12. DEVIN, YEAR 497
Devin drove his fist into the softwood. Then he took a deep, cleansing breath. His knuckles left a satisfying dent in the cheap podium. He looked out over the large open air auditorium constructed on a hillside in the forest. Outside this little clearing, many of the trees stood tall as towers and just as thick at the base.
Up in the treetops, a rustling curtain of yellow, red, and orange leaves still hid the birds as they flitted from tree to tree in search of food. The disrespectful little feather balls had screeched and chirped during his entire speech.
“Does anyone have any questions?” he asked, smiling at the faces in the crowd and trying not to glower. At least they had been respectful and attentive during his speech, but the lack of participation wasn't what disturbed him the most. Devin rapped the podium with his knuckles and glanced at his audience again as they shifted in the hard, wooden seats.
The auditorium's seating capacity was impressive, though the construction was shoddy. The seats were nothing more than rough planks. But to meet with the Dockworkers Guild, one had to venture into the forests adjacent to the capital. The auditorium was serviceable and functional . . . and empty.
Of the entire Dockworker's Guild and their friends, associates, and family members, only five people had come to hear about the glorious Dragon Revolutionary Party. He leaned over and whispered to Fordus, who was standing by his side clapping.
“Only five?” Devin hissed.
Fordus gave a minute shrug. He stopped clapping. “It is our busiest season and today is their rest day. Most of the lads are spending time with their families or repairing and honing their saws for tomorrow. Your son posted wonderful fliers to attract his audience. Papers and pamphlets would have held their attention better than spurious reminders from me. You gave me none of these things to distribute.”
Devin hit the podium again and sighed. “No, I didn't, did I? Won't make that mistake again. A revolution feeds on pamphlets and paperwork.”
“They were listening.” Fordus chuckled and gestured to the birds flying overhead. “Perhaps the revolution will be born on the backs of winged creatures.”
Devin waved to the audience. “So how do you do things in the Dockworkers Guild so far from the docks?”
“Timber, mostly,” one of the guild members replied, kicking the plank in front of him.
“Damn saws are twice as tall as we are,” another laughed. “We make timber and we make music. Ha! Forest shanties. We whistle like the birds, eh?”
“Music . . .” Devin asked.
Fordus smiled. “They're two person saws. One man stands on either side of the tree and they pull the saw back and forth.” He made a cutting motion with his hand. “The saws have large teeth to bite into the wood, but they're thin and flimsy for their length and tend to bind. The vibrations of the saws warping and flexing creates atonal wavering music. The lads like to sing along.”
“Your dockworkers don't sing sea shanties?” Devin asked, remembering the coastal city of his youth and the sailors and dockworkers regaling everyone within earshot of the port with their own brand of music.
Fordus shook his head. “Normal sea shanties don't work. No words will fit these songs. So the lads hum or whistle to keep time.”
Devin glanced up at the trees. “Perhaps a sea shanty would be inappropriate. You have tall masts here, but no ships.”
“No oceans either,” Fordus patted one of the trees. “Quite the quantity of timber, though.”
Devin chuckled. “None of the artificers I used to know could carry a tune in a bucket. Can't hear yourself think when the machines get going much less sing.”
“In truth, most of the men would prefer to sing less and work more. But the saws are cumbersome.” Fordus sighed. “There's a slim weight–efficiency ratio. Heavier, stiffer saws cut faster, but tire the men sooner.”
And what if the saws were not powered by men? Devin scratched his chin. “Interesting problem. I might have an idea to help with that.”
Fordus laughed and gestured to the empty planks. “Get my men better saws, and they will fight themselves for the privilege of adoring your every single word.”
Devin nodded. “Until then, paper and pamphlets will have to do.”
Plenty of paperwork was waiting for him back at Drusilla's workshop. After the strange quiet of the forest punctuated by little songs and chirps, it was comforting to return to the constant, steady thrum of a proper steam engine. The floor vibrated pleasantly underfoot as Devin walked over to the little table where Styx always left his mail.
