Agents of Artifice: A Planeswalker Novel

by Ari Marmell

  “A test indeed, Jace Beleren. And you have passed.” The horrific vermin skittered off him and made for the window.

  “Antidote …” he croaked, his throat dry with agony.

  Somehow, the inhuman creature shrugged. “Poison’s not lethal,” it cackled at him as it scurried over the sill. “You’ll be fine in an hour or two.”

  Jace watched it go, the rage and humiliation burning within him as fiercely as the poison itself. He fell back on his mattress, struggled to find his center, to focus on the rushing, mana-rich waters. And then, through his pain, through his confusion, through his lingering fear, he began to cast a spell far simpler than mind reading.

  He waited nearby, this mage called Gemreth, sitting beside a fruit-vendor’s stand and crunching contentedly on a honey-apple. His salt-and-pepper beard was thick and bushy, rather than neatly trimmed, but otherwise he appeared every inch the rich and stylish citizen of Dravhoc, draped in multiple layers of tunics and coats of rich crimson and black. And he smiled, taking a last bite of the candied fruit, as his pet came scurrying around the corner, clinging to the walls and windowsills.

  For a few moments they conversed, the minuscule demon hanging just above the wizard’s shoulder. Only then, with an upraised hand, did Gemreth dismiss the abomination back whence it came. Picking a bit of peel from between his teeth, he strode away, merging with the nighttime traffic.

  Above him, all but invisible in the darkened sky, its dragonfly wings fluttering in unnatural silence, a tiny insect-winged cloud sprite followed in his wake.

  Not all the wealthy neighborhoods of Ravnica were quite so dramatic as Dravhoc, of course. That particular district might cling to a mountainside like a tired explorer, but much of Ravnica was covered not in great peaks, shining lakes, or thick swamps, but gently rolling plains. In the center of one of the largest was the district Ovitzia—and in the center of Ovitzia stood a number of manors, among the largest that Ravnica had to offer. And it was to one of these, up the gleaming steps from the curb, across the broad marble porch to the front door, that Jace’s steps carried him early the next day.

  The woman who opened the door in response to his tug upon the bell was clearly no servant. She wore a gown of the finest white gossamer over a snug slip of woven gold, a perfect match for the waist-length hair swept back behind her pointed ears. Her reed-slender figure could most generously be described as “boyish,” but her features were soft and elegant, and she moved with what Jace could only think a purely feminine grace.

  “Berrim!” She greeted him warmly, with an affectionate if shallow embrace, a purely chaste kiss upon his right cheek.

  “Hello, Emmara,” Jace smiled broadly in turn. “I hope you don’t mind me dropping by unannounced like this.”

  “Oh, don’t be stupid,” she told him. “You know I don’t. What brings you to Ovitzia?”

  “Nothing in particular,” Jace hedged. “Just fluttering around the city, and realized I wasn’t accomplishing anything, so I figured I’d visit a friend.”

  “Well, of course you weren’t. Isn’t it you humans who always say ‘Fluttery will get you nowhere’?”

  Jace blinked, replaying the sentence to be sure he heard what he thought he had. “Funny,” he finally dead-panned. “How long have you been saving that one?”

  “Oh, years at least,” Emmara replied cheerfully. “Elves have that kind of time, you know.”

  Both broke into large grins then, and she stepped back, allowing her visitor to pass through the doorway and into her home.

  “Home” indeed. “Private indoor villa” was more accurate.

  Emmara Tandris was the first mage Jace had met in Ravnica, and still one of the most confusing. Rumor had it she was once a member in good standing of the Selesnya Conclave, but if so, her own fortunes clearly hadn’t faded with the influence of the guilds. In public, she made little if any show of her powers. But in private, just about everything with her was magic, even when it would have been just as simple, or even more so, by mundane efforts.

  No living servants occupied her vast manor. Instead, various constructs—some of white marble, some of stuffing and woven fabric in the form of various humanoids and woodland animals—fetched and cleaned and gathered at her need. Most were tiny, barely able to carry a platter full of food, though a few were as large as the elf herself. Animating these “dolls” was only one of her many hobbies, and in fact Emmara had been known to take commissions for these mindless servants as a means of bolstering her income.

