If there was anything that could have dissuaded Lucien from walking out of his life, it might have been if he'd had a lover in the town. But he hadn't, hadn't since Julia, and ... That was best left to the back of his mind, if ever at all he thought of her. While Lucien did in fact walk, his step was aided by shoes he'd designed to cushion and relax the feet; his packs were carried by a walking device simulating a well-tempered mule. It had actually been one of his first devices, and was purely mechanical. It needed guidance, it followed a specific reflection given to it by a patch of glass worn on Lucien's person. The whole front end of the four-legged machine was a dome of sturdy shaded glass. It picked up the reflection, and its motion carried it in that direction. It wasn't all that good about being in the rain, and it did slow considerably when going up steep hills. But on the gentle rolling hills of these streets in this city, it was just fine.

It carried other of Lucien's possessions - ones he didn't want to leave behind or have stolen. If they broke while he had them on this journey he could fix them, he had tools. If they were stolen or damaged while he was gone, he would never have forgiven himself for not having taken them.

They were his children, after all, he prized these things above most items. Books - they could be replaced, usually. Timepieces, everywhere you looked there was a shop selling them. Magically enhanced items too, most of those were available if not cheaply then at least reasonably common. The inventions that Lucien had built, however, they could not be replaced. Only one of his marvels had gone into mass-production, the shoes. Some had enjoyed brief hand-work and a small production run, and others he'd sold the plans for other people to work on themselves. Others people had asked about, but even the transcription device was a bit difficult to reproduce without the proper tools or experience. It was like a typewriter, with a microphone. But ... there was also the spark within it, magically aiding it.

Without that spark, no machine could do this, not yet anyway. Some day, Lucien had thought, some day it might run on power not supplied by the aether. Electricity was commonly used in places where magic had gone sour, or had never taken hold - there were vast areas of the Vespuchis that had no obvious magical current - and relied instead upon pure mechanical and physical means. There, he suspected, they'd be able to put wires or something exotic like that into his machine, and power it some other way - they'd have to find some way of inking the pages...

He thought on this for a full day as he walked out of town, how to fit the machine with a portable ink source. A typewriter had one, but he'd never actually seen one, only heard descriptions from people who had traveled farther than he.

There were inns along the roadways, but Lucien decided that he might fare better when he got where he was going, if he still had coins left. It was true he could fix almost any machine or alchemical resource, he could make money along the way. But he didn't really want to stop just yet, so he walked well into the night. His mechanical mule kept pace, jangling very slightly with the springs in its legs and the clockwork spring in its body. He would stop when it wore down.

He would eventually want to produce some kind of automatic winding device, as well - or, and he talked into his recorder for this one, something which wound the spring while it was still walking.

If there had ever been any doubt about Lucien's mechanical genius, one look at the journals he kept would solve that. If he had the time, money or extra hands to make half the things he dreamed up, he'd be a rich man. But he wasn't all about the money, he was more about getting things done precisely, done well, done to a standard. And, done for the right reasons.

He'd been asked to produce a cannon, something that loaded and fired quickly, but he immediately turned that idea down. He didn't want war money, he didn't want anything to do with it. No deaths by his machinery, that became his motto for a while. After a few years, they stopped asking, at last. Others could always take that up, anyway - they did, plentifully.

Which was why he was making that armor-creating machine. To save lives. Automatic cannons? Pistols which shot five times in as many seconds? Madness. Deadly madness. Why would anyone need such things! But they did, apparently, and they used them to fight border disputes, to repel monsters that occasionally came from 'mad' scientists laboratories, to hunt, to steal money, to intimidate, to make up for whatever inadequacies their parlay skills demonstrated.

So there was need for such skin. Skin which could be molded to fit over clothing or even other armors, more likely under it, since it was comfortable enough and not too hot. The final word had come to him about the fate of that particular machine, but... he could and would build another one. And he was fairly confident that Maurel and Dayna would be there to help. They'd almost gotten the process complete, from creating open-sided pig-skin cells which would accept the barrage of finely misted hot metal without dissolving. The cells were healed in a soft light on the conveyer belt, and thickened by having another layer sprayed down on it. They had found that fifteen layers was too much, knocked it down to twelve, which was thick enough to resist a bullet at reasonable range, and the skin-metal could then be hemmed at the edges. It could in fact be sewn, but only with sufficiently magical devices, with needles that were enchanted to be 'not an enemy' to the metal skin. It was complicated. But it was brilliant.

Julia had thought it mad. She'd left him before he actually finished the paper design, stating flatly that he was simply mixing and matching things, and that just 'wasn't right'. Perhaps, he thought aloud to the mechanical mule beside him on the fourth day of travel, "she ought to hook up with Toren, they'd make a great couple." He was actually surprised they hadn't, actually. Then again, that would be more bitter than it was worth. His teen-time lover, captivated by his mortal enemy? Well, that would serve everyone perfectly well, really. If Lucien didn't have a romance with someone who did understand him, then... someone should. Might as well be Toren.