Devin absently sketched on one of the old envelopes. The idea for the mechanical saw was taking shape in his mind. What was the last thing I designed and built from the bolts to the bastion? Was it my metal foot? Has it been so long? Surely not.
The apprentice artificer glanced at the wide leather belt transferring torque from the engine to the chuck arbor as Drusilla bent over her lathe. The object she was turning was held by the chuck that was attached to the arbor, little more than a thick spindle mounted on a sealed bearing with a gear on the far end. The belt had tiny holes to match the gear's teeth.
Something like that belt, Devin mused, but to cut wood, it needs to be thinner and stronger. He reached for more scratch paper to embellish his rough designs and an envelope at the top of the pile caught his attention. Isn't that Lord Tarbon's flowing script?
Unlike some members of the revolution—the cheerful face of Doctor Tobias Drubber came easily to mind—Devin had received almost no correspondence from Tarbon. The man preferred tending to the responsibility of recruiting his fellow merchants without the bumbling input of a young ex-artificer.
Devin tore the envelope and glanced at the bottom of the letter, congratulating himself when he saw the merchant's sprawling signature. Then he started reading the contents the brief flare of joy extinguished. The note was as politely worded as one could ask, even detached, but a veiled threat lurked beneath those soft, sterile words.
Dear Sir,
Please be advised that the creature know as Styx, your ward, has taken to picketing and waving signs of a derogatory and scatological nature in the vicinity of my house of business. I felt a complaint from me might elicit more response than from my fellow merchants, though I assure you he has raised their ire as well. Nobody is more dedicated to our mutual cause in friendship than I, but my good will has limits. Restrain your son.
Respectfully,
Lord R. Tarbon
He folded the letter and placed it on the table in front of him. Making no mention of the revolution aside from 'our mutual cause in friendship' was shrewd. When you got a letter in the empire, safe bet it'd been read two or three times before landing on your doorstep.
“Styx,” he called to the kitchen, “what have you been doing?”
His son looked up from his task. “Greasing pans . . .” Styx said hesitantly. Drusilla had gone to market shopping for clothes with Gora. Apparently sail makers had a good eye for shoddy stitching. She had asked Styx to clean the kitchen in her absence before he dirtied it up again that evening. “I thought I'd try the Yolk Soiree again . . . with chicken eggs this time.”
Devin shook his head. “I think one Yolk Soiree in my lifetime is more than enough. Don't evade. Picketing?” He waved the letter. “Who have you been picketing?”
Styx swelled his chest and Devin groaned. That fervent look in his son's eyes was never a good sign. “It is the duty of the imperial branch of the Dragon Preservation Society formerly known as the Wyvern Preservation Society until Billy-Two Fingers asked, 'Wot's a Wyvern, eh?' to safeguard and succor those magnificent beasts from mutilation, butchery, and death.”
Devin chuckled. “How long have you been practicing that little speech?”
“Since I saw a letter with Lord Tarbon's signature on our front stoop, Father. I even set it on the table for you.”
“Much like the condemned nobleman bringing his own writ of execution to the hangman. Than
k you, Son. So I take it you and your merry band of minstrel friends have been protesting outside Lord Tarbon's distillery and tavern? Shooing away his customers?”
Styx shook his head. “Merely waving signs and describing the process of dragon organ and meat extraction in the most gruesome and graphical language we can, Father. We asked one of the Black Guards who was doubled over laughing about it. Since we are not on milord's property nor molesting his customers nor defacing his business, it's legal.”
Devin sighed. “Legal doesn't make it right, Son. You realize Lord Tarbon is helping us free the mages? And if you rile him, he might not want to help us anymore?” How to explain things to a wooden man child?
Styx's face hardened to stiff, carved lines. “If Lord Rulus Tarbon is truly a pansy man who cannot justify his own business and resorts to blackmail and coercion to rout legal protestors of his disgusting practices and slaughters innocent dragons while maintaining membership in a group originally called to action to save said dragons, then the revolution doesn't need him!”
The artificer laughed. Sounds like he understands things just fine.
