No, the mage gibbered. Magic is something special, something unique, and this wizard has turned it into another cheap commodity to be bought and sold on the streets.
How is the guild any different? the artificer asked, buffing his nails. Did they not profit from the igniter? Did you think they do all that inventing to glorify the progress of humanity? A craft for craftsmanship's sake? Even the village blacksmith charges money for pounding horseshoes.
Devin absently glanced at the whorehouse sign again. I used to believe the artificer's guild stood for something more than selling gadgets once. I enjoyed creating for the sake of creating. Then I learned they expect you to market your inventions. That there was a crass, mercenary streak in the guild, which they hid from apprentices. Or maybe I just didn't want to notice. I had hoped magic would be different. “You've turned magic into a sideshow. That's abominable, sacrilege,” Devin shouted, all his anguish over the guild exiling him weighing on his shoulders. “It's cheap. What happened to all that talk of art and mystic wonder? How is making money a personal transcendent journey?”
“What's all this noise?” The bakery girl thrust her head out the window, smiling at the professor before turning to glare at Devin. “Hey Dumb and Doubtful, what's wrong with making money?”
How dare a mere baker's daughter glower at an artificer of the empire! His shoulders sagged. But I'm not anymore. Not either one.
“Good morning, Abigail. The bread looks lovely and redolent, as always,” Cornelius said. “As do you.”
“Thank you, sir.” She tossed the old wizard a fresh star loaf. “Here's a down payment for your next class. Who's the boy?”
“The boy is named Devin,” he growled.
“I see you resurrected that old, wooden eyesore,” she said, examining Styx's wooden digits when the automaton bowed and offered his hand. Styx brushed his wooden lips against her flour-caked knuckles. It was hard to tell behind the layers of black soot and white dust covering her cheeks, but Devin could swear the girl was blushing. “Ahem, and I see you've taught it some new tricks. Fascinating, professor. So is this boy a new student?” Abigail asked, shaking her apron in Devin's grinning face.
“No, my dear, I am taking him home with me. No, no, no, no, no, that makes him sound like my pet. Devin is not my pet and he will not be taking classes with us.”
“Well, maybe he should,” Abigail sniffed. “Then he can learn not to disrespect my professor. Good day, sir. Wise up, boy!” The girl turned and disappeared into the bakery.
Goodbye, baker's daughter. I hope your bread isn't as sour and half-baked as you are.
“She's not quite so acerbic once you get to know her,” Cornelius said.
“I don't know that I want to get to know her.” Devin wiped the flour off his face. “You were telling me how magic is the study of a lifetime? You were going to teach me how make it rain money from the skies and other scholarly pursuits?”
“Scholarship doesn't put food on the table, Devin.” Cornelius tore an arm from the star loaf and offered it to the youth. “I would love to build a small cabin on that mountain someday and devote myself to pure study. I create it in my mind one stone at a time.” Cornelius dissolved the mortar with a wave of his hand, took a loose cobble, and hefted it. “But nothing is free, not even magic.”
“I am well aware of the cost of magic.” Devin gestured to his iron peg.
“Yes, so I see,” Cornelius said. “I commercialize my skills in ways which the pillars of the wizarding community do not agree. But I can't remember the last time the four of us agreed on anything. Artists use paint. Bakers use dough. Magicians use magic.”
“You'll need to rip a lot of those small, round rocks out of the street to cobble a house together, sir,” Styx said.
“Devin, you must have done something gonzo with this thing's brain to produce all those hideous puns.” Cornelius sighed, rapping his hand on the wooden skull. “Where would we be if I pulled all the cobbles from the road just to make a point?”
“How can you make a point with blunt . . . ” Styx began.
“Shut up,” Cornelius said. “I wasn't talking to you.”
“We would shuffle though the dirt like pigs,” Devin said.
“It is our knowledge, not our roads, which raises man above the pigs and the pithy wooden dolls, Devin,” Cornelius said. “Pity you can't remember how you magicked that travesty to life.”
“I'm not sure how I did it, to be honest. Maybe we could work out some of the details together if I joined you on your transcendent journey. Unless you're not a real scholar after all, professor?” Devin waved to the large fake staff and hats adorning the local buildings. Is there any real magic in this town?
