“So what if I do?” Devin asked, standing and brushing the dust off his trousers.
“You were raised an artificer,” the emperor snorted, “and I know that breed well. They replace the blood of their apprentices with a synthetic treacle made of superiority and self gratification.”
“And you question why one of them desires to become emperor?” Devin asked, laughing. “Any reason I give you may as well be fertilizer for your garden for all you'll believe me. You don't have to worry about why the Dragon Revolt will crush you.” Devin steepled his fingers. “Make your peace with the five gods, Emperor Horatio II.”
“Oh, how thrilling.” The emperor shivered histrionically and grinned. “I could almost sense the icicles hanging off your words.” He fluttered his fingers. “Your tiny revolt is an amusement, nothing more. No more threat than a mosquito.”
“A better man than you once said much the same thing. Fine. I am a mosquito. Many proud men have been brought low by the tiny prick of the humble mosquito.” Devin smiled. “And how am I such an insignificant threat, yet you go through the trouble of capturing me? What's to stop me from killing you here and now?”
The two High Guards beside the throne bristled and stepped forward, but the emperor waved them back and gestured to large brass clocks on the walls with their single corkscrew dials. “You are familiar with these so-called puzzle boxes, apprentice artificer?”
“It's 'journeyman artificer,' Horatio.”
The emperor's face turned a lovely shade of red to match his velvet cushions. The two armored High Guards surged forward with murder in their steel fists.
The emperor rose from his throne, blew out his cheeks, and raised one hand. “Halt.”
The guards saluted and stomped back to their positions beside the throne.
Horatio II turned to Devin and gave a mocking, little bow. His voice dripped with honey. “My apologies, Journeyman Devin. Proper rank is so important.” Then the honey crystallized and the emperor's eyes hardened. “Don't think because I haven't killed you that I need you in one piece. Mages always scream defiance at first. You think you have nothing more to lose. Wait until I have captured your friends. Your scarred artificer lover. Your wooden mage son. Then we shall discuss the matter of my proper name and title again.”
Devin smiled, outwardly unperturbed even as his heart quailed and his mind seethed. “Did your spy among the rebels tell you all this? And yes, I remember the puzzle box,” he said as memories of the disastrous evaluation exam rushed through his mind. That was the first time he had heard the clocks shriek. It felt like such a long time ago. He looked at the glittering displays of wealth splashed across the walls next to the clocks and winced.
I might have found those impressive once and dreamed of living in a mansion filled with such useless devices, Devin thought. Have I acquired a sense of Corelian aesthetics these past years or just grown older?
“Good.” The emperor clasped his hands and eased back onto his throne. “Then you know if you so much as lift a finger, those clocks will drain the magic from your body like squeezing blood from a rat.” He reached into a bowl set next to the throne and popped an orange slice into his mouth.
“You are a disgusting, vile man and the Iron Empire deserves better,” Devin said.
“And you are my little pet rat, merely here to lure the other rats. Your disgust means nothing to me, but your squeaks are amusing.”
Devin said nothing.
The emperor smiled and clapped his hands. “Oh, but a game might be fun. Would you like to guess who helped me bring your pathetic revolution to its knees? Come, take a guess. Tell me who among your loyal companions betrayed you.” The emperor pointed to the twitching drapes covering a small anteroom behind the throne. “They're just behind that curtain.”
Devin placed his hands on his hips and glared. “Jemmy,” he roared, “get out here and answer for your crimes.”
“Jemmy?” The emperor looked surprised and then laughed, spraying flecks of orange across the room. He began choking and one of his guards rushed forward to slap the man on the back. The emperor spat a large chunk of orange into his hand and waved the guard away. “Captain Jemmy, once favored to lead the Black Guards of the Western Province? Most trusted scion of the late, unlamented Lucius Judicar? A man so beloved, his evaluations read like scriptures exalting a demigod? That is whom you suspect?”
“Once a Black Guard, always a Black Guard,” Devin replied, though the emperor's oily grin was making him queasy.
“How delightful,” the emperor chuckled, slapping his thigh. “And General Festus had such lofty praise for your intellect and strategical acumen.” He waved to the curtains, announcing with sonorous tones, “Traitor, you may reveal yourself.”
Devin's harsh glare faded for a moment, then returned with renewed force as High Lord Fangwaller smacked the curtains aside and walked into the throne room. He approached the throne and knelt before Horatio II.
“Fangwaller?” Devin cried. You cold, scheming bastard.
The smuggler glanced at Devin with a scornful leer. “That their glorious leader did not suspect my treachery bodes ill for the revolution. I have ever been my lord emperor's faithful spy.”
The emperor crooked his finger. “Oh, get up. What would your king say to such obeisance made to a foreign leader?”
Fangwaller continued to kneel. “The King of Corel does not maintain a profitable embargo on a thriving market of dragon products. Those import hikes enrich the Dark Cabal. Why should I swear fealty towards a king who cannot grasp the simple facts of life?”
“Oh, and what are those?” the emperor asked while Devin fumed silently.
Fangwaller rose and spread his arms wide. “What's good for business is good for the people. Which is why your Iron Empire thrives and the Kingdom of Corel is a nation of dirt farmers.”
“You heartless bastard,” Devin hissed.
