Agents of Artifice: A Planeswalker Novel

by Ari Marmell

  Paldor shook his head as the flashing ceased. Could magic simply malfunction? As long as he’d worked for Tezzeret, he still didn’t really understand more than the basics of sorcery. But if it was an attack, or a prelude to attack, where was the enemy? So far, the guards hadn’t found a threat, or even an explanation as to how the alarms were triggered.

  Not for the first time, Paldor glanced at the glass contraption on the wall. And not for the first time, he rejected the notion before it had fully formed. Tezzeret would not take kindly to an interruption without a tangible threat. Until Paldor knew for certain what was happening, he was better off not troubling him.

  “Aarrggh!” In a tempter tantrum worthy of a colicky child, he pounded his fists on the desk when it lit up once more, indicating a window clear on the other side of the building. Grumbling, he rechecked the array of weapons concealed both under the desk and on his person—as he’d done each of the last seven or eight times—and seethed.

  But this time, finally, the results were a bit different.

  “Got it, Paldor.” The voice, the vedalken captain’s own this time, emerged clearly from the speaking tube.

  “You know what’s going on?” Paldor asked hopefully.

  “I positioned some men at the windows that hadn’t been triggered yet. We got lucky, finally caught ‘em in the act.”

  “And?”

  “Faeries,” Captain Sevrien reported, disgust in his voice. “We’re being pranked by a swarm of bloody, damned faeries. Would’ve pulled the bug’s wings off myself, but it vanished when it saw we were waiting for it.”

  Paldor nodded, even though Sevrien couldn’t see him, but his brow furrowed in consternation. It was certainly possible; some of the smaller and less malevolent of fey-kind were known for such annoyances, and even the great city of Ravnica, lacking the groves and woods of which the creatures were most fond, wasn’t completely free of the pests.

  But why here? Why in such force? Something knocked faintly on the doors of Paldor’s memory but refused, for the moment, to step over the threshold.

  “What sort of faerie, Captain?” He hadn’t even known he was going to ask the question until it had moved beyond his beard, but suddenly he had to know.

  “Come again, sir?”

  “What sort of faerie?”

  Paldor could all but hear Sevrien shrug. “Beats me, sir. I don’t know the first thing about the little bastards. I—”

  “Then go to the library or the workroom,” Paldor ordered through a vicious snarl, “and find someone who does!” He slammed the speaking tube back into its slot in the wall.

  The desk had flashed two more alarms, leaving Paldor gritting his teeth hard enough to have milled a sack of grain, before the captain’s voice emerged from the tube once more.

  “What have you got, Captain?” Paldor interrupted.

  “Well, sir, according to Phanol down in the stacks, based on the description I gave him …”

  “Yes?”

  “He says it was a cloud sprite, sir. Pretty much harmless. Weird thing is, sir, he said they’re not known for this sort of mischief, that they …”

  Paldor wasn’t listening any longer, for the memory lurking just outside his conscious mind had finally burst its way in. No, cloud sprites weren’t known for this sort of thing. Nor were they particularly common anywhere on Ravnica, and certainly not in the midst of the larger districts.

  But most important, he’d finally remembered exactly when he’d last heard tell of the tiny sprites.

  “Call your men back, Captain! Set them up guarding the main passageways, and for the heavens’ sake, group them into units larger than pairs!”

  “Sir, I’m not sure I—”

  “We’re under attack, Captain!”

  Paldor heard Sevrien move the speaking tube from his mouth long enough to bark at his runners to order the guards to regroup. Then, “By whom, sir?”

  “Jace damned Beleren!”

  Alas, it never occurred to Paldor that, when dealing with a potentially invisible foe, any precautions he might order were already far too late. The faeries weren’t a distraction against an incursion to come, but an incursion already committed; and the cell’s security had been breeched as early as the third “false” alarm.

  “Sir!”

  It wasn’t the captain speaking, then, but one of his runners, breathless and panting, addressing the captain. But Paldor, growing ever paler, heard it all through the speaking tube. “Sir, I—I …”

  “Calm down, soldier!” Sevrien barked. “Take a breath!”

