“Very well, then,” he finally said, “if you insist. But promise me you will do nothing that might be misconstrued, not a single word or an inappropriate look, however romantic it might strike you at the time. The situation is difficult enough. Inappropriate relationships only bring trouble. We don’t need any more of them.”
Chapter Twelve
Bertrada discovered Hero sitting on a bench outside the workshop, gazing glumly at a diagram spread across his knees. A frown nagged a deep bridge between his eyebrows. She sat silently down beside him, trying to compose herself.
“There’s something I have to tell you, Hero,” she finally managed to say. “About us. Something important.”
Distracted from his musing, Hero looked up and smiled. “Bertrada, my dove. What did you say? Have you escaped from your nursemaid duties for a while?” He leaned toward her for a kiss.
Annoyed, she glared at him and then spoke, attempting to imitate the withering tones she had often heard Calyce and Livia use to each other. “I certainly haven’t left Sunilda alone, if that’s what you mean. Do you think me nothing but a foolish girl?” She realized she couldn’t recall exactly how she had planned to convey her decision to him in the kindest possible manner.
Hero gave a deep chuckle of merriment that creased his dark face, banishing the frown that had greeted her. “Ah, Bertrada, you may be a girl but never foolish. However, I’m glad that you came to visit even if it’s just for a short time. Would you like to inspect my latest inspiration?”
The girl blushed. Now her carefully composed speech vanished entirely from her memory. “Unfortunately, I-”
Another chuckle. “No, I didn’t mean that sort of inspiration although certainly you inspire me in more ways than one. However, since we agreed we must be discreet, I shall forgo the opportunity of being inspired in daylight at least!”
Bertrada’s smile was as frosty as her blue eyes. “Some of your mechanical marvels have certainly been inspired, although in need of one or two adjustments to make them perform the task intended. Or perhaps even three or four, in some cases.”
“Yes, the lyre-playing automaton was not supposed to serenade us all in the middle of the night,” Hero replied gloomily, “although I did ascertain the nature of the problem. And just as well, as Zeno is most insistent that it is to be one of the figures accompanying the procession for the village celebration. He’s spending almost as much time in the workshop as I do, you know. Personally, I would have thought he has enough to worry about right now having to arrange the boy’s funeral rites.”
Bertrada’s eyes filled with tears at the mention of Gadaric. “I hope there will be a little ceremony at least.”
“Well, I don’t think Gadaric would care much for something so simple as that, considering how much time the boy spent prowling around my workshop gaping at my inventions. I suspect he would have much rather had fire-breathing monsters or some such to see him off on his final journey. Is this why you are in such a bad humor?” He patted her hand. “I keep telling you, you shouldn’t blame yourself, Bertrada. You couldn’t have known Gadaric was intent on creeping out as soon as he could.”
Bertrada silently wiped her eyes.
“Try to keep busy,” Hero advised kindly. “Look at Zeno. Now I think on it further, it’s just as well he has so much to occupy his mind. Or perhaps he’s just blessed with ignorance and doesn’t realize how quickly Theodora could easily decide that it’s his fault the boy is dead. She’s insistent that the wretched festival go forward. Perhaps that’s what’s saved him so far, since she wouldn’t want to risk his loss spoiling her entertainment. The empress was fascinated when she toured my workshop, you know. She told me she was eager to see all my half-wonders completed and in operation.”
“I’m certain it will be a fine spectacle indeed, Hero, but I hear not all the villagers are happy about it. There’s been much grumbling about not tampering with ancient tradition, especially when ungodly machines are going to be involved.”
“Ungodly machines!” Hero was outraged. “Who said that? It was Godomar, wasn’t it? Why, they’re the finest automatons that can be constructed! They’ll make an astounding display for Theodora. Zeno plans not only to include two or three of my lyre-players in the procession but also the flautist I’m working on at the moment. They’ll be pulled along on a cart so their music can accompany the singers. I’m also making a magnificent archer to be carried on a litter. We were discussing that just recently. And when the procession arrives at the headland, there will be speeches and so on. It’s going to be really spectacular, especially since it’s all done by torchlight. The straw man is thrown off the cliff just as the sun rises, you see.”
“We’ve heard something about it from Minthe,” Bertrada replied. “I gather it’s been going on for centuries. A celebration of the end of summer, she said, the straw man being its representation and having to be sacrificed to the autumn gods for a good harvest, or something like that. But really it’s just one of those interesting old customs that Zeno loves so much. Nobody believes in such sacrifices these days and even if they did, they could hardly say so, could they? And yet,” she concluded thoughtfully, “do you suppose that in the old days, real people were thrown off the cliff into the sea?”
Hero shrugged powerful shoulders. “Possibly, one might say almost certainly. However, Zeno’s improvements, as he calls them, will certainly enliven the festival without posing any danger to anyone.”
He continued enthusiastically, explaining the mechanical archer’s role to the girl, and then paused, ruefully contemplating the destruction of the result of so much of his thought and labor.
“If it were not for the honor of enhancing the occasion,” he went on, “I would much rather not lose the archer. But there it is. I gather it’s going to be dressed in some of Zeno’s finest clothing, with not a wisp of straw about its person. Needless to say, Zeno’s been fussing about like a mother hen, chiding me for my slowness in completing the musicians. And they do need to be tested before the day. There’s only a week left.”
Bertrada rearranged the folds of her linen robes daintily, imitating the oft-observed actions of Theodora’s ladies-in-waiting. “Life continually seems to swing back and forth between haste and wait and rarely continues for any space on an even keel, as seamen would say,” she remarked. Her philosophical comment began a chain of thought that leapt rapidly from sailors to soldiers and then she suddenly remembered her reason for seeking Hero out.
“Did Zeno mention anything about guards for the procession?” she asked with over-elaborate casualness. “After all, we can’t afford to take chances with Sunilda’s safety.”
Hero nodded. “He was complaining about the estate swarming with excubitors. Not so much because of their presence but because they aren’t always very careful where they tramp during their patrols and the gardeners are constantly complaining about damage to the flower beds. Then he said that their captain has been very insistent about the need for extra caution, what with the estate being more or less unprotected and open to the world, not to mention the business of the procession. Apparently he thinks it is the height of folly in the circumstances.”
“Captain Felix carries out his duties faithfully, doesn’t he?”
“Yes, and he also stares a lot at a certain young lady,” Hero snapped. “Quite the barbarian, if you ask me.”
“Some might call Sunilda and me barbarians,” Bertrada flared, color tinting her cheekbones. “He is polite enough and after all he and his men were ordered here to protect Sunilda. No doubt he would much rather be at court.”
“And so would you, wouldn’t you?” Hero retorted hotly. “Your strange humor has something to do with this ignorant soldier, doesn’t it? A man who’s grizzled enough to be your father, at that.”
Bertrada said nothing but stood and began to walk away.