'Thanks.' Skarnu chopped more wood in the morning, and the farmer fed him again. Never once, though, did Skarnu set eyes on the man's wife and whatever children he had. That saddened him but left him unsurprised. Things worked so these days.
He grimaced. Over by Pavilosta- not so far away- he had a child himself, or would soon. He wondered if he'd ever get to see it.
'Setubal!' the conductor shouted as the ley-line caravan slid into the depot at the heart of Lagoas capital. 'All out for Setubal, folks! This is the end of the line.'
To Fernao, newly arrived in the great city after months in the wilds of southeastern Kuusamo, that was true in more ways than one. He'd been staring out the window in astonished wonder ever since the caravan began gliding through the outskirts of Setubal. Were there really so many people, so many buildings, in the whole world, let alone in one city? It seemed incredible.
Leaning on his cane and carrying a carpetbag in his other hand, he made his way out of the caravan car. He knew no little pride in managing so well. His bad leg would never be what it had been before he was injured down in the austral continent, but he could use it. Aye, he limped. He would always limp. But he could get around.
Noise smote him like a bursting egg when he got down on the platform. 'Powers above!' he muttered. Had Setubal always been like this? It probably had. No, it surely had. He'd lost his immunity to the racket by going away. He wondered how- and how fast- he could get it back. Soon, he hoped.
Through the din, he heard someone calling his name. His head turned this way and that as he tried to spot the man. He looked for someone waving, but half- more than half- the people on the platform were waving.
And then he did spy Brinco, the secretary to the Lagoan Guild of Mages. They fought their way toward each other through the crowd, and clasped each other's wrists in the traditional style of all Algarvic peoples when they finally came face-to-face. 'Good to see you moving so well,' Brinco said. A grin stretched across his plump face. More often then not, Fernao knew, the jolly fat man was a myth. In Brinco, the clichй lived.
'Good to be moving so well, believe me,' Fernao told him.
'Let me take your bag,' Brinco said, and did. 'Let me clear a path. You follow along behind. A cab is waiting. We'll get you to the guild hall, and-'
'And Grandmaster Pinhiero will grill me like a bloater,' Fernao said. Brinco laughed at that, but didn't deny it. The secretary shouldered a man out of the way. Fernao was perfectly content to follow him. He got the feeling Brinco could have cleared a path through the icebergs that swelled from the shores of the austral continent every winter.
Absently, he asked, 'Do you know the name Habakkuk?'
'Aye,' Brinco answered over his shoulder. 'I also know you shouldn't, and that you shouldn't throw it around where others might hear it.'
'Since I do know of it, will you tell me more?'
'Not here. Not now,' Brinco said. 'Later, perhaps, should the Grandmaster judge that wise.' A skinny little fellow caromed off his chest. 'I'm so sorry,' he told the man, his voice oozing false sympathy. When Fernao tried to bring up Habakkuk again, Brinco didn't seem to hear him. His deafness was patently false, too, but Fernao couldn't do anything about it.
The cab had a closed body, but Fernao gritted his teeth at the racket that came through. He peered out the windows. Every so often, he noticed missing buildings or, a couple of times, blocks of buildings that had been standing when he left for the wilds of the Naantali district. 'I see the Algarvians still keep paying us calls,' he remarked.
'Aye, every now and again,' Brinco agreed. 'Not so much lately; they've sent a lot of the dragons they did have up in Valmiera west to fight the Unkerlanters.' He was some years older than Fernao, but his grin made him look like a boy. 'By all accounts, the dragons aren't helping them much there.'
'Too bad,' Fernao said.
'It is a pity, isn't it?' Brinco said, grinning still. But the grin slipped. 'By what I hear, we were lucky they didn't get the chance to serve us as they served Yliharma.'
'Not just Yliharma,' Fernao said grimly. 'They used that cursed magecraft against us, too, you know. That's why we haven't got Siuntio working with us anymore. If it hadn't been for him, I wouldn't be here talking to you now. None of the mages over there would be here talking to anybody now.'
'How did he- how did the lot of you- withstand that vicious spell, even in so far as you did?' Brinco asked.
'Siuntio and Ilmarinen rallied us,' Fernao answered. 'Siuntio… seemed to carry the whole world on his shoulders for just long enough to give the rest of us a chance. I don't know another mage who could have done it.'
Brinco grunted and gave him a sidelong look. For a moment, Fernao had trouble understanding why. Then he realized how he'd miffed the Guild Secretary: Siuntio, of course, wasn't a Lagoan. Fernao shrugged. For a long time now, he'd been the only Lagoan working on the largely Kuusaman project. They hadn't sneered at his blood, and he didn't care to sneer at theirs.
'Here y'are, gents,' the hackman, reining in in front of the great neoclassical hall that housed the Lagoan Guild of Mages. Still looking unhappy, Brinco paid the fare; Fernao had wondered if he'd be stuck with it. But Brinco carried his carpetbag up the white marble steps to the colonnaded entranceway, and seemed in good spirits as he led Fernao back toward Grandmaster Pinhiero's office.
The trip took longer than it might have. Fernao kept greeting and getting greetings from colleagues he knew. Once past greetings, though, conversations flagged. Fernao wasn't the only one who said, 'I wish I could tell you what I'm working on these days.' He'd heard half a dozen variations on the theme by the time Brinco ushered him in to see Pinhiero.
'Welcome home,' the Grandmaster said, rising and coming out from behind his desk to clasp Fernao's wrist. Pinhiero was in his sixties, his once-red hair and mustache mostly gray now. He wasn't a great mage; his name would never go into the reference books, as Siuntio's already had. But he had gifts of his own, not least among them political astuteness. After he poured wine for Fernao and helped him ease down into a chair, he asked, 'Well, is it what we thought it was?'
'No,' Fernao answered, which made Pinhiero blink. Fernao sipped the wine, enjoying the Grandmaster's discomfiture. Then he said, 'It's more- or it can be more, if we ever learn to control it.'
Pinhiero leaned forward, as a falcon might on catching sight of a mouse. 'I thought so,' he breathed. 'If it were less, they would have said more.' He blazed out a question as if it were the beam from a stick: 'Will it match Mezentio's foul magics?'
'In force, aye,' Fernao said. 'Again, though, the question is control. That will take time. I don't know how long, but it won't happen tomorrow, or the day after tomorrow, either.'
'And meanwhile, of course, the war grinds on,' Pinhiero said. 'Sooner or later, Lagoas and Kuusamo will be fighting on the mainland of Derlavai. Will these spells be ready when that day comes?'
'Grandmaster, I haven't the faintest idea,' Fernao answered. 'For one thing, I don't know when that day will come. Maybe you know more about that than I do. I hope so- you could hardly know less.'
'I know what I know,' Pinhiero said. 'If you don't know, I daresay there are reasons why you don't.'
Arrogant old thornbush, Fernao thought. But he'd already known that. Aloud, he said, 'No doubt you're right, sir. The other trouble, of course, is that no one has any sure knowledge of when the cantrips will be ready to use in war and not as an exercise in theoretical sorcery.'
'You had better hurry up,' the Grandmaster warned, as if it were Fernao's fault and no one else's that the project wasn't advancing fast enough to suit him. 'While you play with your acorns and rats and rabbits, the world around you moves on- aye, and at an ever faster clip, too.'
Fernao did his best to look wise and innocent at the same time. 'That's what Habakkuk is all about, eh?'
'One of the things,' Pinhiero said, and then, too late, 'And how do you happen to know of Habakkuk?'
'I would have trouble telling you that, sir,' Fernao answered, more innocently than ever. 'The world has moved on so fast since I heard about it that I've forgotten.'