“Could we, now?” The magician paused before a white-washed shack with a green door surrounded by a trim, little yard. “Welcome to the house that magic built. Figuratively. You may stay here for now as my house guest. Whether you become something more in time, we shall see. I regret it's nothing special, just plain rock foundation with plank siding.”
But magic should be special. Even the guild wasn't above a little pomp and the house of a magician should show his status. Devin rummaged through his pocket. The dehiscent rose hips he had used for Styx's brain had settled to the bottom. He cracked one open and pinched the seeds between his fingers.
“What are you doing?” the wizard asked.
“A magician's house should be more than rocks and planks. It needs something unique, like frozen roses.” Devin sprinkled the seeds on the ground and hunched over them. He lay his hand on the soil and focused on the thought of tiny roses waiting to spring up.
“You need to stop asking yourself if you can do something and start asking if you should, child.” Cornelius placed a hand on the boy's . . . on the youth's shoulder. “Get up, Devin. Forget the roses. How long would the poor flowers will last in the middle of winter?”
“One of the weakest mages I've ever seen can grow cabbages as large as my head in the chill of winter, but I can't sprout a few tiny, little flowers?” Devin clawed the soil. Why does this keep happening? “The magic is there. It's inside, waiting, but I can't get to it. Why can't I get to it, Cornelius?” Devin squeezed the soil in his hands until his knuckles paled. “I had thought that maybe after Styx, the power might finally come when I call, but it still feels like I'm clutching smoke.” Dark clouds curled between his fingers, but the warm, vibrant magic remained locked away. His hands were cold. The ground was cold. No steam rose from the soil. There were no dancing pebbles or soft, green buds.
“Your fingernails are turning blue. Come inside the house,” Cornelius beckoned. “Warm yourself by the fire. We won't figure this out today, lad. The seeds will keep. We shall have rose buds when the seasons turn and nature takes her course. Everything doesn't require magic, Devin.”
“How true. I find a strong arm beats wiggling fingers any day.” A loud, foul burp descended like a cloud over the wizard and the youth hunched over the dirt. “Hail, Cornelius. Did you wrangle another student for your merchant school?”
“Hail, Magnus.” Cornelius rose and brushed the dirt off his hands. “This is Devin, a young mage late of the Iron Empire. Devin, this is Magnus, the town drunkard.”
“Aren't you going to introduce Styx?” Devin asked.
“Why bother?” Cornelius said. “I might as well introduce my kitchen table. Besides, Magnus already knows all about the doll; he helped me construct the thing.”
“Drunkard? See if I ever replace that old door latch, you magic ingrate.” But the words slurred with a smile and Magnus eased his bulky frame against the side of the house. He held an earthenware jug in one hand and scratched his stomach with the other.
“Magnus here also moonlights as the town's blacksmith. How long have you been working on that door latch? Taking a little break?”
“Smithing is thirsty work, Cornelius. This old thing?” Magnus waved his jug. “Just need to get the taste of filings, horse sweat, and wrought iron out of
my mouth. Well met, Devin. So, mages in the empire? Didn't think they held tuck with your sort.”
“Mages in the empire? All my life, they told me mages are evil. Mages are wicked. Mages are rounded up. Mages are taken away.” Devin shuddered as his thoughts continued down that path and his stump began to ache. Styx wrapped the youth in his long, skinny arms. The rough bark skin crackled as the doll held the youth to his chest and squeezed. “Good mages only live in fairy tales,” Devin whispered, gulping back what tears the doll had not wrung from his body. “My mother used to read me all the fairy tales.”
“Settle down, lad. Cornelius here isn't too bad. His beard just looks evil.” Magnus took a swig from his jug and looked down. “That a metal foot you got there?”
“It is a metal foot,” Devin said, blinking and patting Styx's arm. “Well, a metal peg with dreams of foot-hood. I've been fixing it up myself, sir. I'm an artificer. An apprentice artificer. An ex-apprentice artificer.”
“What a wondrous thing,” the blacksmith said, sipping from his jug. “I don't know how much artificing old Cornelius knows,” the smith winked, “but he's a half way decent fellow with that magic nonsense.”
