is that?” If Ilmarinen told him the reason he was bound to fail, perhaps he wouldn’t.
But Ilmarinen did no such thing. He came up and waggled a forefinger under Fernao’s nose. “Because you will not find anyone here who knows anything, or who will tell you if he does. And so, you may as well turn around and go back to Setubal.” He waved a mocking good-bye.
“Can’t I eat supper first?” Fernao asked mildly. “I’d gladly have you as my guest in whatever eatery you choose.”
“Going to quibble about everything, are you?” Ilmarinen returned. But for the first time, he seemed amused with Fernao rather than amused at him. Stooping, he picked up one of the bags at the Lagoan mage’s feet. “That may possibly be arranged. Suppose you come with me.” And off he went. Fernao grabbed the other bag, slipped its carrying strap over his shoulder, and followed.
He had to step smartly; Ilmarinen proved a spry old man. For a moment, Fernao wondered if the Kuusaman was trying to lose him and make off with the bag--it was the one in which he’d brought what little sorcerous apparatus he had. He didn’t think Ilmarinen could learn much from the stuff, but Ilmarinen wouldn’t be able to know--he didn’t think Ilmarinen would be able to know--that in advance.
As they were leaving the large, crowded depot, the Kuusaman theoretical sorcerer looked back, saw Fernao right behind him, and said over his shoulder, “Haven’t managed to make you disappear, eh?” Was he grinning because he was joking or to hide disappointment? Fernao couldn’t tell. He didn’t think Ilmarinen wanted him to be able to tell.
Fernao looked around. Yliharma wasn’t one of the great cities of the world, as Setubal was, but it stood in the second rank. Buildings towered ten, some even fifteen, stories into the air. People dressed in almost as many different styles as they would have been in Setubal crowded the streets. They hurried into and out of fancy shops, sometimes emerging with packages.
As most Kuusaman towns did to Fernao, it all looked very homelike--except that he could not read any of the signs. He spoke Sibian and Algarvian, Forthwe-gian and classical Kaunian. He could make a fair stab at Valmieran. The language of the principality next door to his own kingdom, though, remained a closed book.
“Here,” Ilmarinen said, stilrin. Kaunian, after they’d walked a couple of blocks. “This place isn’t too bad.” The words on the sign hanging above the eatery were unintelligible to Fernao. The picture, though, made him smile: it showed seven reindeer in princely coronets, sitting around a table groaning with food. He followed Ilmarinen inside.
In Priekule, the capital of Valmiera, the waiter would have fawned on his customers. In Setubal, Fernao’s hometown, he would have been more stiffly servile. Here, he might have been Ilmarinens cousin. He addressed Fernao in singsong Kuusaman, a mistake made all the more natural by Fernao’s narrow, slanted eyes--Lagoans, though primarily of Algarvic stock, had some Kuusaman blood in them, too. Fernao spread his hands. “I’m sorry,” he said in Lagoan. “I don’t speak your language.”
“Ah. That makes you easier to gouge,” the waiter answered, also in Lagoan. His grin, like Ilmarinen’s, might have meant he was joking. On the other hand, it might not have, too.
The menu also turned out to be incomprehensible Kuusaman. “Three specialties here,” Ilmarinen said, now deigning to speak Lagoan himself. “Salmon, mutton, or reindeer. You can’t go too far wrong with any of them.”
“Salmon will do nicely, thanks,” Fernao answered. “When I was in the land of the Ice People, I ate enough strange things to put me off them for a while.”
“Reindeer is better than camel, but have it as you will,” Ilmarinen answered. “I’m going for the mutton chop myself. Everyone calls me an old goat, and this is as close to eating my namesake as I can come without horrifying the Gyongyosians.” He waved to the waiter and ordered for both of them in Kuusaman. “Ale suit you?” he asked Fernao, who nodded. Ilmarinen turned back to the waiter, who also nodded and went off.
Fernao said, “I shouldn’t think offending the Gyongyosians would worry you, not when Kuusamo is fighting them.”
“Because we’re fighting them; they’re too easy a target,” Ilmarinen replied, which made an odd kind of sense to Fernao. The waiter returned with a large pitcher of ale and two earthenware mugs. He poured each one full, then left again.
“Good,” Fernao said after a sip. He looked across the table at Ilmarinen. “It struck me as odd that none of the top theoretical sorcerers in Kuusamo has published anything lately. It struck Grandmaster Pinhiero as odd, too, when I pointed it out to him.”
“I’ve known Pinhiero for forty years,” Ilmarinen said, “and he’s so odd himself, it’s the normal that looks strange to him.” He studied Fernao. “I’m too polite to explain what that says about you.”
“No, you’re not,” Fernao said, and Ilmarinen laughed out loud. After another sip of ale, Fernao went on, “And I had expected to see Master Siuntio, not you.”
