“I have many friends among the apprentices. We engage in friendly contests in a field behind the Guild Hall,” Devin said.
Devin tried not to glare at his mother. She was always bemoaning his lack of social graces. He had no time for friends. Not with a budding career. Couldn't she see how important this contest was? The struggle among peers? The relative quasi unofficial ranks established among apprentices lasted for life. If he wanted to reach the top, he had to establish himself now as a fighter and a winner. How his peers saw them would affect his career for the rest of his life.
“So you tell me every day coming home looking like this, A friendly contest, by the five gods,” his mother snorted. “If they get any friendlier, they'll kill you. Stop trying to awe them and just be yourself, Devin. Stop trying to impress the city kids with your little gadgets and machines. Show those children the real you. People respond to that.”
“Don't you miss it sometimes? Living in the village? Where you didn't have to be rich to have a yard? Where the only thieves were the neighbors' dogs raiding the chicken coop? The only murder slaughtering hens for supper? No Black Guards lurking at every street corner? No smog lurking in the skies?” He licked his lips and reached for another slab of meat with his knife.
“That's neither here nor there,” his mother replied. “The guild brought us here. If you want to be an artificer Devin, then you need to learn to play by their rules.”
Rules provide a structure to the gears that turn society, the artificer agreed. Without them, the machine falls apart.
Play by the rules, the mage spat. Wouldn't you rather rule instead? Why bother with rules when you have . . . magic?
The sound of metal knuckles pounding on the front door reverberated through the house.
“Black Guards,” a voice called. “Open this door.”
Devin's heart froze. They found me. The meat flopped over the blade like a body impaled on a sword. He threw the knife down. The body just splattered.
7. DEVIN, YEAR 491
The Black Guards wore matching mechanical armor. The black metal giants were much more imposing on the front stoop than scratching their balls on the street corner or lounging in the market. The massive suits had to duck to pass under the lintel and enter the house. There was something subtly different, grander about their armor.
Those must be those new Mark 3 designs, Devin thought weakly. Drusilla was right. The joint work looks exquisite. The knitting gauntlets. Those steel fingers could crush my ribcage and then make a cute scarf from my entrails. They can use my ribs as tiny needles.
“Well, what have we here?” a grim voice echoed through the helmet as one of the guards reached towards Devin with his giant, metal hand.
The youth closed his eyes and covered his head with both hands. He spared a few warm thoughts for his family amidst the rising icy, black panic that threatened to drown his mind. Whatever you do to me, please spare my sister and my mother. They are innocent. They are . . .
“We've received disconcerting reports of strange lights and explosions at this address, Ma'am,” the second guard asked. The gears in his suit whirred.
What? Devin thought, opening his eyes. The second guard had moved his arm to lift the visor. He looked concerned rather than accusatory.
The guard reaching towards Devin patted him on the head. “Little master of the house, eh?” the echoing voice chuckled.
Oh. Devin dared to breathe again as his heart settled.
“Is everything all right? Were you attacked?” the second guard asked, his voice clear and unmuffled.
“No, sir,” Devin's mother replied, clutching his wide-eyed sister to her side as she goggled at the metal giants. “All that commotion was just my son. He's with the Artificer's Guild. Always tinkering with new inventions in his bedroom instead of the Guild Hall where they belong.” She glared. “Sometimes they explode.”
“Do they?” The Clear Guard smiled.
She sighed. “Most of them explode. He's going to be a journeyman soon if he doesn't kill himself in the process.”
The Clear Guard turned to Devin and tipped his visor. “Congratulations, son. You don't mind if we poke around ma'am?” Despite the cheerful, even respectful tone, Devin realize it wasn't a request.
“Sometimes,” the Muffled Guard echoed, “criminal types lurk under the roofs of honest citizens. Your son's loud activities would make the perfect cover for certain dangerous elements of society. Mind if your boy shows me around?”
Devin's mother nodded as she lifted his quietly sobbing sister and cradled Misera against her breasts. He followed the Black Guard as the armor moved from room to room. The guard kept fiddling with something hidden under a flap in his armor, gently pushing Devin away when the youth got curious.
