“Remembered what?” asked Berenice.
Gregor bowed his head. “I remembered…dying. I remember dying. When I…when I picked up the sword, and used it, and felt the blood on my face…It was like a dam broke open in my head. I always suspected my mother had given me some capability of…of resuscitating myself, or bringing me back, but…I finally got to see it. I got to see and feel myself returning from the dead.” He looked up at them, his cheeks covered with tears. “I was dead. I was dead. I was really, truly dead—and then I just wasn’t.”
Berenice covered her mouth in horror. “But…how did you come back?” she asked.
“I…I don’t know. Suddenly my wounds blurred, and then they were simply gone. It was like I’d been restored to some…some other version of myself. And I knew instantly that it wasn’t the first time it had happened to me, or the last. I mean…how many times has she let me die?”
There was a long silence. Sancia had no idea what to say.
“You need a physiquere, don’t you,” he said.
“Orso does, yes,” said Sancia.
“But you can’t go out. Not with so many people watching us.”
“I mean, I could, but…”
“No. People will be looking for us specifically. It’s too dangerous.” He let out a shuddering breath. “So. I should be the one to go.”
“What? You just said it was too dangerous.”
“It is. But not for me. Because I can’t…I can’t…” He looked at her pleadingly. “I mean, I’ll be all right, won’t I?”
She realized what he was suggesting. “Gregor! Goddamn it, I…I’m not going to ask that of you!”
“Orso needs a physiquere. He’s going to die without one.”
“But we are not suggesting you use the gruesome alterations that have been done to you to survive,” said Berenice. “We are not asking that of you, Gregor.”
“This is what I am,” he said. “We might as well use it for what it is. Maybe I could clear the way for you, I could take them out or…”
“Stop with the goddamn martyr bullshit!” snapped Sancia. “Now that we have Valeria, this would be the dumbest possible time to give up, or give in. All right?”
Gregor sighed deeply. “Then…what are we going to do about Orso? Or the people watching outside?”
Berenice stepped to the window. “Well. One of them appears to have walked to the gates.” She leaned forward, narrowing her eyes. “And they are…waving. At us.”
“What?” said Sancia. She and Gregor both went to the window.
She was right: there was a figure standing at the Foundryside gates, peering through the bars, and waving stiffly. At first Sancia couldn’t make out anything, but then the winds shifted and the countless floating lanterns danced, spilling rosy light across their courtyard—and she spied long hair tied back in a familiar severe bun, and narrow, shrewd eyes, and an unsmiling mouth.
“Polina?” said Sancia. “These are her people? What in hell is she doing here?”
They watched her waving for a moment longer. Then she lowered her hand and crossed her arms, waiting.
“I…suspect she wants to come in,” said Gregor. “Shall I, ah, let her?”
Sancia sighed. “Let’s find out what she wants. Maybe she has news.”
* * *
—
Gregor went to the gates, opened them a bit, and let her inside, flanked by the two armed men. Polina’s shrewd eyes danced about as she walked through the front door, taking in the three Foundrysiders and making careful note of the interior.
“What brings you here, Polina?” asked Gregor.
“Mostly,” she said, “I came to see if you lot were still alive.”
“What makes you think we wouldn’t be?” asked Sancia.
“Well, you tell me you’re off to do many dreadful things—and then suddenly the Mountain comes down, and there are tales of ghosts and devils battling in the streets outside your office…and rumors of Orso Ignacio, struck down and dying. I note that he is not among you now.” She looked at Gregor. “Is he slain?”
Gregor shook his head. “He lives. But he is gravely injured.”
“And you go to get a physiquere?” she asked. “A dangerous time to be out. The streets are swarming with bad men with many bad things on their minds. Some of my sources tell me that war has broken out between the Dandolos and the Michiels—something I’d never have believed—but others tell me these bad men are looking for a wine cart, last seen headed toward your firm.”
“What’s your point?” asked Sancia.
“My point is—you aren’t going to be able to go out for a cup of wine, let alone a physiquere.” She locked eyes with Sancia. “But I could get you one. If you were to ask it of me.”
Sancia watched her mistrustfully. “What do you want in return?”
“Nothing. Except to talk. Is that so much?”
Sancia sighed.
* * *
—
They converted the upstairs meeting room into an impromptu surgeon’s bay. Then they placed Orso on the table, shirtless and moaning, and Gregor held down his injured arm with a strap of leather. Two other men restrained his other limbs—his legs, his other arm—and sopped up the blood with bright-white linens while a large, sweaty, bald man delicately poured boiled water over Orso’s wound, studied it with a magnifying loupe, carefully picked out pieces of black detritus, and placed them in a wooden bowl beside him.
“We should go,” Polina said to Sancia quietly. “Eduardo is a gifted physiquere, but it is wisest to let him practice his trade in peace, without an audience.”
Sancia and Berenice followed her downstairs to the library. “What is it you have to say to us?” Sancia asked.
Polina thought about it, then took a small pack off her shoulder. “I have brought food,” she said. “Would you prefer to sup first?”
“Really?” said Sancia.
“Have you not yet realized that I have no taste for idle chat? Especially not now.”
Sancia glared at her, but then realized she was ravenously hungry—as well as still covered with dried muck from the Mountain. “Fine. Just let me wash up.”
A few minutes later they sat on the floor of the Foundryside library eating cold rice and lentils, and some decent but fairly old bread. Berenice ate with a shallow wooden spoon, but Sancia did not bother: she ate with her fingers, stuffing it into her mouth as fast as she could, not caring if she spilled.