The Artifice Mage Saga Boxed Set: Books 1-3

by Jeffrey Bardwell

  “They all do in the end,” she growled, pinching the bridge of her nose. “What else? A few minor pretties for ugly minor nobles and we need to thread a worm gear for Apprentice Borce.”

  “Apprentice Borce? Apprentice Artificer Borce? Ha! So by night you plot to overthrow the guilds, but by day you still take their money?”

  Drusilla shrugged. “A woman needs to eat. Their coins spend the same as everyone else's. Besides, minor guild members coming through my door maintains the illusion of my illustrious credibility.”

  Devin gave a mocking little bow. “And your skill is certainly no illusion.”

  “Flatterer.” She smiled as she pushed her chair back and went to start calibrating the machines.

  Devin walked over to the sink where Styx was happily scrubbing dishes. “Maybe a little less heat in the pan next time before you crack the eggs, eh Son?”

  “Yes, Father. The lady in the market stall gave me some large eggs for free,” he gestured with his elbow, “and a brand new recipe: Yolk Soiree. You get to roast the eggs in a pan of shallow water in the oven and then serve them whole on a bed of fresh greens and shallots.”

  “Sounds good, Son.” Anything to soften them up. Devin nodded as he stared at the giant, misshapen, lumpy things on the counter. They were about five times larger than your average ovoid chicken ejection. She was probably glad to unload those. Goose eggs, maybe? From the world's sickest, ugliest goose. “Why don't you finish your errands for today and go exploring again? We'll be firing up the large machines soon.”

  Styx eyed the bulky devices warily. “As you say, Father. Shall I hunt for mages, too?”

  Devin sighed. Why did everyone feel a burning desire to rehash the same arguments day after day? Some things happened in their own time. “Not today, Son. We're not ready and there's still work to be done around the shop and hunting mages is dangerous.”

  Styx nodded, shoulders drooping as he hung his apron on a peg. He hugged Devin and gave Drusilla a cheerful wave.

  The wooden and brass man opened the door, shopping bag in hand. Devin sighed he heard a soft, metallic squeak. It wasn't the door.

  Drusilla looked up from her task. “Shopping again? Oh, thank you, Styx. Sure you don't want me to make you a new elbow sprocket after I'm done with this worm gear? The steel I've got is much hardier than that old brass fixture.”

  “No!” Styx cradled his wooden arm against his chest. “I prefer the old brass fixture, thank you.” He glared at the machine she was hunched over and slammed the door behind him.

  The master artificer shook her head as she absently caressed the steel casing of her boring engine. “Your son is weird. You would think a creature with gears stuffed in his elbows would have an affinity for these babies.”

  “He has no more relation to that steam engine than we do to a dog.” Devin shrugged. “Some people don't like dogs. Or like being reminded they have anything in common with dogs. When I offer to replace a gear in his elbow, it's an endearing father-son activity. When you do the same, it's . . . off putting.”

  “I'm an artificer. Repairing worn machines is what I do.”

  “He's not a machine.”

  She rolled her eyes.

  “He's not just a machine. More importantly, he does not think of himself as just a machine. Your steam engine doesn't think. It doesn't tell you it loves you. It doesn't cook you breakfast every morning.”

  “I wish it did,” she muttered, hugging the boring engine. “I suppose my affection for this baby is just a little one-sided. What true artificer wouldn't want a child of springs and gears? You're a lucky fellow, despite his rusty steel palate.”

  “Burnished silver, actually.” Devin stared at the chuffing engine as Drusilla stoked the beast into a full-throated, roaring semblance of life. “I am lucky.”

  “You never wanted more than a son?” she asked, tuning the machine.

  Devin coughed. “Shall we start crossing those items off your list?”

  “Crossed one off already,” she sighed.

  The day passed with a comfortable familiarity. After long years, his fingers were remembering old skills. He cheerfully discarded all the annoying half measures and shortcuts he had developed working in the medieval technological climate of Corel. Drusilla's tiny shop was wonderfully equipped with all the latest gadgets.

  Magnus's old smithy had been a wonder of antiques, but this was at a whole different level. Magnus had been a collaborator, an artisan who dabbled in machinery, coaxing every speck of ingenuity and craftsmanship from his simple workshop.