Lucien had adopted a relaxed, not very pleasant but certainly not antagonistic attitude toward Toren in the days of travel. True, he'd actually taken out some anger while cutting wood for a cook fire and almost sliced his foot off in the process, but after that moment he realized that Toren was like many other obsessive people: he would simply do whatever it took to get his way. He was very like a young child, but one who should know better.

And Lucien knew one thing - karma in this world did exist, and did have a way of dealing with people who did bad things. Selfish things.

"Rotten little spoilt brat with more money than he knows what to do with, squandering talent on useless prayers and nonresponsive gods," Lucien muttered as he walked up a slow, curving trail around a mountain pass.

Okay so he wasn't over it, but he wasn't trying to formulate ways to kill the wealthy annoyance off, either. Yet. He knew that the man must have done something, all the materials Lucien had been able to scrounge together indicated that the other professor would eagerly have come, because of his own history with such events in Frellhall. Theirs was a slightly more religious nation, but also more steadily governed. There was a 'king' but also a council of rulers, a senate, representitives from the Trinity as well as the populace in general, and all had their say. If anyone would be trusted to have good legal knowledge it would be these people.

He only hoped that the worst hadn't happened.

***

On Lucien's eighth day of travel, his legs now used to the work of steady uphill walking, and his arms used to re-winding the mule's spring, and only two overnight stays at inns along the way, Lucien happened to bed down in a place he might have avoided, had he known the local culture a little better.

The canopy of trees was drooping with summer leaves, obscuring much of the road in places, sometimes only able to see a few meters before the heavy branches overcame the road. The path was traveled well, however, and he often was passed going either direction by people in carts or on horseback, or more rarely (okay, only once) by someone who must have been entirely too wealthy, riding a mechanical horse. Many of those on carts or in carriages headed the same direction offered to pick him up for a bit, but he declined politely, patting the mule and suggesting he was simply looking for some time alone with his thoughts. At the very least, the fact that so many people were traveling through kept him more safe than it might have during another season with less traffic.

He bedded down, finished recording his journal about automatic tree pruning shears that could be attached to the trunk of a tree when it was planted (which might be nice around here, he thought, someone could make a handy profit off it, and keep the way clear!), and tucked down to sleep. He slept very well, this last week, not just due to the exhaustive nature of his journey, but because he simply felt better to leave things alone a bit. To keep away from the hornets nest was the wisest thing he could find, and he planned on poking it again once he'd grown more armor...

He awoke quietly, to the sounds of someone rustling through his things. He didn't start, he didn't move, just tried to keep his breathing slow and quiet as though still asleep. But someone was untying his mule packs, and rooting through them! The mule didn't have any automatic security measures, and was completely wound down for the night anyway. He'd have to wind it in the morning, or whenever he got going, so he couldn't just kick at it to start it walking. That would have been the preferable method of dealing with a thief in the night in a foreign forest. But sadly that was not to be.

So engrossed was the thief, however, in examining his personal goods, that Lucien simply sat himself up on his elbow very quietly and slowly, to watch. The boy was perhaps thirteen, maybe fourteen and small for his age - that would follow, if he was a thief living in the wilderness after all he'd probably not gotten a good steady meal in him for years. The boy had messy, dark hair, shabby clothing. His leggings came up too short when he was crouched there, they would ride high over his ankles and were probably meant for a much younger child.

At the very least, Lucien noticed and noted duly - the boy did not throw anything. He set things aside almost as carefully as one of the Master's students would. He would tilt his head and look at something, peer into it, as though in the darkness he could see more clearly by doing so. The boy muttered to himself, but not the more general 'what's this thing do' or 'who would use something weird like this'. More to the point, he muttered to himself about how useful something would be.

"Do you fancy yourself a thief, or an inventor?" Lucien asked, and the boy literally jumped from his frog-like crouch halfway across the clearing. Lucien's throaty chuckle at that roused the boy to stand, and brush himself off. He stood his ground, he already had two items (a chain that would normally have held a gear system together, and several of those gears which had come loose during their bumpy journey) in his hands. But when he noticed them, he merely stuffed them into his own pockets.

"That's bold of you, boy, stealing right in front of the owner's eyes," Lucien added, sitting up more properly and folding his knees up. He could spring up, but he wouldn't. Why bother? To chase away a lad who had clearly more to lose than Lucien himself? "Well, what would you do with those? I daresay you don't have any machinery which would fit them out here, do you?" He waggled his fingers at the boy, and finally the youngling shuffled closer. He deposited the gears and the chain into an open bag - Lucien again noted: it was the right bag. Not just on the ground, not just in some randomly open one, it was in the one they were from. "Good lad, thank you. Now. Come along, sit here and tell me why you're rooting through strange goods."

