Or at least, she hoped so.
Here we go.
She narrowed her eyes, took a breath…and flexed.
That was the only word for it, really. She knew the human brain didn’t have anything resembling muscles, yet when she wanted to use her scrived sight, it always felt like she was flexing something in her skull, tensing some ligament or tendon or muscle that would then open up…Well. Everything.
The world before her lit up with shimmering tangles of silver, seemingly woven into the walls, the doors, the lanterns, everything: the scrivings that were altering the individual realities of all the objects around her. Each time she looked at a tangle she saw its logic—the arguments and commands that were convincing these objects to disobey physics in very select ways. To see these knots of bindings was to see the hidden rules of the world itself.
Or that was how she’d come to think of it, at least. It was a bizarre thing, being able to literally see scrivings—even through walls, and the floor and ceiling, for her scrived sight wasn’t nearly as limited by physical obstacles as normal sight—but the really hard bit was describing it. How could she begin to describe the extrasensory? Since there was no one else alive with her talent—purely the result of the scrived plate installed in the side of her head—she had no one to discuss it with.
She glanced from scriving to scriving, peering closely. She saw many mad experiments and designs working away within the Hypatus Building around her, some quite astonishing.
The question was—which one was right for the moment?
Moretti led them down a long corridor, past a group of Michiel laborers pushing a cart full of boxes containing hundreds of tiny glass beads—but as Sancia studied them with her scrived sight, she saw they were actually miniature suns, like the ones she’d seen outside, and she instantly understood that this was a tiny, experimental version that would float throughout a room or a street in a cloud.
Ah. You’ll do nicely…
She studied the rigs as the cart approached. The crowd of scrivers stepped to the side for the cart of little suns, while the laborers muttered, “ ’Scuse us…Pardon…”
But Sancia waited a little longer than most. The cart slowed, and she had to push herself aside to make way…and as she did so, she placed a bare hand against the box.
The instant she made physical contact with the box of rigs, her mind lit up with a sea of tiny voices:
<We are the sun! We are the sun itself! When the sky cracks open and the sheath is released, we shall be as the sun, all of us suns, all of us drifting through the air, following our mark…>
Sancia listened as the tiny scrivings spoke to her in unison. It all happened in a flash—she was getting very good at conversing with rigs these days—but she knew she still didn’t have much time.
<Tell me what your mark is?> she asked the box of lanterns.
<Mark is the following thing, the point where we must go! We move all as one, following the mark, for what a joy it is to be the sun, what a joy it is to be the sun…>
She listened to the burst of information. The little orbs, it seemed, had been convinced to glow, and float—and to follow, like dogs on a leash. In the final version, you’d probably carry around some kind of signal—a ring, or a necklace—and the cloud of tiny orbs would float behind you, or around you. A spectacular effect, really. This had all been defined pretty well, but the scrivers who’d designed them had clearly struggled to define how the little suns should float: at what speed, and at what position, and so on.
<What happens if you hit a wall?> asked Sancia.
<We reverse course and attempt to return to correct distance from the marker!>
<Okay. And at what speed must you follow the marker?>
<…speed?>
<Yeah. You float, right? What speed do you float along at?>
A short silence.
<Undefined!>
<They never defined the speed at which you move?>
<N-No?>
<Then…how do you float?>
<Must stay within six feet of the marker at all times arrayed in constellation configuration!> the lamps chirped.
Sancia suppressed a grin. It wasn’t surprising that this rig’s scrivers hadn’t defined something so critical—it was a brand-new design, after all—but it was damned useful for her right now.
<And…how long is a foot?>
<Twelve inches?>
<Oh, no, no,> said Sancia. <They changed all that recently. Let me tell you…>
Rapidly, Sancia argued with the little lamps, disputing their concept of distance, asserting that a foot was actually a fraction of an inch. This would mean that when the lamps exited the box, they’d hurtle toward their “marker” at top speed, constantly trying to be ever-closer—but in doing so, they’d inevitably hit a wall, which would cause them to massively overcorrect their float positions.
Really, it was all almost too easy. But she’d gotten very, very good at this in the past three years.
<…and that’s how that works, got it?> she finished.
<We do!>
<And when are you going to do it?>
<In forty seconds!>
<Excellent. Thank you.>
She took her hand away. The voices went silent, and everyone continued on their way.
She exhaled. In real time, the entire exchange had lasted no more than two or three seconds. No one had noticed a thing.
Moretti took a left, then a right, then another left. “I would like to take this to the courtyard, Orso,” he said. “Just to see if it will work out of doors.”
“Of course.”
“Is there any issue with rain, or moisture?”
“I haven’t fully tested that…but I’ve no reason to imagine there would be…”
Sancia, still flexing her scrived sight, peered through the floors of the Hypatus Building, examining the scrivings behind the walls or under the floors.
Then she saw it—a giant, bright ball of glowing tangles several floors below her, one so intense it made her head hurt to see it…
The hypatus lexicon. The rig that housed all the experimental arguments the Michiels had ever made.
And there it is. That’s my target.
“You have quite the impressive installation here, Armand,” said Orso. “A lot cheerier than Ofelia’s.”
“Mm? Oh, yes,” said Moretti. “I can’t imagine what the Dandolo Hypatus Building is like. Probably papers and ink all over the place…and everyone in drab little roo—”