Cornelius set the tools down and raised his hands. “I was unaware. Happily, I am not a craftsman.”
Devin snapped his fingers and the tools disappeared along with the books. The satchel visibly bulged.
“Well, that little retreat seems to have strengthened your precision. So your magic is no longer reliant on those inconvenient bursts of emotion?” Cornelius asked, fishing another tool from his pocket and tossing it to the youth.
Devin smiled and snapped his fingers again. The tool vanished mid air.
“That doll apparently told Magnus you were back in town before it told me,” Cornelius sniffed, scraping the watch pieces into a neat pile on the table. “He was working on a new oil formula for that metallic appendage of yours. I see you've gone and made another one. All this trouble to replace a missing foot with greasy springs and gears? I expected better of you.”
“You obviously stole my charge sheet from that packet you sent up with the barbarian,” Devin said. “I notice you left the personal note from the Butcher; I wish you had stolen that, too. While you were rifling through my folder, did you notice the map, old man?”
Cornelius shrugged. “You would hardly be the first mage who threw a temper tantrum with buildings. What map? The doll mentioned something about red circles of doom, but . . .”
“The invasion!” Devin spread the map on the table and stabbed the southern route with his finger. “They must entering the country at Port Eclare. This is proof of their plans, Cornelius.”
“Trying to sneak a force past those deplorable ruins? Idiots. The guardians of Port Eclare will decimate any invasion without your assistance,” the wizard murmured. “Besides, your evidence is tenuous and suspect. Why not wait until you have better proof?”
“Like an army marching past our door step?” Devin exclaimed. “They send the vanguard knocking once already. I won't keep hiding, Cornelius. They won't capture me again. I will kill them all, first.”
“Will you, indeed?” Cornelius muttered. “And here I thought you were fighting for the town. Really, you should thank the empire for mutilating you like that before they exiled you. Your crimes,” he waved the stack of papers, “warranted a much more gruesome punishment. Abigail,” he sniffed, “can tell you all about it. Ask that girl about her mother's grave.”
She told me, already, Devin thought. Her mother was buried in a mass grave site. That watch on the table is her tombstone. But she did skip from her mother's capture straight into the grave. Did I miss a part of that story? A gruesome part? “I thought we were to not speak of her mother? That the topic pains her?”
“Go ask that girl about the Atrium of Justice,” Cornelius sighed. “Ask her to reveal the fate that awaits you in the empire.”
Ask her about a myth? Devin thought. “Not feeling so solicitous of your favorite student anymore, Professor?”
“This isn't about Abigail,” Cornelius said, banging the table. “There are things you need to know before you throw yourself back into the clutches of the Black Guards. You're dancing on the edge of the dragon's maw. Every wizard isn't lucky enough to escape the empire.”
“Well, I escaped once, didn't I?” Devin asked.
“You escaped like a newborn wyrm with especially glistening scales or odd-colored eyes escapes the noose when the hunter releases it: sure, the creature is too unique to kill, but it's also too scrawny to survive. I'm amazed you managed to escape with your life, never mind your foot. And those little, metal tools you claim to treasure so much would be gathering dust without the constant tweaks and improvements to your . . . other foot. The artificer inside you would have long since starved without that piquant, metal device strapped to your leg.”
“You would prefer I had left a symbol of imperial brutality strapped to my body instead of an engineering feat of my own creation?” Devin raised his knee and dangled his metal limb in the air. The sooner Magnus and I finish installing those negative feedback springs, the better. “The Butcher already threatened to drag me back into the empire to execute me and destroy this town in the process. Or have you forgotten? Is my life enough at stake for you? The fate of this ungrateful town?”
“Ungrateful, indeed,” Cornelius snorted. “All you did was strip their road and destroy their livelihood. The wretches.”
“I saved this town,” Devin protested.
“From what, exactly? Tourists throwing money at them?” Cornelius shrugged.“But we're venturing down a side trail. I want to talk more about this foot obsession of yours before you completely obliterate the buildings in . . . this . . . town with another round of magic excesses.” Cornelius set the pile of papers on the table and beckoned to Devin. “But first, I've set up another experiment. Come.”
