The Glass Galago Read Free

nothing to say to the press.”
    â€œI’m a cousin of Convenor Gracechild’s,” she said. “I’m looking for the stolen inscription.”
    â€œThe Watch is on that.”
    â€œThey haven’t succeeded, have they?”
    â€œHow could anyone find something so small in this…” He swept out an arm, a gesture meant to encompass the whole of the Fleet and its followers. Lanterns glowed from the rigging of hundreds of ships, steady gold interspersed with the multicoloured firelight flicker of enchanted scrip on sails and prows. The sun was setting behind them, so the rearmost ships were silhouetted against the darkening ribbon where sea met sky.
    â€œYou’re not a resident, I take it?” Gale said. “You’re visiting, working the spell through Patents?”
    â€œI developed the spell, but I’m not licensed to practice at sea. A Patents scribe performed the glassine inscription on Rasa.”
    â€œWere you present?” Parrish asked.
    â€œOf course I oversaw the Patents scribe. It’s required.”
    Gale said: “What happened to the inscription?”
    â€œRasa locked it in her personal safe at Patents. A week later, when the spell was approved, she tried to retrieve it … the safe was empty.”
    â€œWhen was that?”
    â€œTwo days after she was inscribed.” His eyes welled. “We followed the rules. I don’t know how it was stolen, but creating new regulations … that’s not going to change anything.”
    Gale considered explaining that politics and reality were, at best, distant cousins. But cynicism wouldn’t comfort him.
    Parrish interrupted: “What is the point of the spell?”
    Bosh stared. “The point?”
    â€œThe woman and the test galago—they’re dying as a result of this scrip. What good is it?”
    â€œThe galago’s lived longer than it would have; it had parasites. They died first.”
    â€œIt extends life?”
    â€œIf you’re seriously ill, it can. The intention was never meant to be sustained for weeks on end.” Bosh said.
    Gale said: “The spell is medical?”
    â€œYes. It’s for patients with mysterious illnesses … ailments that resist identification. When you scrip someone glassine, it allows doctors to look within, to determine what’s wrong. Aetherists and aura readers find this useful.”
    â€œSpot the problem, destroy the spell, and treat the patient?”
    â€œOn my home nation, we see seventy patients a year. With the technique Fleet-certified now, we might help a lot more. But this … fuss…” He flapped a hand. “Who’ll risk it?”
    Parrish said: “There are other diagnosis spells.”
    â€œMost require radium, which is rare and dangerous to work with. This is safer and less expensive.”
    â€œWhat does the inscription look like?” Gale asked.
    â€œIt’s etched on the inside of a flask of blown glass. The etching crystal is affixed to—”
    â€œA flask, you say?” Gale interrupted before he could get into components, inks and ingredients. Scribes were tiresomely detail-oriented. “Empty or full?”
    Bosh produced a corked bottle, filled with black sand and sealed with an amber plug. The mystical letters etched inside had a white-hot glow.
    â€œThis is for the galago. The bottle for the patents tester is bigger—”
    Parrish plucked it out of his hand.
    â€œTell me,” Gale said, before Bosh could object to the appropriation. “Is it your sense that any of this is about you, or your homeland? Someone looking for revenge?”
    â€œNo. I’m just a convenient scapegoat.”
    â€œYou seem very sure,” Parrish said.
    Bosh rubbed his eyes. “They had to pick something that would kill the tester, didn’t they?”
    â€œSlowly lethal,” Gale agreed. “And it’s very dramatic,