by Jeff Grubb
Rusko smiled back, taking the young man’s words as a compliment. “So,” he said, looking up at the titanic figure, “does it work?”
“Not yet.” Urza pulled a chain from around his neck. Rusko saw that the chain was attached to a large gem, a dark ruby flecked with streaks of multicolored fire. Urza climbed the stepladder until he was level with the great creature’s head, and pushed the gem inside. Standing on tiptoe, Rusko could see the young man touching the ruby stone to the dead, inert gem in the creature’s head.
The gem in the creature’s head began to glow, slowly, erratically at first, then with a stronger beacon, until it was as strong as the stone Urza held. It radiated with a sapphire light shot through with sparks of white.
It was, thought the clockmaker, like watching someone set a fire by placing a burning stick against another.
As the new gem glowed, the creature began to move. It raised one arm, then lowered it, then raised it again. The gears and pulleys at the machine’s arm and shoulder whined softly as they moved. Urza lowered the creature’s visor. The light of the gem shone through its eyeholes.
“There,” said Urza. “Now the machine has a new soul as well.”
* * *
—
It was the third month of the competition, and for Kayla it was proceeding much the same way as the first two. A cavalcade of horns and gongs sounded. A throng of well-wishers passed before her and her father (though there were fewer with each passing month, she noticed). A gathering of overly muscled warriors waited their turn to attempt the impossible. Again, there were fewer than previously.
On the first day of competition it had all been a great celebration. A month later, at the second trial, it was merely interesting. Now, two months after the first day of competition for her hand, Kayla felt the whole affair was becoming tedious.
She reviewed the candidates and suppressed a shudder. This lot might look well behind a plow (or pulling one, she thought wickedly), but as far as leadership material went, they were sorely lacking. Some part of Kayla’s mind gave a mental shrug. What did it matter? After the wedding, she would make all the important decisions.
At first, as each took his turn, she imagined what life would be like with each of the hulking brutes. That proved to be less than appealing, so she soon settled on guessing the nature of their injuries after they had failed to move the statue. She had counted so far that day ten pulled muscles (three in the groin), two burst intestines, seven cases of exhaustion, and a head injury. The last was from a young man from the Sword Marches of the far north, who grew so frustrated that he head-butted the statue. The temple healers hauled him off the field by his feet.
The current contestant was a grunter, gripping the statue and trying to pull it down on top of himself. Kayla did not care for grunters. She liked the bellowers better. They made more noise, and tended to give up more quickly.
The lists had thinned out quickly, and there were now bare spots among the benches for the loyal subjects. She wondered how much longer her father was going to continue this exercise in futility. Probably, she decided, until one of the lesser noble families made a better offer for her hand. Daddy was always doing things in secret.
Kayla was resigned to her fate. She had always been a dutiful daughter, and if her father arranged for her to marry a Fallaji, she would live in some desert tent beyond civilization. She was no stranger to court politics. For years, she knew, she had been groomed to eventually marry in a fashion that would make Kroog stronger. The fact that the original target of that marriage had the misfortune to die before getting the chance to wed her did not change the process in the least.
She looked at her father as he watched the proceedings. He had on his solemn face now: cool, thoughtful, and regal. Would the common people think less of him if they knew that after the first day he had cursed like a sailor at the failure of the contestants, storming around the royal suites for a good hour? Probably not, Kayla decided. Her father was a great war hero, a valiant warlord, and she suspected this farce being played out before her represented one last attempt to prove to himself that there were still warriors in Yotia.
And, she was sure, her father felt he could have lifted the jade statue by himself when he was young.
Another bellowing titan pulled a groin muscle, and Kayla saw the lists were empty. No, there were three figures left. One slender, one fat, and one shrouded in a great cape and hood, who towered over the other two.
The seneschal walked over to the trio, and there was a quick consultation among the two smaller figures and the ruler’s advisor. The seneschal moved to the warlord’s side and spoke in a low voice.
