We head over to an open table. Agnes dumps Axelos into a chair and Bob starts checking him over while everyone else orders snacks. Rather, while everyone except Liv and Ji order snacks. Which I guess is just Heather, Agnes, and me, which isn’t a lot of everyone.

“I’m going to see what I can about the Sons,” Liv says. “Ji, do you mind backing me up like usual?”

“This humble cultivator would be honored to maintain clear lines of communication between members of the Team,” Ji says, bowing slightly.

“Periodic check-ins,” Heather orders. “We’ll let you know how much time you have left. Every ten minutes?”

“Fifteen,” Liv says. “Easier to plan around, and it’ll take Yaroslav that long to get his carriages out the gate even once they’re loaded.”

“That works. Good luck,” Heather says.

And then Liv and Ji are off to make sure the mafia doesn’t think they need to whack us to free their necromancer buddy, a mission which I am very much in favor of.

Only Agnes orders any serious food from the waitress that takes our order, which makes sense since she’s just carried an unconscious necromancer several miles. I get bread and cheese, nothing fancy. Heather asks for the same.

It occurs to me that, other than the tavern-keep and the waitstaff, we’re literally the only people I’ve yet seen eating that weren’t drinking alcohol. I can understand why for Bob and Ji—who knows what insane drugs they have in their systems and what mixing those drugs with alcohol would do—but for the rest of the BIA agents it’s, what, responsibility?

Eh, I’m just going to be happy that I’m not expected to drink myself. Never liked it.

“So,” I ask, “how do you tell time around here? If the difference between ten and fifteen minutes matters you must have at least vaguely accurate timekeeping, but I haven’t seen a single clock or heard any bells. Gifts?”

“My System provides a clock,” Heather answers. “But it uses different units than the Republic.”

“That sounds like a nightmare,” I say. “How different?”

“More annoying than anything, if only by luck.” She grimaces and sips her drink. “It subdivides days into tenths, hundredths, and finally tenths again.” She waggles a hand noncommittally. “But its days are roughly three-fourths of our own day, so the second subdivision is within one percent of a minute.”

“That’s… really disgusting,” I say.

“I deal with it,” Heather says dismissively. “It could be worse. I think that Liv looks at the sun or counts heartbeats.”

“I know Ji coun’s ’eartbeats too,” Bob says. “Works great fer ‘im, he’s all ’bout blood’n’guts. Me, jus’ a real good sense’a time, cultivator stuff. It’ll be perfect when I get t’ the nex’ stage.”

“Truthfully, any punctuality I may demonstrate is borrowed from my compatriots,” Agnes confesses. “In past times I simply permitted Koze to nudge the world to comply with my schedule. No longer is that an option; time here is too regimented to be worth forcing to Her will.”

“That’s… actually kind of hilarious, sorry,” I say. “The power of a god, deterred by too much paperwork.” I think about what Agnes said earlier, about being able to help with paperwork sometimes by being conceptually unstoppable. “Did that start out as a combat trick and you figured out how to use it so you didn’t have to manage your calendar, or the other way around?”

“I know not,” Agnes answers, “for by the time I recognized my luck as more than luck, Koze’s will was omnipresent.”

Our conversation stills as the waitress returns with our food.

“How about everyone else? I haven’t heard any bells or anything,” I observe, pulling my plate of bread and cheese over so I can start snacking.

“Most who need the time have it,” Agnes says, in between bites of her sausage. “Either by asking a compatriot or with a Gift all their own.”

This story is posted elsewhere by the author. Help them out by reading the authentic version.

I chew on a lump of bread and cheese and contemplate the situation. It’s pretty good, some kind of sharp off-white hard cheese. Even if I was eating Earth cheese I don’t think I could identify it reliably. I can’t even tell the difference between, like, cow and sheep cheese.

I do kind of wonder what livestock they’re using around here. Sheep and cows like on Earth? Or do they have some magical animal that’s way more productive, or—

Hang on. I know that qi can cause animals to become spirits beasts the same way people can use ambient qi to learn to cultivate. And apparently some Systems can be transferred just by using Identify on something. And the predator critter that Axelos zombified definitely had a Gift, even if it was one of the Magical Gifts that seem to be “it’s just magic don’t question it” catch-alls for generic superpowers. So, logically, livestock like sheep and cows must have Gifts too.

You know what?

The cheese I’m eating is cheesy and it tastes good with bread and that’s all that matters right now.

