return to that approach, we can consider the agreement at an end.”
“Perhaps we should.”
“But then I would be unable to share the information I have on where your brother has gone.”
That brought Wilhelm upright. “You know?”
“I have reliable information to that effect.” The edges of Giancarlo’s mouth curled up ever so slightly. “Certainly more than you have had in some time.”
Giancarlo’s services had come dearly, and Wilhelm did not relish the prospect of repeating that initial payment. But if he wanted Erich, it seemed he had little choice.
He waved to his chamberlain. “Pay him.”
The man nodded, and returned a minute or two later with a small wooden chest, which he handed to Giancarlo. “Five hundred crowns, per the agreement.”
Giancarlo took the chest without opening it. He bowed to Wilhelm. “Until we meet again, Your Grace. With luck, the next time you see me, I will have your brother at last.”
The chamberlain fidgeted. “You’re not going to count it?”
Giancarlo smiled. “The Duke has placed his trust in me. I can do no less for him. Good day.”
After Giancarlo was gone, Wilhelm gave his chamberlain a dismissive wave.
“Clear the court,” the man called out. He and the guards and servants in attendance left the room.
When he was alone, Wilhelm reached under the blanket with his ducal crest that he kept over his legs when receiving visitors, and pushed a switch on his right thigh. Creaking and whirring, his automaton legs brought him to a standing position. He did not like anyone seeing him do this, which was the chamberlain always cleared the court before Wilhelm got up and left himself.
He stepped carefully down the dais, but as he reached the bottom, some random gear or cable in his left leg suddenly jammed, and he lost his balance, pitching forward onto his face. He caught his fall easily with his hands—he was unfortunately practiced at this—then rolled over on his back and tried to sit up.
Gripping his right leg and keeping it extended, he got to a sitting position. Then he let out a silent oath, cursing his brother and the artificers he was so dependent on.
He had been using his lighter legs, as he did when holding court, because they looked far more natural under the blanket. The heavy legs were much more reliable, but also quite bulky and obvious. Too many downward glances at them when receiving visitors had banished them from his hall.
But the light ones often jammed like this. The chief artificer swore up and down that he and his apprentices had done all they could, that their poor reliability was an inevitable consequence of making them so light and slim. So Wilhelm had forced himself to deal with it.
Normally he could clear a jam by gently shaking and flexing the leg. According to the chief artificer, the problem was most often a cable that got stuck against one of the knee gears. There was just too little space for everything. Wilhelm tapped the knee with his fist, first gently, then more firmly. But the knee remained frozen.
He tried flexing it, but it would not move at all. A few minutes of twisting and shaking it convinced Wilhelm that something more serious was wrong. Frustrated, he tried to force the knee to bend. Though his legs had gone thin and weak from disuse, his upper body was still powerful—he worked hard to keep this so—and with a hard push, he finally got the knee to bend. But when it gave way, there was the unmistakable sound of something breaking inside it.
Now the knee bent freely—too freely. It had lost all tension, and did not respond to Wilhelm’s motions. He heard clicking and grinding noises from inside the leg, but it did not move. He had broken it.
Wilhelm cursed aloud, telling himself that with Erich unavailable, he would have the artificers all flogged for this. (Though it was an idle threat; he needed them too much.)
He dragged himself over to the dais and tried to stand on his right leg. But the weight of
“Perhaps we should.”
“But then I would be unable to share the information I have on where your brother has gone.”
That brought Wilhelm upright. “You know?”
“I have reliable information to that effect.” The edges of Giancarlo’s mouth curled up ever so slightly. “Certainly more than you have had in some time.”
Giancarlo’s services had come dearly, and Wilhelm did not relish the prospect of repeating that initial payment. But if he wanted Erich, it seemed he had little choice.
He waved to his chamberlain. “Pay him.”
The man nodded, and returned a minute or two later with a small wooden chest, which he handed to Giancarlo. “Five hundred crowns, per the agreement.”
Giancarlo took the chest without opening it. He bowed to Wilhelm. “Until we meet again, Your Grace. With luck, the next time you see me, I will have your brother at last.”
The chamberlain fidgeted. “You’re not going to count it?”
Giancarlo smiled. “The Duke has placed his trust in me. I can do no less for him. Good day.”
After Giancarlo was gone, Wilhelm gave his chamberlain a dismissive wave.
“Clear the court,” the man called out. He and the guards and servants in attendance left the room.
When he was alone, Wilhelm reached under the blanket with his ducal crest that he kept over his legs when receiving visitors, and pushed a switch on his right thigh. Creaking and whirring, his automaton legs brought him to a standing position. He did not like anyone seeing him do this, which was the chamberlain always cleared the court before Wilhelm got up and left himself.
He stepped carefully down the dais, but as he reached the bottom, some random gear or cable in his left leg suddenly jammed, and he lost his balance, pitching forward onto his face. He caught his fall easily with his hands—he was unfortunately practiced at this—then rolled over on his back and tried to sit up.
Gripping his right leg and keeping it extended, he got to a sitting position. Then he let out a silent oath, cursing his brother and the artificers he was so dependent on.
He had been using his lighter legs, as he did when holding court, because they looked far more natural under the blanket. The heavy legs were much more reliable, but also quite bulky and obvious. Too many downward glances at them when receiving visitors had banished them from his hall.
But the light ones often jammed like this. The chief artificer swore up and down that he and his apprentices had done all they could, that their poor reliability was an inevitable consequence of making them so light and slim. So Wilhelm had forced himself to deal with it.
Normally he could clear a jam by gently shaking and flexing the leg. According to the chief artificer, the problem was most often a cable that got stuck against one of the knee gears. There was just too little space for everything. Wilhelm tapped the knee with his fist, first gently, then more firmly. But the knee remained frozen.
He tried flexing it, but it would not move at all. A few minutes of twisting and shaking it convinced Wilhelm that something more serious was wrong. Frustrated, he tried to force the knee to bend. Though his legs had gone thin and weak from disuse, his upper body was still powerful—he worked hard to keep this so—and with a hard push, he finally got the knee to bend. But when it gave way, there was the unmistakable sound of something breaking inside it.
Now the knee bent freely—too freely. It had lost all tension, and did not respond to Wilhelm’s motions. He heard clicking and grinding noises from inside the leg, but it did not move. He had broken it.
Wilhelm cursed aloud, telling himself that with Erich unavailable, he would have the artificers all flogged for this. (Though it was an idle threat; he needed them too much.)
He dragged himself over to the dais and tried to stand on his right leg. But the weight of
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