“We have one more candidate,” said the seneschal, a quaking, nervous man who both loved and feared his warlord, “but it’s a bit unusual.”
The warlord grunted. “The big one?”
“No, milord,” said the seneschal. “The thin one. He says he can move your statue by the strength of his mind, if you will but permit it.”
A smile crossed the warlord’s face, and Kayla knew that it was not one of his more pleasant expressions. “Let him. But tell him the penalty for wasting the warlord’s time.”
The seneschal bowed and retreated. Kayla stared at the newcomers. The slender one was attractive, but it was only in proximity to the fat one that she remembered where she had seen him before. He was the Argivian clockmaker, the stranger with the wry smile and clipped accent.
For a fleeting moment, Kayla allowed herself to think about life with this one. The prospect was not totally unpleasant. She also wondered if he could truly move the statue with his mind, or if he would sprain his brain in the process.
Kayla’s memory spun for a moment. Urza—that was the young man’s name. She still had his key next to her mother’s music box. And his companion, the fat one. She knew she had heard his name at the shop, but nothing came to her now.
Urza stepped directly before the statue. Behind him strode the fat man, helping along the titanic cloaked figure. There was a smell in the air, like the air before a storm. The Argivian bowed deeply.
“I thank the crown for the chance to succeed in a task that has defeated so many others,” said Urza. The warlord waved his hand, urging the young man to speed up his speech. Kayla was sure that after today Daddy would abandon this method of choosing a suitor.
“I will now move the statue by the strength of my mind,” declared Urza. Reaching back, he pulled the cape from the large figure behind him. There was a collective gasp from the crowd as the cloth fell away to reveal the figure beneath.
It was made of metal, and was human in form. At first Kayla thought it was a living being, but immediately she saw that she had been mistaken. It was a machine. Of course, she thought. He is a clockmaker, after all, and an Argivian. The Argivians were always poking around the old ruins, trying to find powerful devices for their own use.
“I built this, using my mind,” said Urza, and the fat man made a harrumphing noise. “That and using the services of Goodsir Rusko, maker of fine clocks,” the youth added. Let what I have built with my mind move your statue.”
The large humanoid machine lumbered forward, and for a moment Kayla expected it to pitch over onto the stonework. As it walked, the Argivian stayed next to it, speaking to it, guiding each of its motions.
The pair reached the statue. Urza pointed to one side of the statue, and the machine placed a hand, metal with fingers of polished wood, on that location. He pointed to the other side, and the machine placed its other hand there.
Urza patted the side of the creature, and it began to lift. After the bellowers, screamers, and grunters, the silence that surrounded the artifact was eerie. There was a slight humming, like the space between the notes of Kayla’s music box. The metal humanoid bent at the knees (which seemed, from the princess’s vantage point, to be constructed backward) and slowly lifted the figure from the ground.
There was a collective gasp from the crowd as daylight appeared beneath th
e jade statue. The construct pulled the statue straight up, holding it about a foot off the ground. Slowly the great machine spun on its hips, its spine rotating all the way around, so that its knees were pointing forward. Then slowly, the machine started to walk toward the opposite side of the court.
It was slow going. The machine could hold the statue, but the courtyard had difficulty supporting both the machine and the statue. Paving stones crushed beneath the giant’s feet, and at one point, the great metal creature pitched precipitously to the right as the stones turned to dust beneath the weight of its tread. There was a whining noise as wires spooled through pulleys, and Kayla was sure she was about to see the mechanical equivalent of a groin pull.
Urza was at the machine’s side at once, examining the problem and shouting orders. The great metal thing responded, tipped the other way, and at last reached its final destination. Urza gave one last command, and the machine set down the jade megalith so that it faced the royal dais.
The crowd applauded. Some fled the stands to tell their friends the king’s statue had been defeated by a metal creature made by an Argivian.