I’ll ask a farmer about it later, when I can get an expert opinion from someone that’s not likely to be skilled at dissembling. In the meantime, I’ll assume that the Republic of Eld has figured out a way to guarantee that livestock don’t accidentally put points into intelligence and wisdom and become self-aware or something horrifying like that.

Also, I hope they have fluffy magical pets. Like unicorns. Fluffy Medieval Europe unicorns, not the Lovecraftian abominations that have been in vogue since Stross published Equoid or the vicious wild beasts that they were before Christian art co-opted them as foils for peaceful and virtuous characters.

“Y’ okay there, Whitney?”

I pull my attention outside and reply to Bob. “Yeah, I’m fine,” I say. “Just want to talk to a farmer at some point, got some questions for them.”

“Don’ worry ’bout it,” he says. “If I’m guessin’, it’s th’ livestock?”

“Oh. Yeah,” I say. “Was it that obvious?”

“Y’got that look in yer eye,” he reassures me. “Th’ one that usually goes ‘am I eatin’ a person?’ An’ no, yer not.”

“There’s a specific Intrusive System Gift that can be set up to require confirmation of level-up choices,” Heather expands. “Configuring it that way on people is generally illegal. Once an animal has the Gift it’s a reliable way to avoid problems.”

“That’s a relief,” I say. “I did have some more questions, since knowing how animals get Gifts and become dangerous is relevant for me being the local Wizard, but that was where my thoughts were headed.”

I tear off another chunk of bread and jam it into my mouth so I can stop talking. Agnes finishes off a sausage and moves on to another. Heather daintily gnaws on her cheese.

“Speaking of,” Heather says eventually, “I have some paperwork for you to complete before we leave.” Her tablet appears in her hands and the stylus scrapes across it like a sword across a whetstone.

“Oh no.”

“It’s not bad,” she lies, sliding the tablet across the table to me with a form ready for me to fill out. “You need BIA-1 to register your acquisition of a Gift. You need BIA-443 to put yourself on the list for Destructive Effects training and licensing plus BG-24 for a Visitor to defer Bureau of the Guard reservist status…”

----------------------------------------

Paperwork, grumble grumble grumble.

Question F54. Can I create novel plants, animals, or other organisms?

“I have some understanding that could let me do that ‘by hand’, but not magically,” I say. Evolution is a thing. “Basic animal husbandry. Does that count?”

“Un-Gifted animal husbandry doesn’t count,” Heather says, thankfully.

Question F55. Can I create novel communicable diseases or spread existing diseases?

Back in high school I got onto a microbiology kick and read a bunch of books about biological warfare, so given enough time and experimental subjects I could probably weaponize a disease, breed it for virulence and severity and so on. But that probably falls under the same “mundane animal husbandry” exception as before, so no.

“Good, tha’ one puts y’on a List.” I can hear the capital “L” in List, which means that, for once in his life, Bob chose to pronounce a sound more rather than less. “An’ then y’get th’ BHS knockin’ on yer door erry time someone so much as coughs in yer city.”

Yikes. Yeah, let’s not check that checkbox.

F56. Can I travel more than 100 miles in one day?

Not yet, which is a no for the purposes of that question. It does mean that once I figure out flight I’ll have to learn how to register my movements so they can more efficiently shut down plagues, which I’ll have to remember.

“Ji has that one,” Heather tells me.

That makes me much happier about that situation. “Good, always useful to have an expert,” I say.

F57. Can I comprehend normal conversation through a one-inch wooden wall or equivalent insulation? Can I comprehend normal conversation from more than 100 yards away?

Um. Not yet. I am absolutely certain that I could adapt Message to run in the opposite direction, at which point I could do either of those things relatively easily. Should I check the box anyway, given that I’m essentially certain I’ll get it?

“You can leave that one unchecked for now,” Liv says, which is apparently her idea of announcing her return. “You can submit an updated form when you learn the spell.”

Dangit, Liv, stop reading my mind!

She just ruffles my hair.

“Heather, we’re safe in Calfort,” Liv says, ignoring my scowl. “I also got them to give me a letter and a drop spot in Stonehill in case we outrun their messengers.”

“This humble cultivator can go ahead to deliver it shortly before our arrival,” Ji says. “This should ensure that we are not ambushed on the road by a particularly industrious ne’er-do-well.”

“Good initiative,” Heather says.

Liv flags down a waiter and orders a hard-boiled egg. Ji continues to not eat anything.

I continue to do paperwork.

Question F58. Can I copy books?

Can I copy books?

That’s a very good question!

Arrrrrgh.