Arlen received a hut that had obviously been a storage shed hours before, smelling of dried herbs. But it had a fresh straw mat on the floor and a hammock. He could do worse. He fell asleep quickly.

He woke up to find a guard rapping on the hut wall. He groaned and sat up. The man told him, "You're wanted first at the ironworks."

He was still eating a fish wrap when he arrived, with escort, at a smithy. It took a while to recognize because these people didn't seem to know what they were doing. Two "master" smiths were yanking and pounding metal within wooden frames while a too-open furnace with slumping sides belched smoke. A trio of boys held the frames steady with their hands or tried to manage a charcoal-burning pit.

A smith with smoke-reddened eyes waved one webbed hand. "I'm told you're here to lecture us."

"I should watch and listen, first. What are you making?"

"Shields. Also pegs." He held up an iron nail with no head.

Arlen watched as promised. "What do you need metal shields for? The raiders from the, what, Mirefolk?"

"They don't bother us here; that's where we get most of the iron ore. It grows in the swamp."

The metalworkers seemed to want to work the iron like clay, through thick leather gloves and only moderate hammering. They'd gotten the basic idea down because of past exposure to copper, which could be beaten and heated at lower temperatures. Without tin, which usually didn't appear in the same geographic area, they'd never discovered bronze or melted copper reliably. They had some notion of alloying but a very limited palette to work with.

Eventually he described a bellows, a simple thing they hadn't come up with yet, to help with the furnace temperature. Also an anvil and a vice. Without screw threads he had to work out with these guys how they could build a kind of ratchet to hold parts together. He'd need to experiment with this stuff himself, but over time he could probably skip them a few centuries up the technology ladder.

One of the smiths grumbled continually at the interloper's advice, but the other ounded like he might try it. "Thoko wants more every year."

"Again, who are you fighting if it's not the Mirefolk?"

The natives looked grim. "A lot of it's for Newshore. The ghosts will rip you apart if you're not prepared."

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"The what?"

The skeptical smith said, "An endless battle gets played out there, and the ghosts haven't got tails either."

#

Arlen figured he'd earned his keep for the day. He slept, then woke up at some terrible early hour when the man named Voz arrived.

"What are you doing here?" said Arlen, yawning and glaring.

Voz gestured for quiet. "Are you being treated well?"

"So far, yes. I got to see the farm yesterday, and have some ideas for that too. Are you Thoko's assistant? His brother?"

"Advisor, or mage. In his name I serve all the islands. Tell me, did any order come saying that you may not study magic?"

"No."

Voz brightened. "Then we should see if the spirits will accept you. Come."

He ushered Arlen outside. The sun was just rising. They went down to the beach, and along the uneven coastline of Decim Island. Arlen asked, "Can't this wait?"

"Early is best. Trust me."

"How does this work?"

"You swim into the cave, and..." The vizier laughed. "It may be harder for you than for most. You can swim, can't you?"

"Yes."

"Normally we do this without magic, as a test, but I feel it's justified here."

"It won't anger your spirits?"

"Tell them I judged it was all right. Hold still."

The man stepped around Arlen, spun, and danced. A glow like bright water surrounded Arlen, then swarmed in toward his head. He gasped, but the spell had stopped inches from his face like a helmet. He pawed at it and felt its springy surface.

"That will be good for a few minutes. I'll fetch you, say, in a few hours."

Arlen wondered at Voz's intentions. "I don't mean to replace you in the High Chief's esteem."

"I don't think that you'd want to. Now go." He pressed a sealed jar into Arlen's hands, then pointed the way along what Arlen had taken for a mere breakwater.

Arlen walked along the uneven stone path, then lowered himself with his arms. Deeper and deeper, till the glow around his head merged with the sea. The air within it stayed put. He took a relaxing breath, then dived.

The water grew suddenly chilly a few paces down. He looked around and found a pale glow from beneath a little hill of stone, an island that hadn't broken the ocean's surface. Maybe thirty feet under. He would've loved to explore this place with scuba gear. He trusted that more than he did this unknown magic. He steeled himself and violated his limited diver training by going into the sunken cave.

#

He surfaced by a rocky ledge that ringed a pond, weirdly separate from the sea itself. Stagnant but clear and rippling. Approaching it let him feel its bubbling heat; better not touch it. He would've taken it for a volcanic pool but it also glowed from within, lighting the cavern. The walls bore graffiti in white, lots of varied swirls and doodles. Arlen sat and opened the container he'd been given. It contained white paint.

So, was he supposed to add to the designs? It could be a form of offering. How did magic work around here? Knowing the rules was key to having any idea what to do. As an outsider there was something he could offer. As a way of hinting at it, he drew a right triangle in an unused bit of cave wall, high up. Then a sketch of the Pythagorean Theorem.

He sat quietly, trying to meditate. Maybe an hour passed. Then the water beside him glowed brighter and seethed. It formed overlapping images made of drifting steam. Maybe mountains and seagulls, seeming to whisper.