Kayla found herself on her feet applauding as well, but one glance at her father stopped her. His face was a storm cloud, and veins throbbed at his temples. Wordlessly he rose and turned away from the dais, thundering back into the palace. Ever dutiful, Kayla rose as well, but allowed herself the opportunity to look once more at the talented Argivian.
He stood there in the center of the court, his machine next to him, the clockmaker on the other side. The common people were already spilling into the courtyard to congratulate him. On his face was a wide, beaming smile.
She decided it was a pleasant smile, and smiled back at him. She did not stop to see if he saw her mark of favor, but instead turned and followed her father through the palace doors. She only hoped the warlord would reach a room with thick walls before he exploded.
* * *
—
It took fifteen minutes for the warlord to stop cursing, and another fifteen before he was using coherent sentences. Kayla, the seneschal, Kayla’s matron, and a brace of nervous courtiers waited for the storm to abate before even venturing an opinion.
“The temerity!” he shouted at the rafters. “The insult! How dare that…that…” His mouth opened and closed for a moment until he found the proper word. “Weed! That weed thinks he deserves my daughter’s hand in exchange for some parlor trick!”
“Well,” said the trembling seneschal, “you did say her hand would go to whoever could move the statue.”
The warlord grunted harshly.
“And you did allow him to try,” said the seneschal, gathering strength as he spoke. “He said he would move the statue with his mind.”
“But he didn’t!” bellowed the warlord. “That wind-up machine did all the moving!”
“Well,” said the seneschal, “your daughter could marry the machine.”
Kayla stifled a giggle, but the joke prompted another cascade of war-camp obscenities from the warlord. The seneschal fled under the assault, and, Kayla thought at the time, out of the discussion entirely.
“And you!” roared the warlord, turning to his daughter, “what have you to say of all this?”
“Say?” cried Kayla. She was suddenly indignant at being the target of his yelling. “I had no say when you wanted me to marry that hapless mariner.” She charged, stalking toward her father. “I had no say when you decided to award me to the strongest ox in the kingdom. So now, when someone has finally beaten you at one of your little games, I suddenly have a say?”
The warlord stared at Kayla, stunned by her outburst. His shoulders sagged with defeat. “I just want what’s best for you. But to have to give you to this…foreigner. This…Argivian. This…weed!”
“You are the warlord of Kroog,” said Kayla coldly. “You can do whatever you want. You can banish him if you want. But if you want my opinion, here it is. He has a pleasant face, a good shape, and seems rather bright. I would not mind being his bride.”
The warlord’s brows furrowed, and Kayla wondered which part her father was thinking about—the fact that she would not mind marrying Urza, or the fact he could have the Argivian banished. Behind her came the squeak of the heavy-timbered door, and the seneschal poked his head back in.
“What?” snapped the warlord. Kayla thought that the seneschal might evaporate entirely. To her surprise the nervous bureaucrat stood his ground and managed a convincing mewl. “A visitor requests an audience, milord.”
“The weed?” snarled the warlord. “Tell him we have not yet ruled as to the legitimacy of his little trick.”
“Not the…” The seneschal gulped and continued, “Argivian. His, uh, sponsor.”
The warlord looked at Kayla, and the princess nodded vigorously. Her father could bully most of the staff. Perhaps the little clockmaker had a better chance of making Urza’s case.
At first it seemed a vain hope. The clockmaker bowed three times before reaching the warlord. Each bow being a deep, knee-buckling affair that consumed time and further shredded her father’s patience. As Rusko rose from the third bow Kayla walked to his side and helped the overweight merchant to his feet, escorting him to the warlord.
“Your Grace and Your Highness,” gasped the fat little man. “Conqueror of the Sword Marches, Bearer of Prosperity, Master of our Fates.”
The warlord flapped his hand impatiently, while Kayla wondered if the clockmaker talked that way in real life.
“I bring two messages,” said Rusko. “The first is from my boon assistant and companion, Goodsir Urza, the Argivian.” He paused and waited for a response.
