The Artifice Mage Saga Boxed Set: Books 1-3

by Jeffrey Bardwell

  “Oh, stop pacing around, Lordy Frog-walloper,” Patrice said. “Your sour face is turning all the pastries in my belly to ash. You can't run a revolution like a business.”

  “Perhaps not,” Fangwaller clucked, “but am I not the only personage at the forefront of this revolution who puts coins into our coffers,” he turned to glare at Devin and swirled his cape, “rather than removing them?”

  “Money making schemes.” Patrice threw up her hands. “You and those guilds you're so cozy with are only here to free wallets.” She gestured around the room. “The rest of us are here to free people.”

  Fangwaller sniffed. “You will free more of them quicker with all those wallets at your side.” He bowed to Devin. “I am only doing as our glorious leader requested: liaise with the guilds and bring them to our cause. You make it sound as though I am merely lining my own pockets. Don't forget Patrice, my noble ventures support the revolution.”

  “As I requested?” Devin shook his head. “Did I ask you to recruit my son for one of those noble ventures, Fangwaller? I swear I would've remembered that.”

  “One of my more successful enterprises,” Fangwaller demurred. “The lad is quite skilled and as I understand it a free agent. Indeed you have hired him yourself, have you not?”

  Devin crumpled one of the ledgers into a ball and threw it at the man. “He is still my son.”

  Fangwaller swatted the paper aside with the back of his hand. “Thank you for not shooting a ball of fire, Devin. I know how hard it must be for you to keep a lid on things.”

  Devin suppressed a shiver even as he glowered. Even pacing around the room, Fangwaller was sitting on a secret that could destroy him and the man knew it. The bastard was a dangerous subordinate. The glower spread from his face across his body and consumed him. That horrible man persisted in being a splinter in his side at a time when they needed to move past all the squabbling and work together.

  Fangwaller was his subordinate by the five gods or they could choose a new leader right here and now and let the building fall down around them. Did everyone forget how close they came to destroying half the city last time? Was everyone so eager to invite destruction by listening to this bottom-crawling, muck-spewing, coin-globber—

  Devin paused. He could feel warm bricks against his back. When had he stood? Where was his chair? Was he shouting? Why was everyone staring at him with wide eyes and slack jaws?

  The bricks against his back were very warm. Was that his large, high-backed wooden chair toppled on the ground? Patrice had placed the chair next to one of the large ovens, bless her. He once asked her where they stored the giant thing between meetings.

  She had laughed and wiggled her fingers in his face. “Secret maaaaagic.”

  Someone was hugging him. “Tobias?” he whispered.

  “Contain yourself,” the doctor whispered. “Strong emotions always trigger the worst symptoms. We represent the mages and we chose you as our leader. You are ours and we are yours. Never fear for that. Fangwaller is just a large turtle splashing around a tiny pond. The scum clings to his back.”

  Devin patted the doctor's shoulder awkwardly. “Thank you, Tobias.” But you chose me under false pretenses, he thought. I'm not the mage you think I am. I'm not really a mage at all. He pushed the doctor away gently. But I am a leader.

  Devin held up his hands. “My apologies, friends. I think this meeting has gone on long enough. We are making progress acclimating the normal civilian to the benefits of magic, but centuries of prejudice will not erase in a day. It will be a long, winding path, and we will trip over every rock on the way, but we shall walk that path together,” he glanced at Fangwaller, “and united despite our differences.” He clasped his hands together and raised them in the air. “We will triumph. Our magic brings us together.”

  The mages cheered. Patrice hollered and Tobias banged on a table with a crust of bread. Jemmy . . . Devin scanned the crowd. Jemmy had slipped out sometime during the meeting. Odd. Where is Fangwaller?

  The high lord caught his eye. The man crossed his arms and nodded warily. Then he slipped into the crowd.

  Devin said his goodbyes, thanked the baker for her delicious breads and the use of her shop, and left. He stopped by the closing market on the way home. Leftover fresh produce was selling cheap as vendors and merchants started closing their shops. Often mentioning he was Styx's father was all it took for the merchants to open up. Devin hugged his groceries and laughed. Ha! And Fangwaller says I don't appreciate thrifty economics.

