“At least four dozen, ma’am.”
“I want three dozen up here,” said Estelle. “Two dozen in the hallways, and a dozen in here with me. I’m the target—me, or the antiquities.” She pointed at the desk, upon which sat the box, the imperiat, and the key, along with dozens and dozens of books and other artifacts. “And we can’t move all those now. So we have to be ready.”
“I see, ma’am,” said Riggo. “I’ll deploy your orders immediately.”
* * *
Above the campo, Sancia screamed.
Screaming was all she could do, really. So many of her higher levels of thought had just been abruptly obliterated by the sudden acceleration, the raging press of the wind and the reek of smoke, that she could only react to her situation in the dumbest and most instinctual of ways—which meant screaming.
She was rising so fast, so damned fast. She blinked tears out of her eyes, and saw she was already far, far, far above the city. Too far, really—and she also wasn’t going anywhere close to the Mountain.
If I don’t stop this thing, she thought, I’m going to sail past the damn clouds!
Sancia placed both hands on the plate and tried to tell it to slow down.
<Hi!> squealed the rig. <I am maintaining FLOW and MASS position as previously indica—>
<Additional position for MASS!> Sancia screamed at it.
<Excellent! Super! What is additional position for new MASS?>
<New position is there!> She mentally directed the rig at the Mountain.
<Great!> chirped the plates. <And DENSITY, and STRENGTH of FLOW?>
<Whatever will get me down gently!> said Sancia.
<Need specificity of STRENGTH of FLOW!>
<Ohh…Shit. Uh, twice as much as Earth’s regular gravity?>
<Got it!>
Their ascent slowed, but not much.
<Increase STRENGTH of FLOW by twenty percent,> she said.
<Okay!>
Their ascent slowed more.
<Another twenty percent,> she said.
<Sure!>
Then her ascent stopped…and she slowly started being redirected toward the Mountain, lightly drifting down to the huge black dome.
She’d have to make more adjustments to make it there, she knew. But she was getting the hang of this. The gravity rig was incomprehensibly powerful—probably more powerful than Estelle’s version, since Berenice had left out all the calibrated controls. If Sancia screwed up the directions or the power too much, the thing would basically be a devastating weapon.
But then, she had been counting on that.
Quietly, gently, she sailed toward the Mountain.
* * *
“Ma’am!” called a soldier. “Something’s coming!”
Surrounded by a dozen soldiers, Estelle Candiano peered through the gaps in their shoulders at the office windows. “Something?” she said.
“Yes, ma’am! I…I think I saw something flying through the sky?”
Estelle glanced at the clock on the wall—twenty minutes to go. She’d need only one minute to do this, the lost minute between one day and the next. That was what her research had indicated—you made yourself powerful while the world had its back turned on you.
“That might be them,” she said. “Get ready.”
The soldiers prepared themselves, checking their weapons, unsheathing their swords. Estelle looked down at her father, lying in the bed beside her. Her fingers gripped the golden dagger, sweat running down her temples. She was so close. Soon her knife would pierce the breast of this wretched, thoughtless man, and start a chain reaction that would…
She cringed. She knew what would happen—it would kill most of the people on the Candiano campo. All the scrivers, all the merchants, all the workers who’d labored under Tomas, and, before him, her father…
They could have stopped this, she thought angrily. They knew what Tomas was, what my father was. They knew what these men had done to me, to the world. And yet they did nothing.
She looked up through the round window in the roof of her father’s office, and then she saw it—a tiny black dot, sailing across the face of the moon
“That’s it!” she cried. “There it is! I’ve no idea what it is, but it’s got to be them!”
The soldiers looked up and took positions around her.
“Come on,” said Estelle, staring up. “Come on! We’re ready for you, Orso. We’re ready for y—”
Then the doors to the office exploded behind them, and all hell broke loose.
