The Long Hunt: Mageworlds #5 by Debra Doyle, James D. MacDonald

pressed-glass cuff links.
    One of the lads was tall and fair, with long yellow hair tied back in a neat queue; the other, darker one was stocky and muscular. In the old days, she could have pinpointed their world of origin at first glance—but the modern habit of dressing for travel in an abstract version of the basic Galcenian mode blurred most of the possible cues. A long way from home, that was for sure; they’d been souvenir-shopping in the Quarter already. The fair one carried a shopping bag emblazoned with Thalban’s logo in flowing script.
    Money, too , she added to herself. Thalban dealt in high-quality goods, and they didn’t come cheap.
    She picked up her datapad and went to take their order. It would be interesting to see what language they addressed her in. Standard Galcenian, she wagered with herself. But not like a native.
    The fair one spoke first. “Good day, Gentlelady,”
    Bindweed smiled to herself—Galcenian, indeed, but with a faint, musical intonation that spoke of someplace else besides the Mother of Worlds. “Good day, Gentlesirs. What would you desire this fine noontide?”
    “A bit of food and drink, before we get back to our ship.” His voice was light and pleasant, without the edges that came with time and hardship. “If you could recommend?”
    “Of course,” she said. “We have fresh-made parchants today, and sugared berry-root. Perhaps those, and a pot of immer-leaf tea?”
    He inclined his head in a gesture of gracious acquiescence that almost succeeded in looking unstudied. “That would be delightful.”
    Khesatan, she decided, as she headed back into the kitchen with the order. Maybe second-generation expatriate. He’s got some of the body language for it, and about half the accent. Not his buddy, though—I don’t know where that one’s from. If he’d said something, maybe then I could have placed him …
    Blossom caught her eye as soon as she came through the door. “Something’s up,” her partner said, and beckoned her over to the readout screen. “Take a look at this.”
     
    “Look at that,” Miza said.
    She leaned forward and used her light wand to circle a glyph on the work surface. The pattern she’d been following crystallized briefly, then cycled color from warm amber to deep purple. Eraasian-style display technology had taken her some getting used to when she first came to study with Huool—Artha used the standard Republic interfaces—but now that she’d learned its peculiarities, she found it handy and expressive.
    “Whatever our big fish was looking for,” she said, “he just found himself a seller. In my opinion, of course.”
    Huool came to look over her shoulder, and clicked his beak in approbation. “Very perceptive, young one. And what is being sought, I think we will soon learn.”
    “I didn’t spot that.”
    “See here,” said the Roti. He tapped another of the changing glyphs with a taloned forefinger. “The magnitude of the ripples makes discovery nearly certain.”
    Miza looked at the glyph more closely. “Now I’ve got it. We’re talking extreme volatility—what should I do?”
    “Continue to watch,” Huool said. “And if the ripples from this affair threaten to touch our establishment, pray inform me at once.”
    He left to take his place in the front gallery for the afternoon shopping trade.
    Miza stayed at her desk and watched the fluid information-shapes come and go on its work surface. Drawing her finger across the desktop’s input area, she engaged its “record” mode. She still had her final exams to worry about when she returned to Artha, and it made sense to preserve the transactions of the next few hours for study and review.
    Then she checked the timeline again. Huool had been right: the crossing would be soon.
     
    Faral wasn’t sure why his cousin had picked an Old Quarter tea shop as the best place to have lunch before returning to Bright-Wind-Rising. True, Thalban’s Handcrafted Arts and Musicks occupied