While he didn't approach any further, and certainly didn't sit down to chat, the boy's face betrayed confusion. Finally, he said, "I'm a thief, it's what I do, what does it look like?"

He thought he'd won that round, but he hadn't. Lucien said, "I think you're much more than a thief, young lad, if you can filter through the bags and take only what you know isn't already attached to something else without breaking it."

That did indeed have the effect that Lucien was looking for: it drew the boy's eyebrows tight, caused him to look away and wonder himself. At himself, most likely.

"Come, come and sit, I'm not going to hold it against you, I've been through some trying times myself. Come and sit. If Dayna was here she'd make up a pot of tea, but I neglected to steal any of her brewing magic, so I'm afraid I can only describe it."

As he came to sit finally, the boy muttered, "who's Dayna?"

Lucien allowed himself to just talk. It had been over a week, after all, since he'd been able to talk to anyone but himself, the mule, or his journal, for he certainly hadn't opened up to any other travelers, and they had passed him by too quickly to overhear anything of substance anyway. His need to be around people had finally come to a head, he realized that he should have taken a cart, he might have gotten where he was going sooner and had conversation to boot. But... such was life. He was here, and had an audience.

An audience who was at least thoughtful enough to keep silent instead of butting into the story, except for with small questions about who was whom.

"Well, I'd have socked him a good one," the boy announced. He punched his hand into his other hand, and ground it around. "What a weasel. D's he know you're coming here? To Frellhall?"

"Only if my students have been persuaded to tell him, I asked them not to speak of my destination. He would have to pass through these woods to reach it, and I would have recognized his carriage if he had come past to stop me."

The boy leaned back, and adopted a haughty look, "well, what if he didn't need to? What if... What if I was his assassin? Huh? I've got you cornered in your sleep, here, what do you think about that, eh?"

Lucien looked gently around, a smile growing on his thin lips. He blinked several times, the sun was coming up and he could see more clearly that the boy was lean and hungry looking in addition to shabby. "Well... I would hardly say that I'm 'cornered' precisely, and ... I'm no longer asleep - and besides, you have no proper weapon to aim at me, do you? Unless you count your tongue, and I will add your commentary was sharp enough to damage other ears I'm sure."

The boy breathed in, opened his mouth to speak, and nothing came out. He paused, breathed out and in again, and said in a weaker, more bemused tone, "I'm not sure if you just insulted me or complimented me, I think it was both..."

"It was both," Lucien agreed. "And the sun is up, or very nearly. ... If you would help me put my things back together here, we can be on our way. Frellhall is only another afternoon away, from what you say." He started picking things up himself, and nudged the mule's leg to wobble it upwards.

"Wait, what? I'm not - I mean, what?"

"If you wish, I'd appreciate a local guide at least. Ignacio, you've a much keener mind than a thief ought to have. What good is it out here in the wilderness where you can't put it to use?" He started winding the clockwork spring, and the mule rose up to its full walking height as he did so. Ignacio scrambled to his feet, and stood in weird silence. Conflicted silence.

"Is there someone waiting for you to bring back goods to resell?" Lucien asked, not looking at the boy, instead making sure everything was secured. He patted the last of it down, and turned to see the boy still with furrowed brows and a little frown on his lips. "If there's a reason not to bring you into the town, I'll understand and go on alone. But I would much prefer the company. And so, I think, would you."

The boy named Ignacio Lavelle bit his lip unconsciously, and looked around himself. He was starving, in a wood where he was the lowest of the low even among the thieves who did habit the place. He knew perfectly well this was his one and only chance to leave. To perhaps make something of himself, even if it was with an exiled mechanical engineer.

"Any luck is better than mine, I suppose," he said. "I know a shorter way into town, but it's over rockier terrain." He started to move away from the road, but Lucien held his hand up.

"The mule can't take too much jostling around, and neither can the packs it carries. And," he looked with a bit of suspicion into the darkness of the woods beyond which hadn't yet been kissed by the daylight streaming in over the road, "I strongly suspect that there are other, more competant thieves in the deeper woods, eh? Let's avoid that trap, and go the right way. Might as well start off properly, if you're to show me into town."

Ignacio sighed, Lucien was right of course, there would have been trouble. The way he knew did run right past the stream - and that would probably have mucked up the walking robot's legs too. No sense in that. He walked beside Lucian on the edge of the road, but he finally sped up a bit, and turned to trot backwards. Lucien entertained this, smiling, and told him about the construction of the mule he watched so intently.

