The Artifice Mage Saga Boxed Set: Books 1-3

by Jeffrey Bardwell

  Devin's sour face brightened. “Would you?” he asked, handing me the horns.

  My fingers clenched before I opened my palms to accept them. “Of course. I'm your friend. That's what friends do. They help each other.” They don't treat each other like projects.

  He quirked an eyebrow and flicked an errant twig from my hair. “Sure you're feeling well, Dru? Benny didn't frighten you, did he? I'll protect you.”

  I took a deep breath, surrounding myself with the comforting scents of leaves and pine resin, but the right words would not flow. I can almost feel your chest swelling beneath that armor. You're getting more violent, more defensive. You don't let me help on your projects anymore. Benny isn't the one who frightens me, I thought, but all I said was, “I'm not worried about Benson.”

  “Ah. It's guilt.” Devin grinned as I startled. “You shouldn't feel guilty for betraying me. You're a knight after all and it's only a game.”

  If only. . . “Yeah,” I said, shoulders slumping as I pushed myself away. “Devin?” I asked, putting a little catch in my voice. “What scared you this morning?”

  “What?” Devin asked.

  “When that metal fist knocked on the door you about fell over in your chair. You fought the knights today like you were fending off the world. What's frightened you?” What are you hiding? I didn't bother asking the last one. His brow had already started to furrow before I even opened my mouth.

  “Something I thought I had bolted down—” Devin pushed away from me and stood up, “started falling apart on me. Don't worry,” he said with a soft, placating smile. He raised his palms to block me. “I can fix it by myself.”

  I rose to my feet, brushed past his stupid palms, and plucked a few matted strands of dark, curly hair stuck to the blood crusted on his forehead. “Like you fixed Benny?” I sighed. “Better clean your face before one of the masters sees you” and starts asking questions you can't dodge.

  I dodged Guildmaster Huron that evening so I could leave the workshop early. He always selected one of the final year black caps to assist him walking the first years to the dormitory. It was always a long, protracted dance laced with excuses as every older apprentice vied for the opportunity to neglect the honor of the guildmaster's favor. No time! I pushed Devin forward into the old man's arms and left as the rest of the older apprentices praised my name to the five gods and scattered like ashes blasting from a flue.

  You should have told me what was troubling you, Devin, I thought, smiling as he turned and scowled, already caught in Master Huron's cheerful grip.

  “Good to see you finally volunteering, m'lad,” Huron said, voice drifting on the wind as I left the hall grounds. “By the five, what happened to your face . . .?”

  Had to think. Had to ponder. Friend in trouble: festering, boiling trouble. Between the large, bellowing machines and hissing little gossips, the workshop was just too noisy. I needed time to relax before heading home to a different sort of distraction.

  The city was silent and lit with the bright glow of gas lamps lining the streets. Members of the Lamper's Guild were just finishing their rounds, slinging their ladders over one shoulder. Most of them waved and called to me by name. Their faces shined brighter than their lamps when they recognized me.

  It's that silly black cap. Take off the cap!

  I smiled and walked past the friendly lampers, not wanting to get snared into another conversation about how joyous they were one of their own had sired an actual artificer. How lampers can't hold a candle to artificers . . . haw, haw, haw. How bright my future must be. How proud my father must be.

  My cheeks reddened. I yanked the black cap off my head and shoved it deep in my pockets. Now I was just another girl strolling home. I nodded to the Black Guards lounging in the gatehouse. They at least had the decency to barely look up from their card game as they waved me through the eastern gate.

  Outside the city, the world opened. The walls disappeared and the moon hung in the sky like a soft, white lamp. There is a quiet beauty in moonlight that no crass orange gas lamp can touch. Many in the Artificer's Guild would sneer at the thought that natural light offered anything of value, but I found it peaceful.

  Walking under the moonlight, I followed a small road into the forest. The maple trees beckoned. Grinning, I snaked up the branches and spent a pleasant time staring at the moon. She in turn focused her pale, luminous gaze upon me and I eased against the smooth tree bark, feet dangling over the edge of the branch, and let my mind drift into the black oil sky.

