Shorefall

by Robert Jackson Bennett

  Sancia frowned at her. “Wait. Wait, wait. You’re…You’re trying to recruit me?”

  “Yes,” Polina said matter-of-factly. “I am. It is my belief that a gifted freed slave should use those gifts in freeing other slaves. Is that so mad?”

  Sancia looked at Gregor. “God, Gregor. You brought me here knowing she’d ask this?”

  Gregor’s face was unreadable. He gave her a small shrug.

  “Gregor knows what I am here to do,” said Polina. “He thinks our goals support one another—I assault from without, creating havoc in the plantations, while you and he and the rest of your little library assault from within. But while we may share aims, we cannot share you, Sancia, nor your gifts.”

  “And what would you put my gifts to?” asked Sancia. “Smuggling wine? Burning down plantations?”

  “Tevanne believes its strength comes from its scriving,” said Polina. “But the houses forget—they are still human, and even scrivers need to eat. With every field we take, or burn, we make Tevanne’s soldiers and scrivers and citizens hungrier and hungrier, and weaken their hold upon the world. But with you helping us, Sancia, we could break it. And besides”—a cruel gleam flickered in Polina’s eyes—“surely you can see the justice in inflicting the pain of famine upon the houses, just as they once inflicted it upon people like you and me.”

  Sancia looked at her for a long while. Then she glanced sideways at Gregor, who sat watching her with that curiously closed look on his face.

  Then she thought of the vision: the thing in black, floating in the desert…

  “I’m needed here,” she said.

  “I appreciate that sentiment,” said Polina. “But think. When you were still in bondage, did you not dream of an emancipator? Someone who’d burn down your walls and dash your chains to pieces? You could be that, Sancia, for so many. And that won’t happen with your bloodless revolution.”

  “You don’t know what we’re up against,” said Sancia. “And I’ve still got to try.”

  The two of them held each other’s gaze.

  “If things were different, Polina,” said Sancia, “I would join you in a shot.”

  Finally Polina sighed, and sat. “I see,” she said. “Then thank you, Gregor, for bringing her to me, at least. I hope you consider it further, Sancia.” She was silent for a long time. “Now—what is this information you’re after?”

  Gregor rubbed his hands along the sides of his beard—an easy tell that he was anxious. “You still have your spies among the Dandolo fleet, I assume?”

  Polina’s face was as blank as a stone wall.

  He looked around at the crates. “I see several new shipments, which suggests you were able to evade their patrols…”

  “And what is it you wish to know?”

  “I wish to know if there has been anything…unusual recently. A shipment here, to Tevanne. It might be secret, or there might be something secret on board. It would be set to arrive very soon, perhaps. And it would be a Dandolo ship, coming from the plantations.”

  She looked at him incredulously. “What a tremendous heap of vagueness. So—you know nothing specific of what you’re asking about?”

  “I know when it would arrive,” he said, “what kind of ship it is, and where it would come from. Beyond that, I was hoping you might know more.”

  Polina opened her mouth to make another comment—but then paused. Sancia thought she spied a gleam of worry in her eyes.

  “What is it?” asked Gregor.

  “A ship from the plantations,” she said quietly. “An unusual one…”

  “What do you know, Polina?”

  “Why are you asking about this?”

  “Because we had someone warn us that something very bad was being sent here,” said Gregor. “And we would prefer it not make it. What do you know, Polina?”

  “I see.” She rubbed her chin, then gave them a reluctant stare, her iron-gray eyes hard and cold. “We take special care to track shipments of slaves, as you can expect. But there was one report I had just recently that…troubled me.”

  “How so?” asked Sancia.

  “A ship arrived at the plantation of Cefalea just three days ago,” said Polina. “But not a normal one. A Dandolo galleon. A huge ship of war. We couldn’t understand what such a ship was doing at this little plantation, but…then, to our surprise, the Dandolos stopped all labor on the island, marched all the slaves onto the galleon, and sailed away.”