  “But—but sir, Ireena’s team … the entire team is down!”

  “What do you mean ‘down’?” Paldor and the captain spoke at once, Paldor having forgotten that the runner couldn’t hear him.

  “Oh, gods, sir!” Paldor could have sworn he heard the younger soldier’s voice about to break. “Three of the men, sir, I … It’s as though they were rotting for years, sir! I—I slipped in one of them, they’re all over me, they’re—”

  Paldor heard the sharp retort of a slap, and Sevrien shouting for calm even as a murmur passed through the other men and women in the chamber. Tezzeret’s lieutenant found himself sweating.

  “—the others?” the captain was demanding. “Or Ireena herself?”

  “Just—just sitting there in the midst of it all, sir!” the soldier sobbed. “Staring up at me, like they didn’t even know who I was! Didn’t even recognize their own names when I called!”

  “Good gods,” Sevrien whispered. “All right,” he said, and Paldor knew from the shift in volume that he’d turned to face another of his seconds. “Where’s Lieutenant Calran? I need him to—”

  “He’s in the hallway, sir,” a third voice intoned, so softly Paldor could barely hear through the speaking tube. “He’s just … sitting there, sir, playing with his sword and giggling like … like a schoolboy.”

  Silence fell, save for the frightened, labored breathing on both ends of the tube.

  “Captain?” Paldor couldn’t tell, from the tone, which soldier was speaking. “Captain, what do we—?”

  Shouts and screams erupted from the tube as something—a door, perhaps?—shattered into a million splinters. Steel sang against leather as swords whirled from their sheathes, and the clatter of iron links of chain echoed through the narrow conduit. A dozen voices rose into a chaotic clamor, Sevrien’s own barely audible as he shouted orders that nobody heeded.

  Wood cracked, so hard that the floor beneath Paldor’s feet trembled. Human voices disappeared beneath a monstrous roar, loud enough that he heard it clearly from the level below without need of the tube at all. The shouts of soldiers were transformed into shrieks of terror, wails of agony that ended in a series of horrible, wet thumps.

  And then, once more, all was silent.

  “Captain?” Paldor cleared his throat, hoping to still the quaver in his voice. He fumbled at the tube with sweat-slick hands. “Captain? Can you hear me?”

  Nothing, nothing at all—and then, a faint childish giggle, accompanied swiftly by a second, a third, and a fourth. And all of them, each and every voice, sounded oh so familiar.

  “Captain?” It was a whisper this time, a breath of horrified unbelief. “Captain?”

  The speaking tube clattered as someone lifted it from where it hung, abandoned. “I’m afraid the captain can’t hear you,” a low voice responded. “Or at least he can’t understand. He’s not really himself anymore.”

  “Beleren,” Paldor exhaled.

  “He should have left me alone, Paldor,” Jace told him. “Everything that happens now is on his head, and on yours.” A squeal of rending metal nearly deafened Paldor as the far end of the tube was yanked from the wall.

  He stood, the useless conduit in his hand, sweat beading his face, matting his beard, soaking in the folds of his chins. He cast a frantic eye at the door, contemplating making a run for it, and knew it was hopeless. With Beleren and his summoned monsters stalking the halls, Paldor wo
uldn’t have given even a healthy sprinter fair odds of escape, and sprinting was far from his forte.

  Besides, he had a greater responsibility.

  With fingers that seemed determined not to work, Paldor yanked a sequence of crossbows and daggers from beneath the desk, cocking the former, unsheathing the latter and hurling them about the room, that he might have a weapon easily to hand from any position. He reached into his sleeve, ensuring the manablade sat securely in its sheath.

  Then, and only then, did he turn his attention to the device. He swung the pommel of a dagger, watched the bits of glass scatter across the floor, and though he’d long been an atheist—ever since he learned from Tezzeret of worlds beyond this one—he found himself praying to anything that could hear him, praying that Tezzeret wasn’t busy with something else, wouldn’t take too long to arrive.

  Indeed, the door opened mere seconds later, but it certainly wasn’t Tezzeret standing within.