  There's something chewing Devin. He won't share. Why? When the other apprentices made the new boy play the dragon, I helped him. When Benson created those stupid, twisted rules, Devin came to see me. When there was a glitch in his new gauntlets, Devin sought my help. The mechanical genius sought my help for a mere twisted flange gear. Now, at the crux of our greatest challenge, he pushes me away? Does he think nobody is supposed to receive help on their journeyman's project?

  No, it's deeper than that, darker than that. He's frightened of . . . something. And he's afraid to splash this problem on me. Fool. He forgets I'm not some princess wilting in a castle, by the five gods. I'm a knight. How did a dragon get to be so chivalrous?

  Suddenly, I spied an orange torch bobbing in the distance. Groaning, I said goodbye to the moon and slid down the tree trunk. You won't push me away, Devin. I will burrow to the root of your little mystery and help you in spite of yourself. Think you can distract me with these? I cradled the broken horns under my breasts and sprinted through the dark forest ahead of the ominous, orange light. My feet knew every dip and bump in the rough path. My toes knew every root and pebble. I dare not be late.

  Mother greeted me at the door, trembling fingers wringing the hem of her apron. “Where have you been? Never mind, there's a table to set and cushions to air. He's very nearly here.”

  “I know,” I said, pushing past the woman. I shucked my lab clothes and washed the grime off my hands. “He's not that close. I saw the light bobbing from the trees—” I winced and chewed my bottom lip.

  “Trees?” she simpered, rushing over and combing her fingers through my hair. She plucked twigs with frantic haste. The smell of pine wafted through the kitchen. Mother licked a corner of her apron and scrubbed my face. “You know how he feels about your climbing.”

  “I'll stop climbing the day he squats over his stiff brass staff, lights the wick, and sits on it,” I mumbled as she tugged on my hair.

  “Young lady!” Mother's fingers vibrated against my skull as her body quivered. “Women of your station shan't not speak so crudely.”

  “What station?” I said, trying to relax as she stripped the woodlands from my hair. “I'm a lamper's daughter.”

  “You are. There is no shame in it.” She patted my head. Any other person would have slapped me and I felt my cheeks flush. I composed my face lest the man coming through the door soon think my face burned because of him. Mother pushed me gently away. “Please finish setting the table like a good daughter should.”

  I collected plates from the cupboard, trying to select three without any chips or cracks, and laid them between the brass forks and knives already set on the table. I had just finished when he blustered through the door with a blast of smelly exhaust fumes.

  “Is dinner ready, woman?” he asked. I could not hear my mother's soft reply. Her voice was smothered by the sound of the man's boots stomping into the dining room. “The mighty artificer soils her hands touching brass dinnerware instead of hammered gold? Does such a plebeian touch burn your precious fingers, girl?” he sneered.

  I shrugged. “I've been in the presence of many noxious things today. The brass is cold and fickle and bends on a whim, but such is the nature of the thing.”

  The man—may the gods strike my tongue before I call him 'Father'—raised his nose in the air. “You've not truly appreciated brass until you've spent an evening managing the lamp bores.” He plucked a brass fork off the table and buffed it on his coat.


  “Yes, sir,” I said. “I know all about lamp bores,” I muttered.

  “What was that noise, girl?” the man hissed.

  “The masters had me manning the bore machines, sir.” I lifted my stringy, flat locks. “Surely, you see the bits of brass still clinging in my hair?” He nodded and I let my hair fall. Feh. As if you can see anything in my hair after staring into lamp flares and dragon oil smoke all evening.

  His sneer returned. “La-de-dah. Surrounded by the masters all day were you? Aren't you the important one.”

  “No sir,” I said, smiling. “I was surrounded by brass holes all day.”

  He grinned and ruffled my hair. “Good girl. Now go wash that stinking brass from your hair before supper.”

  I nodded and went back to the kitchen. I let the sink run a moment before cupping my hands and splashing my head.

  “What are you doing?” Mother asked.

