Then the doors burst open, and a rich, plummy voice cried, “Orso Ignacio! It has been a dog’s age, hasn’t it!”
The Foundrysiders turned to see about twenty richly dressed men pouring into the room. They all looked carefully arranged, not a hair out of place nor a wrinkle in their robes. Many had their faces painted in intricate lines and patterns—a common affectation of the city’s elite. Even the ones who had affected a fashionably disheveled look had clearly done so with great care and deliberation.
The foremost was a tall, thin man who positively radiated smug satisfaction. His white-painted face featured gold rings around his eyes, and his robes were open down to his navel, showing a taut, sculpted torso that was dark and curiously oiled.
“Armand Moretti,” said Orso in tones of false cheer. “It’s so good to see you…”
Orso walked up, hand extended. It was like watching him approach some kind of bizarre mirror: on one side was Orso, tall and unkempt with mad eyes and unruly hair, every inch of him bony and spindly like he sometimes forgot he had a body he needed to take care of; and on the other side was Armand Moretti, hypatus of Michiel Body Corporate, who was about the same size and age, but he looked like the sort of man who occasionally bathed in milks to keep his skin in good condition.
“So good of you to come, Orso!” Moretti said, shaking Orso’s hand. “And so happy that I could help you out. How long has it been since you started your firm? One year? Two?”
“Almost three, actually,” said Orso.
“Really? Has it been that long? I’d have thought from your state of things it’d been less. Well, I’m always eager to extend a supportive hand to those of us from the older days, yes?”
“Ah—yes,” said Orso, who was clearly trying to manage this naked condescension.
Moretti glanced at the rest of them, and did a double-take when he saw Berenice. With a twirl of his robes, he approached her. “Ah! And…who is this beguiling creature you’ve somehow tricked into laboring for you?”
“This is Berenice Grimaldi,” said Orso flatly. “Our chief of operations.”
“Is she? I must say, she is far more pleasant to look at than our chief of operations…”
“It is an honor to meet the famous and renowned Armand Moretti of Michiel Body Corporate,” Berenice said, bowing.
“And polite too,” said Moretti, reaching out to touch the side of her face. “I assure you, the pleasure is all mine.”
Sancia had stayed quite still until this point, but she found all this a little much. She walked up behind Berenice, her hands in fists—but Berenice waved her off, her hands clasped behind her back.
Sancia exchanged a look with Orso. We need to get this show on the road, she thought, before I lose my temper and stomp this dumb asshole’s head into pudding.
Moretti’s eyes moved to Sancia, and he paused, taken aback. She wasn’t surprised by his reaction. Short, scarred, with a nearly shaven head and drab brown clothing, she knew she resembled something like a rogue monk—and she definitely didn’t look like anyone Moretti ever had to meet.
She watched as his face worked. “And…” he said. “And…this is…”
This is why I prefer thieving instead of confidence games, thought Sancia. When thieving, they don’t get to look at you.
Gregor stepped forward. “This is Sancia Grado, our chief of innovation. And I am Gregor Dandolo, chief of security.” He bowed.
“Ah, yes!” said Moretti. “The famous Revenant of Dantua. Such a catch, to have you working out in the Commons for Orso’s little shop. It’s so delightfully transgressive, I’m sure your mother must be tearing her hair out.”
Gregor allowed a tight, contained smile and bowed once more.
Moretti clapped his hands. “And today we shall see your famous strata box, yes? Your new lexicon technique?”
“Yes,” said Orso, unlocking the chest and throwing it open. He pulled out a giant, thick tome and set it on the table. “We have all the scriving definitions and protocols here for you to review. These we will hand over after the demonstration. Most of them will make better sense when you’ve seen how they’re actually used.”
An older Michiel scriver with a thick lisp—something Sancia thought was an affectation—said, “And this is the technique you used during the night of the Mountain? The one that allowed you to use the gravity tool, and attack the Candianos?”
Orso paused, clearly unsure what to say. Though it was true that this technique had allowed them to effectively destroy one of the four merchant houses of Tevanne, the Foundrysiders had just assumed this would be a rather sensitive subject among the remaining three, and decided to avoid it.
And yet…the Michiel scrivers didn’t seem bothered at all. They watched Orso with expressions of mild interest, like awaiting news of whether or not someone’s cousin was getting married.
“Uh, yes,” said Orso with a cough. “That is correct. Though it is a more refined version.”
“Fantastic,” said the scriver, nodding. “Fascinating.”
“You mustn’t think you can’t talk candidly here, Orso,” said Moretti. “They were a competitor of ours, after all. Thanks to you, we were able to acquire much of the Candiano enclaves for a song.” He poured a glass of wine and raised it to them. “Including the Mountain.”
“Oh,” said Orso, flustered. “Then…we will proceed with our wo—”
“Don’t you wish to confirm the payment first?” asked Moretti.
Orso froze, and Sancia instantly knew why: he had forgotten about the money altogether, and was wondering if this had given the game away.
“Uh, of course,” Orso said. He bowed. “I did not wish to impose.”
Moretti grinned, drank his wine, and snapped his fingers. A servant boy walked forward with a small wooden chest. “Don’t be concerned. Sixty thousand duvots is no imposition at all.”
The servant boy opened the chest. The Foundrysiders stared at the piles of golden and silver duvots within.
Scrumming hell, thought Sancia. That is the most money I have ever seen in my goddamn life.
But she remembered what Orso had told her—The hell with the money. If we do this right, we’ll walk away with something more valuable than every gold candlestick and scriving rig in the Hypatus Building put together.
Yet it looked like Orso was having trouble remembering this too. “Very good,” he said in a strangled voice. “Thank you, Armand…”
“Certainly,” said Moretti, clearly pleased to see his effects at work. The servant boy shut the chest with a snap and took it away to the corner.