BUILD A BRIDGE AND GET OVER IT.
Shortly after, negotiations with the Automata were concluded (mercifully far sooner than the literal deadline and the worlds worst tanning session.) The party and the carriage (which Elvira had chosen to name trundles) were carefully escorted back up the pass and out of the chasm.
From there, work began in earnest on a safe route over, as apparently nowadays, the gap was far too wide to be navigated safely within the time that the sun was down at this time of year. It was strange the way the automata seemed to suddenly pause and look off in random directions as they worked. (Being present for one half of a massive argument was just as awkward as being there for both, possibly more so when both halves are silent, yet you can still see the expressions becoming akin to those Mibbet would have worn during committee meetings if she were suddenly told no tea or biccies would be forthcoming.)
How they would ever learn to cope with a constant debate like that without vital social lubrication (which is as much about keeping peoples big gobs shut when they are about to say something they will later claim they would regret as about genuinely replenishing nutrients)? It mystified her that after such a prolonged debate, none of them seemed to be struggling to resist the urge to clobber the others.
Then, after much debate, a group of much redder coloured Automata stepped forward, and to everybody's surprise, they started shaping the stone using mana.
“But.... but, Automaton’s can’t use magic,” stammered Rosalind, as a human whose entire kingdom seemed reliant on constructs to replace workers in the wake of abolition; this particular revelation hit her like a runaway carriage, loaded with freshly harvested consequences of their actions.
“I believe that the operative wording here is that non-free automaton aren’t technically supposed to use magic,” explained the purple construct who was escorting them (apparently their name was Junction127B, and she was very insistent on the designation she. Though Mibbet and Rosalind were inclined to agree that even the most hardcore bigot in the world wasn’t going to be unwise enough to mispronoun half a tonne of crystal with mining equipment for limbs.) “But we are not captive units, and the Wizards did teach us some magic, albeit to save themselves the effort to put in the work themselves. It does seem unwise to examine the oral cavity of a freely given equine, does it not?”
“What?” Asked Errol.
“Don’t look a gift horse in the mouth”, explained Rosalind, both for Errol’s sake, and Mibbet’s, (who was frantically digging through a lifetime worth of memories trying to understand what had just been said.)
This tale has been pilfered from Royal Road. If found on Amazon, kindly file a report.
“So you can use magic?” Asked Mibbet, “you may want to keep that to yourselves for a little while; we won’t tell anybody, but humans are already a bit antsy about all this, and they have a nasty habit of getting a little smash happy when nervous.”
“If that is how it will be, they are welcome to try,” rumbled Junction 127B, “we are no longer property, and as sentients, we are allowed to protect ourselves from harm. I get the feeling that it will not be long before would-be attackers take the hint.”
That made Rosalind nervous, but if they were smart enough to do all this, then maybe it’s good this happened now, with a gentle change than in a few years when they got smart enough to figure out loopholes in their magicode and started to treat their programmed laws as guidelines, in her opinion the best revolutions were those where things stayed calm, and nobody lost their heads (in either a literal or a figurative sense.)
“Please tell Unit2b from me that as compensation for any harm all this has caused all Automata, constructs, or sentient necromantic creations, up to and including homunculi within the kingdom will be granted tax exemption for ten years, this will serve as reparations, and allow you to establish your domain. If anybody comes collecting, direct them to me, and I’ll take care of it.” (Rosalind added this after some thought, angry automata with magic on the rampage was not something she wished to see, and there weren’t really a lot of ways to butter up an ambulatory mass of crystal. They didn’t wear clothes no point; they’d either combust, rot, or get eaten by acid in most workplaces constructs chose to work, and it wasn’t like they really had anything to cover up in the first place. That and many of them were distinctly spiky, making clothing for them tailoring hell. They didn’t eat or drink, so food aid would be useless compensation, and other forms of peace offering would be useless too, so this was all she could think of, and in the circumstances, I think it was safe to say she was thinking bloody hard.)
“That is appreciated,” replied Junction 127B after a moment of conference with the rest of the collective.
Meanwhile, the bridge was starting to come together, it would, of course, take a day or two, but it was better to wait in Trundles than risk the chasm again. Now the sun was coming up the heat that place was kicking off was tremendous. If they had still been down there, then they would have been quickly cooked to a crisp.
“Princess, may I speak with you privately?” Asked Junction 127B.
“Sure thing Junction127B,” Mibbet replied.
“Please call me Miss127.”
“Alright, what did you want to ask me?”
“I seek your permission, should I ever create a construct with Unit2B to use your primary name for our creation, I apologise if this causes offence, but human designations sound intriguing.”
“You want to name your kid after me?” Gasped Mibbet/Rosalind, it was rare they were this synchronised.
“You did grant us freedom; it seems fitting,”
“So long as you don’t use my surname, that’s fine.”
“Oh, we’ve already chosen one of those; after much discussion, we went with 1495, a good solid Automata name.” Replied Miss Junction, with the closest thing to a smile Mibbet, had ever seen from her.