  Devin unlocked the front door by juggling the packages and swung it shut with his hip. The sound echoed through the empty building. He had his son coax Drusilla out of the workshop on some pretext. He was going to transform this celebratory feast for him into a quiet surprise dinner for her. After watching Styx fumble around the kitchen, how hard could it be?

  He remembered what she'd said to Styx after the dragon fiasco: “Make me dinner and all is forgiven.” Hopefully, this would make up for the Devin fiasco. Drusilla had made several good points and he had ignored her, ranted at her.

  Devin had made a point since then to listen more and talk less. He had noted every suggestion she had made about his mechanical saw design. He didn't implement all of them, but he still valued her expertise. But how best to show his appreciation?

  It is time to stop dwelling on who we were and rekindle everything we could be. How long has she been trying to sit the two of us down to a private, intimate meal alone? Devin chuckled. Far too long. She deserves this.

  The past was stale. The past was a dry, hard crumb lodged between your teeth that cut and sliced you every time you kept chewing it over and over. Devin reached into his mouth and extracted the offending bit of bread. He flicked it across the room and then set several beeswax candles on the table. He arranged a vase of metal flowers Styx had provided into a tasteful center piece. What else does one artificer give another for acting like a gigantic fool?

  Goodbye, horrible past. Hello, happy future. He glanced at the bedroom door and sighed. Time to start fresh. We're not the same people. I've been so wrapped up remembering the old Drusilla, I haven't gotten a chance to appreciate the new Drusilla.

  Devin waited for the inevitable coarse, witty retort before remembering the mage wasn't up there in his head anymore. The artificer kept his mouth blessedly shut, but part of Devin missed the repartee.

  He shook his head. Dwelling in the past again. Drusilla the best friend is gone. The mage is gone. Devin removed an igniter he had purchased along with the groceries and warmed the smooth, cold steel casing by squeezing it in his palm. Better to remember the past as one might remember a story, but not let it stop me from writing a new future. He lit the candles. Then he slipped the igniter back into his pocket and strolled into the kitchen to check the roast and blanched vegetables.

  Styx's contacts in the market had provided a wealth of helpful tips, detailed recipes, and strange jargon all which Devin had written down. He knew he was no Master Chef, but any artificer worth spit could follow diagrams and instructions. He was not cooking per se, but building a meal from raw, blank ingredients, cutting them to the appropriate fit and length, and then tempering them in a rather unconventional forge.

  Devin smiled and closed the oven. With the right mindset, cooking was simple. He'd even crafted a small dish of Yolk Soiree for Styx. And not a dragon egg in sight. Styx had convinced Tarbon and his fellow merchants to donate all the eggs to the Dragon Preservation Society for repatriation back to Corel via Fangwaller's Dark Cabal network. The lad had grown shrewd.

  A knock sounded on the door. Devin smiled. Perfect timing, Son. I hope you don't mind if I turn you away at the door tonight.

  Devin got halfway to the entrance, arm outstretched, before the door exploded in a hail of splinters. Six Black Guards marched into the room two abreast. They've come to take me. Jemmy, you bastard, was his last coherent thought before a large, mailed fist swung through the air and smashed into his head.

>   Devin awoke on the floor of the workshop and coughed. Everything was so cloudy. He shook his head to clear his vision and gingerly sat up. The world swam in circles and he collapsed back to the floor. Chunks of wood fell from his hair. The armor surrounding him slowly came into focus. Gilt greaves and kneecaps, mostly. There's something different about these fellows. They're like Black Guards with extra trimmings. At least their insignias are the same.

  “You're High Guards,” Devin murmured.

  “Yes,” a droll voice replied. His helmet was smaller and pinker than the others. No, that was his head. The man had removed his helmet.

  Devin glanced at the pips on the man's gorget. “Captain Vice?” Devin asked, wincing. “You're a High Guard, now?”

  “No,” the man chided Devin softly, “although it's Major Vice now and barbarians will rule the empire before that man is enrolled among the High Guards.”

