The Wizard's Daughters: Twin Magic: Book 1

by Michael Dalton

Part II

  15.

  The Legless Duke, they called him.

  Oh, not to his face. No one would dare. The first one who had made that mistake had lost his tongue within the hour, and the last one—just to be sure the message was clear—had had his feet and legs removed by the torturer, joint by joint, to be fed to the dogs as he was made to watch.

  But he knew it continued. He could see it in their eyes. The whispers, the glances. And while he could torture his own subjects, he could do little or nothing about the names his fellow nobles called him behind his back, out of earshot.

  Duke Wilhelm von Jülich-Berg was a powerful man, and one more willing to use that power than his feckless father, who had let that thrice-damned dog of a son live in exile rather than putting him to death for what he had done.

  And the slur was not even accurate. Wilhelm had legs. He could not use them, true, but he still had them.

  The mages had tried to heal him, oh, how they had tried. The pain he had endured from the probing, their poultices. They healed the wounds, but they simply could not repair the damage to his knees, could not reattach the tendons Erich had severed.

  How that name still burned in his mind. There was a thousand-crown bounty on Erich’s head in Wilhelm’s lands. He had sent sellswords after him repeatedly. Two sets had died on Erich’s sword, but the last three bands he had sent had returned empty-handed, unable to find him. He had either gone to ground somewhere or traveled too far beyond Wilhelm’s reach.

  Someday, if there were any justice in this world, Wilhelm would find his brother and have his revenge.

  Wilhelm could walk, after a fashion. The court artificers had made him a set of automaton legs that fitted around his real ones, but they were either slow and heavy, or light but balky and prone to breakdowns. All of them made so much noise it was impossible to conceal his disability.

  So he walked as little as possible, except around his servants and lackeys. Which was a problem, because Wilhelm’s wife Sibylle enjoyed entertaining.

  Wilhelm watched her dancing with one of his vassals, watched very carefully. He allowed her this, since dancing was impossible with his automaton legs, but he was vigilant for any sign the man took pleasure in the dance, felt even an ounce of satisfaction in giving Wilhelm’s wife something Wilhelm himself could not.

  He saw nothing. They had been through this routine enough that his guests knew where the lines were and did not cross them. The men who danced with Sibylle did so stiffly and properly, knowing Wilhelm’s rage when he felt slighted.

  The dance ended. Sibylle curtseyed to her partner and return to Wilhelm’s side, patting her forehead with a handkerchief.

  “Are you enjoying the dance, my dear?”

  “The music is soothing.”

  “Do you need more wine? It is so hot in here tonight.”

  “I am fine.”

  She fanned herself, and waved over one of the footmen, who refilled her glass. She took a long draft, then patted her forehead again.

  “Can I get you anything at all?”

  “I am fine. I enjoy watching you dance.”

  “Then I shall get back out here.” She leaned in and pecked him on the cheek, then went in search of a new partner.

  Sibylle was kind to him, and he hated her for it.

  His greatest humiliation came in their bed. The damage to his legs was such that he could not mount her as a man, though they had tried. He could only let her ride him. He had fathered a daughter that way, and he hated the very sight of her, knowing how she had been conceived. He was certain Sibylle’s failure to bear him a son was the fault of his brother.

  In her eyes, Wilhelm could see the power she knew she had over him. It was the power of allowing him his dignity.

  She never mentioned his legs, never seemed to mind the burdens they placed on their marriage. She never remarked on his shortcomings, never said or did anything to make him feel less of a man in their bed.

  And yet.

  A few times early in their marriage, he had tried to refuse her something she wanted. Rather than arguing with him, she had merely replied, “Are you sure, husband?” and glanced down at his legs.

  The message was clear, though she had said nothing. I could make this happen if I wanted to, because you cannot stop me. And he had given in.

  So he let her throw her parties, let her dance to her heart’s content, let her go off to visit her mother in Brandenburg frequently and did not ask what she did while she was gone. And she had kept his dignity intact, had done nothing, whether in public or private, to threaten it. She had taken no lovers he was aware of, though she likely could have had she wanted to.