The whole ordeal was curious. The guard kept tapping the floor boards and knocking on the walls. “Crafty bastards,” the Muffled Guard said, keeping his back to Devin as he examined the perimeter of the room. “You've not heard nor seen anything suspicious? Felt anything? A tingling on the back of your neck? Strange burning sensations tickling the soles of your feet?” He turned to Devin, raised his visor, and glared. “Anything at all?” his voice rasped.
“What are you looking for?” Devin squeaked, but in the pit of his gut, he knew.
The guard sighed and his expression softened. “Mages, boy. Sometimes they nest in the homes of good imperial citizens and use them for . . . practice. Like a cat toying with
a family of mice before it slaughters them.”
Surely, not all mages are like that. Feral beasts preying on the weak. They can't all be predators, Devin thought.
Like dragons? the mage chuckled.
More like rats, the artificer snorted.
“Anything from the device?” the Clear Guard called from the foyer.
“Not a peep,” the Muffled Guard replied, patting Devin on the head again as he turned to leave.
“Device?” Devin perked up and his fingers twitched.
“Never you mind, son.” The guard snorted and patted the flap in his armor. “It's not for the likes of you.”
Devin followed the guard back to the foyer where the Clear Guard was talking to Devin's mother and making googly faces at a sullen Misera. “Ma'am. If you see anything strange or unusual, please don't hesitate to contact us. Can't be too careful with mages and murderers everywhere.”
“Of course,” his mother said as she opened the front door. “The five gods bless you both for keeping us safe.”
“Can I take my candles and go up to my room now?” Devin asked quietly as the door closed behind the two Black Guards.
“Your explosions never led to the Black Guards knocking on our door before,” his mother muttered, but she sounded more thoughtful than angry as she walked into the kitchen. “It's not like the neighbors don't know of your habits. You've certainly fixed their broken machines often enough. What's gotten everybody so tense? Have those filthy mages really spread to the North District?”
Yes, mother, Devin though sadly, looking away as he helped clear the dinner table, we have. “My candles?” he asked.
“If you really think it will help, then you may take one,” his mother said, blowing out one of the candles and handing it to her son. I need to go relax. She turned to the basket of knitting supplies in the corner.
“Just one?”
“Quit complaining or I will make you rebuild that stupid oil lamp. Now go up to your bedroom and get inventing. And Devin, dear?” she asked, raising a needle and stabbing a red ball of yarn.
“Yes?” Devin winced as the needle pierced through the other side.
“I don't just want inventing. I want explosive inventing. I won't be happy until the ceiling trembles. A pox on our nosy neighbors. What are they going to do, sic the Black Guards on us?”
Devin and his mother shared a laugh while Misera stared back and forth between them, perplexed. I adore my family, Devin thought. “I will rattle their windows and loosen their bowels
,” he promised.
“The windows will suffice, Devin. Ha! As if this city wasn't noisy enough already,” she groused, threading the needle. “Why shouldn't we add to the commotion?”
“Thank you again for dinner.”
“I had almost forgotten about dinner.” Devin's mother smiled at her son then fluttered her fingers to shoo him away and happily returned to her knitting.
The candle sat flickering on the desk, filling Devin's bedroom with the scent of a warm spring afternoon. The apprentice artificer propped his elbows on the desk and cradled his head in his hands, waiting for inspiration to strike. But his thoughts just bobbed and flickered like the candle.
As Devin sat admiring the dancing flame, his mind began to focus. He deconstructed the candle, picturing the inside of the wax column with the wick nestled inside it. He knew the skinny wicks were dipped in sodium borate, a flame retardant, so the flames did not consume them. The melted wax wicked up the fabric and burned, consuming the candle.
The pieces of the oil lamp sat beckoning at the other end of the desk. Devin played with the brass nozzle. She wouldn't really make me rebuild this thing, would she? the youth thought. Suppose I take the candle wick and dip it down into the fuel like an old oil lamp? The ones with the fat, flat, braided wicks? Devin had remembered seeing some around Journeyman Higgins's office when he started designing the flame throwing device. The journeyman liked collecting antiques.
