He marched her through the foundry’s crumbling, dark passageways. It was a shadowy, gloomy place, silent except for an occasional distant drip of water. Finally they came to a large open room, lit by scrived lights placed on the floor. Standing at the far wall of the room were four Candiano guards, all of whom looked quite seasoned. There was a deadness to their eyes as they looked at Sancia that made her skin crawl.
Beside these thugs was a long, low table. On it were all sorts of books, papers, and stone carvings — along with a huge rusty, cracked old metal box that looked, she thought, like the test lexicon back in Orso’s workshop.
Sancia tried to look harder at the items on the table, but since she didn’t have control over her own eyes she got no more than a fleeting glance. Still, she managed to think—This is Tribuno’s collection, isn’t it? The trove of Occidental treasures that Ziani mentioned…
Then she saw what waited in the middle of the room. And though she couldn’t move, the urge to scream flooded her mind.
It was an operating table, complete with restraints for the patient’s wrists and ankles.
Tomas Ziani did something to the imperiat, and she stopped moving. Then she watched in horror as two Candiano guards picked her up, laid her flat on the table, and strapped her in.
No, no, no, she thought, panicked. Anything but that…
They did something to her restraints, turning a small, metal key on the sides. A whispering and chattering filled her ears.
They’re scrived, she thought. The restraints are scrived.
The guards departed.
I’m not getting out of here, am I?
Tomas walked to stand over her, still holding the imperiat. “Now, let’s see,” he muttered. “If what Enrico said is correct, this should…” He adjusted something on it.
Sancia felt her will return — her body was her own again.
She flew forward and snapped her teeth, trying her hardest to take a bite out of Tomas. She nearly did, but he stumbled backward, surprised. “Son of a bitch!” he cried.
Sancia snarled at him, bucking and arching her back and heaving at her restraints — but since they were augmented, they didn’t budge an inch.
“Filthy little…” growled Tomas. He made a move to strike her, but when she didn’t flinch, he backed down, probably concerned she might try to bite his hand.
“You want us to put her down?” said a guard.
“Did I say anything to you?” said Tomas.
The guard looked away. Tomas walked around to the edge of the table and turned a crank. The scrived restraints on her wrists and ankles slowly slid out along the surface of the table, stretching her out until she was spread-eagle, unable to move. Then he walked back around, raised a fist high, and slammed it down on Sancia’s stomach, driving the air out of her.
Sancia flexed and coughed, gasping for breath. “There,” he said savagely. “That’s how it is, yes? You do as I say, or else I get to do what I want. See?”
She blinked tears from her eyes and glared at him. His gaze had a sadistic gleam to it.
“I’m going to ask you some questions now,” he said.
“Why did you kill Sark?” Sancia gasped.
“I said I’d ask the questions.”
“He wasn’t anything to you. He had no one to betray you to. He didn’t even know who you were.”
“Shut up,” snapped Tomas.
“What did you do with his body?”
“God, you’re mouthy.” He sighed. He turned a wheel on the imperiat, and, as if she were descending into cold seawater, her will abandoned her again.
“There,” said Tomas. “I rather like this. I wish more people had them. I could just turn them on or off as I pleased…”
Sancia lay limp and still on the operating table. Trapped in her body yet again, she silently screamed and raved — until she noticed that her head happened to be facing the far wall of the room, where the table with all the Occidental treasures lay.
It was hard to look without having any control over her eyes, but she did her best. She couldn’t tell much from the materials there — lots of papers, lots of books — but the lexicon-like box at the end of the table…that was interesting. It wasn’t exactly a lexicon — it wasn’t a hundred feet long and broiling hot, for one thing — but it did have what looked like an array of scrived discs running along its top, though the discs were horribly old and corroded.
Really, most of the box was falling apart, with one notable exception: there was a seam running around the middle of the box, and set in the seam in the front was a large, complicated, golden contraption with a slot in its center…
I know a lock when I see one, thought Sancia, looking at the gold device. And that’s a serious one. Someone didn’t want anyone getting into that thing — whatever it is.
Which, of course, made her wonder — what was inside? What could be so valuable that the Occidentals had made a device solely for locking it away?
And now that she thought about it — why did it look somewhat familiar?
Then she felt his hands. One on her knee, slowly slipping to the inside of her thigh and sliding up to her crotch. The other gripped her wrist, his fingers biting into her flesh and bone. “One hand gentle,” he whispered to her. “And one hand firm. That’s the wisdom of kings — yes?”
Sancia raged in disgust against the invisible bonds on her mind.
“I know you had the key,” said Tomas Ziani quietly. He kept massaging her thigh, kept throttling her wrist. “You opened the box you stole, you looked inside. You took the key, and used it to evade me. I’m sure you sent it over the balcony before we caught up to you…My question now is — where did it go?”
She felt cold as she listened to this. He’d known about everything — but at least he didn’t know where Clef was.
“I’m going to bring you back up,” whispered Tomas in her ear, his breath hot on her cheek. He released her wrist, and patted her thigh. “Try and bite me again, and I’ll enjoy myself with you. All right?”
There was a pause, and she slowly felt her will return to her. Tomas looked at her with cold, hungry eyes. “Well?” he asked.
She considered what to do. It was clear that Tomas was the sort of person who’d delight in killing her, just as a boy might torture a mouse. But she didn’t want to give away much of what she knew. Hopefully Gregor had gotten Clef off the campo — which meant maybe he also got to Orso, and they might be planning some kind of rescue. Maybe.
But how did Tomas know she was scrived? How could the imperiat detect the plate in her head? And worse — how had he known she was going to be in Tribuno’s office? Had the imperiat detected her? Or had they been betrayed?
“The air-sailing rig went back to the Dandolo campo,” said Sancia.
“Wrong,” said Tomas. “We know it touched down in the Candiano campo.”
“Then something went wrong. It wasn’t supposed to. It doesn’t matter anyway. Ofelia Dandolo is going to crush you like a bug.”
He yawned. “Is she.”
“Yes. She knows you’re behind this. She knows it was you who attacked Orso, and her own damned son.”
“Then why isn’t she here, defending you?” asked Tomas. “Why are you here all alone?” He grinned when she didn’t answer. “You’re not too quick with your bullshit, are you? But don’t worry — we’ll find whoever caught your package. The second you entered the Mountain, I had them shut all the gates. Whoever was helping you is still trapped here — and if they try and get out, they’ll be shot to pieces. If they haven’t already gotten killed, that is.”