“Give me a second,” Farilane said. She rotated the astrolabe’s rete to the proper position, realigned the rule with the star, then read the face of the disk. “That’s the Eye of the Bear, the brightest star in the constellation Grin the Brown—first evening star of early spring.”

“Are you done? Can I move now?” Kolby asked.

“No. Keep holding that bow steady, soldier.” Farilane offered him a grin, then moved around to the other side of the astrolabe and peered through the same sight holes on the rule. “There!” she yelled, pointing down near the foaming water at a dark gap in the honeycombed cliff.

“What’s she pointing at?” Kolby asked Cedric, a note of concern in his voice. The younger soldier instantly advanced, and after taking a look, he shrugged.

Farilane had nearly forgotten Cedric was with them. Although physically larger than Kolby, he seemed smaller. She attributed this conflicting phenomenon to personality. Kolby had a presence, but Farilane couldn’t remember having heard Cedric speak. She had supposed he might be mute but felt it would be impolite to ask. “Relax,” she told the pair. “We aren’t in any danger of being attacked.”

“You always say that,” Kolby grumbled.

“What are you worried about?” She looked up at the rapidly fading, orange-cast sky, where a handful of seabirds soared. “Man-eating seagulls?”

“Goblins,” Virgil said. “They didn’t name this the Goblin Sea because it’s shaped like one.”

“The Ba Ran are seafarers,” Farilane pointed out. “We’d see their ships if any were near.”

“Not necessarily,” Virgil added. “This area is littered with coves and caves. They could hide their vessels in any of them. That happens all the time. Haven’t you heard about that poor little village of Tur? It’s been ravaged over and over.”

“That’s all the way down on the southern tip of Belgreig. And goblins aren’t raiding that coast. Pirates are.”

“Perhaps, but let’s not forget that a thousand years ago, goblins came from out here and used a network of underground waterways to attack Percepliquis and kill Emperor Nyphron.”

“That’s only one theory,” Farilane qualified. “We both know there are several contradictory accounts of the first emperor’s death. And for the record, he died one thousand twenty-nine years, eleven months, and two weeks ago.”

They all stared at her as if she’d belched.

“How many hours?” Virgil asked and then chuckled.

Confused as to why the scholar was laughing, she replied, “Sixteen and a half.” She glanced at the astrolabe. “Give or take a minute or two.”

Virgil stopped laughing, and they all stared at her, dumbfounded.

“What?” she asked. “How precise do you need me to be?”

His expression changed from amusement to shock. “Ah no. That’s . . . that’s fine.”