  “Washing the brass flecks from my hair,” I said, closing the sink tap and giving my damp hair a squeeze over the basin. I twirled my finger in motion with the draining sink. “Can't you see the tiny, invisible flakes?”

  Mother sighed. “Be good tonight. Please?”

  My eyes narrowed. “I will if he will.”

  “Is that ungrateful artifice sow washing metallic effluvium in my good kitchen sink?” a snide voice cried from the dining room.

  “No, dearest,” my mother called, thrusting me away from the basin with her hips. “I'm washing my hands.” She looked past me at the stairs. “Drusilla was just heading to her room to clean her hair. She may be gone a long while.”

  “Good riddance,” the man said.

  I complied with the plea in my mother's eyes and trudged upstairs. If that man was draping his sentences with the long, impressive words already, it was going to be a rough night. As I closed the bedroom door behind me, I could hear faint sounds of smashing crockery below. He's throwing things again.

  I winced and locked the door. The lock's triple tumbler mechanism was the first thing I ever built. I cupped my ear against the steel lock, listening to the happy clacking of the gears before falling back on my bed. The smell of fresh-starched sheets enveloped me. I ran my fingers over the soft, frayed cloth and smiled. She washed them again.

  The rain of crockery would continue for some time. Better stay up here for a bit. My presence would only add more broken dishes to the pile. Mother certainly wouldn't halt the flow of clay shards. I sighed and sank my face deeper into the sheets. She's only stood up to that man once in her life.

  The first time I spotted my sheets, I tried to launder them in secret. I failed. The creepy, sticky feeling between my legs that morning only added to my sense of impending dread. No amount of soap or hot water would lift the red stains. I even tried engine-scouring sand. Thank the gods I had installed my own bedroom sink years ago with a collection bucket beneath the drain for dust and shards. My father had insisted so I would not befoul our plumbing system with my artificer's ways.

  But the noise of the constantly running water attracted that man's attention and he discovered the blood-splattered sheets. He ranted about his filthy daughter and the cost of replacing the things. I stood there stricken as the blood continued to seep between my legs. I had no response. I did feel dirty when he had burst into my room.

  What of that steel lock I had built so long ago? It laid on a shelf gathering dust. I never dared to finish installing the thing. That man would have taken it as an affront to his dignity, that I created a room in his own house he could not enter. Such was my mother's explanation when she caught me cutting the holes to mount the lock.

  Mother came upstairs in the frothing wake of that man's anger. She saw the sheets. She heard him screeching. She tiptoed inside and nudged my father toward the door with her hips. He refused to budge. She laid a hand on that horrible man for the first and only time in her life, pushing him away. He stared at her hand like she had unleashed a snake and merely crossed his arms and leaned toward me, arm outstretched.

  My mother stepped back. She placed one tiny foot squarely upon that man's gut. Then she kicked him bodily from the room.

  The man's arms windmilled as he fell backwards and landed hard just outside my doorjamb. The look of surprised indignation on his face was a marvelous sight to behold. He sat on the floor, stunned and flustered.

  “We have a good daughter,” my mother murmured. “Sheets can be cleaned. They will be cleaned. This is beneath a gentleman's concern, dear. Please leave.”

  He rose, brushed himself off, and walked downstairs. Her eyes followed his every step. As the top of his head vanished, my mother let out a short breath and turned her attention back to the sheets. We both heard him leave the house for work. Then she shooed me out of the room as well.

  When I returned home that evening from the guild hall, my mother had placed fresh sheets on the bed and that man was curiously silent all through dinner. My friends in the guild had enlightened me as to what the bleeding meant and what absorbent things had to be placed where and changed how often. My mother had her own quiet opinions on the subject. A few feminine items were waiting for me on the fresh-starched sheets that night and a shiny, oiled lock had been mounted on my bedroom door.

  A loud screech and more smashing noises reverberated through the door. The respite after the incident with the sheets had been all too brief and that man soon returned to his loud, wicked ways. I hissed and pulled the bedsheets over my head to muffle the sound of breaking crockery.