“Go on,” snapped the warlord, biting off his words as if they were bits of meat.
The clockmaker cleared his voice. “Sir, Urza says that he understands if you choose to rescind your challenge, though he would be very disappointed in losing the companionship of your lovely daughter.” He bowed to Kayla, and the princess returned it with a nod. She wondered if what the clockmaker said about Urza’s disappointment was true.
“Is that it?” asked the warlord.
“The first message, yes,” replied Rusko.
“And the second?” inquired the warlord.
“The second is from me,” said the clockmaker. He lowered his voice somewhat. “And this is it.” He reached into his vest, pulling out a sheaf of papers. He handed them to the seneschal, who in turn handed them to the warlord.
The ruler flipped through the pages and grunted, “And these are?”
“Plans, my grace,” said Rusko. “Plans for a flying machine, an Argivian flying machine, designed by the talented young Goodsir Urza.”
The warlord looked from the clockmaker, to the plans, to the clockmaker. “The Argivian knows how to build flying machines? Do they work?”
The clockmaker bowed deeply. “I do not know for certain. Two months ago, I could not tell you that his mechanical man would work. But it has.”
The warlord looked through the papers a third time. “And the Argivian might have other secrets locked up in his mind,” he said, almost to himself.
“I would presume so,” said Rusko. “He is a private man, closed to all but those closest to him. Definitely in need of a woman’s touch to bring out his best.” Again he bowed to Kayla.
The warlord grew silent, and Kayla knew he was weighing the alternatives. Finally he said, “Daughter, did you mean it when you said you would not mind marrying this…talented…weed?”
Kayla gave a small nod and said, “I spoke truly when I say he is the best candidate you have found so far.”
The ruler gave out a deep sigh and rubbed his eyes. Handing the plans back to the fat clockmaker, he spoke. “Very well. Then let us go back out and congratulate my future son-in-law.”
* * *
—
The ceremony was ornate, even by Yotian standards. Kroog had more than thirty major temples and a host of smaller ones with important patrons, and every one w
anted to have a say in the wedding. Kayla tried to count the number of officiating priests but gave up after the fifteenth or sixteenth.
It was tediously long. Sermons were read. Prayers were chanted. Spirits were banished. Gods were invoked. More sermons. More prayers. The couple kissed icons. They placed hands on scriptures. They danced around a ceremonial pyre. They were doused with blessed water and drank sanctified wine. They freed a dove and burned a scroll of regrets. They paraded beneath unsheathed blades. They received benedictions, blessings, and well-wishes. In deference to Urza’s Argivian heritage, each wore a gold circlet on his or her brow, each of the circlets joined by a single silver chain.
Kayla could not say at what point during the day she was officially married to Urza, scholar of Argive, new Chief Artificer of Kroog. All she could say was that by the end of the day there was no question that she was well and truly married.
And through it all Urza was understanding, not impatient in the way most men were about such things (Daddy was visibly uncomfortable after the seventh responsive reading). Nor was the young man visibly bored, or apparently making a show of being tolerant. He seemed to be taking mental notes on everything he saw and commenting on nothing. She expected to see that smug Argivian smile during some of the more rustic and traditional parts of the ceremony, but he took those with good grace as well.
And after the interminable ceremonies was an equally long procession through the streets, as the people waved and cast multicolored streamers and waved colored torches. And then a long feast of several dozen courses, each course broken by long toasts from anyone who felt he had something good to say about the princess and her surprising (if still generally mysterious) groom.
And when at last the ceremonies and the processions and the feasts were done, long after the midnight bell had sounded, the couple was escorted to their own wing of the palace, into the bridal chamber. The dowry had been placed there, along with some of more tasteful gifts of various powerful well-wishers. The bed was made with sheets of Almaaz silk and dusted with rose petals. Incense burned from a dozen small braziers, and the room was lit with candles.