Devin leaned out the open window, grousing. The call of the stars and a crisp, night breeze tempted him. He turned back to the stuffy, smoke-filled house. He felt as though an unseen pressure was smothering him, pushing him outside. His time with the old wizard had been filled. The next stage of his journey beckoned. “I don't have time for this. They may have already launched their ships, Cornelius. You must persuade Abigail to sell me that bread.”
“For your little trip to the beach?” the wizard asked, smiling. “To follow the map someone planted among enemy documents for reasons unknown? Good luck finding any merchant in this town willing to sell you provisions.”
“Abigail already refused me once while the other townsfolk sharpened their knives. Ask her for me. She would do anything for her darling professor,” Devin sighed.
“Even if I wanted . . . even if you managed to persuade . . .” Cornelius's eyes gleamed with a hint of moisture as his smile drooped. “Dear Abigail does not care to listen to her old professor these days. Gone are those delightful morning visits to deliver her wholesome bread.” He scowled. “Due to strange, foreign young men, I suspect. I always told her father to be wary of all the young drakes prowling about the bakery.”
“Oh? Foreign young men?” Devin leaned against the wall and crossed his arms. “Not due to her diminished respect after you sulked away like a spiteful child when you lost the argument on the mountain? Besides, the girl did help build your dream house and you did refuse the gift, Cornelius. I can't be the only one angry about that.”
“You think you won that argument, do you? Never mind that and never mind the cottage. Come, come, come,” the wizard beckoned gleefully. “The experiment awaits.”
Cornelius led Devin to the bedroom where Styx sat on the bed with his leg propped on a stump. A chopping block, Devin realized. Deep gouges on the surface and black stained sides gave mute testimony to the stump's years of long service.
“Good day, Father.” Styx waved. “Grandfather has been explaining all about this block of wood. Our neighbor takes his chickens' lives in his hands and cuts them short.”
“One last experiment, Devin,” Cornelius said, pushing the youth into the room. He came up behind Devin and handed the artificer a white, glowing sword. Heat shimmered off the blade, but the leather wrapped hilt felt warm and rough against his finger tips. “Let's see this vaunted, new magic control of yours in action.”
Devin slammed the sword into the side of the log and wiped his hands on his shirt. The sword quivered in the wood and the artificer damped the gentle vibrations against his metal toes. “Your joke is in poor taste, old man.”
“Not a joke, a cure.” Cornelius shook his head, snapping his fingers and transporting the sword back into Devin's hands in a firm, two-handed grip. The youth's fingers interlocked and curled themselves around the hilt.
The artifice mage twisted his arms and shook the sword while Cornelius stood watching. The youth's fingers were glued to the leather binding. Devin raised the sword and advanced on Cornelius, but the wizard sighed and snapped his fingers again. Devin found himself poised over Styx and striking at the wooden ankle perched atop the block. He wrenched his elbows to one side and deflected, shearing the tip of the log with white fire. The stench of burnt wood filled
the room.
“Can't magick it away can you? I'm suppressing that talent you abuse so readily. A little trick I learned which borrows power from that.” Cornelius smiled, pointing to the brass watch gleaming from the table on the far side of the other room. “Cut off your obsession. Purge your desire for vengeance. Chop off that foot!”
Cornelius sliced his hand through the air. The sword descended, and Devin's arms followed it down as the blade hit the block with a solid, meaty thunk. Styx's severed foot rolled around his ankle and fell to the floor.
Devin dropped to his knees with the sword stuck in the block, bracing his forehead on the pommel of the sword. Silent tears flowed over his cheeks as his entire body shuddered.
“No, Father, don't cry.” The puppet nudged the youth with his wooden stub. “I feel nothing. Your experiment was a complete success. I felt no pain!”
Devin wrenched the sword free and turned to stab the wizard. “I felt enough pain for both of us. What was the point of that awful task? Did I complete your twisted, little experiment old man?”
