"It's difficult to say. Machine intelligence is so--immeasurable by our standards," Sherlock indicates something with his fingers, half absorbed in the interesting challenge of communicating with an at-least half-intelligent man from a pre-industrial but magically inclined culture, "so vast and so limited. I take it you've noticed it hardly converses like a human. Yet there's the strong possibility it's adapted to us, like you said--unless there's more than one intelligence at play here, and this is just the one we've spoken to--" His thoughts are running off in a hundred different directions. Instead of trying to marshal them, he latches on to a different one: "Have you looked at the map in any detail? It's a bit perfunctory--I doubt anyone's undertaken a detailed mapping project."

This is an invitation, if one knows where to look. A haughty and indifferent-sounding one; but then again, Sherlock is always playing these games.