"Well, Sparrow," boomed the king from the polished magnificence of his battlesuit, "what have you made this time?"
"What you asked for, Hermann . . . ," the smith said quietly. "What you expected. No more and no less."
"I wanted him to make something for me," said Princess Miriam. "Has he made something for me?"
Platt tripped near the outer door. The citadel's attendant—the smith's jailer—had been backing to prevent either of the twin boys from getting behind him. He had forgotten the slops bucket which he had yet to empty.
"Pee-ew!" Bran shouted as he scampered back to his parents in false innocence. "See what he did, Mommie?"
"Have him beaten, Mommie!" his brother cried. "Have him beaten!"
"Boys, be quiet," Stella said sharply, seizing each of the brothers by the hair. She held them for only a moment, but long enough for them to try to pull free and start to shriek.
"Platt, you whorespawn," she continued in a voice whose syllables crackled, "clean that up!"
"At once, lady," Platt murmured, bowing and looking around desperately for something to mop with.
"Now!" the queen shouted. "If you have to use your tongue!"
Platt pulled off his shirt and began to scrub. He scooped up the bigger chunks and wrung the rest out into the bucket.
"You see, darling," boasted the king from his armor. "The prison is perfectly safe."
Stella looked around in a mixture of distaste and disapproval. Though it was much as her husband said. . . .
The citadel seemed from the outside to be a large building, but its stone walls were three meters thick. The circular internal cavity was only half the outside diameter; it was bisected now by a barrier of close-set iron bars each of which was as thick as a man's wrist. The ceiling—the floor of the upper level—was five meters high.
Sparrow crouched on a pile of furs on the other side of the bars. A dog whose hind legs were withered lay beside him. Sorted heaps of ore and scrap metals, the raw materials for the smith's work, filled almost all the remaining floorspace. "Well, open the gate, man!" Hermann snarled at the citadel's attendant.
Platt leaped up from his cleaning. There was a look of controlled desperation in his eyes. The key to Sparrow's cell was chained to his waist. Platt fumbled for it, then thrust it into the lock and twisted.
King Hermann used the powered strength of his armor to open the gate against the friction of its massive hinges. The metal shrieked, making everyone in the citadel wince—
Except for Sparrow.
The smith looked from the king, who wore the battlesuit Sparrow had fashioned for himself, to Princess Miriam, who wore the mirror Sparrow had given Krita as a betrothal gift. His face was as still as a broken cliff.
"Get on with it," Hermann ordered.
The six slaves accompanying the king entered the cell one by one, bent under wicker baskets of stone and metal. They knelt to deposit their burdens, then snatched up part of the finished work. This time Sparrow had formed the thorax plates of battlesuits.
The slaves watched the smith warily. They moved with a clumsy quickness, as though they were mucking out a sabertooth's cage. The dog whined softly.
"Not bad," King Hermann murmured as the slabs of armor passed under his protection, though he knew that the pieces were excellent rather than merely good.
Sparrow's work was always excellent.
King Hermann checked his prisoner every week. Any other smith would have required a month to accomplish the amount of work that the slaves were now removing. More important, the consistent quality of Sparrow's work was higher than virtually any rival could have managed no matter how long he took.
Princess Miriam watched the procession of slaves with increasing irritation. At last she shrilled, "Father! Why did you bring me here if there's nothing for me?"
"I just wanted you all to see how well I've—" Hermann said.
"Do you want gifts, lady princess?" the smith interrupted. His voice carried over the king's amplified words. "I'll make you a wonder, Princess Miriam. Give me back the mirror, and I'll make you any number of wonders."
Sparrow had calluses on both knees. A shod pair of sticks helped him to stump around his cell, but he could not have walked even with full-length crutches. He could balance for a moment, perhaps, on the crutch tips and the flopping baggage that had been his feet; but not walk.
Never again.
The princess crossed her hands reflexively over the mirror hanging from her neck. "What?" she said. "No! Make me things anyway. After all, this isn't any good to you. It would just show you where you can't go."
"This is what you have him making?" the queen asked Hermann in puzzlement.
"I have him making battlesuits," the king explained. "But not all the parts at one time. You—"
"Make him give me more jewelry, Father!" Miriam interrupted.
"—see how careful I'm being."
"Will you let me go if I make a bauble for your daughter, King Hermann?" the smith asked. His voice was calm and his face still; but there was a gleam of frozen Hell in Sparrow's eyes.
The last of the slaves left the cell carrying the prisoner's slops bucket.
The king clashed the gate closed. "Don't be stupid," he muttered, quietly so that Princess Miriam would not hear him over the clang.
While the adults looked at Sparrow, Brech again overturned the bucket into which Platt had been mopping. The attendant grabbed the full bucket to prevent it from suffering the same fate. In theory, Platt was still a noble. In practice . . .
But he was alive; and he had his legs.
"I don't see why you worry, majesty," Platt said with a chuckle. "Even if Sparrow here did build an entire battlesuit, it still wouldn't help him walk!"
He laughed, and they all laughed at the despair on Sparrow's face.