Cornelius snapped his fingers and the sword disappeared, leaving Devin's fingers laced together. Devin bumped the old man with his knuckles as Cornelius gently pushed the youth to one side. “Complete it? No, no, no, no, no. But you set up the conditions.”
Devin waved his knuckles in the air. “What conditions?”
Cornelius plucked the severed, wooden foot off the ground. The old wizard focused and his hand glowed, radiating heat. Tendril of smoke curled around the wooded foot as the sole began to blacken. Cornelius wrapped his fingers around the wooden foot. The foot began to darken and crack. Bits of ash fluttered into the air. The wizard clenched his fist and a pile of fresh ashes drifted through his fingers. He waved his hand and Devin's fingers unweaved and the youth had to restrain himself from clenching his fists. After being held so long in the same position, the pain of merely stretching his fingers was excruciating.
“And this is your experiment?” Devin asked, gingerly flexing his stiff joints. “An exercise in destruction?”
“Far from it,” Cornelius said. “This is an exercise in creation. I will regrow this puppet's foot.” He suited deed to word, running fingers along Styx's sheared ankle and coaxing fresh growth.
The wooden ankle began to drip sap and soft, pulpy strands emerged from the wet scar. The pulp thickened into a solid mass. Toes began to sprout from one end. The heel darkened and hardened. Then the rest of the foot solidified into shape until a ring of brown scar tissue around Styx's ankle was the only difference between his old foot and his new foot.
Styx bounded off the bed. He stomped a few times, wiggling his new toes and tracing his finger along the scar. “What a marvelous trick, Grandfather.”
Impressive, Devin agreed, but he could not squash a lingering resentment. This was yet another demonstration of an advanced trick Cornelius had relegated to a quick presentation and not deigned to teach him. Devin spread and flexed his fingers, imagining the power coursing through his hand into Styx. Surely, if my magic is strong enough to grant life, I could repair a broken ankle?
Cornelius shrugged. “Granted, flesh and bone are not as yielding to my touch as sap and wood, but it can be done with time and proper study. Forsake this obsession with metal gadgets and gears. Only magic can make you whole again, Devin. How can you stand that horrible, steel foot. What is technology but a crude facsimile of life? Just think Devin; we can grow you a new foot.”
“Wouldn't that be something.” Devin eased onto the bed, a dreamy look on his face. “A new foot.”
“Forget metal. Forget technology. Only magic can solve the world's problems.” Cornelius clenched his fists. “Cast aside the artificer. Embrace the mage. Set the tiger free . . .”
Devin bolted upright, scowling. “Tempting, old man, very tempting. You almost trapped me in your magical, fantasy world.” The youth lashed out with his metal foot and cleaved the bedpost. “Magic will solve all the world's problems? Is that why every mage across the border is huddling in basements and most over here live in such rich squalor?” Devin opened his arms to encompass the crude, slat board palace surrounding them both.
Cornelius shook his head. “You misunderstand me.”
“No, I don't think I do.” Devin hopped out of bed. “Magic will make me whole? Can magic solder the cracks in my heart or my head? Can magic reassemble the shattered pieces of my career? Can magic restore my dead sister?”
“No,” Cornelius shuddered. “Death is beyond the scope of magic and of man.”
“Forget the rest of it. I miss my sister,” Devin whispered. “But she's gone and not a day goes by I don't wish I could fix that.”
“I'm sorry, lad,” Cornelius said.
“I miss my foot, too,” Devin growled. “But I can fix that. They gave me an iron peg to torment me and one day I will throw it back in their faces. I am fixing my foot with the sweat of my brow and the ingenuity of my mind, not by wiggling my fingers at it. Magic is just another tool in my satchel, Cornelius. Unlike some, I do not mistake a tool for a miracle.” He perched his steel foot on the edge of the bed. “Every version gets a little better, a bit more improved. It grows. It progresses.”
“Progress?” Cornelius snorted. “Replacing one, hideous metal boondoggle with another? The only growth worth note is the progress of the mind. To be found in books, not scrap metal.”