  Not only were the tools more precise and the nastiest jobs automated, there was the shared experience to consider. Devin and Drusilla had trained together in the Guild Hall, been taught by the same journeyman, and had their educations polished by the same masters. Drusilla was an engineer and technician who made herself little mechanical dolls as a child. She had learned new techniques and skills in his absence, was despite her demurring a true master of the craft, and had slipped easily into the role of a friendly mentor.

  Devin was finally getting to be a journeyman artificer in all but name, and he loved it. Fordus's metal hand was waiting where Devin had left it yesterday, grasping for the future. He began whistling a catchy tune stuck in his head as he grabbed a specialized tool off the shelf, adjusted the lens on his oil lamp to focus on his work station, and started to dismantle the wrist casing on the metal hand.

  Drusilla began humming a counterpoint to his song as she adjusted the controls on her boring engine. Devin realized with a smile that the tune stuck in his head was an old guild anthem. The hours passed quickly and soon Styx had returned to make them lunch.

  The wooden man was carrying a bag over flowing with foodstuffs. He eased the door closed with a gentle kick and clopped to the kitchen. A few spiky, pink fruits fell out the top of the bag and rolled on the floor.

  Drusilla looked up from polishing the threads on her gear and winced. “Where is he getting the money for all this?”

  “Performing in the streets, I would guess. He says he's found a group of minstrel friends. They do tricks together. Styx is unique looking and a bit of a ham. People love a good show.”

  “Hmmm, takes after his father then. Weren't you worried he'd start juggling fireballs?”

  “We had a talk about that. I told him this wasn't Corel. Magic would scare the audience away. And then the guards in black armor would start hunting his father.” Devin jogged over to pick up the odd-looking fruit. “What's all this, Son?”

  “Oh, Father, I found the most amazing deal on Pink Mungberries. They grow them in the glass and iron food buildings that stretch into the sky.”

  “Greenhouses, Styx. They're called greenhouses or spires.” He rolled the fruit in the palm of his hand. The flesh was soft and smelled of pungent citrus. “Never heard of these. Must be a capital delicacy.”

  “They're supposed to make a fresh-squeezed, reinvigorating, and . . .” Styx hesitated, fumbling over the sales pitch some vendor had fed him, “cleansing restorative stimulant.”

  Devin nodded, setting the fruit on the counter as his son prepared the midday meal. Lunch was . . . edible. The rest of the day passed without incident. Drusilla even promised to try a glass of the fermented pink berry juice Styx was concocting for the next morning.

  Styx awoke him early the next morning, wooden knuckles pounding on the rafters. He held a small lantern and his brass fingernails reflected the weak light. “Father, my eggs. There's something wrong with my eggs.”

  “Eggs?” Devin blinked, eyes adjusting to the semi-gloom. “What eggs, Son?”

  “For breakfast?” Styx prompted, waving the lantern. “I wanted to start them early. I wanted to surprise you.”

  Devin noticed a pleasant, spicy aroma wafting up from the ground floor. “Smells wonderful, Son. Much better than yesterday. What's the problem?”

  “They're not cooking!” He closed his eyes and began reciting. “The proper roasted Yolk Soiree is only achiev
ed when the pale eggshells have turned a golden buttery brown and the savory juices of the spiced vegetable medley nest have been properly absorbed through the shells via tiny, delicate cracks. The eggs should have a firm consistency, producing a dull, solid thunking noise when you gently rap them on the—”

  Devin raised his arms. “Don't need to know the whole recipe, Son. So, no meaty, solid thunk?”

  “No,” Styx cried. “They slosh. Something inside slaps the shell when I shake them. And they haven't changed color at all. A point of fact, they're barely warm.”

  Devin smiled. A point of fact indeed. He must have picked that up from Cornelius.

  Styx loomed, his face a mask of worry. “Should I crack one open to check it, Father?”

  Did someone sell my son cheap, fertilized eggs? Devin imagined a raw, sticky bird embryo splashing across the counter. “No, no, no, no. Just stick your um . . . Eggs Swarthy back in the oven, turn the gas up, and let it cook for a bit. Methane stoves are a bit more temperamental than a hearth fire, Son. You probably just need more time and heat.”