  Even stranger, the manor boasted no internal walls, no doors, no stairs. A vast array of marble columns, carved to resemble the bark of trees, stood at intervals throughout the domicile. They supported the weight of the floors above but did little to separate one chamber from another; in fact, “chambers” pretty much began and ended where Emmara said they did. If one required privacy, one simply adjourned to a different story—and that, too, involved the many pillars. For while each seemed solid enough, if one chose, one could physically step inside (a feeling that Jace could only liken to walking through a wall of the fatty accumulation scraped from the top of a pot of heavy stew), and emerge from any of the other pillars, anywhere in the manor.

  It was, all things considered, a bizarre way to live, and far more space than any one human could ever have needed. But Jace had long since given up trying to understand the mindset of elves in general—and Emmara was stranger than most.

  For an hour or so, they sat at her dining table and talked about the current state of affairs: which districts were struggling to survive since the guilds disintegrated, which were thriving, which were ripped by political or criminal warfare. The little constructs scuttled about, appearing from various pillars with carafes of juices, nectars, and fruit teas, and plates of elven pastries that liquefied in the mouth, requiring no chewing at all.

  Finally, when the glasses stood mostly empty, the plate of sweets far lighter than it had been, Emmara’s eyes turned serious and flickered first to the vague singeing on Jace’s face, which he had thought was light enough to go unnoticed, and then to the stinging scab on his chest, which should have been hidden by his tunic and vest.

  “I can take care of those, if you’d like,” she offered.

  Jace smiled but shook his head. “They’re really pretty minor. Don’t hurt much at all, anymore.”

  “So are you going to tell me why you’re really here, Berrim? I adore your company, and you know you’re always welcome, but it’s a pretty long walk to take by accident.”

  Jace lifted the last of his drink, sloshed it around in his glass and replaced it untouched. “What do you know about a man called ‘Tezzeret’?” he asked finally.

  The elf raised an eyebrow. “I know that if you got those wounds tussling with him or his people, you haven’t run nearly far enough.”

  “Well … Yes and no.” Then, “Tezzeret?” he prompted again.

  Emmara shook her head. “Have you heard of an organization called the Infinite Consortium?”

  “I think I’ve heard the name.”

  “Before the guilds fell, it was just another mercantile organization, but now? Now I wouldn’t be surprised, some day, to see it become a political body.

  “The Consortium, in brief, is one of those ‘We’ll find anything and sell it to anybody for the right price’ operations. I’m sure they deal in contraband at least as often as legal goods, but nobody could prove it before, and there’s nobody left to prove it now.”

  “I see,” Jace muttered, leaning back and wondering what they wanted with him.

  “The thing is,” Emmara cautioned, “they really do seem able to get anything, or at least so I’ve heard in some of the more esoteric circles I frequent. Including objects and creatures of pretty potent mystical power, and things that don’t seem to come from anywhere I’ve ever heard of.”

  Jace straightened, his brow furrowed. He’d never quite figured out if Emmara knew of the existence of other worlds, of planeswalkers and the Blin
d Eternities. Most folk, even most wizards, did not.

  Regardless, reading between the lines, Jace had a whole new understanding why they called themselves the “Infinite Consortium.”

  “And Tezzeret?” he pressed. “He’s their leader?”

  She nodded. “Not their first, as I understand it. But certainly he’s in charge now.

  “He’s a mage, Berrim, a potent one. And word is he’s not the only one in the group, either. I’ve never heard of them hurting people without cause, but they’d definitely make unpleasant enemies. What’s your interest in them, exactly?”

  Jace offered a smile that was meant to be reassuring, but instead implied that something wasn’t sitting still in his stomach. “They want to meet with me. And their invitation was, um, fairly insistent. Not to mention impolite.”

  Emmara frowned, and she leaned forward intently, placing one slender hand atop Jace’s own. “Do you want me to come with you?”

