sun.
Behind it, a metal rod rose straight up from the marble, ascending a few feet over the top of the chair before it bent at almost ninety degrees. At the end of it was a laurel wreath cast in pure gold. It hovered high enough above the chair that any man sitting in it would find the crown floating above his head like a halo. It was intended to define the leader's chair as a symbol of power that a man could occupy, but never own.
It had, since its construction, been Darby's seat, and it had remained empty since his death. The time had come to find someone else to fill it.
Stanton knew that Sir Dennis was prone to fits of idealism, but Darby had also been a man of wisdom and pragmatism. It had driven him to figure out the most practical way of achieving the impossible. How could the old fool have ever expected the rest of them to do anything but reject the choice of the Automaton for his successor?
The estate lawyer had delivered the will to him on the day after the funeral. When Alexander had finished reading it he had shaken the envelope it had been delivered in, hoping to find a secret message hidden inside.
He was convinced there was something else—perhaps a ruse to outwit his enemies. But if that were the case, and Darby had actually been one step ahead of whomever it was who wanted him dead, then the old man would still be alive, and there would have been no need for a will at all.
Stanton assumed that Wickham had read it previously as well. When the Sleuth had wandered off in the middle of his reading, he was sure of it.
It was possible he had even helped with the writing of it. The old Englishman had always been one of Sir Dennis's closest friends and greatest supporters, and there were rumors that what existed between them was more than just a platonic friendship. Neither of them had ever married, or really interacted with women in a serious manner outside of an ardent circle of older female admirers who would invite them around to tell their stories over tea and petit fours. He hoped it wouldn't come to it, but even the implication of impropriety was a useful tool, if it ever came to that.
“Ridiculous,” Bill Hughes roared as he broke the silence. “He can't have been serious.”
Stanton nodded in agreement. “It's no joke, Iron-Clad.”
Hughes's seat was unlike the rest. The fingers of his right hand cupped a large brass knob that poked straight up from the arm of his massive oak chair. He pulled it toward him until it made a soft click, and an instant later the gears and springs housed around the axle jumped into life, turning the wheels on either side of him and rolling him away from the table with a wooden creak so sharp it almost sounded like a screech. “It's pure garbage. And it won't happen! Not while I'm here.” He rose his left hand up in front of him and gave it a shake to drive home his point. But these days Hughes's hands shook most of the time, no matter what mood he was in.
Stanton couldn't help feeling sorry for the man. Ten years ago, when he had first become the Iron-Clad, he had been a veritable ox: six feet tall, broad shouldered, piercing gray eyes, his face completely framed by a mane of fiery red hair. A man who could practically knock someone over simply with the aura of strength he projected. And whatever his will couldn't move, the mighty Iron-Clad armor would clear out of the way.
As recently as a month ago he had still been able to gather together enough willpower to rise up from his chair and show the world that he was capable of being that stunning figure again, if only for a little while. He had managed to stand for almost the entire funeral.
But the days where he could still gain the upper hand against the disease that was wasting him away were almost gone now. His withering muscles were slowly, but irrevocably, turning his massive size against him.
Now it was almost impossible for him to even pretend that he was anything but a prisoner of his chair. Every
Behind it, a metal rod rose straight up from the marble, ascending a few feet over the top of the chair before it bent at almost ninety degrees. At the end of it was a laurel wreath cast in pure gold. It hovered high enough above the chair that any man sitting in it would find the crown floating above his head like a halo. It was intended to define the leader's chair as a symbol of power that a man could occupy, but never own.
It had, since its construction, been Darby's seat, and it had remained empty since his death. The time had come to find someone else to fill it.
Stanton knew that Sir Dennis was prone to fits of idealism, but Darby had also been a man of wisdom and pragmatism. It had driven him to figure out the most practical way of achieving the impossible. How could the old fool have ever expected the rest of them to do anything but reject the choice of the Automaton for his successor?
The estate lawyer had delivered the will to him on the day after the funeral. When Alexander had finished reading it he had shaken the envelope it had been delivered in, hoping to find a secret message hidden inside.
He was convinced there was something else—perhaps a ruse to outwit his enemies. But if that were the case, and Darby had actually been one step ahead of whomever it was who wanted him dead, then the old man would still be alive, and there would have been no need for a will at all.
Stanton assumed that Wickham had read it previously as well. When the Sleuth had wandered off in the middle of his reading, he was sure of it.
It was possible he had even helped with the writing of it. The old Englishman had always been one of Sir Dennis's closest friends and greatest supporters, and there were rumors that what existed between them was more than just a platonic friendship. Neither of them had ever married, or really interacted with women in a serious manner outside of an ardent circle of older female admirers who would invite them around to tell their stories over tea and petit fours. He hoped it wouldn't come to it, but even the implication of impropriety was a useful tool, if it ever came to that.
“Ridiculous,” Bill Hughes roared as he broke the silence. “He can't have been serious.”
Stanton nodded in agreement. “It's no joke, Iron-Clad.”
Hughes's seat was unlike the rest. The fingers of his right hand cupped a large brass knob that poked straight up from the arm of his massive oak chair. He pulled it toward him until it made a soft click, and an instant later the gears and springs housed around the axle jumped into life, turning the wheels on either side of him and rolling him away from the table with a wooden creak so sharp it almost sounded like a screech. “It's pure garbage. And it won't happen! Not while I'm here.” He rose his left hand up in front of him and gave it a shake to drive home his point. But these days Hughes's hands shook most of the time, no matter what mood he was in.
Stanton couldn't help feeling sorry for the man. Ten years ago, when he had first become the Iron-Clad, he had been a veritable ox: six feet tall, broad shouldered, piercing gray eyes, his face completely framed by a mane of fiery red hair. A man who could practically knock someone over simply with the aura of strength he projected. And whatever his will couldn't move, the mighty Iron-Clad armor would clear out of the way.
As recently as a month ago he had still been able to gather together enough willpower to rise up from his chair and show the world that he was capable of being that stunning figure again, if only for a little while. He had managed to stand for almost the entire funeral.
But the days where he could still gain the upper hand against the disease that was wasting him away were almost gone now. His withering muscles were slowly, but irrevocably, turning his massive size against him.
Now it was almost impossible for him to even pretend that he was anything but a prisoner of his chair. Every
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