace our dance within the clay…>
<That’s it,> said Clef. <That’s the one. Hear it?>
<Dancing? Clay? Love? What the hell?>
<That’s how they think, how they work,> said Clef. <These rigs are made by people. And people make things that work kind of like people — if you want a device to do something, you build the desire into the device, see? It’s in the basement, I think. Come on.>
“I’ve got it, I think,” said Sancia.
“Then lead the way,” said Gregor.
Listening to the whispering device, Sancia wandered through workshops filled with half-built devices, rows of cold furnaces, wall after wall of bookshelves. Clef led her down the stairs, across the mezzanine, and then to a side hall, which then led to another stairway. Then he led her down flight after flight of stairs, to the basement, which seemed to double as a library. Orso, Berenice, and Gregor followed, bearing small, scrived lights, not speaking — but Sancia’s head was filled up with words.
She was still getting used to this. For so long she’d been accustomed to scrivings being nothing more than murmurings in the back of her head. To have Clef clarify them was like having someone wipe away a layer of sand to reveal words written on the path before you.
But if I’m hearing this from him, wondered Sancia, what else am I picking up? And what’s he picking up from me? She wondered if she would start to think like Clef, to act like him, and never even notice it.
They entered the basement. And then, abruptly, the trail ended before a blank wall.
<Now what?> asked Sancia.
<It’s, uh, back there.>
<What do you mean, back there? Behind the wall?>
<Seems to be. I can show you where it is, but I can’t tell you how to get to it. Listen…>
Another pause, and then she heard it, mumbling behind the walls: <…still no dance…still no sounds. Silence. Nothing to dance to, no steps and twirls to scrawl in the clay…>
<Yeah,> said Sancia. She stepped back and looked at the wall. <It’s back there. Shit.> She sighed, and said, “Anyone know what’s behind this wall?”
“More wall, I would assume,” said Orso.
“It’s not. The thing’s back there.”
“You found the rig?” Gregor asked. “You’re sure?”
“Yes. Now we just have to figure out how they access it.” She grimaced, then pulled off her gloves. “Hold on a second.” She took a breath, focused, shut her eyes, and placed her palms against the wall.
Instantly, the wall bloomed inside her mind, all those old, pale stones and layers of plaster leaping into her thoughts. The wall told her of age and pressure, decades spent bearing all the weight of the building above and transferring it to the foundation below. Except…
In one place, the foundation wasn’t there.
A passageway, she thought.
Keeping her eyes shut, she walked along the wall, bare palm pressed to its surface. Finally she came to it — the gap in the foundation was just below her. She opened her eyes, knelt, and pressed her palms to the floor.
The floorboards crackled to life inside of her, creaking and groaning, telling her of thousands of footfalls, leather soles and wooden soles and, sometimes, bare feet. Her skull tickled as termites and ants and other tiny insects roved through her splintering bones.
But one part of the floor was different — it was separate, and it had something screwed into it.
Hinges, thought Sancia. A door. She followed the feeling in her mind until she came to the far corner of a dusty blue rug. She pulled it aside. Underneath was an old and scarred trapdoor.
“A basement?” said Gregor.
“When the hell did we get a basement?” asked Orso.
“The scriving library was renovated years ago,” said Berenice. “Much of the old walls were torn down and built over. Artifacts are still around — doors that go nowhere, things like that.”