  “Yolk Soiree,” Styx sniffed with the tone of affronted children everywhere dealing with know nothing parents, swung his lantern away, and tromped back down the ladder.

  Devin tried to roll over and fall back asleep, but the smells coming from the kitchen were just too tantalizing. Who knew that Styx could actually cook? He drifted in and out of an uneasy slumber. Finally, Devin slapped his cheeks and rolled off his pallet. He struggled in the darkness to find his shirt and pants. Then he climbed down from the loft.

  Styx was sitting on the counter, long, gangly legs dangling over the edge. “They're getting warm, Father. They're finally getting warm.” He frowned. “The color is nowhere near golden buttery brown, though.”

  Devin made a calming gesture. “I'm sure a white egg will taste just as good as a buttery brown egg. We're not eating the eggshells, son.”

  Styx crossed his arms and huffed. “It's a matter of presentation, Father. You wouldn't understand.”

  Devin quirked his eyebrow. “Oh. Of course.” Presentation. Ha! What have those street performers been teaching my poor son?

  Nothing wrong with a well-developed sense of aesthetics, the artificer muttered. Someone's got to teach the boy. You're not doing it.

  Devin made himself comfortable as Styx periodically checked his eggs, fretting over them like an anxious hen, turning them from time to time to maintain an even heat. The pink dawn light was starting to filter through the grimy windows when Devin's stomach rumbled. “How long does it take to roast a large egg?”

  “Oh, these aren't typical eggs. They're special,” Styx assured him.

  “Special how?”

  The wooden man shrugged. “The vendor didn't say. Just that she collected them from a refuse arena behind one of the factories. That makes them special. Is that a fancy term, 'refuse'?”

  Devin snorted. “It means she sold you garbage, Son.”

  “But they were such a good deal.”

  “I should hope so.” He patted Styx's shoulder as the wooden man began to weep softly. “Hey. Maybe you got a good deal after all. I've never smelled eggs so good.”

  “You're not just saying that,” Styx sniffed.

  “No, I—” A succession of loud explosions came from the oven followed by plumes of smoke. “Son you'd better check on those eggs again.”

  Drusilla rushed from her bedroom, hair disheveled, eyes wild. “By the five gods, what was that?”

  “Breakfast,” Devin said as Styx rushed to the oven to rescue his Splat Soiree.

  Before Styx could reach the oven, the door burst open and a sticky mass of golden leathery wings and scales tumbled out of it. The mass split into three tiny wyrms . . . ahem, dragons. Then they coalesced again and began tussling. Styx cheered and cooed. Devin stood watching Drusilla's face. The master artificer stared at the chirping ball of golden scales rolling across her floor, dumbfounded.

  “What's this?” Drusilla yawned. “Some quaint Corelian custom? Killing our breakfast in the kitchen before we eat it?”

  Devin shook his head mutely.

  The dragons spread their wings and launched into the air, chasing each other around, clanging the pots and pans. One of them landed on a shelf and chirped at the others, who were making an arrow path straight towards Drusilla's hair.

  “Meat's a little rare this morning.” She blinked again, glancing at the duo of small lizards flying directly toward her head. One of them drew back its head with a long, sibilant hiss. “Hiss at me in my own kitchen, will you?” Drusilla grabbed an iron pan setting on the counter and swatted them from the air. The dragons picked themselves off the ground, snorted, shook their angular little heads, and crawled under the table.

  Devin cursed. Then he smiled and clucked when one of the beasts tried to torch his steel-tipped leather boot with a weak, tiny flame. Then the dragon settled for curling up around the steel toe and gnawing on the hobnails.

  Styx tried to coax the third dragon down from the shelf with his metal arm. His smile of success became a moue when he turned around. Both adults were glaring at the enchanting golden creature entwined around his steel fingers. “Half-baked wyrms for breakfast,” he said weakly.

  5. DEVIN, YEAR 497

  Styx turned the oven off and sighed. “Another failed recipe,” he said, petting the tiny Golden Dragon, which preened and nuzzled against his metal finger. “Maybe just toast with juice this morning.” Devin and Drusilla stared mutely as Styx cracked a window to air out the hazy, smoke-filled room. Then he walked over to the crock on the other side of the kitchen, lifted the lid, and checked the contents. “Looks nice and bubbly. Can I interest either of you in a mug of frothy mungberry juice?”