“Yes,” Devin said delicately, “it is a disgusting practice and I do feel sorry for the dragons, but we came here to save the mages, Styx. Sometimes you need to do things you don't like and work with people you don't like . . .” a vision of the oily High Lord Fangwaller crept into his mind, “to strive towards the greater good.”
Styx crossed his arms. “How many tyrants have justified causing death and mayhem for the greater good? The emperor slaughters mages for the greater good. You condone the butchery of dragons for the greater good. Well, I shall fight for my cause and you fight for yours and damn the greater good.”
“Styx, language! Hold your tongue.”
The automaton dropped his arms and hung his head. His clay brain rattled settling against his forehead. “Sorry, Father.”
Devin waved his hand. “Forgiven. How did I raise such a stubborn, passionate son with a head stuffed full of ideals?”
Styx quirked an eyebrow and glared at his father.
Devin sighed. Words would be redundant now, but he spoke them in his thoughts anyway. I learned it all from you, Father. Every bit. “Fine. Fetch a quill and parchment. I will pen a reply to the mighty Lord Tarbon. I shall explain to the man in simple language that you are not my ward, but your own independent person: your passions and actions do not operate at my behest. The 'mutual cause' between milord and I and your dragon picketing are discrete, separate affairs, which should be treated as such.” He wrote the letter while Styx peered over his shoulder.
“Thank you,” Styx murmured when Devin sealed and handed him the letter.
“You realize the corollary of this arrangement?” Devin said, refusing to surrender the letter when his son grabbed it. “Our causes do not fly under the same banner anymore. If you get into trouble, by the five gods, I won't be there to bail you out.” Yes, I will, he promised himself as his son's face drooped.
“I understand, Father,” Styx said and Devin released the letter into his care.
Devin nodded and sent Styx to deliver the letter. Hopefully, Tarbon will have better luck entreating with Styx on the lad's own terms than as a junior revolutionary shackled to me. He looked at the papers and envelopes stacked on the table and sighed. And now for the rest of it.
He glanced at the one at the top of the pile and grimaced. Another one of Fangwaller's horrible schemes. He waved his son back to the table. “After you've delivered the note to Lord Tarbon, please find Captain Jemmy. Tell the captain to inform High Lord Fangwaller in no uncertain terms that in a revolution, the goal is for everyone to benefit, not just the rich.”
Styx cocked his head. “Do you wish to hire the Dragon Preservation Guild as a courier service to deliver mail for your faction of the revolution, Father? We have already subcontracted with another faction for promotional propaganda performances, but I can quote you our rates if you give me a moment.”
—to invent them, Devin finished in his mind, scowling. Wait, what was the rest of that? “Pay you? Are you not a patriot and my son? What other factions? What performances?” he asked, before biting his tongue and head slamming the desk. The papers scattered in a very pleasing way. A blind man could follow the thoughts behind his son's sudden, gleeful smile.
Styx ticked the points off on his stiff, wooden fingers, smile widening with each one until his face threatened to crack. “Our causes do not fly under the same banner anymore, my actions do not operate at your behest, saving the dragons and the mages are separate affairs and should be treated as such . . . and our clients value our discretion, Father. As should you.”
Maybe Jemmy knows who hired the lad and his troupe. Though I have my suspicions. Devin waved his son away. “Stop, stop, before your jaw unhinges. You're right. I cannot cling to my ideals and honor agreements only when it suits me. I would be delighted to hire the Dragon Preservation Guild to make deliveries for my faction of the revolution. Your traveling around the city to picket various establishments will serve as an excellent cover. How much?”
His son quoted him a price and Devin counted out several coins and slid them across the table. The image of the emperor mocked him, always moving further away from his grasp. The whisper campaigns were progressing, but he was no closer to killing the emperor than when he'd first arrived at the capital. Devin flipped the coins on their backs and scoured the man's face across the wood, dropping them over the edge into Styx's waiting palms.
Soon after Styx had left, Drusilla and Gora returned both carrying large bags in either hand. The sail mistress smiled at the papers scattered across the floor. “Tee only good way to handle paperwork his burn it I always say.”