  Wilhelm watched bitterly as a new dance began, and Sibylle spun across the floor with her cousin.

  When the day finally came that Erich was in Wilhelm’s power, he would spend years torturing him to death.

  ♦ ♦

  Johannes von Brauersdorf was working in the study of his tower when he heard a clicking, whirring noise in his window. The sound was familiar to him, so he did not look up immediately. When he had finished the thought he was in the midst of and got it down, he looked over. Something akin to a brass crow was tapping on the glass.

  Johannes reached over and let it in. The thing hopped twice, once onto the windowsill and thence onto his desk. Then it was still.

  He picked it up and opened the compartment in its chest. Inside was a small scroll of parchment, which Johannes unrolled and began to read.

  As he knew when the thing arrived, it was a letter from his friend Walther. He read it slowly, nodding in approval at a few things, raising his eyebrows at others. When he was done, he pulled a new sheet of parchment from his desk and drafted a quick reply. Then he rolled it up and placed it inside the brass crow.

  As soon as he set it down, the metal bird began clicking and whirring again. It hopped up onto the windowsill, spread its wings, and took off.

  Johannes sat back in his chair, the paper he had been working on for his symposium forgotten. This was a development of some import, one he had known was coming for some time, but that still required some reflection.

  Walther had of course reached out to him for a reason. As a vice-chancellor of the University, he knew nearly all of the mages in the city, and more importantly, knew which ones were unmarried. That latter group comprised a fairly large number, the difficulties of magical marriage being what they were. Johannes would do what Walther had asked, not that it was truly necessary. When word of the eligibility of two such beautiful girls of such unique bloodline got around, every unmarried mage within fifty leagues would be setting out for Köln in hopes of being their match. It was precisely why Walther had settled in such a small town so far from magical society.

  That being the case, Johannes had some preparations to make.

  He drew another piece of parchment, and drafted a short note to one of his assistants, who was responsible for the university social schedule. Then he whistled sharply.

  Across the room on a padded bed was a white weasel. When Johannes whistled, the weasel left the bed and hopped across the room, springing off a low table then onto Johannes’s desk. He rolled up the letter tightly, then slipped it into a silver tube hanging from the weasel’s collar.

  “Take this to Sigrid.”

  The weasel obediently turned around and hopped out the door.

  Following his familiar, Johannes walked out of his room and down the staircase in the center of the tower. When he reached the ground floor, the weasel went to the left, but Johannes went to the right. He walked across the quadrangle to the staircase on the far corner. After climbing to the third floor, he went left, down three doors, and stopped at the fourth, which had a large stuffed badger mounted above it. He rapped twice.

  “Come in.”

  Johannes entered. The room beyond was considerably less spacious than his tower, since his son had been an instructor at the University only a few years. Sitting at the desk inside was a young man of
about twenty-five with thick black hair.

  “Father.”

  “How are your classes, Franz?”

  “They are going well enough.”

  Johannes sat down in the chair in front of his son’s desk.

  “Gerard is coming to Köln. And he is bringing his daughters.”

  Franz drew in a long breath and sat back in his seat.

  “They are to be married?”

  “Yes. And you will recall what I told you about their flows.”

  “They truly must marry the same man?”

  “Yes.”

  Franz looked past his father at a painting on the wall behind him. “They could match with any man. We have no way of knowing if they would match with me.”

  “That is true, but that does not mean you should not try. Flows are malleable to some extent. You know that. I have seen youthful infatuation create matches where none should have existed.”

  “Are they really as pretty as you say?”

  Johannes leaned back and put his hands together in a steeple under his nose.

  “That should not be your first concern, but yes. I have not seen Ariel and Astrid in several years, but unless things have gone seriously astray, I am certain they have grown into rare beauties. Certainly the tone of Walther’s letter to me today suggests he knows what a stir will be created when they arrive.”

  Franz’s eyes had glazed over, so Johannes continued.

  “You remember that they are part undine?”

  “Yes. But I am sorry, Father, what does that mean? You know I do not specialize in magical creatures.”

