Like any street magician, the little village girl had a good patter. She talked like she knew her business, but within the first half hour Calea was certain that she actually had almost no idea what she was doing. Unfortunately, the little bit of an idea she did have was more than Calea had, so Calea was stuck with her.
“This is going to be fairly complicated,” the girl said. She had been using large words all along, making herself sound older than her soft, round face advertised. Like any child who read too much and knew too little. Calea had been much the same as a teenager. “Because your limbs were amputated above the knee and elbow, I’ll need to make joints. You must have made some yourself, if you crafted your own prosthetics.”
“I modified my prosthetics, more accurately. Heavily. But I did have a foundation to build from.”
Nyasha nodded and began pulling materials from a drawer. “You’ve probably already seen these, then.”
She started laying out pieces. Formless feet made of wood and rubber. Metallic skeleton framework. Hooks and pincers made of brass and steel. “When you received your first prosthetics, how much input did you have?” She looked to Calea’s face, straightforward and without a hint of deference.
Calea might have found it refreshing if it weren’t so irritating. Jalseion was full of lickspittles and fools. This girl was childish and know-it-all, but she was brave. “Not much when I was eight,” she said. “Later I was more insistent on the features I wanted, and by the time I was your age I had taken over.”
“Well, take your pick now.” Nyasha spread her hands expansively to the long counter covered with materials. “We’ll send the bills to the Academy.”
Calea would like to see their faces when that mail arrived.
They began the process of creating a design. It was the most Calea had collaborated with someone since she’d been in her fourth or fifth year of training, forced to work on a presentation with a classmate. What had her name been? Sunith? Judil? Calea truly couldn’t remember.
Working with Nyasha was even more irritating than that experience had been. That girl in the misty past had been somewhat dim, but she had been wise enough to bow to Calea’s superior intellect, letting her choose the subject of their project, the way they would share it, and who would do which tasks in the preparation. Nyasha lacked the humility and insight to do the same. As little as she knew, she was certain of her own knowledge. The worst sort of naif.
Calea won her way, though, in most of the important parts. She got her way on using metal for the internal framework of the pylon, despite Nyasha’s arguments that a lighter material would be better. “You’ll be exhausted after an hour,” the girl said, deep mahogany spots of color appearing on her walnut-shaded cheeks. “You’re not used to non-powered prosthetics. You have no strength built up. It’s a terrible idea.”
“I need metal so I can modify it when I have access to magic again. Wood or laminate would just have to be replaced, and sooner rather than later. I’ll build up endurance quickly.”
“You’re not strong enough.”
“I am!” Calea shouted. “I’ve proved it a thousand times, and I’ll prove it a thousand more! This is the way it will be!”
Her throat ached with the rawness of that shout, and she shut her mouth, glaring at the girl. Nyasha threw her hands into the air and gave in, declaring that it was on Calea’s head, not hers. And that was fine. That was the way Calea wanted it.
Nyasha would not acquiesce on the matter of the socket, though. She insisted that they take time for “a proper fitting” instead of just using the basic socket and harness system to attach the prosthetics to Calea’s body. “It won’t take that long, I promise,” she kept saying. “Do you want to chafe your stumps bloody before you cross the first hill north of town?”
As they were beginning to take the actual measurements, Bron appeared at the door. He took the time for a diffident knock but did not wait for a response before he stuck his loutish head through. “I heard shouting,” he said, as if that were explanation enough for why he had ignored Calea’s explicit command to stay away.
“We’re fine,” Calea said. “Leave us be.”
Bron frowned. And then he looked at Nyasha, as if waiting for her say-so. Calea might have gaped if she weren’t far too self-controlled for such nonsense.
Nyasha, bent over her calipers with a studious expression, only nodded absently. Bron gave them a little bow and stepped out. Calea knew he was standing in the hall, though. Waiting. The big turnip-head.
“All right, that’s enough to be going on with,” the little girl said eventually. She was already turning to the workbench as Calea dragged herself to her feet and retrieved her crutch.
Calea jammed the crutch under her sore armpit and made her way out the door. Bron stood there, of course. He wanted to offer her his arm, she could tell. But she pushed past him, making her own path.
“She says it will take only two days, but I suspect she is optimistic,” Calea told him, thumping her way determinedly back to the entrance. “Where’s that Dr. Burdock? We need someplace to sleep.”
“I’ll find him,” Bron said, but he remained placidly at her side, dogging her footsteps all the way back to the bench where she thudded down on her backside once more.
Bron glided off to look for the doctor, but she had a feeling that he was never truly that far away. It didn’t bother her as much as she expected it to.
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