  Devin nodded and the world began to spin again. He winced and touched the tender spot on the side of his head.

  “I apologize on behalf of Private Flinders for that little bump,” the droll voice chuckled. “I sent him to guard the door lest his passions flare again and he kills you before I'm done with you. The poor man lost his brother at the Battle of Port Eclare. I expect he's been dreaming of getting his hands on you. Who am I to deny him?”

  “Why are you here? You only have one duty and it's not arrest mages.”

  “Yes,” the man nodded, patting the helmet in his lap. He was sitting in a chair. And he was peeling and eating . . . an orange? “And what is the one sacred duty of the High Guards?” The man knelt and leaned over Devin. His breath smelled of rotten citrus.

  “You are charged with protecting Emperor Horatio II, long may he grow boils on his ass. Abandoned your duty have you? And all to catch me?” Devin chuckled.

  The captain snorted and resumed his seat. “Men, fie on you,” he called. “Have you abandoned your sacred duty?”

  “Never, my lord,” the guards chorused, kneeling and bowing their heads to the man sitting in the chair. Devin focused on the man's face. It was older, more worn and detailed. But he had seen that face all over the market stamped in brass and silver. A younger, more stylized face: an imperial face.

  “You don't look like your coins,” Devin said. Now I know the true face of the mage-slaughtering tyrant I'm going to kill.

  Horatio II shrugged. “The original dies were cast after my inauguration. Age spares no man.” The emperor ran a hand through his graying black hair and smiled. “Not much of a problem for the likes of you and that so-called mage revolt.”

  “You will never find them,” Devin laughed. “We have dispersed throughout the city. We've even—” he bit his lip.

  “Infested other cities like the rats you are?” The emperor grinned. “Yes, but the core rot remains buried here in the capital and I will burn it out. Do you think dragon fire will be hot enough to roast all the mages? I will unleash them like cats set amongst a nest of filthy rats. Set large magic beasts to catch the tiny magic beasts. Clever, is it not?”

  “Full grown dragons? Here in the capital? How?” Devin asked.

  The emperor shook his head. “Not your concern.”

  “Oh, I'm not concerned,” Devin said, welding a smile to his face as his hopes sank. “My people can handle a few marauding dragons. But you did interrupt my cooking and ruined a lovely dinner for two. May I leave a note for the lady of the house? You may consider it my last request.”

  “If you agree to come quietly and do not breathe a word about the dragons, I suppose I can grant this request. Men, fetch the Artifice Mage a quill and some parchment. I heard a rumor you might come quietly regardless. No more havoc. No more toppled buildings. Lost our magic, have we?”

  You blabbed! May the five gods damn you, Jemmy. “No, still strong as ever,” Devin replied, penning a quick note. “I've merely learned an element of discretion since my last incarceration by imperial thugs. The neighbors don't deserve to lose their homes over this. I see you brought your watches anyway.”

  The emperor patted his own watch and sighed. “I do not quite trust the source of this rumor.” He grabbed the note and scanned it, moving his lips as he read.

  Dear Drusilla,

  I've left a Yolk Soiree in the oven using Styx's original recipe. Don't know when it will

  finish cooking. It may seem small now, but it will grow big enough to feed the whole city.

  Keep the oven on highest setting. That's how they cook them in the palace. Please enjoy

  the flowers. Poof!

  Yours Truly,

  Devin

  The emperor laid the note carefully on the table under one of the candlesticks. “Dinner for one, now. How sad. Let's go. Remember your promise, mage.”

  A gust of wind blew through the door-shaped hole in the wall and extinguished the candles. The metallic bouquet was more resilient, almost defiant. Devin blew a little kiss at the steel flowers as the High Guards led him away. The emperor only thought I was his worst enemy. Drusilla is going to take that wicked little poniard and tear through the palace one bloody hole at a time. The last evening we missed a dinner date, we birthed a revolution.

  The emperor placed his helmet back on his head. He snorted and the sound echoed. “To think you were hiding in the capital the entire time.” He glanced around the workshop. “Quite the cozy nest you've made. You will find it less cozy in the palace dungeons.”

