She stood and stretched her back until it popped. Sighing, she closed her journal. On the floor beside the bed, behind a palisade of dregs-stained wineglasses, sat a platter heaped with soiled crockery. She sniffed. Frowned. “Whew. That mutton is a day off, or more, if my Gallic nose doesn’t deceive me. Assuming it was good when what’s-her-face delivered it. When was that? Yesterday?” She closed her stinging eye. She’d doubled down on the transcription work with Huginn after Muninn departed on his mysterious errand. They’d completed a rough cut of a symbol equivalence table for every syntactical element in the modified nautical metageasa, along with a handful of empirical grammar rules. To an uneducated eye her notes were dense with impenetrable arcana. But Berenice now recognized a superficiality to the alchemical signifiers. The true content was much deeper and almost mathematical in its rigor. Here in this second-rate inn in a dilapidated fishing village in her conquered hereditary homeland she’d had her first true glimpse of the calculus of compulsion: the language by which the Clockmakers branded their rules upon the Clakkers.
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