The First Book of Ore: The Foundry's Edge

To my D. G. Jeanette, who followed the kite
—CB

For Tali, forever my Papagena, who never doubted me
—BZ

Copyright © 2014 by Cameron Baity and Benny Zelkowicz

Cover design by Marci Senders

Cover illustration © 2014 by Jon Foster

All rights reserved. Published by Disney
•
Hyperion Books, an imprint of Disney Book Group. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without written permission from the publisher. For information address Disney
•
Hyperion Books, 125 West End Avenue, New York, New York 10023-6387.

 

ISBN 978-1-4231-7917-7

 

Visit www.DisneyBooks.com

 

Cam & Benny would like to thank: Julie Kane-Ritsch and Eddie Gamarra at Gotham Group for their tireless work and inspiring support. Allison Binder for her sparkling wisdom and counsel. Kevin Lewis for taking a chance on our dream. Marci Senders for her impeccable eye. Maggie Begley for her insight and tenacity in promoting our passion. Jamie Baker, Andrew Sansone, and the entire publicity crew who helped this book set sail. All of our friends and family, who encouraged us every step of the way, devoting their time and resources through the marathon of years that went into this book.

he man in the fog was watching her. He was across the street, just outside a pool of street light, standing as still as the ghostly birch trees that surrounded him. At first Phoebe dismissed it as an odd combination of shadows, perhaps created by rays of porch light streaming through the bronze gates of Plumm Estate. But the longer she stared, the more the stranger seemed to peel out of the gloom.

Phoebe parted the shimmering drapes and pressed her nose against the window to get a better look. From her third-story bedroom, she could just barely make him out: a sharp black suit and bowler hat, a pale face with a thick curving mustache, and round black spectacles like two holes punched in his face.

What could he be doing at his hour? Bird-watching? Stargazing? Maybe he was planning a heist. If so, he wouldn't get past the top-of-the-line security system her father had installed. It would certainly be a hoot to watch him get caught and see all the servants running around in a frenzy.

Still, the stranger was unsettling. Who wears dark glasses at night anyway?

Nobody, Phoebe Plumm realized with a sigh. There was no intruder. No stranger down there at all, just her imagination swirling in the mist. The most exciting thing she usually saw on her nightly watches was a tomcat scuffle or a sudden whirlwind of leaves, so she was left to invent things huddling in the dark for her own entertainment.

Phoebe didn't sleep well anymore, so she often gazed down from her twelve-foot-high picture window in the murky hours before morning. She watched with the hollow hope that a flare of headlights might sweep up the hammered-steel driveway. The last time her father had returned from one of his business trips, he arrived at four in the morning, and Phoebe was downstairs and in his arms before he could get his bags out of the trunk.

This was his longest trip yet—three months, nearly four. So Phoebe maintained her vigil, waiting every night for him to return.

She rubbed her bleary eyes and glanced out the window again. Just as she expected, the stranger was nowhere to be seen. He'd probably never been there at all.

Phoebe ran a finger across the greasy smear her nose had left on the window, just the sort of thing that got Mrs. Tanner's apron in a bunch. She placed a dozen handprints on the glass for good measure.
Hopefully the old cow will take her frustrations out on Micah,
she thought.

She yanked the silver curtains closed and padded across her enormous bedroom. Platinum sconces crafted to look like palm fronds glowed with a cozy light, illuminating when Phoebe passed. As she approached a shiny door, she heard the pleasant hum-click of precision machinery, and the shutters automatically withdrew like graceful fingers to reveal her Carousel.

It was a cavernous chrome closet with concentric, mechanized rings that bore hundreds of outfits. Phoebe tapped an oval pedal neatly inlaid into the floor, and the Carousel began to rotate in a swooshing parade, showcasing each garment beneath a soft spotlight. Phoebe watched vaguely as her clothes whizzed past, metal filigreed fabrics sparkling like fireworks. It took five whole minutes to cycle through them all. Finally Phoebe made up her mind, released her foot from the pedal, and the Carousel eased to a stop. A slender hydraulic arm unfolded and presented the chosen outfit to Phoebe—a cream-colored silk shirt decorated in darts of copper mesh.

Selecting a skirt was easier, since she wore the same one pretty much every day. The gray diamond-patterned fabric was fraying at the hem, and it was so big on her she had to cinch it in place with a belt of interlocking metal triangles. Phoebe knew the girls at the Academy whispered about her ratty old garment, but she couldn't care less.

Within its pleats, Phoebe had sewn secret compartments that contained her arsenal: a little coil of wire, a tube of Speed-E-Tak cement, a needle and thread, a small vial of machine oil, a bent nail, and a handful of other odds and ends. This was her sniping skirt.

It felt like home, a relic from so many of her memories, worn so often that it was velvety soft to the touch. Phoebe's cheek had caressed this skirt a thousand times when she was a kid. It had belonged to her mom, whose familiar scent used to linger in the fibers. But that was long gone.

She slipped into her clothes and took a look at herself in the full-length, oval mirror. Phoebe had inherited her father's long, almond-shaped face as well as his lanky build. Her wispy limbs and slender hands were okay, but she loathed her big awkward feet more than anything. And she was too tall for a twelve-year-old, teetering over most of her classmates, so she always slouched a bit to compensate.

Phoebe slapped some pink into her pale cheeks. Though her pinched mouth and needle-straight eyebrows made her look stern, her eyes were a luminous honey brown that exuded tenderness, a weakness she hid behind choppy dark bangs.

Her haircut was pretty much a disaster, with the left side trimmed in a clean line that grazed her shoulder, and the right side bobbed short and jagged. Mrs. Tanner had insisted on styling it the other day, and Phoebe had hated the result. So she had taken a pair of scissors to it herself, roughed one of the sides, and removed all the drab symmetry. It didn't look good, exactly, but at least now it was
her
haircut.

