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theory, at least, and it was as good as the next whenthe pseudonaiades’ very existence was so at odds with Bernoullian Wave Theory. Among so many imponderables one thing was certain: without a safe place to work, nothing could be built.
    He searched his bag and took out a silver egg and a small belt strap. He unscrewed the narrow end of the egg, which remained connected by a fine wire, and slotted the tip into a notch in the belt. He found a small piece of old masonry by the bank to fasten the belt around, then, using the belt as a sling, he launched the lump of brick into the air while holding the egg tightly in his other hand. The brick splashed down thirty-five braccia away, half the river’s breadth.
    That was sufficient.
    He rotated a second dial on the egg; its clockwork shuddered to life, and it shot from his hand the moment he released it, skimming the water’s surface until it reached the point where the brick had landed. There it stopped, vibrating and bobbing on the surface. He crouched and gingerly held his hand over the water once more and waited. The dog growled to see such folly.
    Nothing happened.
    The egg was a phased-current transmitter of his own design that induced density to a depth of three braccia, which in theory—and now in fact—repelled pseudonaiades. He was pleased. Men immersed in this hostile water would still drown, of course, but this would prevent watery hands from pulling them in—and it would also prevent Strays, a more serious concern.
    Giovanni stood and pushed the hair back from his brow impatiently. Now, information. The glass rod was a Whistler; it calculated distance based on how long it took to hear its song echo. He repeated the procedure at five-braccia intervals along the uneven bank for the next hour, considering what Rasenna’s Signoria would want to hear and what he should tell them.
    The dog tagged along.
    Sofia had no destination; anywhere was fine as long as it was out of Tower Bardini’s shadow. She needed distance from the Doc’shypocrisy. He was too smart to believe he could just hand over Rasenna to her as a birthday gift. Whoever ruled Rasenna had to be ready to fight for it or they wouldn’t rule for long. He let himself be irrational only when the subject was her.
    She was not allowed to be involved in raids, but she knew about them. True enough, some of the stories shocked her, but at least the Bardini didn’t stoop to attacking family towers. She had learned to countenance the other violence, just as the Doc obviously had. It was for the greater good, and so for peace, for the Bardini and for her. Really, no excuse was necessary. It was enough to say: this is Rasenna.
    Even without taking to the rooftops it was still easy to cross northern Rasenna quickly. The narrow interlocking paths winding downhill to the river overlooked one another, a tiered arrangement offering shortcuts aplenty. The sorrowful chime of a bell made her notice she had reached the limits of Bardini territory, and she hastily changed routes. Her last visit to the Baptistery was a fresh memory and still painful.
    The morning was dying when Sofia came to the abandoned towers before the river—the gauntlet, as it was known—and discovered the body at the entrance of an alley. There was nothing remarkable in a dead dog, but this animal had not starved to death: its fur was still wet. Local animals knew enough to avoid water, yet somehow, at a distance from the river, this dog had drowned.
    “Signorina?”
    Sofia looked around and saw a Concordian coming from the direction of the river. She instantly raised her flag. Her face showed hostility even as her body went taut, ready for fight or flight.
    Keeping an eye on the alley, the engineer crept toward her stealthily. He touched his lips. “Shhh, Signorina, be careful.”
    “Where’s the buio?” she said with loud aggression.
    At first Giovanni was confused, then he realized the term must be local dialect for the pseudonaiades, what