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run out of here in three sixes of years.”
    I startled at his words. “Surely it’s not that bad.”
    The Mayor raised his caterpillar brows. “Oh yes.” He nodded at Jiala. “Your girl will be part of a river of refugees twice the size of the one we took in from Alacan.” He turned again to look west. “And where will they go then? Mpaias? Loz? Turis is gone to raiders.” He scowled. “Lesser Khaim is just as vulnerable. We barely fought off the raiders’ last attack. Without the bridge, I cannot have a hope of defending that side of the river. And so we spend magic where we would prefer not to, and add to the problem. We’re caught in Halizak’s Prison, for certain.”
    His steward arrived with wine and goblets. I looked at the stemmed glasses with curiosity, wondering if I myself had long ago blown their shapes, but then recognized the distinctive mark of Saara Solso. She had improved since I used to compete with her. Another reminder of how long I had been at my project.
    The steward paused on the verge of uncorking the wine bottle. “Are you certain about this, Excellency?” he asked.
    The Mayor laughed and pointed at me. “This man comes to us with salvation, and you worry about an old vintage?”
    The steward looked doubtful, but he uncorked the bottle anyway. A joyful scent filled the room. The Mayor looked at me, eyes twinkling. “You recognize it?” he asked. “The happy bouquet of history.”
    I was drawn by the scent, like a child to syrup crackers. Astonished and intoxicated, wide-eyed. “What is it?”
    “Wine from the hillsides of Mount Sena, the summer vineyards of the old empire,” Majister Scacz said. “A rare thing, now that those hillsides are covered with bramble. Perhaps a score of bottles still exist, of which our Jolly Mayor possesses, now, two.”
    “Don’t call me that.”
    Scacz bowed. “The name suits you today, Excellency.”
    The Mayor smiled. “For once.”
    The steward poured the wine into the glassine bulbs.
    “Currant and cinnamon and joy.” Majister Scacz was watching me. “You’re about to taste one of the finest pleasures of the Empire. Served at spring planting, for harvest and for flowering-age ceremonies. The richest merchants had fountains of it in their floating castles, if you can credit such a thing. Magic, make no mistake. The vintner’s genius bound with the majister’s craft.”
    He caught Jiala watching, her eyes shining at the scent. “Come, girl. Taste our lost history.” He poured a splash into glass. “Not too much. You’re too small to do more than taste, but I promise you, you will not forget this thing.”
    The Mayor held up his glass, ruby and black in the setting sun. “A toast, then, gentlemen. To our future, refound.”
    We drank, and the blood of the old empire coursed through our veins and made us giddy. We examined my instrument again, with the Majister and the Mayor making exclamations at the workmanship, at my methods for joining glass to copper, of metallurgy that had yielded a combustion chamber that would not crack with the power of the flames released. We talked of the difficulties of making more balanthasts and speculated how many miles we might clear of the surrounding countryside.
    “It takes a great deal of trouble to make one,” Scacz observed.
    “Oh yes,” I said fondly, patting the venting tubes that ran along its outer surface and collected the gases of the burning neem.
    “How many do you think you can make?”
    “At first?” I shrugged. “Perhaps it will take me a month to make another.” The Mayor and Scacz both showed their consternation, and I rushed on. “But I can train other metal workers, other glassblowers. I need not do every piece of work. With others working to my specification. With a larger workshop, many more could be made.”
    “We could train the crafters who make the new arquebus,” Scacz said. “Their work is obviously pointless. A weapon that can only be fired once and is so fussy,