Funny how the Lamper's Guild converted everyone to modern gas lighting ages ago, but kept the old oil lamp sigil. More traditions. Devin blew out the candle, wondering if an old wick lamp wouldn't extinguish so readily. Time to raid Higgins's office again, Devin yawned. Then he groped his way through the dark until he found his bed and went to sleep.
The next day passed as if in a waking dream, as though Devin had never left the comfort of his bed. The morning magic tricks with his sister caused no explosions. Benny was nowhere to be found.
Drusilla took the opportunity that afternoon to show off Devin's loricate mechanical armor, gathering a group of knights around them. The warm rocks radiated the afternoon heat and some of the knights were lounging.
The Dragon Boy had removed his clawed gauntlets and horns for the occasion and, after passing them around among the knights to be admired, laid them on the ground. Devin stood with a quiet smile as Drusilla plucked an errant twig from her hair launched into an animated speech.
“Believe it or not this segmented armor is the ancestor to our modern plate mail,” Drusilla said, gesturing at the overlapping horizontal strips which made Devin's steel clad torso. “There's something delightfully primitive and raw about old armor. These loricated strips allow much greater freedom of movement and similar protection without the weight penalty of plate steel. Of course, with modern, steam powered armor, weight isn't so much of an issue these days . . .”
“Feh,” one of the knights said, adjusting his pot helmet. “Doesn't look like it can take a lance to the gut.”
“Looks like a snake belly if the snake was made of steel bits,” another knight said, sitting on her own bowl helmet and wiping her nose with a shirt sleeve.
Well, you look like a metal turtle, Devin thought. Damn! All this sweat and steel in one place is making my nose itch. And it's a dragon, not a snake. Some hint of these thoughts must have shown on his face.
“Well, that was the point, wasn't it, Dragon Boy?” Drusilla asked, smiling. “Looking like a metal reptile?”
Devin lifted his chin and crossed his arms. “It was supposed to be a dragon. Not a snake, a dragon!”
“Calm down, Dev.” Drusilla patted his shoulder. “Or I'll make you go sit in the corner. You make a pretty dragon.”
“Oh yes. Super pretty,” a familiar voice sneered from around the corner as Benson rounded the bend. His eyes widened when he saw his army napping under the trees, playing games in the dust, and relaxing for all they were worth with the dragon in plain sight, standing bemused at the center of it all. “What's this?” the bully roared, wrapping his arm around the nearest hapless knight, a skinny lad whose mechanical cuirass had begun its life as a cookie tray.
“Hi . . . hi, Benson.” The cookie tray slipped. “How . . .?”
Benson held the skinny knight close, knocking the cheap cuirass askew. “I'm gone for one day and you're all fraternizing with the enemy?”
Oh Benny, Devin thought, don't beat up your own team. Then all the other apprentices might just realize what a brutish thug you really are.
The lad wriggled out from under Benson's grasp and shrugged. The bully pushed the skinny knight out of the way and marched straight towards the center of the throng.
“Hey, Dragon Boy's got armor just like the rest of us,” one of the other apprentices called out. “And Devin doesn't look like much of a dragon without his pointy doodads.”
“Yeah, Benny, lighten up.” Another knight tossed a rock in the air and caught it. “Snot like it's against the rules.”
“Knights having a party with a dragon?” Benson cried, agog. “Not against the rules?”
It's just a game, Benny, Devin thought. I think sometimes you forget that. Sometimes, I forget that.
“Yeah, Benny,” Drusilla chuckled, counting them off on her fingers. “You know, the rules of the game? 1. No edged weapons? 2. No . . .”
“Broken bones,” the bully growled, slipping in and out of character. “Doth have no need to remind me of thine rules, Maiden.” He turned to the dragon. “Was admiring your mechanical gauntlets the other day. So I upgraded mine to match, just without those ridiculous claws. Like them?” The gears whirred and clicked as Benson clenched and raised his mechanical fist into the air. Most of the knights transferred their attention from The Dragon to The Knight. A few rose and dusted off their helmets, casting sheepish grins at their friends as they reached for their swords.
