Agents of Artifice: A Planeswalker Novel

by Ari Marmell

  “Are you happy now?” Jace spat at him.

  “Indeed.” Tezzeret knelt until he could meet the younger man’s eyes. “You’ve learned three vital lessons today, Beleren. You’ve learned that strength unused is strength you do not have, that you should never hold back your full potential. You’ve learned to call allies far greater than any you’ve yet commanded.”

  “And the third?” Jace asked, trying hard neither to scream at Tezzeret nor to roll his eyes at this “lesson.”

  “You’ve learned that you already strip free will from other creatures when it suits you. What else are you doing, when you summon up a sprite, or a drake, or a sphinx, to fight and possibly to die for you?”

  Jace felt the blood drain from his face, and he wondered why he’d never considered that before.

  “Baltrice told me what you did to the ratman,” the artificer said. “I know you can do it, and now I’ve shown you that you are indeed willing to do it. So the next time I order you to do so, I expect you to obey. Without hesitation, and without complaint.

  “Go take yourself to the healers before any of those freeze up on you.”

  And with that he was gone, striding from the broken courtyard.

  Jace watched the artificer depart, and his eyes narrowed in smoldering resentment. Yes, these were indeed the sorts of insights Tezzeret often tried to impart. Yes, he had indeed mastered potent magic today. And no, Tezzeret had never said one word about the failed Kamigawa excursion.

  But Jace, clutching at his ribs and his stomach as he rose, staring at the ruins through his one good eye, damn well knew a punishment when he was dealt one.

  There was only so much the healers could do, and by late the next afternoon, Jace was still sore all over, and so mottled with bruises he looked like a plague victim. Still, the messenger who came pounding on his door had been drenched in sweat, and the tone in his voice left little doubt that when Paldor had said “Right now,” he’d meant right now. So Jace swallowed the pain as best he could and sprinted through the halls of the complex, squeezing past servants and soldiers where he could, shoving them out of the way where he could not. Finally, his feet had carried him to the foyer just inside the main entryway. There he skidded to a halt, panting heavily, and allowed himself a moment to take in the scene.

  Paldor stood beside the doorway through which Jace had just barreled. His hands were clasped behind his back—but the young mage couldn’t help but notice that those meaty hands held a crossbow, cocked and ready to fire. Half a dozen Consortium soldiers and swordsmen, Kallist included, held naked steel in their hands and stood in a circle around a stranger whose crooked grin suggested that he found the whole affair amusing.

  He was human, this newcomer, with blond hair slicked back so tightly it just had to be giving him a headache. He was clad in black suede tunic and pants, topped with an ankle-length cloak of deep burgundy, complete with gold clasp and black lace frills at the collar. He wore a curved dagger at his waist but currently held his hands to the sides, well away from the weapon’s hilt.

  “What’s going on?” Jace gasped to Paldor.

  The corpulent lieutenant harrumphed. “Fellow claims to be a messenger from Tezzeret’s ‘master.’”

  For a long moment, Jace just stared. “Master?” he finally repeated.

  “Nicol Bolas. Bastard’s got a warped sense of humor, apparently.”

  “Who …” Jace’s eyes lit up with understanding. “Is that who Tezzeret stole the Consortium from?” he whispered, so as not to be overheard. He gave some thought to the mind-speech, decided it wasn’t worth the effort.

  “I prefer to think of it as having annexed the organization for the greater good,” Paldor replied, his voice equally faint.

  “And he knows where to find us? He just, what, knocked on our door?”

  “Pretty much,” Paldor told him. “Bolas has a network as large as the Consortium. We may be rivals, but we still have to communicate. Ravnica’s heavily populated enough that nobody’s going to risk open war, so it’s sort of neutral territory. Here, if nowhere else, we each know where to find representatives of the other.”

  “I see,” Jace said, though he wasn’t certain he really did. “And I’m here to …?”

  “Read his mind. He claims he’s got a written message for Tezzeret’s eyes only. I want to make damn sure he’s not an assassin or some sort of magical construct before I even consider putting him in touch with the boss.”