“We have furnaces for that,” Drusilla muttered, scowling at the mess. “Not the floor.”
Devin started gathering the papers and envelopes. “Did you ladies find what you were looking for?”
Drusilla shrugged. “Yeah. Maybe? I don't know what I was looking for.”
Gora's eyes widened, hands splayed akimbo as her bagged purchases slid down to her elbows. “You were not looking for tat gauzy, white shift? Or toes pert, saucy leggings? And how many vendors did you drag me true to find that—”
Drusilla placed one finger over her friend's smiling lips. “It's nothing that would interest him. Tell us about your purchases, Gora . . . please?”
Drusilla turned her head to push her friend toward the table and Devin startled. Her hair.
“What happened to your hair?” he asked. It had been floofed, curled, and her bangs brushed down over the left side of her face, obscuring her scar.
“I had it styled. Time for a change, eh?”
Gora glared at Devin behind Dora's back. “Hit looks goot. Very goot.”
“Yes, glorious,” Devin said, welding a smile to his face as he neatly stacked the paperwork back in the table.
“Thank you,” Drusilla said, setting her packages down by one of the steam engines.
Gora spread her clothes across the room and modeled several outfits for their appraisal. It was late into the afternoon before the sail mistress repacked her bags, waved to Devin, gave Drusilla a warm embrace, and then left.
“Styx finish cleaning the kitchen?” Drusilla asked, examining the unopened envelopes on the table.
“He will when he gets back. I sent him on an errand.”
“Urgent revolutionary business?” she asked, sighing.
“Something like that.”
Drusilla gathered her packages. “Well, I'm off to the bedroom.”
Devin winced and leaned against the steam engine. “Her name was Abigail.”
“What?” Drusilla asked.
“The woman in Corel. She was a baker named Abigail.”
“That woman you pine for? The one who elicits all those mopy sighs?”
“I don't mope.” He hugged the steam engine and laughed: a bleak, hollow sound. “Ours was a very one-sided relationship. I sent my love do
wn an empty pit. It was never returned. Just more love dumped into a pit I could never fill.”
Drusilla rapped her knuckles on the engine's casing and the sound echoed like a metal drum. “I know that feeling. I love this metal guy to bits, but he will never, ever love me back.”
“Well what if the steam engine just needs adjusting?” Devin asked, flicking a lever with his fingers. “Get a good wrench and give him a good smack. Tighten all the loose screws. Strip the bolt . . .” He trailed off as her face grew darker and harder.
“Don't tempt me,” she growled. “No, I think that stubborn engine has a blockage. Somewhere deep inside the bowels of the machine. I can't reach it. I don't think anybody can. He has to work it out himself until the blockage works free, falls into the furnace, and goes poof . . . up in smoke.”
“Poof?” Devin asked, glancing at the silent engine.
“Yeah, poof.” Drusilla curled her bangs around one finger. “Was she pretty, your little baker girl? Or did she look like me?”
“Well, she loved a man older than Master Huron and managed not to betray him. She smelled like yeast instead of berries and she wasn't my best friend. So aside from a drive to succeed and me wafting through her life, no, she was nothing like you.”
“I used to dream about you,” Drusilla whispered, chuckling when he startled. “Well, those dreams, too, about the relationship we never had. But mostly about you coming back, coming home. We'd laugh about our respective adventures, slip into the same familiar roles, and then grow into something new.” She sighed. “It was a lovely dream.
“But you come back to me like this. A specter over your shoulder. Shadows behind your eyes. Revenge in your soul. Another woman in your heart.” She thrust her chest forward, eyes gleaming. “Do you have any idea how difficult it is reconciling the charming genius inventor I used to know with this brooding revolutionary you've become?”
I've changed!? How dare she. “Do you have any notion how disquieting it is living with a woman who one moment walks and talks like your best friend from childhood with twigs in her hair and the next transforms into a lustful criminal queen?”
The Artifice Mage Saga Boxed Set: Books 1-3 Page 65
