Armand’s First Letter. Amelia’s First Letter.
22 September 1018
17 Rue Thomas, Toulouse
My dearest cousin Armand,
Having completed our survey of the ley lines in that portion of Cumbria that lies closest to Provençe—not just on the edge, but for some distance inland as well—we have returned to Toulouse to regroup, and to report our findings to the Masters at L’École.
We boarded ship in Yorke, caravan and all, with no great gladness in our hearts; for though we now had good maps of the ley lines and nodes in at least one portion of Cumbria, maps that did not previously exist, we still had no explanation for the stub ley-lines that we see pointing off into nowhere on both sides of the Abyss.
And then lightning struck—as it will—in the oddest of places. We were dining with Captain Bertrand of the Janine, that being the small vessel on which we embarked. We necessarily explained our quest to him, as he was much interested in our caravan and our need for such a conveyance; and after we had done so he asked to see our chart. “For some chart makers are not as careful as others, though it pains me to say it.”
Maximilian retrieved the chart once the meal was over, and spread it out on the table, heedless of the crumbs. Captain Bertrand examined it, shook his head sadly. “Alas,” he said, “This is a MacCauley & Sons.”
“So it’s no good?” said Maximilian. “But the man at the chandlery in Toulouse said it was the best available.”
“Oh, he was quite right,” said the Captain. “I use MacCauley’s charts myself, and hang the expense. But I was hoping for an easy answer to your problem. I—” And then he proceeded to stare at the chart for some moments. “I wonder….”
“Perhaps you are not aware,” he said, looking at the two of us, “that Abyssal Navigation is not quite the mathematical science it is often claimed to be.”
Maximilian’s eyebrows shot up, and then he laughed. “As my wife and I have spent the past months overturning almost everything I was most certain of in my first semester at Edenford, I suppose I should not be surprised.”
“Just so,” said Captain Bertrand, smiling. “When I was a new young officer, serving on this same route, my captain explained to me that the charts were all very well, but that I mustn’t forget my rules of thumb. Then he bid me find my notebook, and take down that the rule of thumb for the Yorke to Toulouse passage was 1 degree, 22 minutes, and 27 seconds.”
“Meaning?” said Maximilian.
“That is what I said, more or less. And he explained that following the heading on the chart would get me to Toulouse, more or less; ‘for it is a grand target,’ he said, and hard to miss. But that if I wanted to avoid sailing about looking for the harbor once I got there I would set my bearing 1 degree, 22 minutes, and 27 seconds to starboard of the chart’s heading.”
“And then, I would suppose, on the return voyage you would set your bearing that far to port?” I said.
“Precisely.”
Maximilian looked puzzled. “I gather that this is something every ship’s navigator is well acquainted with. Why aren’t these rules of thumb printed up in tables for all to use? Or better, why haven’t the charts been corrected?”
“Aha!” Captain Bertrand slapped his hand down on the table. “Because they change. Slowly, but they do.” He waved at the chart on the table. “I am certain that when this chart was surveyed it was precisely accurate. Old MacCauley was a stickler and would never have printed it otherwise. But by the time it was available for sale the rule of thumb might well have been some number of minutes. And so on and on.”
“And now it is?”
“1 degree, 22 minutes, and 27 seconds, as I said.”
“Just as it was when you were a new officer?” I said in disbelief.
Captain Bertrand laughed. “Lord love you, I don’t remember precisely what it was then. But today it is 1º, 22′ and 27″, as I said.”
“But how do you account for the change?” asked Maximilian.
“I don’t, though I can say it was a prime topic of discussion with my peers once upon a time. But consider—why shouldn’t it change? What is there to anchor the lands together? They are afloat in the Great Abyss just as we are in the Janine.”
I was mumbling something absurd about how I had never considered that before when Maximilian burst out, “Have you a pair of scissors?”
“A pair of scissors? I suppose, but why?”
“Because,” said my husband, “otherwise I must use my penknife, and I do not wish to scar your table.”
The Captain raised his eyebrows, and called for a pair of shears; and when they had come, my Maximilian took them and cut our carefully annotated chart into two pieces.
“And now, a pencil, and a straight-edge,” he said.
These were produced, and he carefully extended each of the stub ley lines marked on each half right up to the edge of the cut.
“And now, we shall see,” he said.
And we took the two pieces of the chart, and rotated the Provençese half, Cumbria remaining fixed; and determined that at an angle we carefully measured at 9 degrees, 43 minutes, and 12 seconds the majority of the stub lines matched up perfectly.
“My word,” said Captain Bertrand as Maximilian and I beamed at each other.
There is so much that we do not know as yet. What accounts for such a great change in the relative positions of the two Lands? Why do a few of the lines not match up? Where are the missing nodes of intersection? Our heads are abuzz with a myriad conflicting ideas.
Your mystified but joyful cousin,
Amelia
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Zymurgia House 