  “Do we know if he’s a mage? If he’ll sense me?”

  Paldor shrugged. “He’s welcome to raise a fuss if he wants. Um, but Jace,” he added as the mind-reader took a step forward. “Let’s not push things. We don’t know what sorts of sorcery Bolas himself is capable of. We don’t want to offend him unnecessarily, and anyway, he’s not likely to send a messenger to us who knows anything compromising. Confirm this man is who he says he is and that his intentions are as stated, but don’t dig any deeper.”

  Jace nodded, and took a moment to gather his concentration. The fellow glanced his way and offered a smile equal parts ingratiating and condescending, but if he had any notion what was happening, if he felt anything when Jace touched his mind, it never showed on his face.

  “His name’s Mauriel Pellam,” Jace told Paldor a minute later. “He is, indeed, a messenger for Bolas—or, more accurately, for people who work for people who work for Bolas. And as far as I can tell, he’s just here to deliver a message, no more sinister purpose.”

  “Excellent,” Paldor said. Then, more loudly, “All right, boys, stand down. You and you, kindly escort my guest and me to my office. The rest of you, back to your duties.”

  Jace watched the four men turn and disappear down the hall. He threw Kallist a questioning glance but the other man could only shrug, equally bewildered. Jace left the foyer far more slowly than he’d arrived, favoring his bruised ribs and wondering what the frying hell that had all been about.

  The dining room was among the most opulent and best maintained areas in the Consortium’s entire Ravnica complex. Multiple tables, from intimate two-seaters to enormous slabs capable of seating thirty with room to spare, stood about the chamber. The chairs were comfortable, upholstered works of art, allowing their occupants to sit for hours without growing sore or restless. Multiple doors allowed access to the halls of the complex, as well as to the massive kitchen, ensuring a clear path for servers to come and go. On every wall hung tapestries of intricate craftsmanship, most of which had the vaguely enticing smell of old cooking permanently trapped between the threads, and the ceiling boasted rafters of wood that served absolutely no structural purpose, granting the entire room a vaguely artistic, homey feel.

  The floor, however, was bare hardwood; Paldor had reluctantly allowed the fancy shag carpets to be torn out after the entire cleaning staff threatened to resign.

  Tonight, as he sometimes did when there was forthcoming business to discuss, Paldor invited some of the cell’s top agents to a dinner provided by his private chefs. Seven of them now sat around one of the mid-sized tables: Kallist and Jace; Ireena, an elf with surprisingly tan skin and clad in a blood-red gown that nobody but she thought looked good on her; the mage Gemreth, with a peculiar, four-winged imp perched on his shoulder and giggling on occasion at nothing at all; the vedalken Sevrien, now clad in the chain armor of a Consortium soldier; Xalmarias, a centaur who had made room for himself at the table by kicking several chairs across the room, clad only in a rich green vest with gold and silver buttons; and of course, Paldor himself.

  The soup course, a thick, cheesy tuber stew, had already come and gone. In the center of the table lay a steaming platter of mild vegetable pastries intended to clear the palate for the mincemeat pies Paldor had specifically requested for the night’s repast.

  As they waited, Jace kept his gaze fixed largely on the table before him. It all smelled so good, but he’d eaten only a few spoonfuls of the soup and was wondering if he could stomach the pies at all. Over the past four days h
e had all but recovered from his injuries, but a nagging unpleasantness, not quite pain and not quite nausea, lingered in his gut.

  “All right,” Paldor said around a prodigious bite of biscuit, “let’s get started.” So long had he been talking with his mouth full, he was able to do so now without the slightest loss of enunciation. “Ireena, we’re having some difficulty with our workhouses in the Nalatras alchemical slums. Some sort of poisoning or plague our healers can’t cure that almost seems to move like a living thing. We’ve hired Vess on to help you with this, in case there’s a spirit of some sort involved.” Ireena scowled but nodded her acceptance. “So, if the two of you …”

  Paldor went on, and Jace tuned him out. He knew he probably ought to pay attention to what else was going on around him, keep up with the cell’s activities, but today he just didn’t have it in him to care. He scarcely noticed when the servants scurried by, sliding a dish of mincemeat and bread in front of his face.

