All such sextants are of elven make-humans possessing no mechanical magic skills. This one was practically new and he guessed it was a trophy of war. Hugh gave the baton a tap with his finger and the sphere rose into the air, much to the delight of Bane, who was watching in wide-eyed fascination.
Scarcity of water in the Mid Realm means that much of it must be harvested from plant life. Water farmers raise such water-producing plants; water harvesters go foraging for the liquid.
“What’s it doing?” he demanded.
“Look through it,” Hugh offered.
The prince hesitantly placed his eye level with the sphere. “I just see a bunch of numbers,” he said, disappointed.
“That’s what you’re supposed to see.” Hugh made a mental note of the first number, turned a ring at the bottom of the baton, read off the second, and finally a third. Then he began flipping pages in the book.
“What are you looking for?” Bane squatted down on his haunches to peer over Hugh’s arm.
“Those numbers you saw are the position of the Lords of Night, the five Ladies of Light, and Solarus, all in relation to each other. I find the numbers in this book, match them with the time of year, which tells me where the islands are located at this particular moment, and it should tell me within a few menkas where we are.”
“What funny writing!” Bane turned his head nearly upside-down to see. “What is it?”
“It’s elvish. Their navigators were the ones who figured all this out and came up with the magical device that takes the readings.”
The boy frowned. “Why didn’t we use something like that when we flew on the dragon?”
“Because dragons know instinctively where they are. No one’s sure how, but they use all their senses-sight, hearing, smell, touch-plus some we probably don’t even know exist to guide them. Elf magic won’t work on dragons, so they had to build dragonships and they had to make things like this to tell them where they were. That’s why”-Hugh grinned-“elves consider us barbarians.”
“Well, where are we? Do you know?”
“I know,” said Hugh. “And now it’s time, Your Highness, for a nap.”
They were on Pitrin’s Exile, probably about 123 menkas backtrack [8] from Winsher. Hugh felt more relaxed, once this was in his mind. It had been unsettling, not being able to tell up from down, so to speak. Now he knew and he could rest. It wouldn’t be full light for another three hours.
Rubbing his eyes, yawning, and stretching, like a man who has traveled far and is bone-tired, Hugh-shoulders slumped and feet dragging-marched the prince into the shed. Seeming half-asleep, the assassin gave the door a push to close it. It didn’t shut all the way, but he was, apparently, too tired to notice.
Bane took a blanket from his pack, spread it, and lay down. Hugh did the same, shutting his eyes. When he heard the child’s breathing fall into a slow and steady rhythm, he swiftly twisted, catlike, to his feet and crept silently across the floor of the shed.
The prince was already fast asleep. Hugh looked at him closely, but the boy did not appear to be shamming. Curled up in a ball, lying on top of his blanket, he would freeze in the chill predawn air.
Fishing another blanket out of his pack, Hugh tossed it over the kid, then moved silently back to the opposite side of the shed, the side near the door. He slipped off his tall boots and laid them on the floor, carefully arranging them so that they were turned sideways, one resting on top of the other. He dragged his pack over and laid it just above his boots. Removing the fur cloak, he wrapped it in a ball and placed it next to the pack. A blanket, spread over the cape and pack, left the soles of the boots showing. Anyone looking in from the doorway would see the feet of a blanket-wrapped man fast asleep.
Satisfied, Hugh drew his dagger from his boot and squatted down in a dark corner of the shed. Eyes on the door, he waited.