  Drusilla swung the iron pan back and forth, faster and faster, anger fermenting in her gut, foaming to the surface. “Did you just hatch a handful of dragon eggs . . . in my oven?” Drusilla screeched, wiping the froth from her lips.

  Devin smiled. She would never yell at a machine like that. Smack it with a hammer yes, but never berate it. That was a human thing.

  “Yes,” Styx said. “Not on purpose. We were supposed to eat those eggs. Aren't they cute?”

  “Cute?” She waved her pan in the air. “They're a menace. They're dangerous. They're illegal. They're contraband.”

  “They're factory refuse,” Styx said proudly.

  “Ah, dragons,” Devin said, “the illicit import nobody ever notices, yet everybody uses. Guilds operate the factories and the border customs agency, right, Drusilla? What's a few broken laws to a well-connected, powerful guild, eh?”

  “I know you're baiting me . . .” She menaced Devin with the pan before setting it down. “But you're right. Those bastards monopolize everything. A proper guild network could smuggle contraband into this country with ease. But dragon eggs in a garbage pile? That's almost recklessly overconfident. Not to mention criminally dangerous.”

  “Or just negligent,” Devin said, plucking a fragment of shell off the dragon snoring at his feet and examining it. “I've never actually seen one up close before, but dragon eggs require a precise set of conditions to hatch. They probably assumed the eggs were duds when they um . . . recovered them from the gravid maven.”

  Styx's face had blanched to a pale basswood pallor. “They're desecrating dragon corpses?”

  “Yes, Son. Then they dump the eggs.” Devin sighed internally. How in the gods' bleeding ears does he know 'desecrate,' but not 'refuse?'

  Styx spun around, thrusting his metal arm as he pointed to his father. The little golden dragon squawked in protest. “You lied. You said we weren't here to protect dragons. But if you're saving the mages, why can't I save the dragons? They're butchering them into pieces, treating them like garbage. Hanging their bits up on display . . . it's horrible. It's disgusting.”

  “They do all those things to the mages, too, Son,” Devin whispered.

  “And you sit here in this shop all day making gears,” the wood
en man sneered. “Why don't you do something instead of talking about it?” He thrust the tiny dragon into his father's open arms. “Here. Try not to kill him, won't you? You can care for wyrms instead of slaughter them?”

  When did my adorable child become a sarcastic demon? “Where are you going?” Devin asked as Styx marched stiffly to the door.

  “To visit the other factories around the market place. Dig through their refuse. I need to see how wide this evil spreads,” Styx replied. He took the large satchel hanging on a peg by the door and began collecting the dragons, delicately placing each one inside. “No, I can't trust you with baby dragons. Not after the last time. Feh. Dragon killer.”

  Devin surrendered the small winged lizard his son had so briefly entrusted to him. “Oh. Stay safe, then. Keep the little guys hidden, eh?”

  “You disgust me,” the wooden man said before bracing the satchel over one shoulder and once again slamming the door.

  “Door hinges won't stand much more of that.” Drusilla eased into a chair, sipping a glass of foamy pink liquid. She slid a glass of the same across the table to Devin. “Your son makes an excellent point. Several excellent points.”

  “I didn't come here to rescue dragons. I didn't come here to fight guilds. Mages. I just wanted a better life for the mages.”

  Drusilla spread her fingers and brought her hands together until they meshed. “And yet it all seems intertwined.”

  Metal knuckles pounded the door. Devin startled, glass half raised.

  Drusilla snorted. “Go get the door and apologize to your son. I'm not in the mood to have a hulking, surly wooden construct stomping through my house.”

  “Master Drusilla?” a plaintive voice called. “Ma'am? It's Corporal Scintillus with the guards? May we come in, please? There's been a puzzling report of mage activity in the area. Are you safe, Ma'am?”

  Drusilla raised her voice. “Of course. One moment, Corporal.”

  “Such a polite force of evil,” Devin ground beneath his teeth.

  “I'm going to introduce you as my new assistant, Artificer Borce,” she whispered. “A cousin, perhaps from the country. Visiting to earn money for his sick mother. His heartsick mother pining for—”