“I've learned more from designing and crafting this foot than any book could teach me. Sure, I have books to help me, but they're just tools, Cornelius. And I've made mistakes,” Devin chuckled. “Ha! One time I soldered my metal toes together. May the five gods strike me down, but the Butcher was right about one thing: magic is unnatural and it does unhinge the universe. It promotes the quick fix, but you can't fix me by wiggling your fingers, Cornelius.”
“You think there is no progression in magic because you bypass it with your parasitic ways.” Cornelius said. “True mages must study for years before they can accomplish a fraction of what you do, you . . . Tinker! Tool maker! Metal pounder!”
“Maybe so,” Devin patted Styx's leg. “But when my boy Styx here lost his foot, what was your response? Did you encourage him to step up and solve his own problem? Did you tell him he needed improve himself one step at a time with study or skill or work? No, you stepped in and used magic to make his problem disappear. The real world doesn't stand for that. You can't snap your fingers and make a problem vanish like you can a tea cup or a hammer.”
“Oh, Father,” Styx said, clasping his hands.
“I fixed him,” Cornelius said, gesturing to the grinning puppet.
“You just repaired him,” Devin spat. “Fixing implies you solved a problem. Magic skips too many steps, Cornelius. How can you miss this point with all your books on philosophy? You're missing a lot of the process when you use magic to solve your problems.”
“Hypocrite! I warned you never to use sorcery for everything. Are you not rushing to that lonely, southern beach to use magic to solve your problems?” Cornelius asked.
“I didn't say I never use my tools,” Devin said. The right tool for the right job, Cornelius. I didn't need you to teach me that lesson. “I use each tool as appropriate when I need it. But magic is no more special than my hammer or my wrench. Come on Styx, we're leaving.”
“Devin,” Cornelius reached. “Please, lad. I can fix you.”
“You could glue my feet to the floor with that new magic trick and make me stay.” Devin grabbed his satchel and turned to glare at the wizard. “Another quick fix. Won't solve the underlying problem though, will it? You can't mend a broken life. Magic alone never could. Goodbye, professor. Thank you for the lessons. I will tell Abby you miss her.”
The bakery was shuttered and closed and a small sign hung on the door proclaiming that fact to all the world. Devin approached the side of the house where faint candle light flickered within a second story window. The youth sighed, levitating a stone before dropping it into his hand and tossing i
t at the window. I hope her father sleeps in the bakery . . . or the other side of the house.
Abigail leaned out the window and her ponytail brushed against the building as she thrust a pewter candlestick and flickering nub into the darkness. “Devin?” she asked. “Is that you? I'm sorry I slapped you. But can't you read, Blind and Bungling? The bakery is closed. Please, just go away.”
“Abby, Cornelius misses you,” Devin called. “Can't you go chat with the man for old time's sake?”
“It's complicated,” she said, a pang in her voice.
“Well, Cornelius tends to do that. The old man is a mass of complexities. And you're his favorite.”
“Let him find another favorite,” Abigail hissed.
“Abby, please. He's working on an important project to help destroy the Black Guards. But he's distracted. He's lonely. He misses your bread. Go see the old man . . . for me.”
“I will. Now scram,” she said, waving her arms and shooing him.
“Abby, he said to ask about your mother's grave,” Devin called. “He insisted, actually.”
The pewter became a metal missile, bouncing off the side of the house in its rush to hit the ground.
“I told you all about that,” she stammered. “I even gave you my mother's watch for your little experiments. Why haven't you returned it, yet?” Abigail asked.
“And what haven't you told me?” Devin asked. “Why does Cornelius want me to ask you about the Atrium of Justice?”
“It's nothing,” she demurred.
“Nothing enough to scare one of the most powerful mages in Corel? Nothing enough to frighten one of the strongest women I know?” Devin asked softly.
“Fine,” she sighed, her voice cracking. “Meet me at the back door. Hurry before I change my mind. Bring that candlestick with you. And Devin?”
“Yes?” he asked, tiptoeing towards the house.
“Money's tight right now,” Abigail said, her voice fading as she turned from the window. “Try to find the nub, too.”
The Artifice Mage Saga Boxed Set: Books 1-3 Page 43
