The woman let out an incredulous half-snort, half-chuckle. "A hundred and—" she started, then cut herself off. "Don't be ridiculous. I assume you mean to imply that they're all combinations of the four base elements in varying proportions, or something like that? It's been theorized before."

Oliver glanced over to Maester Pietri, who hadn't said a word yet. He was studying him with his head cocked, a gleam of academic avarice in his eyes.

"No," Oliver said. "In fact, you've got it backward. What you conceive of as the four elements are actually combinations of the hundred-odd true elements. Earth, for example — it's made of small bits of metal, dirt, wood, flesh, and many other things. What you call water is made up of multiple elements, and so too is air."

The woman opened her mouth to challenge this claim, the annoyance on her face accentuated by her severe, angular features, but Pietri cut in. "I assume you have a means to prove this theory, Thuris? Your claims are, after all, quite particular."

"Of course I do," said Oliver. "In fact, if my theory is correct, it should result in enormously more efficient methods of spell casting. But I start at the level of the physical. There are a number of basic physical demonstrations that I've — we've — concocted, which are trivial proofs of the theory."

"Indeed," murmured Pietri. "And, as you say, Manichan's Conjecture does posit that the cost of a spell is inversely proportional to the accuracy of the caster's understanding of the underlying nature of reality. But this is an unproven and little-known theory. Are you, perhaps, a student of his?"

"I am not," said Oliver, sensing that the conversation was turning in a dangerous direction. "I'm merely a humble student of reality."

"Enough with the false humility. My patience is at an end." snapped the woman. "Why should we listen to you? Which university do you hail from? Who is your teacher? Spare us the pretense of your dirty rags, else acknowledge that you are nothing more than a grifter reaching beyond his station."

"Peace, Maera, peace." said Pietri, glancing at her. "I would know more of this theory. If Thuris wishes to conceal his identity, so be it."

"As I said, I can provide some trivial physical proofs," said Oliver, "starting with the proof that air is a physical substance, and not merely a void of the other elements."

"Oh?" Pietri's bushy eyebrows crept up his forehead.

"For example," Oliver went on, "what do you suppose would happen if you were to upend a glass jar and place it down upon water? If the element of air were merely a void, surely water would quickly fill the jar."

"I… don't know," said the Maester. "I must say, though, it seems odd that you would construct a theory of high magic upon the banal mundanities of interactions between the material elements."

"And perhaps that is precisely why your existing theories have met with dead ends," Oliver said, allowing a note of heat to enter his tone, implying an underlying excitement, a passion. "You are turning to magic to explain the physical world, which I would suggest is perhaps a greater handicap than you realize. For are not the capabilities of your magic based on an understanding of the physical?"

As he talked, Oliver realized that perhaps he'd not so much allowed the excitement to come through as much as recognized that it was already there. Magic. The potential was undeniable.

"I concede the point," said the Maester, smiling beneath his beard. He too had sensed it. They were kindred spirits, two birds of a feather, pursuing knowledge for its own sake, excited merely by the potential. This passion for understanding was what had initially driven Oliver into his career as an engineer, and he had not left it behind when he came to this world.

"I'll tell you what," said the Maester. "I'm staying at the Mare and Foal for the next day and a half, at the end of which time I'm due to return to Corlais. Dine with me there tonight, and we can have a more in-depth discussion. Perhaps you can show me a few of the spells you've constructed against using this theory. If you're wrong, I'll merely have wasted a dinner. But if you're right… together, we could revolutionize magic."

The woman threw her hands in the air. "Again, Pietri? We've talked about this. If we're to make any progress, we must stay the course! You can't go chasing every hare-brained theory that comes across your path. We need you here. Now."

"Maera," said the Maester in a tone of long-suffering patience, turning towards the woman, "My time and my research are my own."

"But this project isn't just your time," she exclaimed in frustration. "We've invested so much into it, you and I and Arlo—" she cut herself off with a glance at Oliver. Oliver chose to remain silent. But the Maester looked back at him.

Unauthorized tale usage: if you spot this story on Amazon, report the violation.

"Ah," he said, with a gruff chuckle, "Well met, Thuris. I'll see you tonight, perhaps by seventh bell?"

Oliver thought frantically. He had nothing to show tonight, no spells based on this understanding of magic.

He could, perhaps, come up with a quick physical demonstration or two, but he somehow doubted that would be enough. He needed more time. A spell or two that could prove his case. Perhaps if he met with the Maester the following night, that would give him enough time to meet with Tiro's magister and learn what he needed from him.

"I'm afraid I have a prior engagement this evening. Tomorrow, at the seventh bell?"

"Tomorrow will do," said the Maester.

"Excellent. Well met, Maester Pietri."

—

Oliver left the campus, mind whirling. He needed to find Tiro and track down the magister, have that meeting sooner rather than later. He also needed mana, badly. This conversation with Pietri was an opportunity he couldn't afford to pass up.