  Gregor and Sancia stared at her, perplexed. “They shut down the whole plantation?” said Gregor.

  “Yes,” said Polina.

  “And they took the slaves?” said Sancia.

  “Correct. At least a hundred of them”

  “Where were they sailing to?” said Gregor.

  “We don’t know,” said Polina. “It hasn’t arrived at any of the ports in the plantations yet. It’s a galleon, so it is not speedy. But I did receive a message that it had been sighted passing Ontia—one of the westernmost of the isles.”

  “It’s coming here, then,” said Gregor.

  “Possibly, but…that doesn’t make sense,” said Polina. “Slaves are not permitted in Tevanne proper. Not when you have so little space and so many magics to do your labor for you.”

  Sancia and Gregor were silent, but they exchanged a worried look.

  That’s it, thought Sancia. That’s got to be this artifact—whatever it is.

  “What do you know?” demanded Polina. “What is this about? What do they intend to do with those people?”

  “I don’t know,” said Gregor. “Honestly. I don’t. But you must tell me, Polina—when do you think this galleon will arrive?”

  “Arrive here, in Tevanne? The idea that it might is mad, but…if this is truly the ship’s destination…” She stopped to think about it. “It could be here before tomorrow morning.”

  “One day,” said Gregor. “By God. One damned day to prepare for…” He shook his head. “Thank you. We must go.”

  They started to wind their way out of the labyrinth while Polina followed them.

  “What are you going to do?” said Polina.

  “I’m not sure,” said Gregor.

  “Is there even anything you can do? It’s a merchant house galleon! Such a ship is…it’s like a floating city! Even our own vessels don’t dare approach it!”

  Gregor did not answer as they began to exit the tent.

  Polina grabbed him by the arm. “You owe this to me, if nothing else. What is this? What’s going on?”

  “We still barely know ourselves,” said Gregor.

  She peered at his face. “But you look frightened. And that’s something I’ve never seen in your face before. Be honest. Is it your mother?”

  “Yes,” he said. “I think so.”

  Sancia looked back and forth between them. Although her mind was still overburdened with the memory of Valeria and the prospect of what might be sailing across the Durazzo to them now, she couldn’t help but feel a sense of intimacy to this exchange—one she had not expected.

  Polina released him. “Then go.”

  Gregor touched his fingers to his forehead and bowed to her. Then he and Sancia turned and walked away from the Slopes, back to Old Ditch and to Foundryside.

  * * *

  —

  “That’s got to be it,” said Gregor. “A merchant house galleon making for Tevanne…What else would they use to transport the first of all hierophants?”

  “But why take all the slaves?” said Sancia. “Is it cover of some kind?”

  “I’ve no idea,” said Gregor. “Why would they need cover? Who else is going to be watching Dandolo ships for something as mad as this?”

  They turned a corner. By now Old Ditch was fully awake. A man in a filthy Papa Monsoon costume was haggling with an old woman selling
stripers from a giant cauldron. Gray monkeys howled and jabbered from the eaves of a nearby rooftop.

  “Why didn’t you tell me what she was going to do?” asked Sancia. “That she was going to try to recruit me?”

  “Because the decision was yours to make,” he said. “It would feel distasteful for me, a Tevanni, to counsel a freed slave on the morality of fighting to free other slaves.”

  “How’d you know what I’d choose?” she asked.

  “I respect Polina’s fight, and her methods,” he said, “but…a hierophant is several orders of magnitude more pressing than the plantations, for better or worse.”

  “You seem to know a lot about Polina.”

  Gregor said nothing.

  “So,” said Sancia. “You and her. You, uh…”

  “I am not obliged to tell you everything about my life, Sancia,” said Gregor.

  They continued the rest of the way without a word.

  7

  “So…it’s true,” said Orso quietly in the Foundryside library. “Valeria wasn’t lying. Ofelia really is bringing…bringing him here.”

