Ironfoot scowled and took the gauge from him. "You're not holding it quite right," he said, demonstrating. "It needs to be held as far from the body as possible, so your own re doesn't affect the readings. See?"
The intensity gauge was something Ironfoot had developed in his own student days, working under the Master Elementalist Luane, who had almost single-handedly invented the field of inductive thaumatology. The instrument consisted of a brass tube, about the height of Ironfoot's waist, with a silver tip on one end and a series of graded markings lining the outside of the tube. Inside was a silver plate, opposite a plate of cold iron. In the absence of re, the silver and iron plates nearly touched, their natural repulsion negligible. But when the tip was applied to an object or creature that was imbued with the magical essence, the silver plate repelled the iron plate in proportion to the strength of the field, moving a needle along the graded markings. Ironfoot was more than a little proud of it.
He handed the gauge back to the student, who seemed relieved when he and Armin continued on their way. He knelt to inspect a few of Beman's readings: Each item, from the tiniest pebble to the largest section of wall, had been marked with runes designating the direction and intensity of re embedded in it. All food for the map.
Once everything had been marked, all the data cross-checked and analyzed for errors, and the artifacts corrected for the many interlocking auras of re that permeated any Fae city, then Ironfoot's work could begin in earnest. Fortunately for him (though clearly not for the citizens of Selafae), the blast that had destroyed the city was massive, its reitic force so potent that it had nearly annihilated any background essence that existed in the city before its impact.
Ironfoot was eager to have this done. Eager to solve the problem and move on. Solving problems was what Ironfoot did. The specific problem didn't usually matter to him, so long as it was interesting and got him out of the city. But this one was different. This one would linger.
Once the map was complete, then, he would return to Queensbridge, and would perform what he sincerely hoped would be the greatest feat of investigative thaumatology to date: He would reverse-engineer the monstrous magic that had destroyed an entire city in an instant. He would recreate the Einswrath weapon using only its aftermath as a guide.
And after that? Then what? Would anything seem as important after this? That part of him that was the source of his anger and impatience was singing to him again lately, as it had more and more often over the last few years: time to move on.
He and Armin continued their walk, listening to the sounds of the instruments clinking against the rubble, and the light conversation of the students at their work. Someone was singing an old, sad Arcadian hymn:
The tune was haunting and lovely, and it struck Ironfoot that what he was strolling through was not simply a project, not merely a research site. It was a massive graveyard, a charnel house of unprecedented proportions. Those white bits of debris scattered among the torn-up cobblestones were not pebbles-they were fragments of bone.
He left Armin with one of the students who had a question about an anomalous reading and continued walking, careful not to tread on anything other than dirt.
Ironfoot was a scholar, but he had at one time been a soldier as well, and these echoes of violence stirred thoughts of revenge and aggression that he liked to believe belonged to his younger self. The drive to win that had never quite left him. And there was no good that could come of thinking about that.
So he pushed it away, all of it. There was work to be done, and he had no time for his old regrets.
When Ironfoot returned to his tent an hour later, there was a middle-aged nobleman waiting for him, holding a cloth over his face against the smell. Armin was nervously preparing tea over the small camp stove.
"A Lord Everess to see you, Master Falores," said Armin.
Everess bowed slightly toward Ironfoot. "A pleasure to meet you, Falores. A genuine pleasure."
He wasn't the first noble to come sniffing around the site. Most wanted a tour of the wreckage and a brief talk with Ironfoot regarding his theories about the weapon. Some of them appeared to have genuine concerns about the Einswrath weapon, though some others seemed to have come out of nothing more than ghoulish curiosity. He couldn't tell from looking at him which one Everess was.
"The pleasure is mine, Lord Everess," said Ironfoot, with the requisite deeper bow. "How can I be of service?"
Everess smiled. "Ah," he said. "That's the question, isn't it?"
"It's certainly the one I just asked," said Ironfoot.
"A scholar, and a wit as well." Everess smiled. If he was insulted by Ironfoot's somewhat insolent comment, it didn't show. "I can see that you're a busy man, so I'll be as direct as possible. Come walk with me, won't you?" He picked up a walking stick that had been leaning against his leg and pointed outside.
Ironfoot took Everess through the camp to the edge of the crater, and waved him forward. "This is the best place to go down," he said.
"Oh, I don't need to go down there," said Everess. "I've been here once before, the week after it happened. Once was enough for me, I can assure you."
Ironfoot was stymied. "Sorry, Lord Everess, but if you're not here to tour the site, what is it you're here for?"
"You," said Everess. "I'm here about you, Master Falores."
"Please, call me Ironfoot, sir. Most everyone does."
"Indeed," said Everess. "Well, where can we walk where it doesn't smell like a tannery and we may speak in private?"
"In the mornings the wind comes from the north; it smells nice down by the river."
"Lead the way," said Everess. "Ironfoot."
They walked down the path toward the river, to the spot where the team did their laundry. The river snaked around the wreckage of the city to the north, and Ironfoot headed in that direction.
"You're a very interesting fellow, you know," said Everess. "A study in contradiction, as they say."
"Thank you, sir," said Ironfoot. "I like to think myself unique."
"A shepherd's son from a tiny village who managed to parlay a single tour in the Gnomic War into an admission to Queensbridge. And now here you are years later, a respected thaumaturge, and a tenured professor at the most prestigious university in all of Faerie. That's beyond interesting. That's damnably impressive."
"Thank you," said Ironfoot. "Though fortune played a large part in it."
"Fortune only takes one so far," said Everess. "You've got a fine mind and you're a fine soldier."
"I don't mean to be critical, sir, but I'm well aware of who I am and what I've done. May I ask what it is you're leading up to?"
Everess laughed, a barking noise that made Ironfoot uncomfortable. Ironfoot smiled in return.
Everess let his smile fade. He looked out over the river. The light from the rising sun behind them skipped across its surface. "I'm aware of what it is you're doing here, what it is you're trying to accomplish," he said.
"Is that so?"
"I also know that the dean of your college at Queensbridge thinks it's impossible, and is attempting to have the project suspended."
"It's expensive," said Ironfoot. "And for all I know it may come to nothing."
"For all your talent, son, you're not the best politician."
"Not something I've ever aspired to be."
They came to a steep rise in the path, and Everess stopped talking for a moment to pick his way up it, using his walking stick to climb. When they reached the top he stopped, admiring the view. The ruined city was behind them, and the river valley below them was farmland, much of it gone fallow now that the city it once fed was gone.
"Do you know what my position is, Ironfoot?" asked Everess.