Tiro wasn't in the common room of the Gray Bean, nor was he in his room when Oliver checked. In fact, he couldn't find him anywhere. An hour or so later, sweaty, hot, and hungry, Oliver found himself standing in front of Polephenes's shop. A sign bearing symbols he didn't recognize hung above the green door.

He knocked, and when he heard no response, opened the door and went in. Within it was dark, save a weak illumination cast by a wall-mounted glowing orb. There was nobody in the front room of the shop. Oliver looked around. There was a sofa, several displays of books, and various herbs, plants, and items whose purpose Oliver could not apprehend placed throughout the shop. It had an herbal odor, warm and slightly spicy.

As he waited, he heard a few small noises coming from the open door at the back of the shop and approached. Polephenes was hovering over a man's unconscious form on the same operating table that Oliver had used. He looked up as Oliver approached the door.

"I'll be with—I'll be with you in a moment," he said, looking back down, focused on whatever his task was.

Oliver took a seat in the sofa in the front room and waited.

A good while later, Polephenes emerged, wiping his hands on a towel that he threw over his shoulder.

"Ah, Oliver, what can I do for you? System still giving you trouble?"

Oliver glanced at the towel, expecting to see blood. It was clean. "No, actually, I was just wondering if you knew where Tiro was."

"He should be with the others still," said Polephenes.

"Oh, right," said Oliver. He had no idea what that might mean, but wasn't about to give that away. "I, er, I checked, but I didn't see him."

"Are you sure?" asked Polephenes, sounding confused. "I was going to swing by in a bit and visit, he said he'd be there for the rest of the day."

"It was quick," Oliver admitted, "I probably just missed him. Tell you what, I can wait here and we can go over together. Is there anything I can help you with in the mean time?"

"No, no, I should be fine," said Polephenes. "I'm just finishing up with my patient, then we can head over. Are you sure you want to wait?"

"It's really no trouble," Oliver assured him. "I have a few questions I've been meaning to ask you anyway on the walk."

The old man shrugged and retired into the other room once more.

—

Polephenes locked the front door to the shop, then turned. For the frail old man he appeared to be, he was surprisingly quick on his feet. Oliver fell in behind him as they strode down the street.

After a bewildering series of turns and cut-throughs, and after passing over the river on a narrow pedestrian bridge to the southern part of the town, they arrived at a nondescript house in a rather poorer area than the riverside region he'd been staying in.

There were a couple of drunken beggars lounging against one of the houses to the side, and Oliver noticed the beggars eyeing them, and reached inside his jacket for the knife he'd started carrying at the logging camp. But the beggars gave them no trouble.

Polephenes knocked on the door in peculiar fashion, a pattern that Oliver didn't recognize. After a moment, a lock clicked and the door opened inward. A charming young woman greeted them with a smile. "Doctor, how good to see you again. And who's this?" she asked, her gaze lighting on Oliver.

"What, you haven't met?" asked Polephenes in surprise and some consternation.

"We have not," said Oliver, looking at her as she eyed him with no little suspicion. "Tiro's clearly failed to introduce us."

At the mention of the name Tiro, her face cleared. "Well, that's a matter I can sort out," she said. "My name's Iseult. I'm one of Tiro's cousins, on Heria's side. And you are?"

"This is Oliver," Polephenes said, "Tiro brought him by the shop yesterday."

"Pleased, I'm sure," she said. "Well, don't stand out there all night. Come in!" As they entered, she glanced back. "Follow me. They're all in the back."

Oliver still had no idea who "they" were, and his trepidation and curiosity were growing. Clearly Polephenes had made an inaccurate assumption at some point. Oliver had been playing along because he wanted to know who Tiro really was, but he was beginning to think he'd made a mistake. Still, he needed to know how trustworthy Tiro was, and if worse came to worst he could simply point to Polephenes' misunderstanding.

She led them through the house, which was furnished in humble fashion, past an atrium open to the late afternoon air, and through an archway to another courtyard.

In the center of this courtyard was a fire burning. Around it sat five men and two women, deep in conversation.

Oliver immediately recognized the diminutive form of Tiro sitting on a bench. And beside him sat the friend of the cauliflower-eared man who'd drunkenly assaulted him in the bar.

Oliver froze in shock, standing stock still in the middle of the hall for a moment, causing Polephenes to have to step around him. What was this? What were they doing here? What had he just wandered into?

"Whatever is it?" asked Polephenes in mild annoyance as he stepped around Oliver.

Oliver turned, scratching at his face with his hand to block his features as he did so.

"I just realized that I forgot something," he murmured quietly, trying to keep his voice low. He was still in the shade of the hall as he turned and casually started walking the other way.

But it was too late. A moment later, he heard Tiro cry out. "Stop him! Grab him!"

He immediately broke into a sprint through the house, and nearly made it. Just before he reached the front door, the brawler from the bar stepped into his path, scowling. This time, he looked sober, competent, and very serious.