  Only when he heard his name did he raise his head to stare dully at Paldor, who had flecks of meat and a tiny stream of juices dribbling down the side of his chin. “Yes?”

  “Nothing too difficult for you this week,” the lieutenant told him, dabbing at his lips with a napkin. “One of the Rubblefield landowners is being stubborn about the value of a property we want for expanding the complex. You and Kallist will be posing as two brothers representing the ‘merchant family’ that wants to buy it. Kallist will be handling the actual negotiations. Your job is to take a peek inside the man’s head and find something we can use to, ah, persuade him to be more reasonable.”

  “Uh-huh. And if there’s no such thing?”

  “There always is. You don’t get to be a landowner in Ravnica without stepping on folks. But if not? Then you make him sign at our preferred cost. The long-term solution’s the better one, but we do what we’ve gotta do.”

  Jace nodded, pushing idly at his dinner with a fork. “How many guards, if things go wrong?”

  Paldor shrugged. “My sources say he usually travels with four. Should be easy enough for you.”

  “Is that easy like ‘real world’ easy, or easy like ‘nezumi village’ easy?” Jace inquired before he could think better of it. “Because if it’s the latter, I might need backup.”

  Several pieces of silverware clattered to the table and a number of mouths stopped chewing as six pairs of eyes fastened on him in wide astonishment. Jace, however, was too angry to feel self-conscious about it.

  “I see.” Paldor, too, swallowed his current mouthful and lay his fork and napkin down before him. For a moment, his gaze swept over the entire table. “Is anyone here,” he asked calmly, “unfamiliar with the recent unfortunate events to which Jace refers?”

  Everyone looked away, perhaps trying to spare Jace the embarrassment. While few of those in the room knew anything about other worlds, they’d all heard a somewhat edited version of Jace’s recent “failure.”

  “And you, Jace,” he continued. “You feel you’ve been treated unfairly?”

  At that point, even Jace had come to the conclusion that it might be wiser to shut quite thoroughly up, but he couldn’t bring himself to do it. “I feel like I’ve been punished,” he said, idly rubbing his aching gut, “for someone else’s mistakes.”

  “Indeed.” Paldor leaned back in his chair, stretching his great bulk until his spine unleashed a trio of audible pops. “It’s normally not done to speak ill of the leadership of another cell,” he said slowly, “but it hardly matters anymore at this point.

  “Yes, Jace. The mistakes were, for the most part, not yours. People got lazy, complacent, and didn’t bother to check what they were told. My understanding is that the new cell leader is trying very hard to salvage the nezumi situation, since Tezzeret expressed his displeasure to the previous leader in no uncertain and, ah, final terms.”

  Several of the diners murmured into their hands or their glasses, but nobody said anything intelligible.

  “As for Baltrice …” he continued.

  Paldor reached into his left sleeve and then slammed his right hand down on the table. “Do you know what this is?” he asked Jace, even as several of the others recoiled.

  He didn’t, but sure as the Eternities were blind it wasn’t a normal dagger. The blade was a strange gray metal that shimmered without the need for external light—it might, Jace realized with a start, even be forged of etherium, or at least an alloy thereof. A faint dark mist wafted from the weapon’s edge, as though it were slowly evaporating in a cold night, though the blade itself never diminished.

  “It’s called a manablade,” Paldor said when Jace remained silent. “A rare weapon, acquired by Tezzeret some years ago from the Church of the Incarnate Soul.”

  “Never heard of them.”

  “Not surprising, and also not the point. The blade doesn’t just draw blood, Jace. Oh, when used against someone like me, it’s normal enough. A knife is a knife is a knife, right? But,” he continued, leaning forward, “it cuts into a mage’s soul. Bleeds his very essence into the æther. Wound a caster with this, and he doesn’t just lose blood, he loses his bonds to mana. I’m told it’s just about the most excruciating experience imaginable.”

  Jace couldn’t help but shudder. What was this church, that they could forge something like that?