  Paldor spun with a dreadful cry. A tiny crossbow fell from his sleeve into his meaty hand, and he fired the weapon. But even as the bolt crossed the room, he simply froze, transformed into a statue of flesh and bone. Only his pupils still moved, widening as he sensed Beleren digging within his mind. He swore he could feel the touch of fingers upon his thoughts, the weight of eyes upon his memories, the warmth of breath upon his dreams.

  “You should have stayed in hiding, you miserable rat!” Paldor raged internally, trying to shout, hoping that Beleren could hear his thoughts. “You want a war? You’ve got one! I know Tezzeret! He’ll see every one of your friends dead. They’ll suffer every imaginable agony before it’s over, and they’ll know it was your fault!”

  He never knew if his threats had been heard. Jace closed his grip, and Paldor was gone. Oh, the body lived, and the mind could be taught; the corpulent creature could still be remade and remolded into a new life.

  But as a person, as an avaricious and jovially cruel lieutenant of the Infinite Consortium, Paldor was dead.

  But still Jace was not through with the man’s mind. Into the vast emptiness that had once held a person, he implanted a message, a message that Paldor would speak only when Tezzeret finally appeared.

  “That’s Ravnica, Tezzeret.” Jace spoke aloud even as he implanted the challenge in Paldor’s mind, his tone deathly calm. “Perhaps Kamigawa next? Or Aranzhur, or Mercadia. There are so many cells to choose from.

  “You should have left me alone. You want me, you decrepit, overrated tinkerer? Come find me!”

  Liliana strode the halls of the Consortium, death dancing in her wake. Wraiths, phantoms, even a swarm of disembodied eyes flitted through the nearby air, darting around corners, to drink the life from anyone foolish enough to stand in her way. Far behind, in the bowels of the complex, plumes of smoke choked the passageways as the Ravnica cell’s extensive archives—years worth of magical arcana—were reduced to ash and cinder.

  Just as she reached the door to the office, standing out of sight of both Paldor and Jace, Liliana overheard the tail end of the conversation and the threatening tenor of Jace’s implanted challenge. Instantly she furrowed her brow in concentration, wisps of black vapor trailing from her hair, her breath turning to steam as the air around her grew cold with darkest mana. Half a dozen smaller phantoms appeared from the surrounding shadows and vanished through the nearest window. One would remain hidden in the skies above this very building; the remainder made haste toward the other Consortium safehouses throughout Ravnica. There they would watch, and hopefully report Tezzeret’s or Baltrice’s actions, once they finally arrived.

  “Bold words,” she told him with a faint smile as she stepped into the room, a smile that Jace returned more faintly still. “But I thought you said you weren’t willing to take him on?”

  Jace shook his head. “No. But if he’s … if he’s on guard, thinks we’re coming for him, he … uh, should take longer to start looking for … for us elsewhere.” His breathing had quickened, his face fallen pallid.

  “Jace?” Liliana moved swiftly to his side, fear chewing at the base of her spine. “Jace, are you all right?”

  “No. No, I … I don’t think so.”

  Only then did Jace allow his heavy cloak to fall open. Liliana gasped, hand flying to her lips, at the sight of the fletched bolt protruding from Jace’s tunic, and the bloodstain spreading rapidly around it.

  “Paldor …” Jace said with a sickly grin, “was actually a pretty … good shot.”

  She caught him as he collapsed, barely preventing him from slamming to the floor and perhaps jarring the bolt into a vital organ. She marveled, even as she moved to stanch the bleeding, at the strength and self-control it must have taken to hide his pain long enough to leave his message.

  “Jace,” she begged, “stay with me.” Her hands worked, pressing the hem of her own tunic to the wound. “I don’t … I don’t know how to treat this! I’m not a healer!”

  “I know… know someone here who is,” he gasped between clenched teeth. “But I’m not sure … I can manage to get there.”

  “The sphinx?” Liliana asked. Such a creature soaring over the peaked towers of Ravnica would draw a few eyes, but it wasn’t any more unusual than a dozen other sights the citizens would see that day.