  Devin ignored the emperor's jest and stared at the metal flowers until one of the High Guards placed a black sack over his head and cinched it. You would have been wiser to just let us sit down and enjoy that roast. Drusilla is going to cram it down your smug imperial throat. I hope burnt pork goes well with oranges.

  15. DEVIN, YEAR 498

  Devin could only see vague details through the dark cloth covering his head. What use is this hood? Surely, one of the mages hiding in the crowd will recognize my coat? The green and gold pattern is so distinctive.

  Perhaps they will. Perhaps they won't. But will they risk stepping out of their comfortable shadows to save another condemned mage when their leader failed to do the same? The artificer chuckled, a dry, hollow sound. You cannot blame them. They merely follow your example.

  But the revolution. The people on the streets . . .

  The artificer snorted. The revolution is nascent and the people on the streets see nothing more than an anonymous man walking to the Black Tower in a nice coat. Maybe too nice. All the commoners will think you're a bloody nobleman as well a mage.

  At least nobody is pelting me with fruit and screaming, Devin said.

  Nor are they leaping into the fray to save you from your fate. You've made the citizens question their beliefs, but it will take more than magic tricks and slogans before they cross the threshold into true activism.

  Devin sighed. The artificer fell silent.

  The captain sauntered down the street ahead of his men, who surrounded the prisoner. Pedestrians cleared the way as the High Guards marched down the street. They traveled through the outer slums, up into the inner city, and across the threshold of the palace gates with hardly a challenge or murmur. One of the gate attendants even bowed slightly before his mate elbowed him in the ribs.

  Perhaps the emperor's disguise is thinner than he thinks, Devin thought. Odd deference to show a mere captain of the palace guards. They halted before a set of ornate doors with High Guards standing at attention on either side. The throne room, Devin surmised as the 'captain' entered alone.

  After a long wait, the two door guards threw open the doors. Devin's captor's whipped the black hood off his head and pushed him inside. He fell to the hard tile floor as the massive doors rumbled shut behind him. He glanced around the room. The walls were festooned with sparkling objects d'art and golden baubles. Is this display of tasteless, clashing artifacts supposed to impress me? Devin wondered.

  “It is customary to approach the throne before you grovel,” the emperor chuckled.


  Devin looked up and behold, the lowly captain was transformed with a cornet, a plush dark cape, and a ridiculous golden throne into an emperor. Two High Guards in full mechanized armor, each one almost as tall as the throne, stood on either side like matching ornate statues. A small bowl of oranges on a pedestal beside the throne gave the room a faint flowery scent of citrus, which softened the supposed hard, domineering nature of the room.

  The throne had a high back, tall posts in the shape of golden dragons roaring, and a red velvet backrest. The curving armrests ended with tiny dragon heads and the emperor sat on a plush, red velvet cushion.

  That man has never been within thirty leagues of a real dragon. But he surrounds himself with fakes: his cornet, his throne, his . . . banner. Devin glanced at the large crimson banner with the imperial black dragon crest hanging behind the throne. A dragon devouring itself, he thought. What a perfect symbol for the savage bigotry of the Iron Empire.

  The emperor turned and followed Devin's gaze to the banner. “The symbol of the land you twice betrayed. Does it tug at your soul even now? Does your heart yearn to embrace the glory of the empire once more?”

  “It's just a stupid dragon chasing its own tail,” Devin sneered. “The new empire will have a soaring dragon flying free. New directions. New ideas. We've gone in circles long enough.”

  “Oh? 'The new empire' indeed.” The emperor faced his prisoner. He set his elbows on the golden armrests, chin resting on his clasped fingers. “You perplex me. Why have you returned to depose me, Devin the Artifice Mage?”

  “You should have stayed in your armor.”

  “And you should have stayed in Corel. I've followed your pathetic revolt with some interest, the way one might watch a gardener tending a patch of weeds. Why do you waste your time kneeling in the mud with such filth? Don't pretend you care for the plight of common gutter trash or even other mages.”