But we were all laughing together not moments ago. Devin stared at the crowd of knights, befuddled as he felt the tide turning to rise against him.
Benson grinned as every eye riveted to his raised fist. The bully took his other mechanical gauntlet and snaked it around Devin's wrist. He squeezed and Dragon Boy gasped.
Drusilla went to place herself between the two boys. “Benson, stop it! You might grind his carpals to dust with that gauntlet. Can't you even follow your own rules?”
“This from the wench who aids and abets mine sworn enemy? The girl who consorts with dragons? A harlot wrapped in steel?”
“Prick,” Devin said, swinging at Benson's face with his free arm. Benson squeezed the wrist harder. Devin screamed. The bully snickered and threw the dragon to the ground.
“Benny, you could have hurt him,” Drusilla said, running to Devin's side.
“I could have broken him. But I am a white knight. Rules are as sacred and precious to mine heart as little infants. I birthed thy precious rules. They keep us safe.” Benson grabbed one of Devin's clawed gauntlets. “We play dangerous games, do we not? Without rules, someone might break a finger.” Benson bent one of Devin's metal fingers back and forth until the steel snapped.
“Stop,” Devin cried, reaching out while Drusilla hugged him to the ground.
“Shhhhh,” she whispered. “You're hurt enough already. Don't leap in now. It's what he wants. Don't give him what he wants.”
What use is a metal dragon without his claws? Devin thought.
“Our fingers nay our whole hands are in jeopardy.” Benson lifted both of Devin's gauntlets in the air with a cruel laugh and crushed them both between his steel knuckles. The gears in his hands howled as they reduced the dragon claws to a crumpled mass of metal.“Gone but for the grace of the rules. A pity.”
Benson threw the crumpled gauntlets over his shoulder. The knights cheered as he picked up the dragon horns.
“No,” Devin whispered, cradling his wrist and coughing.
“And let's not forget our toys. We must protect our toys.” Benson took the delicate spiraled horns, slowly uncoiling and the
n shredding them to bits. The bully let the metal scraps fall between his steel clad fingers. “Do you stand with me . . . or that?” Benson glared at the girl cradling the dragon in her arms. “Know where thy allegiance falls lest it fall into the wrong hands.”
Benson shook the metal crumbs off his gauntlets. The Knight kicked the ruins of Devin's horns and claws out of his path as he turned and walked away.
After the destruction of his claws and shorn of his horns, Devin threw himself into his dragon flame device with renewed passion. The sound of pounding metal, chain hoists, and booming voices echoed through the cavernous machine shop.
Devin heard none of it over the sound of his own furious inner monologue. A minor setback. The other apprentices will regret siding with my nemesis. I will show them all. I must show them all.
You still have one friend left, the artificer reminded him. What of Drusilla? If you forget her, you will lose her.
What good is one person when his rival commands the loyalty of his entire apprentice class save two? the mage snorted.
Journeyman Bottcelli ran up with a handful of blueprints. His face was flushed and sweaty and his silver cap was a poor fit. “Apprentice Devin,” Bottcelli stressed the first word. “Might I have a moment of your time? That double injection mold you proposed the other day isn't quite working as planned . . .”
“So when it fails, it's suddenly my proposal?” Devin growled and pushed past the young journeyman. “Figure it out yourself, Butt-chilly. I've got my own career to worry about.”
Devin dodged everyone, journeyman and apprentice alike, making his way to the lonely corner workshop through the traffic of packed bodies, all sweating, scampering, or screaming. He had a wondrous invention to finish. He glanced at the master's offices on the second floor. I'll be in one of those offices some day. Up there with a snowy, white cap on my head. They never have to deal with this crap.
The apprentice squeezed into the tiny corner workshop and gently closed the door behind him. He breathed a sigh of relief. Sweet, sweet silence. Now I can . . .
Rotten Magic Page 6
