That day, the mayor attended. Olasid Tyuglem desired more than anyone to cheer on the town's favorite son. “Almost done yet, Beutands?” The islanders typically used either an honorific or a name, and the former rarely, so there was nothing but courtesy in that respect. Further, Urvs in this example was his childhood name and Beutands his adult name; identifying him as Urvs Beutands was a convention for record-keeping only. If the form of address was therefore not so rude as the visiting Adaban might suppose if unacquainted with the regional customs, her tone made good the deficit.
Beutands accepted the greeting with perfect composure. “You haven't even given me a chance to say how lovely you look today, Tyuglem. No one would think you're as old as you are.” At that point, Dirant's personal Ashuraluon translator Stansolt Gaomat interjected for his hearing alone that the mayor was 43 and Beutands two years older. Since Dirant guessed them both to be a bit younger, he had cause to doubt whether Beutands spoke discourteously or only honestly, provided a distinction existed.
The mayor said nothing but merely shook her head. The gesture emphasized one of the few divergences from standard GE fashion there in that the numerous clips of diverse color and material placed throughout her hair drew attention, a common style among Ililesh Ashurin's women. Neither did anyone else respond in any manner save to follow Urvs Beutands when he began walking. Whether his manners could be commended or otherwise, Wawamd and its people knew their one luminary and had long since made their judgments, a situation unlike that in larger and better-populated regions in which the person who achieves celebrity enters a milieu remote to the common citizen and liable to give surprise when encountered.
“Here it is, yet?” He stopped in front of a long, high warehouse for reasons incomprehensible to mainlanders, but the mayor understood.
“Please let us see the ship, you genius, you innovator, you recipient of voted honors voted well.” They did comprehend her aggravation, wrapped in a flat tone though it was, and moreover started to share it.
“Of course!” While physicians across the world agreed a smile could not transcend the borders of the human face, Beutands proved them wrong that day. He looked around the few dozen attendees and told them, “I have my client to satisfy. No one else. Our mayor understands that and struggles so valiantly to suppress her impatience where another would exert the weight derived from her position, and that is why I vote for her every time it comes up. The rest of you I don't blame for being impatient either, because here is a secret: I am too. My client didn't even permit this little peek, so let's refrain from telling him, and? The project will be covered up. My sole concession to the client. Oh, how like forcing your children to wear sacks it is, but I can't justify a true showing. Anyway, come in, come in!”
The audience preceded Beutands inside while he waved everyone forward with sincere enthusiasm far in excess of what Dirant expected from a pioneer in his field and an acknowledged genius who had years to soak in the tub of praise and little reason to hoist himself out of it unless to open his door on a waiting collection of admirers. More than that, the proud designer did not cross the threshold himself before he began yelling out explanations, not in the manner of a lecturer recapitulating information for yet another body of students but rather as ebullient as one of those very students who for the first time has completed a ritual design without first erasing and redrawing a quarter of it.
Whatever the outcome of the mission as far as preserving the GE from suffering a stain to its reputation, one undeserved and though difficult to see among the others no more welcome for that, it gave Dirant the benefit of seeing a ship before it was built, an essential for the well-rounded gentleman. “Ah, it is unusual for the construction to occur indoors,” he could afterward say. “It was whimsical serendipity which permitted me to inspect such a rare occurrence. As for the reason, the ship was a new model created by Mr. Urvs Beutands, and therefore . . . have you heard the name, or?” That he sounded insufferable in his own imagination worried him, but he had time to refine the anecdote before he deployed it.
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He would have to hope nobody would want details, as those were concealed by hanging covers. Nobody tried to peek under them. The people of Ililesh Ashurin considered curiosity in the face of intentional secrecy to be an offense on the level of robbery committed on land (whereas robbery on the waves was no offense at all). The bare silhouette nevertheless supplied surprises, though not to landlocked laymen of the Fennizener sort unable to comprehend the design outside of pondering how much bigger ships seemed to be on the water despite the efforts of the waves to conceal the bottom portion. The experienced nautical types meanwhile fixed their attention on a section at the eventual front, or fore, or bow, one of those, which extended farther and lower than anything on a normal vessel.