  I am not hiding like some little girl. I am biding time. I swear the moment I make journeyman, I'm leaving this broken place forever. I could never fix my . . . father and mother, but maybe I'm not too late to fix Devin. I clutched the sheets and breathed that sweet, starchy air. Sometimes people have depths you never expected, hidden within like a deep dark cavern. What's lurking inside Devin? What does his cavern hide?

  6. DEVIN, YEAR 491

  Devin's afternoon in the cavernous machine shop was a whirlwind of soldered patches, close deadlines, and desperately needed parts, none of them his. Devin raced up and down the hall, a lowly grease monkey with slick, black face and finger stains to prove it, assisting the silver-capped journeymen with their own stupid contraptions. His advice and ideas for improving these devices mostly went unheeded; they all just gave him more work.

  As Devin finished his rounds, he realized that some of the older journeyman were implementing his previous, diffident suggestions as their own modifications. The pricks.

  “Finally done with your errands?” Drusilla asked around her own armful of packages as she passed him, glancing with envy at his empty hands.

  “They don't leave us time for our own projects,” Devin hissed. “Some of us have evals coming up.”

  She smiled and quirked her eyebrow. “Going for journeyman so soon? You certainly got the talent for it. Almost magical the way you invent new—”

  Devin felt the blood draining from his face. “Not you, too,” he whispered.

  Drusilla laid her packages on the floor and wrapped her arms around him. “Oh, Devin, I'm sorry. Just Benny's stupid rant from this morning churning in my mind. I know you're not some sort of dirty mage sympathizer.” She laughed and gestured around the large room lit with sunshine and forge fire. “You know, I've never even seen a mage? Dark, violent creatures, yeah?”

  Too much talk of magic and mages today. The gods curse you, Benny. Devin gave his friend a small squeeze. “Must go,” he mumbled, pushing himself away. He felt her eyes stab right between the shoulder blades as he walked away, but when he glanced over his shoulder, Drusilla had vanished.

  You run away? As though magic was something shameful? the mage hissed over the sound of the nearby drop hammers.

  Talk of dirty magic and mages sullies this monument to good machines and hard work, the artificer grunted. Better to breathe the black air of a thousand forges than choke on such vile topics.

  Devin pushed the voices from his mind, finding sanctuary in
a dusty corner workshop. He closed the door softly behind him and glanced at the covered bones of his project waiting under a tarp in the corner.

  It was a long abandoned lab, once used for storage space perhaps. But before Devin made it his own, the only thing in the room was the large brass puzzle box squatting low and lonely in the corner. Nobody dug up the machine and dusted it for this year's evals yet. Devin glanced around the lab at all his scattered tools before his eyes returned to the large, gold-colored box.

  It looked something like a dragon clock. Rich dandies had them in their mansions in the East and West districts and when the things broke, as all machines are wont to do, they called in the guild to fix their mess of springs and sprockets.

  The clocks were crammed with intricate mechanisms and little dragons that were supposed to emerge from their caves at the apex of the clock face, give a tinny little roar, and then retreat again. The clocks were massive and when it involved heavy lifting, the journeymen drafted their apprentice grease monkeys as journeyman are wont to do.

  Devin had seen and crawled up inside his fair share of dragon clocks. But this one was smaller than average: the top of the clock was only shoulder high on a man. And it had only one dial. And the dial twisted like an ingrown claw. And it didn't work.

  Failing to make the machine work became a bit of a hazing ritual over the years and the brass box always made an appearance for every apprentice's evaluation exam as a capstone test. But this was the one test you were allowed to fail. After getting grilled by expert craftsmen for two hours and being presented with untold random items to disassemble or repair, fiddling with the puzzle box was a fun lark that helped break the tension.

  A steel-colored beret poked through the lab door. Not another journeyman. Devin bristled before realizing it was merely Master Huron dressed in an old, worn uniform, likely a holdover from his own journeyman's days. His white beard and silver hat looked mismatched and the youth could not help but color the old man's cap the appropriate white shade of his rank.