“When I need a reference from you, Magnus,” Cornelius sputtered, “I will scrounge the bottom of an ale barrel.”
“So, you're taking on an apprentice, Cornelius? Imperial mages and walking wooden men and apprentices. Times sure are changing. Swore you'd never shackle yourself with a mage slave. Abusive system, you said. Be joining a guild next, mark my words.”
“Oh, ha, ha. No, he is not my student, Magnus, nor is he an apprentice. He is a scholar, like me.”
“Never been a scholar like you, Cornelius,” Magnus snickered.
“Don't you need to go pound some metal?” Cornelius asked. “Why don't you use your head, Magnus? It's harder and denser than any hammer in the realm.”
“I do indeed. Fare thee well, magic man,” Magnus said. “New latch should be ready before the snows melt. Got my best apprentice working on it.” He winked at Devin.
“You'll put the finishing touches on that latch yourself,” Cornelius screamed, “or I'm paying half rate, you damn chiseler.”
“It's just a latch. They don't need chisels for that,” Styx said.
Magnus guffawed and slapped the automaton on the back. “I like you, wooden man.”
“Before the snows melt, Magnus.” Cornelius shook his finger.
Magnus raised his jug to salute the wizard and turned away. “Happy to know you, Devin,” the man called over his shoulder. “You want to meet some boys your own age or just want help with your iron foot, come by the shop. Bring Styx, the boys will just love him. Round earth building with a thatch roof near the town square. Big horse shoe hanging over the door. Can't miss it. Hmm, never shod a boy, before.”
“Thank you, sir,” Devin called and waved.
“Oh, just call me Magnus,” the man bellowed as he ambled around the street corner. “Everybody does.”
“Come inside, Devin. Bring that doll with you. I think you've met enough new people today after so long alone, don't you?”
“Yes,” Devin said. “It takes some getting used to.”
Cornelius shooed them through the large, green door. He took a length of rope and tied the door handle to a nail driven into the wall.
“How long has that latch been broken?” Devin asked.
“Never mind that. Hang your cloak on the hook there. Throw your bag anywhere you like. My house is yours . . . make yourself . . . ” Cornelius raised his arms and then looked at the orphan and dropped them. “Welcome home, Devin.”
“Thank you, Cornelius. It feels wonderful having a home again,” Devin said, setting his satchel by the door and patting the top book. He turned to the wizard and rubbed his hands together, nodding to the bubbling kettle perched over the warm, roaring fire. “So, what's for supper?”
8. DEVIN, YEAR 494
Devin awoke on a cold hearth wrapped in his red cloak. The chill seeped through the wool and his back molded into the smooth lumps.
I might as well be sleeping on the cobblestones outside, he thought, groaning.
Devin pushed himself into a sitting position and leaned against the hearth, running his hands along the stones to search for a hint of warmth. His dark, linen tunic was rumpled and dried sweat had plastered the fabric to his back. Devin winced. Sitting hurt.
He grabbed the stones and pulled himself off the floor. The youth strapped his metal foot into place, shrugged into a wool shirt, stepped into a pair of woolen leggings, and then slipped into his travel beaten leather shoe. A stale odor emanated from the shirt, but Devin hardly noticed anymore. The communal imperial bathhouses with their steam saunas, soft lathery soaps, and patterned tile floors were a distant memory, almost a dream. A Corelian bath was a bucket of tepid water and a sponge with a gritty brick of lye soap for the lucky few. Devin had heard whispers among the villagers of the copper baths, scented oils, and hot water reserved for nobles and royalty. By the gods' armpits, I'm turning into a native. Devin sighed, looking down at his feet. Someday, I'll wear clean clothes and two shoes again. Not today.
The youth arched his back and rubbed the kink below his shoulders. The muscles knotted tighter every night, but after days upon days as Cornelius's guest, he was starting to get a feel for the town: tourism was the mortar which held the place together. Cornelius kept promising him a bed if he stayed long enough and to teach him to control his magic if he stayed even longer. Yet here he was with no bed and no lessons. Devin had started to lose faith in the wizard's promises.