  Sancia glanced around. The Foundryside library was always quite full, but it seemed unusually crowded today, with dozens of scrivers roaming the bookshelves, pulling out designs or tomes and spreading them out on the tables for review. It seemed utterly insane to be discussing this subject right now while all these young men—even in the Lamplands, female scrivers were extraordinarily rare—quietly went to work around them.

  “Yes,” said Gregor. “Though apparently there will also be around one hundred slaves on the ship with him, or it, or…whatever the appropriate terminology is.”

  “Though I’ve got no idea why Ofelia Dandolo would want that,” said Sancia.

  “I mean…what, are they going to make the slaves build something?” said Orso. “I thought the hierophants didn’t need slaves—they had all kinds of tools. Hell, we barely need slaves, we jus—”

  Berenice exhaled slowly and sat back in her chair, her face filled with a look of horrified revelation. “Oh God…”

  “What is it?” asked Gregor.

  “I think…I think I might know why.” Berenice looked at Sancia, shaken. “What was it Estelle Candiano wanted to do during the night of the Mountain? She wanted to kill off her entire campo as some kind of massive sacrifice, and use it to make herself a hierophant.”

  “Oh shit,” Sancia said. “So you think…”

  “I think resurrecting the first of all hierophants probably requires a…a significant sacrifice,” said Berenice. “It must require you to access incredibly powerful privileges…”

  “They’re going to kill all the slaves?” said Orso, horrified. “All for some kind of ritual?”

  “The bigger the violation,” said Berenice, “the bigger the permissions you gain…”

  “And the lives of slaves are worth nothing to a merchant house,” said Sancia.

  Gregor’s face twisted. He walked away and stared out the window for a moment, fuming. He took a breath, got control of himself, and returned. “We have to stop that ship before it ever reaches Tevanne,” he said lowly. “Before it gets to my mother. Before she or any of her filthy scrivers can do this horrid ritual and kill so many innocent people.”

  “Not to mention resurrect a goddamn hierophant,” said Orso.

  “Assuming all this is like a normal hierophantic ritual,” said Berenice, “if the word ‘normal’ could ever even apply…it’d need to take place at midnight, during the lost minute. That’s the only time such a level of world-breaking could ever be possible.”

  “So we intercept it well before then,” said Gregor, “to ensure there’s no chance they can complete it. Even on the high seas.”

  “Wait, wait, wait,” said Orso. “This is a scrumming merchant house galleon we’re talking about. It carries around its own foundry lexicon! One damned galleon can power a fleet of ships! You want to, what, buy a sailboat or a carrack and zip out there and take it down with angry glares and rude language? Who do we know who has any experience with things like that?”

  Gregor politely cleared his throat. They all looked at him.

  “You?” said Berenice. “Gregor—have you ever seized a ship before?”

  “Ah…well, never a galleon,” he admitted. “I did participate in the seizure of two carracks and a caravel in the Enlightenment Wars, though. And the caravel was at port, so it didn’t really count…”

  There was a beat of silence.

  “All right,” said Orso. “So. We have Gregor. But he alone can’t exactly help us against a scrumming galleon! We’ll not only need a ship, but where are we going to find a tool that could possibly be of use against what’s essentially a giant scrived weapon?”

  “Well,” said Sancia. “We do have me.”

  There was another beat of silence.

  “Okay,” said Orso. “Another good point. This is all coming together, apparently! But how are we going to get you on it?”

  Berenice shot to her feet. “I have an idea!” she said. “Give me a moment or two.”

  “To do what?” said Orso.

  “To do what? We have the pooled knowledge of hundreds of scrivers right behind us! I can think of a dozen designs that could be useful here!”

  “But searching the stacks could take hours!” said Orso.

  “No, no!” said Berenice. “I remember exactly where they are!” Which was probably true, Sancia thought. Berenice had a marvelous talent for memorization: that was what had made her such a talented fabricator and scivoli player.