Phoebe swept her ragged locks behind her ears and pushed the button on her octagonal jewelry box, which bloomed open like a mechanical rose. Inside, a dozen different Trinkas dangled from hooks, each sparkling with tinted precious metals and lacey ornamental carvings. Ever since the Foundry had introduced these little mechanical pets, Trinkas were fashion necessities. Phoebe chose a plump one covered in soft gold bristles with a big happy mouth, emerald eyes, and bouncy appendages. When she held the Trinka at her throat and turned the key, the device extended two of its limbs and gathered them loosely around her neck. Giggling adorably, the Trinka swung back and forth like a necklace with a mind of its own.

Phoebe wrinkled her nose. She had worn this model for the last few days, delighting in its joyful swings, but today she found it dull. She rifled through the top drawer of her dresser, already crammed with unopened gadgets and gizmos, and stuffed the fuzzy Trinka among them. Its muffled giggles faded as the mechanism wound down.

She selected another Trinka from her jewelry box and ripped off the tag. This one reminded Phoebe of a tiny octopus. It had teddy bear eyes and four paddle-shaped tentacles beneath a bulbous silver head. When she pushed a hidden button, ruby light glowed from within the Trinka, making the paper-thin metal shell appear translucent. The light exposed infinitesimal clockwork innards, pumping and tittering, pulsing like a heartbeat.

The Trinka sprang into the air, somersaulted in place using its spinning tentacles to stay aloft, and then landed in Phoebe's hand with a soft chime of bells. It clung to her wrist like a bracelet as its light faded, leaving the surface opaque and reflective again. Phoebe approved.

She grabbed a strawberry-flavored Honeygum for later and slipped it into her skirt pocket. The sparkly beehive container was small and easy to hide, and she liked the challenge of pouring the syrup into her mouth without getting caught by her teachers. Better yet, chewing the candy goo once it thickened helped pass the time during the dull day.

Phoebe put on a pair of low-heeled black shoes with silver straps and snatched her gray, bell-shaped hat. She unlocked the embossed platinum doors and slipped into the dark corridor. A distant clatter of activity rang down the hallway, the sound dampened by the brocaded carpet.

She gazed up at the triangular skylights set into the vaulted copper ceiling. Even though dawn was barely starting to blush the sky, the servants were already bustling about downstairs. The smell of fresh muffins filled her nostrils as she descended a marble and gold staircase, each step carved to look like a feather, and entered the lavish dining room.

As always, Phoebe's breakfast was waiting on the burnished brass table that was as long as a shipping freighter. Today's selection included mini Parmesan quiches, blackberry pancakes, pork hash, and cinnamon toast. Mrs. Tanner always griped that Phoebe was malnourished, but really she was just never hungry. And she hated sitting at the monstrous table all alone, staring at the repeating patterns of shells and parallel lines in the metallic wallpaper until her eyes crossed.

Phoebe filled a cup with black coffee, popped a piece of cinnamon toast on a saucer, and headed for the veranda. Today was sure to be a scorcher, and she wanted to breathe some fresh air before it got unbearable outside. She slunk past the open door of the kitchen, which rang with clanging pots and pans, the hiss of an automatic Dish Wand, and the chatter of a Televiewer.

A shriek of laughter made Phoebe flinch. The cackle belonged to the chef, Mr. Macaroy, and she peeked in to see the commotion. Mrs. Tanner was scolding a maid, who had evidently done something that tickled the fancy of the hyena-like chef. Mrs. Tanner's sausagey arms were jiggling with every gesture, but Phoebe couldn't hear her sputtering because the Televiewer in the corner was playing the news at full blast.

“…and the nation of Trelaine, prominent member of the growing so-called Quorum, has made its threats very clear. In his recent address to the Council of Nations, Premier Lavaraud said his patience was at an end. ‘Should Meridian continue to hinder trade and withhold critical exports, she will find herself looking down the barrel of a gun.
'
”

The tall nickel-framed screen showed a severe man with a slick helmet of hair and a long scowling face. It cut to footage of some recent protest overseas, uniformed soldiers on horseback confronting angry citizens. Trelaine's capital city was in the background, a clot of hulking buildings beneath a miserable sooty sky.

Ignoring the dull drone of the news, Phoebe made for the filigreed door that led outside. She braced herself for a snap of cold morning air but was met instead by tepid mush. The city was in the grips of a heat wave, and summer was creeping up. Phoebe loathed the heat, but she would endure the perpetual sun of the Azsuri Crescent if it meant a few months of freedom from the Academy.

Birds sang cheerfully as she sat at a silver table draped with a silk tablecloth and laid her breakfast down. Phoebe sipped coffee and nibbled at her toast, gazing out upon the vast courtyard of herringbone-patterned hedges and titanium fountains.

Plumm Estate sat atop a huge terraced hill, situated perfectly to take in the wonder of Albright City, capital of all Meridian. It signaled to Phoebe like a grand beacon, a horseshoe of gleaming skyscrapers that wrapped around the semicircular bay. A suspension bridge extended from the center of the horseshoe to a solitary island teeming with high-tech smokestacks, warehouses, gargantuan factories, offices, and shipping docks. They were so densely packed that from afar it looked like the circuit board of an enormous Computator.

This was the Foundry—the apex of technology, the epicenter of innovation.

And soaring above the bridge, brighter than everything else, was the Crest of Dawn. It stole Phoebe's breath every time she saw it. The Foundry's magnificent logo was the pinnacle of this famous skyline, towering higher than the tallest building in Albright City and marking the only entrance to the island. Held aloft by two titanic columns on either side of the bridge, the Crest of Dawn was a sculpted sunburst thousands of feet high, an explosion of glittering beams erupting in glorious metal fire.