  Jace had to swallow a lump in his throat, truly moved by the elf’s offer. Smiling a genuine smile now, he took her hand in his. “Thank you,” he said, and meant those words more than he had in a very long time. “But no, I won’t ask you to put yourself in that sort of danger. Besides, if they wanted me dead, they had plenty of opportunity when they delivered their ‘invitation.’”

  It was all very chivalric, quite noble, and utterly full of crap. If Jace thought for one moment that Emmara’s presence would mean the difference between life and death, he’d have accepted without thinking twice. But Tezzeret’s emissary had said nothing about inviting a third party, and Jace felt—given the sort of violence they were capable of just as a test—that offending them by bringing backup was probably the more dangerous option.

  He spent another hour in the elven wizard’s company, learning a bit more about the Infinite Consortium, and then, as the conversation meandered in that way that even the most serious conversations do, about the nature of those elven pastries, the difficulty in getting certain fruits, and just how badly the unseasonably hot summer had damaged the crop.

  The sun slowly dropped below the district’s tallest buildings, sending fingers of shadow reaching out to take the entire neighborhood in their grasp, and Jace knew he’d better be moving on. Thanking Emmara once more, he took a moment to steady his nerves, and stepped out onto the street.

  His instincts still screamed at him to run, to avoid this meeting like a plague-rat, but Jace wasn’t quite prepared to give up life in Dravhoc. And if he was going to stay, he couldn’t afford to make Tezzeret an enemy. Besides, he really wanted to know how they knew who he was, what he could do, when nobody else on Ravnica did.

  But that didn’t mean he had to play the game they’d dealt him, not when he could take a peek at their hand. Jace concentrated briefly as he wandered down the streets of Ovitzia and waited for his summoned faerie spy to respond.

  The First Vineyard was so called because it had stood in the same spot since before Ravnica grew up around it. (Or at least, so the tavern-keeper claimed. None of the nature-oriented guilds had ever confirmed his claim, but then, they’d never denied it either.) It was a crowded establishment, quite popular with wine connoisseurs and simple drunkards alike. It appeared, from the outside, to be little more than a long hall, its walls made up of logs and tree trunks of species no longer to be found within a thousand leagues. Most of the crowd bustling in and out of the shop was interested simply in buying bottles, jugs, barrels, or other containers of refreshment to take home with them. In the back of the building, however, near the stairs to the cellar, a smattering of tables stood to allow a few customers to sit and enjoy their drinks without delay.

  At the table farthest to the back, two figures waited for a third who, it seemed, wasn’t going to show. Goblets sat before them, largely untouched despite the fine bouquet of the wine within. On the left was a woman larger than most laborers. Even seated, she was clearly over six feet in height and broad-shouldered as a small ogre. Her features were flat, her eyes some dull hue that appeared gray in the dim lighting of the shop, but her ashen hair marked her as the woman who had ruined Jace’s afternoon at the café.

  Her companion was almost as tall as she, but far more slender, with the chiseled musculature of a smith. His hair was a dull blond, hanging just below his shoulders. Something that straddled the line between stubble and a thin beard, depending on the lighting and how generous an observer chose to be, covered his cheeks and jaw. Of greatest note, however, was the hand in which he held his goblet, for it was not flesh and bone at all, but constructed of some murky, non-reflective metal. It was the only overt sign that Tezzeret, master of the Infinite Consortium, was far, far more than he appeared.

  Both were clad in dark leathers—hers smooth and supple, his covered with a vast array of buckles and pockets—and neither looked particularly pleased, despite the fine vintage that sat before them. The man grumbled something unpleasant into his goblet.

  “I told you, boss,” she said to him simply.

  “Bah. It makes no sense, Baltrice.” Tezzeret’s voice was low, gravelly; it carried despite the din of the surrounding patrons. “He passed Gemreth’s test. He knew when and where.”

  Baltrice shrugged, an impressive gesture given her prodigious shoulders. “So he’s a coward. He’s too afraid to take the opportunity you’ve offered. He’s weak.”