  “Water…” Berenice said to herself, thinking. “And processing, and steam…Yes! I have it!” She turned and vanished into the stacks of the library.

  “I will go and secure us a vessel,” said Gregor. “I assume I can dip into the Michiel payment for this?”

  “God Almighty,” sighed Orso. “Four hours ago, I was dead drunk, victorious, and passed out in my bed. Now we’re off to spend our winnings to wage war on giant ships and ancient personages! I’d give ten times the Michiel money just to turn back the clock!” He put his face in his hands. “Take what you need and go, I suppose.”

  Gregor strode away. Orso and Sancia stood in the library staring wearily at each other.

  “I should not have drunk that rum last night,” said Orso.

  “And I shouldn’t have touched that wine,” said Sancia.

  “But I believe we’re now going to have to do something neither of us wants to do,” said Orso. He looked at her, his face grim. “I think it’s time to dig up the horror in the basement.”

  * * *

  —

  Orso grunted with exhaustion as he brought the pickax down again. Its point bit into the stone corner of the basement with a high-pitched ting!

  “I wish…” he gasped. He brought it down again—ting! “That we…” Ting! “Had not sent Gregor…” Ting! “Away.” Ting! He leaned against the pickax, his chest heaving and his face covered in sweat. “I mean, this is really his kind of job, isn’t it?”

  Sancia sipped weak cane wine from a flagon and watched him impatiently.

  “Why did we bury this thing in cement, again?” asked Orso.

  “Because we wanted to make it hard as hell for us to dig it back up again. Keep going.”

  “Oh, Lord…Take me now.” Orso swung the pickax down again and again.

  “What do we know about what he can do?” asked Sancia.

  “Who, Crasedes?” asked Orso. “Well. We know he could move things about without having to touch them, including himself—I assume that’s how he could fly, at least. Beyond that, we have little more than stories.” Another smash of the pickax. “Tales of him popping out of nowhere. Tales of him manipulating light, water, air, time,…and death, of course.”

  “Like what Ofelia’s going to attemp
t. Resurrection is just manipulating death, right?”

  Orso shook his head and brought the pickax down once more. “There are stories of Crasedes dying dozens of times and bringing himself back one way or another. Pleasant trickster tales where he pulls one over on Papa Monsoon, or whichever personification of death you prefer. If those are true, then whatever they’re about to attempt now seems different.”

  “Why?”

  “Because it’s taken him a thousand years to come back?” Another ting! of the pickax. “Death wasn’t a problem for the Crasedes of the old stories. This sure seems like it’s been a hell of a problem for him.” Ting! “I assume it has something to do with your golden friend…You say they fought a war—maybe she injured him.”

  She thought of how Valeria had flickered in the dark. “And maybe he injured her too.”

  “Two damaged titans.” Ting! “And it’s the hurt ones that are the most dangerous. A monkey with a broken leg’s more likely to bite you than a hale and hearty one.” He set down the pickax, wiped sweat from his brow, and studied the shallow hole at his feet. “How many strokes are we at for you?”

  “One hundred and seventy-four.”

  “And for me?”

  “Thirty-nine.”

  Orso moaned. “The damned ship will get here before we’re done…”

  “Oh, get out of the way!” said Sancia. She stood, took the pickax from him, and began hammering away at several times the speed, the tooth of the pickax biting deeper and deeper.

  “Show-off,” muttered Orso. He drank greedily from the flagon.

  She brought the pickax down again and there was a curious crunch sound. They looked at each other, then knelt and peered into the hole.

  “It’s there!” said Orso. “I can see it!”

  “Move while I clear the rest of the stone,” said Sancia.

  A dozen strokes later and the cement crumbled away. Orso reached down and pulled something from the depths of the hole.

  It appeared to be a small iron box, about large enough to contain one shoe.