We’re getting closer, Ofelia whispered. You’ve done so, so, so well, Gregor.
A soothing, powerful joy filled his mind—it was so good to have done well, to do what was expected of him.
It was such a grand thing, to make war.
I would die for this, he thought. He looked up into his mother’s beaming face. I have died for this. And I will gladly die again.
Then the memory left him, and he knew no more.
17
“This thing is amazing,” said Berenice, studying the golden definition as they ran on through the halls of the Mountain. “I mean—it’s amazing.”
“It’d goddamn better be,” said Sancia. Her boots slapped wetly on the ground as they ran up and up through the dark stairways of the Mountain, back to the secret exit on the fourth floor. She’d wiped off much of the muck, but she knew she was going to reek for days.
“No, I mean…” Berenice held it up to her eye. “To access a hierophantic command, you have to first violate reality via the breaking of life, which allows you to briefly assert that you’re basically God Himself—and then you can snatch up one or several of the deeper commands.”
“So?”
“So, this little device…it does something similar, but it persuades reality that a lexicon is God Himself! It asserts that a damned rig is functionally the divine creator of…well, whatever little area it has influence over! Then you can issue whatever commands you want!”
“Holy shit,” said Sancia. “So, the dome we’re in now…”
“Yes!” said Berenice. “Reality in here believes, to a very slight degree, that the Mountain is the Creator of all reality! Yet it must be a very weak effect…That must be why Tribuno had to stack it six times over, just to make the Mountain powerful enough to perceive all the comings and goings within its barriers.”
Sancia glanced sideways at Berenice, who was clutching the little golden cone like a child with a brand-new toy. “Neat,” she said. “You remember Tribuno had to kill a guy to make that thing, right?”
Berenice blanched slightly and stowed the definition away. “I mean…Yes, of course, it’s just…Well, intriguing.”
<Sancia?> whispered the Mountain in her ear.
<Yeah?>
<Something is wrong…There are new men inside my barriers. Soldiers. Different soldiers.>
She slowed down. Berenice saw her and did the same. “What’s wrong?” she asked.
Sancia waved a hand at her to shush her. <What? Who? Who the hell could it be now?>
<I am not sure…These men are not in yellow, like the other soldiers, but rather are…purple?>
“The Michiels are here?” said Sancia aloud, recognizing the colors. <Mountain, are you su—>
There was a faint boom from the atrium. Berenice and Sancia jumped and looked at each other, surprised. They heard a distant screaming, more booms, and then an amplified voice, screaming at the Dandolos to stand down.
“Oh God,” said Berenice. “We’re in the middle of a campo pissing match, aren’t we?”
“Let’s just hope the goddamn Morsinis don’t show up and join the fray too,” said Sancia.
They sprinted up the stairs to the fourth-floor walkway. <Mountain,> said Sancia. <Where are Gregor and Orso? Are they alive? Are they all right?>
<They are in a hallway just off of my atrium. They are relatively all right. But these new soldiers…the Michiels. They have them now.>
“Shit!” whispered Sancia as they came to the fourth-floor walkway. They sank low, approached the balcony, and peered into the atrium.
Whereas before the atrium had been dark and dusty and still, now it was lit bright by many new lamps, and it was echoing with screams, cries, and cracks as bolts bit into the walls. A fully fledged battle was taking place there on the main floor between the Dandolo and Michiel soldiers: men were fighting across the atrium floor with rapiers, shields, and espringals—and since all of the armaments were scrived, the damage was nothing short of catastrophic. Whole columns had been carved away. Every wall was pockmarked like it’d been hammered by a meteor shower. And the floor was absolutely swimming with blood.
“I’m…guessing the Michiels want their shit back,” said Sancia.
Berenice sat up. “San—look!”
She pointed to one entrance by the main floor. Sancia squinted and saw two figures being led out of the hallway, their hands bound behind their backs. One was Orso, who looked as wet and miserable as a half-drowned rat—and the other was Gregor, who was covered in blood.
“Oh my God!” gasped Sancia. <Mountain—are you sure they’re all right?>
<Yes. The blood on your friend is not his own. He just killed three men.>
Sancia shut her eyes in despair, and leaned forward until her forehead rested on the railing of the balcony. “Oh no…Oh, poor, poor Gregor…”
“It…It looks like the Dandolos are losing,” said Berenice quietly. “The Michiels are mopping them up. They’re putting Orso and Gregor along the wall, and put lanterns all around them.” She looked at her. “San—how in hell are we going to get them out?”
Sancia sighed deeply. “I have no idea.”
* * *
—
Orso sat on the floor of the atrium, his hands bound tightly behind his back. At first he wished to complain, but then he noticed the number of Dandolo corpses lying about the atrium, victims of a variety of injuries—many heads, chests, and limbs had been unartfully removed by a scrived bolt or rapier—and he suddenly thought himself quite lucky.
Orso watched as a Michiel captain walked about the atrium, conferring with his lieutenants as the battle tapered off around them. He was a somewhat aged but still powerful man, his shoulders broad but his belly pressing at the limits of his cuirass, a pipe clutched in his teeth. He bore many scars on his arms and face, Orso noted, the mementos of many wars and battles. One hand was missing two fingers.
One of the soldiers walked up to him, said something, and pointed at Gregor and Orso.
Shit, thought Orso.
He looked sideways at Gregor, who appeared to be catatonic, his blood-spattered face fixed in an expression of deep grief.
“Gregor,” whispered Orso. “Can you hear me?”
Gregor did not answer.
“We can’t tell them about Ber and San. Just…try and get them to think we’re important so they take us prisoner to their campo or—”