"But it's so quiet, I mean, I've seen rich men with those fancy horse-machines, but you can hear them coming from hundreds of meters away, can't you. I mean, I can." Ignacio immitated the clamboring clanking and made Lucien laugh. It was the first time in days that he'd truly enjoyed what was being said, he wasn't brooding any more, he wasn't wallowing in distressed self-pity, nor trying desperately to distract himself. He was now free of angst - not of worry, because he was still headed into a town where he may very well find nothing that could aid him at all. But that was one worry he decided would be best put off until needed.

For now, he was content to listen to the boy's discussion about why it would be better to have a real horse pulling a well-stocked carriage, than to have a horse alone that could break down. "Especially if you're one of those poompy princes, after all I don't 'spect they could fix an 'orse like that themselves! They'd be aside the road with that pouty face like --" he interrupted himself, "ah hell, like Manter gives em, when he steals from em. He's a thief, one of the worst on the road. I got away from him myself, but only because he was yellin' at two of his own."

"So you would have placed yourself in danger or you would have brought me to him to make up for whatever you stole from him?" Lucien said, carefully.

"I didn't - I... I stole from him, but I wasn't thinking of taking you to him, honest. I ... why'd you have to go and say that anyway! I'm not like 'at!" Ignacio kicked a rock, skudding it into the bushes and startling a rabbit. "I could'a been, but I'm not."

"I think you could have been, and still yet could be, quite a person of means, Ignacio," Lucien said. "You're much too smart to be out here in the woods, and certainly you could stand a bath - but you might well want to speak with the professors at the university here."

"But why? They don't need another cook or wall-painter." He grumbled.

"... To be a student, Ignacio, not to work for them. Honestly," Lucien said. "Just when I think you're going to show me how bright you are, you turn off the lights."

Ignacio wasn't sure what to make of this. Sure - the boy had been complimented almost from the start, by the older man. He'd been kind, and that was something that Ignacio wouldn't ignore, even if it meant he had to put up with this kind of doublespeak.

"I'm not rich enough to go there," he said in reply, finally. It was the only thing he could think of, because he knew it was true.

"Well, there are scholarships and grants, and certainly if you did work for them, in your off hours, you might arrange payment that way. It is in everyone's best interests to have good students learn well at any school, Ignacio. So it distresses me greatly to see a mind such as yours wasted on thievery and self-deprecation."

"I don't know what that means, but ... I think you mean I do something bad to myself," Ignacio said, and saw Lucien nod. "Well what if I don't want to go to some big stuffy university! That's for -"

"It's for who? University is for those who need it, certainly. I think you don't want it, because you've never gotten anything you did want, and now you believe you can't have it." Lucien put a narrow look on his eyes, appraising the boy again. He placed his hand on Ignacio's shoulder, "I think you could do very well, you're mechanically inclined, I don't know about magically but you seem fairly amenable to it. I suspect you know more than you believe. Here -" he reached into one of the packs in the mule's carrying area, causing the mule to studder to a halt. "Here, tell me what this is for." Lucien took out a tool, and handed it to the boy.

At first a bit put off, but then as they started walking again (he thought it funny that the mule needed to literally be kicked into action, like a real mule might) he stared at the object in his hands. It was long, metal but had a rubber grip on one end. It had a narrow part, which ended in a strange angled cup. He muttered to himself the whole time, rather a lot like he had while rooting through the bags the night before. "Well," he said, holding it at arms length and moving it around, "I would say that it's for adjusting something far away, but it'd be a real special tool - this thing, it's got ..." he felt around in the cup which was around the width of two thumbs, "it's got little notches in it, that'd be to clip something down into it. My guess is that this is for making adjustments but with another long tool stuck into this end."

With that, Lucien pulled out the complementary tool, which was as he described, something which stuck into the cup and was notched, and had itself a more conventional hex-sided wrench head. He waved it in the air, and Ignacio reached for it, playing with it until he got the tools put together. "That's a long grip there! What do you need something this long for! You don't have anything here that--" Suddenly he caught himself, "oh, sorry."

Lucien pursed his lips, and took back the tools. Yes, they were for the armor machine, but they could, he explained, be used for any sufficiently distant piece of metal. "The underside of a carriage, for instance," he suggested as one rode by, "or to reach a high window, even. Used it for that a good number of times, when the ... when the smoke wouldn't clear by itself, you see."

Ignacio laughed, loudly. "I didn't think you'd make any kinda mistakes, master, you're not supposed to blow things up!"

"Everyone makes mistakes, apprentice, don't forget that. Everyone." They walked along for a bit, and when the city itself came into view it was over a little rise. Right about that time, Lucien simply hushed the boy and nodded. "You heard me say it, don't ask if you did. Now, show me into Frellhall."