  “Dismissed her … after she dealt with the guards. Brilliant … wasn’t it?” Jace chuckled, then shuddered as the bolt shifted against his ribs.

  Liliana stood. “All right. Whatever you do, don’t fight this.” Her voice was clear as ever, but her lips quivered of their own accord, as though reciting a litany separate from the words she spoke.

  Something rose from the floor by Jace’s side, something wispy and insubstantial, a fume on the air that clung only vaguely to a humanoid shape. It reached out, not with a hand, but with its head, on a neck that stretched ever thinner, impossibly thin. A mouth that wasn’t brushed against the young man’s skin, and his body quivered with a shudder that had nothing to do with the pain of his wound.

  “Don’t fight it,” Liliana had said, yet how could he not? Its touch was unnatural, a blight as it flowed through flesh to caress him from within.

  At his strongest, Jace could have resisted easily, kept the phantasmal thing from infecting him. But as the pain flared in his wound, as his blood spilled across the floor, Jace struggled to gather his thoughts, to muster what power he had remaining … and failed.

  He felt it pour, liquid and cold, through his body, across bones and muscles. His every limb went numb, and the world grew subtly distorted, as though a gossamer veil had somehow unfurled between his mind and his eyes.

  “What did you do to me?” Jace demanded. He was startled to find that it hurt less to speak than it had moments ago—but also that a full second had passed after he thought the question before his lips and tongue formed the words.

  “You’re possessed,” Liliana told him in much the same tone of voice she might have used to tell him he had something in his teeth.

  “I—what?”

  “Relax, Jace. I’ve told him to obey your thoughts. You’re still in control of your own body.”

  “Why would you …?”

  “How do you feel?”

  Jace took a moment. The torment had indeed lessened, though he still winced at the feel of the inches of wood currently inside him. “A little … better,” he admitted.

  Liliana nodded. “He’ll keep you insulated from the worst of the pain, try to hold your body together so that walking doesn’t cause any further damage. You won’t be able to go far, but we should be able to get outside, wave down a carriage.”

  “All right.” Slowly, perturbed at the odd delay between intention and movement, he rose to his feet. He felt a faint surge of déjà vu, staggering wounded from the complex. “We’d better get … get out of here. Liliana?”

  “What?”

  “Paldor. Left sleeve.”

  Liliana took just a moment to kneel beside the catatonic man, and rose clutching the manablade in her fist. “What i
n Urza’s name …”

  “Manablade. Powerful, could be useful.” And I’ll be damned if I’ll let Tezzeret have it back!

  She nodded, handing him the dagger, which he fumbled into his belt. She reached down once more to grab Paldor’s small crossbow and a handful of bolts. No telling when they’d prove useful, especially with Jace helpless as he was.

  “Where are we going?” she asked as they moved toward the door. “Where’s this healer of yours?”

  “Ovitzia District,” he said.

  “Well,” Emmara said, craning her neck to look up at the two newcomers on her porch, faintly luminescent in the orange glow of the setting sun and the magic streetlights flickering gradually into illumination. “This is a surprise.”

  “Emmara!” Jace greeted her, his words growing ever more slurred. “It’s great again. You … I mean … He blinked once, languidly, reaching out toward her. “I can’t find my hands.” His eyes rolled back, their lids fluttering shut, and Jace went limp, dangling upright like a coat on a hanger thanks to the possessing spirit within his unconscious body.

  Emmara circled Jace once, as though looking for the wires that held him erect, then knelt to examine the obvious wound. For the entire circuit, Liliana watched with an expression hovering between hopeful and darkly suspicious. A pall of silence hung over them, broken only by the trundling wagons and passersby on the street beneath, the occasional boat passing even farther below, and Jace’s labored breathing.

  “Can you help him?” Liliana asked, even as Emmara brushed the cloak aside for a closer look at the protruding bolt.

  Emmara rose again to her full unimpressive height. “Who am I helping?” she asked blandly. “Berrim? Or Jace?”

  Liliana didn’t even blink. “Which one gets your help faster?”

  The elf narrowed her eyes but nodded. “Bring him inside.”