“The client wanted one thing,” Beutands explained upon concluding it had received enough attention. “He wanted that mounted on his ship. Yes, that. I would commit the fault of misdirection if I didn't say upfront that the entire purpose of the design is to haul that with a minimal loss of seaworthiness. Have you forgiven me yet, Mayor? I wasn't slow because I plotted to annoy you. This has been been a challenge. You all know I don't like to admit that.” Even Mayor Tyuglem laughed jovially. “It has been a terrific challenge. A good one, I've gained from it. I figured out approaches to balance and ballast that will be invaluable. I'm in the kind of mood to give them away for free.”
The presentation which followed corrected Beutands's reputation with the skeptic who suspected the designer to belong to that category of eminent personages who are either entire charlatans who stole success from forgotten underlings or else had one good idea and will never have another. The language attained a loftiness of technicality far above the common understanding and none of the listeners who ought to have understood displayed signs of incredulity, which were the two items of evidence the layman had the training to consider.
During that, Dirant ventured to apply his own expert knowledge. “Please cease the translation,” he requested of Stansolt in a whisper, and with Beutands's words reduced to incomprehensible noise, not that he had comprehended them before, the Ritualist was able to achieve the state of concentration which he believed the Divine Guidance (Hunch) ability required. So easy was it that he took one lone breath before something occurred, but even more against his expectations than success was that the something in question did not resemble in the least his earlier uses of the ability.
An odd feeling came to him as others had done in the past, but it had nothing to it of the emotional or internal. The sensation rather recalled a winter day far enough into the season that he had become accustomed to the cold and yet was startled when a chill wind went against him, so urgent in its progress that if he opened his mouth to object, he found himself unable to breath without turning away. The phantasmal wind had its source in an object easy to guess on the basis of its relative prominence in both size and incongruity. While Dirant stared at the mysterious protrusion around which Urvs Beutands had designed a ship, he received meaningful messages.
Ability Divine Guidance (Emanation) gained.
+1 bonus to Receptivity gained.
Nobody noticed Dirant's discomfort aside from Stansolt, who whispered, “Anything?”
“Something.”
Stansolt clapped him on the back and resumed translating. The rest of the lecture meant no more to Dirant than the beginning until the conclusion, when Beutands made a declaration startling to listeners of every grade of technical knowledge.
“The client kindly indulged my wish to name her. She will be the Impetuous and Irresistible Daughter. That name she will assume, Tyuglem, next week at her launch.”
The islanders cheered. As often as new ships were built, they still appreciated the work which led to each. Mayor Olasid Tyuglem led them in vigor, and Beutands might have been her son to judge from that as well as her subsequent comments to the effect that she had always believed in him. “Making us worry is just his way,” she was asserting as the audience shuffled out of the shed.
Away from the respectable citizens, the furtive pair was able to speak frankly. Stansolt received his assistant's account with satisfaction. “Mr. Dirant, I admit to shame. I expected plain diligence, and instead you went so far as to learn a relevant new ability. This must be the extravagance of the old tribes. What more can you say about it?”
Dirant could not help but be gratified by the praise, not that he made any effort to resist. “It purports to detect nearby elements of uncommon provenance which are capable of effects which soon must have their result. Specifics as to 'elements,' 'uncommon,' and 'soon' are entirely absent, though certain ideas are inevitable with regard to 'uncommon' in particular.”
“Indeed so. Is there anyone who cannot think of relics supposedly of the gods or obscure magical artifacts after hearing that? There is silver for the report on Ritualist feasibility. My attention is captured by this client Urvs Beutands avoids naming. I will likely be away while I trace the young ship's lineage. Should I bother saying you should carry on as you have been or else invite suspicion?”
“An expert's advice is always worth some bother.”
“My thinking was the same, and the more so after today. Till later, Mr. Dirant.”