‘What would I not give for one of the farspeakers of old,’ said Xervish heavily.

‘What were they?’ Nish had never heard of such a thing.

‘A way of talking from one side of Lauralin to the other. Golias the Mad invented them near three thousand years ago, using special crystals and wires.’

‘What happened to them?’

‘He was assassinated to get the secret, but the spark soon went out of the crystals and no one else could make them work, or find the source of them. Golias was a mancer and no doubt some great spell drove the farspeakers, but the spell and the secret died with him. If we had them now …’

‘I don’t see how it would help us,’ said Nish.

‘And you an artificer!’ Xervish walked off in the direction of the refectory. Nish followed.

The scrutator selected baked vegetables, steamed millet and a small piece of poached fish from the trays, ladled the fiery red sauce called yalp over it, and carried it to a table. Nish took a small bowl of candied pears and another of rose-petal tea, since he’d already dined.

‘If you would explain, surr,’ Nish said tentatively, standing by the scrutator’s table with his bowls.

‘Sit down, lad!’ Xervish ate quickly, using the old-fashioned eating sticks rather than fork and knife. His table manners made Nish cringe but he made allowances – his scribing days had taught him that what was ill-mannered in one place could be required behaviour in another. Besides, the scrutator was of another age, and he could decide Nish’s fate with a snap of his fingers. And yet, Nish sensed that here was a man much more flexible than his father. A man always prepared to listen.

Xervish dipped his finger in the water at the bottom of the steamed millet. A few grains stuck to the twisted digit. On the tabletop he drew a series of arcs to show the coastline, a sweeping curve that was the line of the Great Mountains, the linked ovals of the inland seas of Tallallamel and Milmillamel and, between the seas and the mountains, the wilderness of lake and forest that made up the frigid lands of Tarralladell and Mirrilladell.

‘We are here.’ The scrutator stabbed a finger at the eastern end of the mountains. ‘The seeker said south-west, which could mean anywhere along this line. But if … if we had a farspeaker, and could speak with another seeker a long way away …’ his finger wandered across the seas to land on the other side, ‘… say, here, at Drow, and if that that seeker could find Tiaan, say, a little east of north …’ He drew a line in that direction until it intersected the other line. ‘There she is!’

Nish was stunned. The idea was so simple, so obvious, yet he had never thought of it. His respect for the man went up.

Xervish swept his hand across the surface, obliterating the marks. ‘But of course we don’t have farspeakers, and even if we did, how would we explain to the other seeker how to sense out Tiaan, one particular person in millions? It is, I’m afraid, quite impossible!’ He stood up.

‘If we were to move our seeker, it would serve the same purpose.’

Xervish sat again. ‘Nice thought, boy, but how would we do it? She’s got to travel a long way, quickly. The sight lines must cross at a large angle otherwise it’s useless. We can’t go fast enough, especially not at this time of year.’

‘What if we put her on a ship?’ Nish said excitedly. ‘In a week we could be a hundred leagues down the coast, if the weather was with us.’

‘But we’d be going away from Tiaan. By the time we got back she might have moved again. We’d still be months away from her.’

Nish sat with head in hands. There had to be a way. ‘If only we could fly, like the lyrinx that carried her away.’

‘We mancers have been searching for that secret for four thousand years,’ said the scrutator. ‘We’ve never even gotten close.’

‘But the lyrinx …’

‘They have wings, boy!’ Xervish growled. ‘And even their wings won’t hold them up on our world without such expenditures of the Secret Art as few can maintain for an hour. Their wings were designed for the void. Trying to fly on Santhenar has killed more lyrinx than all our armies together.’

‘Ullii could not speak for hours after the lyrinx flew away with Tiaan,’ Nish said thoughtfully.

‘Ullii was lucky. It must have been using such power, it’s lucky her mind was not burned.’

‘Could we make a wing flier, like the one they carried Tiaan away with?’

‘I’ve had the best mechanicians working on that idea ever since you came back,’ said Xervish. ‘It was little more than a glider such as any school child might make. We can build one, though not strong enough to carry anyone bigger than you. We can launch it from a mountain, and maybe it will fly for five leagues, or ten. But what happens when it lands in the wilderness? The pilot dies because we can’t find him. And it’s fatal in any sort of wind. No, Nish, without some means of powering it, it won’t work.’

‘What about a special controller, like those used in clankers?’

‘We’ve thought about that too. Clankers have legs; the controllers make them walk. How do we get your machine to fly? We can’t walk on air.’

‘Paddles?’

‘Also tried. It was too heavy. It’s a good idea, artificer, but beyond our skills.’

Nish spent the afternoon on his bed, thinking that there had to be a way. Only one flying device had ever been mentioned in the Histories – the famous construct Rulke the Charon had designed in his long imprisonment in the Nightland. But the construct had been destroyed after Maigraith used it to cross the Way between the Worlds to Aachan, taking Rulke’s body home to his people, more than two hundred years ago. No mancer had ever seen inside the machine, and Rulke had left no description of it. Another secret that had died with its maker.

How could humans fly, without wings or a powered glider, or some incomprehensible force like the construct? He puzzled over that for the rest of the day; then, no closer to a solution, he decided to have an early night for once.

Nish roused toward the middle of the night with an answer. It came from a game he’d played with his brothers and sister when he was a child. They’d made bags out of scraps of paper glued together with flour and water paste, held them upside down over the fire and bet which one would fly up the chimney on the hot air and furthest across the yard.

Nish, being the youngest, had never won, but had kept making his models long after the other children lost interest. The primitive balloons were unstable, tipping over and falling back into the fire more often than they’d gone up the chimney. Then Nish hit on the idea of suspending a tiny weight on threads below the bag. His first balloon had floated straight up the chimney, across the backyard and landed in the next street.

Having succeeded, Nish had lost interest in balloons. Now he began to wonder. Leaping out of bed, he began to sketch furiously. Shortly he was banging on the scrutator’s door.

‘Surr, surr!’ he cried.

After considerable muttering and cursing the door opened. The scrutator stood there, completely naked, in the light of a single candle. The rest of his body was as gnarled and twisted as his fingers, while scars criss-crossed a torso so lean that every bone could be counted, every sinew traced. What torture had the man suffered?

‘What the hell do you want?’ snapped Xervish.

‘I have the answer, surr! A balloon powered by hot air.’ He held out his sketches.

Xervish snatched them, muttering, ‘Bloody fool!’ He stared at the papers for a full minute, stepped back and slammed the door in Nish’s face.

Nish shrugged. It was after midnight. He went back to bed. He’d done all he could.