Slate pinched the bridge of her nose and tried once more.
“Do they know what any of them do?”
“A few. One on the coast turns salt water to fresh water. One in Moldoban incinerates everything they put into it—they worshipped it as a god with human sacrifices for many years. Now it’s a waste disposal system.”
Slate chuckled into her tea, though she was pretty sure he wasn’t joking.
“And there’s one that, if you put in gold, turns it into fresh pears. I’m not sure how they figured that out.”
“What a waste,” said Brenner, who was lying stretched flat on one of the wonder-engine’s arms, like a big dark cat. He proppedhis head on his crossed arms. “Any of them turn fresh pears into gold?”
“Not that I know of. Although this one might, for all we know. We could try it, if we had any fresh pears.” He consulted his notes. “It seems inert to everything I’ve tried. It doesn’t respond to being fed rocks, grass, handkerchiefs, tea leaves, horse hair, human hair, gnole fur, copper coins, iron filings, leather, blood, saliva, semen—”
Slate put her hand over her eyes.Well, we can’t question his… ah…passion for science…
“—water, wood, fire, charcoal, potatoes, parchment, ink, fingernail clippings, bread—”
“Okay,” Brenner broke in, “I get the point. You don’t know what to feed it.”
“Do they all work like that?” Slate asked. “You put something in, and something else comes out?”
“Most of them. The incinerator is the only one that they’re not sure about, and it’s arguable that you’re putting something in and getting fire out.” He shook his head. “The authority on wonder-engines, ironically, is Brother Amadai. If we can find him in Anuket City, he will be excited to hear of this one.”
“Do you think we’ll find him?” asked Brenner.
“There is no value to despair,” said Learned Edmund primly. “We must hope.”
Brenner gave him a look.
The dedicate sighed. “He was known as an eccentric genius. He went to Anuket City after some ancient writings turned up in the markets there. His first few correspondences were full of notes, theories, addendums to papers, that sort of thing—and then they tapered off. For two years, there has been nothing.”
“Took you awhile to send somebody after him,” said Brenner.
Learned Edmund shrugged. “In truth, we thought he was probably busy and had forgotten to write.”
Brenner laughed.
Slate took another drink of tea. It was peppermint, laced with the last of their poppy milk. Her eye was caught by motion, and she gazed down the slope, to where Caliban was slicing at shadows again.
“Your big friend do that a lot?” asked the gnole.
“Do what?”
“Chop up air with that crazy big sword.”
“Temple knights of the Dreaming God are required to practice their swordwork for at least two hours a day when not on specific assignment,” said Learned Edmund idly, turning a page.
“No wonder they’re all so stiff,” said Brenner. He rolled over. “Anyway he’s not required to do that temple knight stuff anymore.”
“I wonder if he knows that,” said Learned Edmund.
“Mmm.” Brenner sat up and slid off the ivory wall, slouching off across the grass. Down the hillside, Caliban finished dismembering a shadow and had dropped to his knees in prayer.
“I hesitated to ask with our friend here,” said Learned Edmund carefully, “but you seem troubled, Mistress Slate.”
Slate glanced up, surprised.
“It is none of my business, of course.” He flicked an imaginary spot of dust off his sleeve. “But I have taken confessions for many of my brothers over the years, and if there is anything you wish to confide…well, I am good at keeping other people’s secrets.”
