“These boys have the run of the boat, but are not to be let off it. This one”—he indicated Rigg—“is the terrifying hooligan that a man of my rank had to be sent to arrest. Please ignore the tomato drippings all over his very expensive tunic. He’s from upriver—they haven’t discovered napkins yet.”

The sergeant laughed, but Umbo wanted to say something very cutting. But just as he was drawing in breath before speaking, Rigg brushed the back of his hand and somehow the message was clear: Patience. Wait.

It had been fun running up and down the gangplank when they put in at various river towns. But that was when Umbo was free; now he was forbidden to leave, so walking up the plank to the ship seemed to have a hint of the gallows about it.

Almost as soon as they had seen that their bags and trunks were suitably placed, the general reappeared and said, “Master Rigg, the ship’s captain has been kind enough to allow me the use of his quarters. Would you mind terribly if we started your inquisition now?”

The word “inquisition” had a bit of a smile in it, no doubt meant to dispel fear, hinting that it wasn’t a real inquisition. Yet that was the word the general had chosen to use, and hardly by accident. No matter how nice the general might wish to seem to be, he still had the power to put them to torture or anything else he pleased, and Umbo wasn’t all that reassured to recall that the general had affirmed that they couldn’t be treated as guilty until there was some kind of court verdict about Rigg’s supposed conspiracy.

When Rigg joined the general and started toward the captain’s quarters, Umbo came along because it never crossed his mind to do otherwise. But the general noticed him at once, and gestured with his trailing hand for Umbo not to stay with them. This would be a solo inquisition, apparently. Though Umbo had no doubt that his time would come.

There was no way to linger around the door and hope to overhear some of their conversation, so Umbo went to the galley, where the cook ordered him to go away.

“I just wanted to help,” said Umbo.

“What do you know about cooking?”

“Everyone in Fall Ford knows how to cook something,” said Umbo. “‘It’s a useless man starves without a wife to cook for him.’”

“Is that some kind of proverb?” asked the cook.

“Yes, sir,” said Umbo.

“Then you come from a place full of very stupid people,” said the cook.

“Thank you sir,” said Umbo. “Does that mean I can help?”

“If you break one dish I’ll knock you on the head, crack your skull, and pry it open like a hardboiled egg.”

“I hope word doesn’t get around that you’re as likely to serve chopped boy in your stew as mutton or pork.”

“Wouldn’t matter if I did,” said the cook. “Anybody’s on this tub, they’ll eat what I serve or try their luck at catching something edible in this saint-forsaken river.”

Within moments, the cook had Umbo running errands, and to Umbo it felt like being home again. It took no particular effort or even a detour to glance into the spot where he had put the knife and see that it was still there. But he wouldn’t take it now. He didn’t know yet whether the People’s Army even knew about the ancient knife—this general seemed to have an obsession with old things and it was better if he didn’t know about the one thing that Rigg had really stolen.

Finally the cook set him down to pare turnips to make the mash for the next day’s breakfast. It was slow work, but mindless as long as you were careful not to let your finger get added to the mix.

And as he sliced and chopped, Umbo thought about what he knew he would have to do. Somehow he must figure out how to do the thing that he had already been seen doing—travel back in time to this morning to give warnings to himself and to Rigg.

Wouldn’t it have been nice of his future self to give him some hint about how he was going to learn how to talk to people in the past?

One thing was certain—Umbo had never seen any of the paths that Rigg was always talking about. So even if he succeeded in causing himself to slow down—or speed up, or whatever it was he did—it was an open question about whether he would ever be able to see anybody from the past—even the past of just this morning.

And before long, he was trying to do to himself what he had so easily done to Rigg, speeding him up—or slowing him down, depending on how you looked at it. But it was as if his talent were a long sword—he could easily use it to touch others, but his arms were too short or the sword too long for him to stab himself.

It was like Wandering Man had said, during the brief time he gave Umbo a little training: You have to find it the way you teach yourself to wiggle your ears.

Since Umbo had never knowingly wiggled his ears—nor known anyone who could—the example was wasted on him.

But then Wandering Man went ahead and taught him how to wiggle them. He had made Umbo look in the mirror and then smile his broadest grin. “See how your ears move up just a little when you smile?”

Umbo could see it easily, once it had been pointed out.

“That means you have the muscles to wiggle your ears, and they’re working. What you do is smile and then unsmile, again and again, only now you’re concentrating on the muscles that draw your ears up and back when you smile. Smile hard, and then try to move your ears again only without any of the smiling.”

Umbo tried and tried. “Nothing happens,” he said.

“But you’re mistaken,” said Wandering Man. “Something very important has happened. You’re aware of those muscles. It takes a while for the nerves to reinforce their connections so the muscles will contract without dragging all the rest of the smile with them. Practice it whenever you think of it, smiling hard and then trying again without the smile. Gradually, the muscles will strengthen. Just make sure you work both ears equally, so you don’t end up with only one ear you can control.”

It took only three days before his ears were moving on command—either together or individually. Within another couple of weeks, he was a champion ear-wiggler.

And, as Wandering Man had predicted, the analogy was nearly perfect. Previously when he had thrown his little web of speed onto another person, it had been willy-nilly and ragged—it gave Mother a headache when he did it to her repeatedly. But with practice, even though he had no idea what was actually happening inside him, he began to be able to control the thing, to make it steady, to make it strong. It just took concentration and repetition, hour after hour.

Now he would have to do it all over again, this time learning how to include himself, and only himself, within his zone of speed.

The only sign he had that he might have made any progress was when the cook came in and said, gruffly, “Where’d you put the rest of them?”

“They’re all in the pot,” said Umbo.

The cook looked doubtful, but came and looked in the pot and then turned back to Umbo. “Nobody ever peeled them that fast.” But then he examined them closely and had to admit that Umbo had done it exactly right.

“I would have said it can’t be done that fast.”

“I applied myself.”

“Apply this, you show-off,” said the cook, making a dismissive gesture that Umbo had been told had something to do with either female body parts, the act of rutting, or defecation—Umbo had been told of many a likely meaning, but none of them seemed right to him.

But Umbo took no offense—for the cook really meant it as backhanded praise. And the fact that he had done it so quickly was also an indication that something was happening. Had he sped himself up, at least a little? It was a promising start.

Umbo was up on the passenger deck, the kitchen chores done, when he saw them bringing Loaf—in a cart, manacled and attached to the cart with chains. Apparently his arrest had not gone as smoothly as Rigg’s and Umbo’s.