Devin yawned and glanced around the tiny two room house. The kitchen dominated the front area and he could glimpse Cornelius's bed in the back room with a large stone chimney separating the two halves. Pride of the place belonged to the large table which sprouted like a tree trunk under a window, its branches extending and weaving to form a large, round table top. The chairs looked like living wood, too. Devin kicked one to make sure it had not taken root through the stone floor and then plucked a small, green leaf off the seat to smell it.
“You're still not used to those?” Cornelius asked, emerging from the bedroom, struggling to button a pale linen robe with one hand while holding a sloshing mug in the other. His bare feet slapped the stones as he walked over to the tree table. “I know the floor makes a poor mattress. Sit.” He gestured with the mug and a trickle of wet foam dripped down one side. “Let the branches caress your aching back and ease all your cares away. Once you've sat on these, my friend, you'll never want to sit on one of those dead, dry wooden chairs again. Oh, speaking of wood . . .” Cornelius gestured with his mug again and several logs flew into the hearth, arraying themselves under the kettle. He fluttered his fingers and the logs burst into flames.
The youth eased into one of the chairs, letting the knots in the wood untangle the knots in his back. He wiggled his shoulders as the living wood massaged and relaxed his muscles. Devin reached out with one limp arm and crooked a lazy finger at the doll who had remained standing in the corner all night. “Come on Styx, rest those wooden bones.”
“No thank you, Father.” The automaton waved his arms. “I find myself arrested by the sight of these young sapling chairs, instead, a prisoner to my inhibitions. Would you sit on a big baby human's lap and wriggle your shoulders like that?”
The wizard grabbed a second mug from the cabinet above the stone sink, pushing aside a small pile of turnips with his elbow to clear space for both mugs. Cornelius waved his hand at the cutlery arranged over the sink and a knife descended and started dicing the turnips. Devin's eyes followed the staccato rise and fall of the knife handle and drifted up to the cast iron hand pump arching behind the sink.
Factory-made cast iron here in the land of wizardry? The tendrils of the empire must reach deep into Corel. Then Devin remembered the hordes of imperial tourists he'd seen in the streets reaching deep into their pockets. Which of my countrymen gave Cornelius an iron pump? What service did
the wizard perform for them? Or did this come from one of his students?
Cornelius poured for himself and the youth from a tall carafe. “Fresh bread should be here shortly. To the mysteries of magic!”
“To magic!” Devin clinked his glass, wrinkling his nose.
“It's a new liquorice-mint tincture I've been brewing,” Cornelius said, sipping and smacking his lips. Then off the youth's quizzical stare, he elaborated. “It's steeped, flavored water. Like a weak tea. Hides that flat, boiled taste. You think I would serve ale for breakfast?” He snorted and set the mug down. “Magnus might. When I see some of the slipshod work those apprentices turn out, I despair.”
“The weak tea is fine, I was wrinkling my nose at the dinner you're preparing. Turnips, again, Cornelius? And what were those sour gobs of flesh in the stew last night?” Devin glanced at the pump, wanting to break off the conversation and hunt for a factory stamp. The local blacksmith did not handcraft that. Such mechanical wonders could only come from imperial artificers.
Cornelius glared over the top of his mug. “Those 'sour gobs' were a magic delicacy fit for a king. As for the turnips, what sort of feast do you expect at winter's end except the last of the root crops? This isn't the Iron Empire where sweetmeats and fresh fruit rain down from the sky every night. ”
“We were toasting magic, Cornelius?” Devin raised his glass. “Any chance of you ever demystifying those mysteries? Maybe teaching me to make that fruit rain from the sky?”
“Your problem is almost everything you know of magic comes from here,” Cornelius poked Devin's chest, “when it should be coming from here.” He tapped the youth's skull. “It is vital that you gain a better understanding of where your magic originates . . . and your food.”
“So teach me, Professor,” Devin said, swatting the wizard's hand away. “And it doesn't rain fresh produce in the empire. Food's grown on rooftops in public double pane greenhouses to supplement winter diets. The whole skyline sparkles like a necklace of flashing jewels when the sun rises. It's beautiful, but I was always too self absorbed to see it. I never truly appreciated what I left behind until the day I walked away from it. Beautiful city, brilliant future, bright family. Gone one sunny morning.”
The Artifice Mage Saga Boxed Set: Books 1-3 Page 24