  “An undine is a river spirit who has no soul until she marries a human man and bears him a child.”

  “I know that much. But what does that mean for Walther’s daughters?”

  “An undine’s child is always female, and nearly every time, it is another undine, who must leave her parents at puberty and find her own river. But every now and then, the child favors her human father, and can remain in human society. Such it was with Walther’s wife. How on earth they came to match with each other I will never know, but from everything I saw, they loved each other and were happy. She bore him twin girls, but when Ariel and Astrid were eight or nine, she caught fever and died. The girls have the pale skin and silver hair of their maternal lineage, but are otherwise human in appearance.”

  Johannes leaned forward in his chair.

  “More importantly for you, however, that lineage also gives them enormous potential for natural magic, more so I think than Walther realizes. Having two such mages for wife would create an extremely strong union, given your own talents. You must do your best to make it happen.”

  Franz looked back at Johannes.

  “I will try, Father.”

  “Do so. Just do not become distracted by their pretty faces. You will have a lifetime to obsess over them after your marriage. Focus now on making it happen.”

  16.

  Wilhelm sat on the large chair at the head of his main hall and scowled down at the sellsword approaching him. He was tall and thin, with long black hair tied behind his head, and wore a black felt cap with a long red feather. Wilhelm noted with disgust that Erich was quite obviously not in chains behind him.

  “Failure again, is it?”

  The man removed his cap and bowed when he reached the edge of the dais. His name was Giancarlo, and he was a hard, vicious man who was supposed to have served several of the more disreputable lordlings in Italy. He had come to Wilhelm well recommended, but so far had produced nothing.

  “We have not found him, no, but I believe we have found his trail.”

  Wilhelm grumbled.

  “Go on.”

  “Two months ago, he appears to have spent some time in Limburg. A man fitting his description was arrested for dueling with the son of one of the town councilmembers. There was some dispute over a game of cards, and apparently he seriously injured the boy. He was fined, flogged, and driven out of town. A whore we questioned confirmed the identification.”

  “That sounds like my brother.”

  “The whore saw his jeweled blades. She described them precisely. I am certain it was him.”

  “So why are you here instead of pursuing him?”

  Giancarlo straightened himself and took a deep breath.

  “We need more money, Your Grace. The agreement was for six months. It has been nearly a year. I must pay my men, or they will desert.”

  Wilhelm frowned. “The bounty is insufficient?”

  “The bounty is a different matter, Your Grace. That was our agreement. We were to be paid for our efforts in finding your brother. The bounty has been in place for seven years, now, correct? If you would prefer to 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 w
orked 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 the broken left was too great, and the automaton circuits did not have finely enough tuned balance for it. He went over again with a crash.

  He knew he could have called for help. But the humiliation of it would be too great.

  Wilhelm unbuckled the left leg and cast it aside, then tried to stand again. Now he was able to get to his feet. But how to move? He could not hop on his one mechanical leg, but he might be able to limp forward if he could find something to support himself with. This was not the first time something like this had happened to him, and he had taken to keeping walking sticks in certain rooms in case he needed them. But again, his concern for appearances in this room had kept him from doing it here.

  He dropped down to his knees again, and half-crawled, half-dragged himself to the nearest chair. Once he pulled himself up, he found he was able to move forward by leaning heavily on the chair and pushing back with his one good leg. Bit by bit, he made it to the side door of the audience room. He had to sit down to push the door open, but that done, he made it out into the hall.

  One of his private sitting rooms was a few doors down at the point where the hall turned to the right. If he could make it there, he could sit and wait until a servant passed, and have them fetch the chief artificer without undue embarrassment.

  Filling with triumphant satisfaction at his impending victory over this annoyance, Wilhelm maneuvered down the hallway to the sitting room. But just as he reached it—disaster.

  A chambermaid hurrying down the hall with a bucket of dirty wash-water came around the corner and crashed into him, tripping over the chair. Both of them fell to the floor, with the bucket of filthy water unending all over Wilhelm’s court robes.