  “Tezzeret gifted it to me a while ago,” Paldor said, “as a reward for the completion of a particularly important operation. But he still borrows it, on occasion. And he borrowed it last week. My understanding,” and now there was nothing jovial at all in that normally cheerful visage, “is that he kept himself to shallow cuts. He just wanted to make a point, after all, not permanently injure his best agent. Baltrice’s scars’ll probably be healed before you see her again. Or at least, the physical ones will.” His eyes gleamed sickly. “I was there—Tezzeret let me watch, since it’s my blade—and I think the memories will last her long, long after the scars have faded.

  “So don’t come in here, Beleren, and whine to me about a little soreness after a failed operation.” Paldor flicked his wrist, and the manablade vanished once more up his sleeve. “I promise you, you don’t know what punishment is. Keep doing your best for Tezzeret, he’ll keep making you rich—and you’ll never need to know.”

  Jace looked down at the table once more, and nodded.

  “Excellent.” Paldor’s face broke out in his accustomed grin once more. “So, who’s up for dessert while we start talking details?”

  Jace’s face was a stony mask as he pushed through the door into Paldor’s office, but those who knew him well could see faint ember of smoldering irritation, even resentment, behind his eyes. It was a look he wore frequently these days.

  “What could possibly be so urgent,” the mage demanded while leaning both fists on the edge of the desk, his voice low but firm as iron, “that you had to pull me out in the middle of an ongoing assignment?”

  Paldor looked meaningfully at the desktop, then at Jace. He was not smiling. “Get your hands off.”

  Jace straightened, but his expression didn’t crack. “You know you left Kallist to finish the job alone? No blades, you said. Make it look like a natural death, you said. How is Kallist supposed to make it look natural without me, Paldor? Did you even think of that?”

  His face purpling, Paldor pointed across the room. And only then did Jace realize that a figure stood in the far corner, a figure he’d swept past without even noticing.

  “Really, Beleren,” Tezzeret chided him. “Have you so little respect for your superiors anymore?”

  “Is there any way I can possibly answer that?”

  Tezzeret chuckled. “Probably not. I am sorry for pulling you away from your assignment, Beleren. I’m sure Kallist will do fine, though. He was doing this long before you showed up.”

  “So he was.”

  “But I need you for something more important. I need you to accompany me to a meeting.”

  Jace’s eyebrow rose. “Any chance that means you�
�ll finally be taking me to your sanctum itself?”

  “Not at all. We’re going someplace far less pleasant.”

  Paldor snickered at Jace’s disappointed expression. “Really, what’d you expect? I don’t even know where his illustriousness takes his ease.”

  “I’ve asked you not to call me that, Paldor,” Tezzeret reminded him.

  “And I’ve asked to be taller,” Paldor told him with a grin. Tezzeret scowled but said nothing more.

  “The meeting?” Jace prompted.

  “Yes.” Tezzeret wandered behind the desk and gave Paldor a meaningful look. The lieutenant grumbled but heaved his great bulk out of the way so his employer might sit. The artificer scowled at the height of the chair, which made him look faintly ridiculous behind the equally short desk, but at least he had no doubt it would take his weight.

  He turned and gave Paldor a second look, equally significant.

  “Oh, you’ve got to be kidding!” Paldor exclaimed. “Boss, this is my office. I—”

  “Should therefore know the fastest route to the door, shouldn’t you? I’ll let you know when we’re done.”

  Grumbling even more loudly, Paldor stomped his way to the door and slammed it behind him.

  “How have you been, Beleren? We’ve not spoken in a while.”

  Deader every day. How about you?

  “Fine,” he said. “Everything’s just fine.”

  “So glad to hear it. You’ll be accompanying me to a rather delicate negotiation.”

  “Oh?”

  Tezzeret waved a hand. “Bit of a conflict over mining rights in overlapping territories. Nothing that should particularly interest you.”

  “That’s nice,” Jace said, “but actually, I meant who are we meeting with?”

  “Nicol Bolas.”

  “Ah,” Jace said, after replaying the answer in his mind to be certain he’d heard correctly. “This would be related to that messenger who came to us a few weeks ago.”