image, tiny but perfect, appeared in the depths of the sphere.
“Master, the famous Lagoan navigator has just landed on the tropical continent,” she answered. Should some mage be tapping their emanations, that would confuse him.
Fortunately, it didn’t confuse Siuntio. His smile got broader. “Is that so? Were the natives friendly?”
“Everyone landed safe and happy.” Pekka cast about for a way to continue the improvised code, and found one: “He seems to have discovered the bigger part of the continent, not the smaller one.” That would tell Siuntio Ilmarinen’s more probable set of results looked to be true, not the less probable grouping.
In the crystal, Siuntio nodded. “And does the man who made the compass know what the navigator did with it?”
“Not yet,” Pekka said. “I wanted to tell you first.”
“You flatter me, but he should be the one to hear this news,” Siuntio said. With a wave of farewell, he broke the attunement between their crystals.
Pekka did call Ilmarinen then. She used the same phrases to get the news across to him as she had with Siuntio. He also understood them; she’d expected nothing less. But where Siuntio had seemed pleased with the news, Ilmarinen’s mobile features twisted into a scowl. “We’re so cursed good at finding answers these days,” he said morosely. “If only we could find the questions to go with them.”
“I don’t follow you, Master,” Pekka said.
Ilmarinen’s scowl got deeper. “Suppose I’m your grandfather,” he said, and put on a quavery old man’s voice nothing like his real one as he pointed to her: “Sweetheart, I’m running out of years. Can I take five from you? You won’t miss ‘em; you’ve got plenty left.” He resumed his natural tones to add, “We can do that now, you know. You’ve just shown us how. And will the rich start buying--or going out and stealing--years from the poor?”
Pekka stared in horror. All at once, she felt like burning her notebooks. But it was too late for that. What had been found once would be found again, sure as the sun would--briefly--rise tomorrow.
In the crystal, Ilmarinen pointed at her. “And I assume your spell used all convergent elements. It would have, with the setup you’d want to check things with your mice.” Before Pekka could correct him about the animals, he went on, “Try it with a divergent series--but calculate some of the possible energy releases before you start incanting. Powers above keep you safe.” He waved. His image disappeared from the crystal. Pekka began to wonder why she’d ever thirsted after abstract knowledge.
Cornelu was splitting lumber with an axe when he saw the Algarvian patrol trudging up the road from Tirgoviste town and its harbor. His grip tightened on the axe handle. What were King Mezentio’s men doing, coming up into the hilly heart of Tirgoviste island? Till now, they’d mostly been content to hold the harbor and let the rest of the island take care of itself.
He wasn’t the only one to have spotted them, either. “Algarvians!” Giurgiu called, and the rest of the woodcutters took up the warning.
“What do they want?” Cornelu demanded. “They can’t be looking for rebels.” He’d been looking for rebels ever since he splashed back up onto his home island. He’d found plenty of people who despised the Algarvian occupiers, but almost no one who despised them enough to want to pick up a stick and blaze at them.
King Mezentio’s soldiers seemed to feel the same way about that as he did. They tramped along in easy open order. Had irregulars been lurking in the woods, the Algarvians wouldn’t have lasted a heartbeat, but they had nothing to fear from woodcutters.
Their leader, a young lieutenant with mustaches waxed to sharp spikes, waved to Giurgiu. The big, burly lumberman took no notice of him. Cornelu snickered. Giurgiu didn’t love Algarvians; Cornelu knew that.
“You, there!” the lieutenant called. Giurgiu pretended to be deaf as well as blind. That was a dangerous game; Algarvians were famous for their short tempers. The lieutenant went on, “Aye, you, you great ugly lout!”
“Better answer him,” Cornelu said softly. “He’ll use that stick if you push him too far.”
Giurgiu looked up from his work. It was as if he were seeing and hearing the Algarvian officer for the first time. He made a better actor than Cornelu had thought he could. When he did answer, it was in upcountry dialect: “What you want, eh?” Even Cornelu, who’d grown up on Tirgoviste, had trouble following him. To the lieutenant, his words were likely gibberish, though most Algarvians and Sibians could understand one another with
