The Escapement by K. J. Parker Page B

his head, like sawdust on spilled blood.
    From time to time he wasted a sheet of paper trying to write the letter. The clerks learned to stay out of his way on such occasions.

    Iosao Phryzatses, chief scout. As the door opened, he was expecting to see a spare, weatherbeaten man in worn buckskin and knee-length boots. Instead…
    "Thank you for finding the time to see me," he heard himself say. "I'm sure you're very busy at the moment."
    The little round man frowned, very slightly. "No, not particularly," he said, and stood perfectly still next to the empty chair, until Psellus remembered his manners and asked him to sit. He sat down— expertly , there was no other word for it. The slightest of movements, and he'd gone from a man standing to a man sitting. Psellus was tempted to make him stand up, just so he could watch him do it again.
    "Now then," he said, trying to sound brisk. "Your latest report." Phryzatses nodded, another tiny movement, then went back to being perfectly still. He was dressed in ordinary City clothes, plain but brand new and of the best quality of cloth allowed for that particular cut under Specification. His shoes glowed.
    "The situation at Vassa," Psellus said. "I don't suppose you remembered to bring—"
    Before he had a chance to finish the sentence, Phryzatses' rather chubby hand vanished inside his jacket and came out with a slim brass tube, which he tapped smartly on the edge of the desk. Out of one end popped the edge of a roll of paper. He teased it out with his precisely trimmed fingernails, unrolled it and smoothed it out with the side of his hand. "The map," he said.
    "Thank you." Psellus reached for it, glanced at it. He had trouble with maps.
    "That's north." Phryzatses touched one edge of the paper with his fingertip.
    "Ah, yes."
    The whole idea of maps was somehow disconcerting; because how could you possibly draw one? You'd have to breed giant eagles whose backs you could ride on, to get up high enough to see. Otherwise, he couldn't figure out how it was possible. It'd be like drawing with your eyes shut (though he believed that was possible, too).
    But never mind. "So this is the river," he heard himself say, "and these must be the new roads they're building. Sorry, where's the iron mine?"
    "Weal Calla," Phryzatses said. "There, look."
    "Oh, I see, that sort of star shape is a mine." Psellus frowned, aware that he probably wasn't making a terribly good impression. But that didn't matter any more, did it? "So this must be the silver mine here. What's the scale, by the way?"
    "An inch to a mile." From inside his coat, Phryzatses produced a small, elegant pair of callipers, Pattern Ninety, with an incised calibrated scale. Psellus took them and twirled them about for a bit, to show willing. "Thank you," he said. "So much easier if you've got a map," he lied. "Now, you said in the report, about these new buildings here…" He touched the little blobs which he took to represent the buildings with the leg of the callipers. "I take it…"
    "The new buildings aren't actually shown on the map," Phryzatses said. "What you're pointing at is a string of dew-ponds, as you can see from the key at the bottom. There's a little number seven, look, and—"
    "Ah, yes." He didn't bother looking. "So these new sheds would be…"
    "Here."
    A fingernail, pressed on a piece of paper. Psellus looked at it anyway.
    "And you believe," he said, "that these sheds are where Vaatzes is building the siege engines."
    "It seems likely." Phryzatses settled back into his chair. It was a perfect fit, tailored. "That's only an inference, of course, drawn from the proximity of the existing waterwheels at Nine, the furnace complex at Five"—oh, I see, Psellus realised, he's talking about the little numbers drawn on the map—"and the barracks at Three. As to whether production is actually under way, I have no information as yet. The sheds would appear to be complete, but it seems logical to suppose that it will take him a