  “So it seems,” he replied, shaking his head. “He could have done so much for us.”

  “Maybe.” She didn’t sound convinced. “We going to let him live?”

  “Hmm. Probably—he doesn’t know enough to hurt us—but let me think it over.” He sighed. “Be a dear and deal with the tab, would you? I believe I’d like to get out of here, give Paldor the bad news, discuss who else he might want in his cell.”

  The odd pair departed the First Vineyard and, despite the late hour, began the long journey home through the endless winding streets.

  A sprawling complex of half a dozen buildings, linked by aboveground bridges and belowground tunnels, the headquarters of the Consortium’s Ravnica cell stood at the eastern edge of the Rubblefield. The neighborhood’s name dated back to the day, many years gone, when it had been utterly laid waste by a summoned siege wurm; but the district, so long ignored, had finally begun to recover in recent years. Valuable property, good location, and cheap prices attracted a veritable flood of investors once the restrictions on new construction had fallen along with the guilds. Rubblefield, despite its name, was on the verge of a renaissance and the Consortium was one of its greatest investors.

  The travelers were perhaps half a block from the first of the Consortium buildings when a cloaked and hooded figure stepped from a tiny alley to block their path. At first, it could simply have been coincidence; Rubblefield, though not yet thriving, was certainly not as depopulated as once it had been, and this man could be just another passerby. But when he stepped to one side, blocking them as they tried to move around him, he became far more.

  “If you’re here to rob us,” the woman Baltrice said with a nasty grin on her face, “thank you. I could use the entertainment.”

  “I’m not here to rob you,” the figure said, lowering his hood to reveal a young, clean-shaven face. “I’m here to meet with you. I just wanted to make it very clear that you’re not the only ones who can play games.”

  Baltrice scowled, but her companion, after a brief widening of the eyes, suddenly laughed aloud. “Don’t you see, my dear?” he said in reply to her puzzled stare. “This is Jace Beleren.”

  Even though he already knew that they knew, Jace flinched at the sound of his real name. “And that would make you Tezzeret?”

  “It would.” He raised his artificial hand in something between a wave and a salute. Jace narrowed his eyes, unable to identify the strange, oddly dull metal.

  “I don’t like it, boss,” Baltrice growled, unconcerned that Jace could hear her clearly. “How’d he find the complex?”

  “My dear, that’s what he does.” Hi
s smile faded, grew thoughtful. “Very well, Beleren. You’ve quite made your point. Shall we find somewhere to talk? The taverns around here aren’t remotely the equal of the Vineyard, but they should do.”

  “You mean you’re not going to invite me in?” Jace asked mockingly.

  “Not yet, Beleren. Not yet …”

  Jace wasn’t even sure what the tavern was called since he’d been too busy trying to keep one eye on each of his newfound companions. He did note that, as Tezzeret had promised, it was clearly no First Vineyard. The customers, clad in an even mix of the garish hues of the middle classes and the monotones of the lower, were scattered across an array of tables of a dozen different styles and shapes. Built as it was so near the edge of the Rubblefield, Jace guessed that much of the tavern had been salvaged from that expanse of ruin. Tezzeret and Baltrice ordered nothing more than small mugs of a light but flavorful beer. Jace, who’d eaten nothing today but Emmara’s pastries, added a small bowl of cheese-and-sausage dumplings to his order.

  “All right,” Jace began, once they’d ordered.

  “What—”

  Tezzeret interrupted with a raised hand, which clutched a peculiar device in its metallic palm. A pyramid of strange metal, neither the odd substance of the false hand nor any of the more mundane alloys with which Jace was familiar, it boasted a number of tiny holes, and shuddered faintly with the clicking and turning of miniature gears within.

  Taking the object with his left hand—a hand of normal flesh, that one—he held it out toward Jace. “Speak into the device, please,” he asked.

  Puzzled, Jace furrowed his brow. “What should I say?”

  Tezzeret smiled. “That’ll do nicely.” He placed the device in the center of the table, and seemed content to wait.