Estelle did not initially understand what was happening. She just heard a scream, and then droplets of something warm rained down on her. She blinked, looked down at herself, and saw she was covered in blood—apparently blood from someone on the other side of the room.
She dumbly turned, and saw something had erupted into the office…maybe. It was hard to see in all the darkness, which seemed to cling to the thing like moss to a tree branch. But she thought she saw a man-form in there—and she definitely saw a huge black polearm snap out from the depths of that darkness and slash one of her soldiers from shoulder to chest, sending another wave of blood splashing over her.
Her soldiers shouted in rage and charged the shadow-man. The shadow-man leapt toward them with terrifying speed and grace—and as he did, Estelle saw the hallways beyond. She saw they were covered in blood, and the headless corpse of Captain Riggo lay ravaged and mutilated on the floor.
“Oh hell,” said Estelle. She dropped to the floor and crawled to the desk with the artifacts.
* * *
Gregor Dandolo did not think. He could not think. He did not need to think. He only moved.
He moved within the lorica, directing its momentum, its gravity, allowing it to hurtle him through the huge office. He flicked his right arm out, the telescoping polearm extending with a liquid grace, like the tongue of a frog stretching for a dragonfly in midflight. Its huge, thick blade cut through a soldier’s raised arm and the top half of his head like they were made of grass, and the man collapsed.
Get to the Mountain, said the words in Gregor’s mind. Kill the woman. Get the box. Get the key. Destroy anything that tries to stop you. The words echoed over and over again inside of him, until they became him, forming the sum of his soul.
Gregor was still flying through the air, so he twisted his body, reaching down with his leg to scrape the toes of one boot along the floor. He artfully drew himself to a stop, standing in the middle of the office, surrounded by soldiers. He stood in the huge war machine, breathing hard, felt scrived bolts clacking and clicking as they uselessly bit into his armor. He knew that the greatest threat to a soldier in a lorica was the lorica itself: use it poorly, and it would destroy you, literally tearing you apart. Use it well, and you could destroy nearly anything.
He slapped a soldier aside with his shield and slashed forward with his polearm. I have done this before, he kept thinking, over and over again. It was one of the few thoughts his mind could process. I have done this before. Many, many times before.
He whirled and dodged and ducked and cut through the soldiers with balletic ease.
I was made for this, he thought. I was made for war. I was always, always, always made for war.
This fact was written within him. It was as inarguable as the heaviness of stones, as the brightness of the sun. He knew this. He knew this was who he was, what he was, and what he was to do in this world.
But although Gregor Dandolo could not truly think, could not really process anything resembling a genuine thought, he was forced to wonder, absently and dreamily…
If he was truly made for war, why were his cheeks hot and wet with tears? And why did the side of his head hurt so, so, so much?
He stopped and took stock of the situation. He ignored the whimpering old man on the bed—he was no threat—but as he fought, he looked for the woman, the woman, always the woman…There were two soldiers left.
One raised an espringal at him, but Gregor leapt forward and batted aside the man’s body with his shield, sending him crashing into a wall. His polearm flicked out and gutted the man before he could even hit the floor. The second solider screamed and ran at Gregor’s exposed back, but Gregor extended his shield arm, pointed the bolt caster, and released a full volley of scrived fléchettes into the man’s face. He crumpled to the floor.
Gregor retracted the polearm. Then he looked around the office. There seemed to be no one else except for the whimpering old man on the bed.
Get to the Mountain, he thought. Kill the woman. Get the box. Get the key. Destroy anything that tries to stop you.
He saw the box and the key sitting on the desk.
He walked over to the desk, shook off the glove holding his polearm, and let the weapon fall to the floor. Then he picked up the big golden key.
As he did, he heard a clicking sound behind the desk.
Gregor leaned forward, and saw: the woman was there—Estelle Candiano. She sat huddled on the ground, adjusting some device—it appeared to be some kind of large golden pocket watch.
He raised his shield arm, aiming the bolt caster at her.