“I did warn you. Even Jemmy tried to warn you. There's no profit in revolution.”
“Life is more than counting coins, Fangwaller.”
“Yes,” the smuggler smiled. “Such as living to spend those coins. The thrill of the chase with close companions while the dragons snarl at your heels. You think valuing money makes me cold, heartless? I was merely looking after mine as you were looking after yours.” He walked over to Devin and held out a gloved hand. “No hard feelings, eh? It's just good business and good tactics.”
Devin wiped the glare from his face and held out his own hand. Just good tactics, eh?
Fangwaller's black leather glove crinkled as they shook hands. Devin whipped the glove off the High Lord's fingers and stepped back.
“Adding theft to your list of crimes along with fomenting treason?” the emperor mused as Fangwaller gaped and clenched his naked fist.
“Theft, perhaps, but treason?” Devin asked, waving the glove. “I have not used magic once since returning to the empire.”
“A revolution counts as treason, no? And I've heard rumors you're involved with fouler things as well.”
“Do you enjoy rumor mongering, Emperor?” Devin asked, smacking the glove against his palm. The stitching was loose and frayed. Fangwaller winced. “Have you heard the stories of mages infiltrating good, honest Corelian society? You see it everywhere east of the Black Peak mountains. They serve their king. They're in the army.” He grinned, tossing the glove up in the air and catching it while Fangwaller gibbered. “They even hide among the merchants.”
The emperor turned to Fangwaller, aghast. “Surly there is no truth in such a vile rumor?”
“I have heard a few tales,” Fangwaller said, shrugging, “but generally mages tend to stick to their books or enroll in the king's guard. Vapid, supercilious folk. Trade is beneath them.”
“Oh, these are no mere traders,” Devin said, twisting the glove's finger. Fangwaller was visibly sweating now and hiding his bare hand by clenching his fist. “These people value the thrill of the chase. Dragons snapping at their heels. T
hat sort.”
The emperor looked back and forth between Devin's grinning face and Fangwaller's ghostly pale expression. “I don't know what's happening here, but I like it.”
The threads on the glove began to unravel—just like your lies, Devin thought, glaring at the smuggler—and Fangwaller cried in pain. Devin felt a moment's pity for the man as he ripped the finger off the glove. The High Lord's clenched fist erupted in a geyser of blood as one of his fingers dropped to the ground.
Devin tossed the fingerless glove at the emperor, but pocketed the leather finger. He pointed to the brass clocks on the wall as the glove landed with a wet smack at the emperor's feet. “Can't say I cast a spell on him now can you? Not a peep or whisper of shrieking from those things.” He smacked his forehead. “Why I do believe someone bewitched those gloves himself with eerie magical properties. Must have been one of those Corelian fellows from the land of dragons and magic.”
Fangwaller cursed and ran. The emperor frowned, gesturing for his two guards to apprehend the bleeding, sobbing merchant as the man sprinted for the door. “What do you have to say in your defense?”
Fangwaller sagged as the two guards caught and held him, dragging him back to face the throne. “I am not subject to your laws,” he whispered. “I serve the Dark Cabal. I serve the King of Corel.”
Devin crossed his arms and laughed. “Oh, so now you serve the King of Corel?”
“Not subject to our laws?” the emperor mused. “Did you never read those contracts you signed? I believe there's a proviso about obeying all applicable statutes and imperial decrees while conducting business in the empire.” He grinned. “I wrote that in myself when I discovered a small band of smugglers operating on our eastern borders. So much more . . . profitable to hire them and exploit the embargo, don't your think?”
“No! That's not true,” Fangwaller said, struggling.
“Oh, this was before your time,” the emperor said, taking a large brass coin from his pocket and staring at the engraving on the face of it. “I was a young man, new to my job and brimming with ideas.”
“I see.” Devin nodded. “You made dragon products illegal to defraud your own merchants by creating an artificial shortage, inflating the prices, and pocketing the difference.”
Fangwaller startled. “You've actually been paying attention during our debates,” he said with a dry laugh, cradling his wounded hand. “And here I despaired pounding any sense of finance into your thick skull.”
“It was easy,” the emperor chuckled. “I could even justify it by stoking national fervor. How dare we drink the fluid and eat the flesh of the very symbol of our beloved empire? Will we make napkins from the flag, next?” He removed his cornet. He stared at the stylized dragon and then twirled it on his finger. “A young man's scheme, that one. Too tiring playing financial games these days.”
“A game?” the Corelian lord growled. “My cabal was nothing but a game to you? The lives of my men mere pieces on a board?”
The emperor placed the cornet back on his head. “Yes. It was fun while it lasted. And there were mages in your guild the whole time? Such deception demands . . . something special. A long, slow torment.” The emperor rubbed his hands together and then gestured to his guards. “One of you fetch a brazier and hot coals. I have plans for these enchanted gloves.” He grinned as the blood drained from Fangwaller's cheeks. “My games and simple pleasures have grown so much more esoteric in my old age.”
One of the guards stripped Fangwaller of his remaining glove, plucked the second glove off the floor, and delivered them to the emperor. Then the three men waited, watching the door: the emperor with anticipation, Fangwaller with dread, and Devin with—
Devin shook his head. What am I feeling? The emperor will devise a more gruesome punishment than anything I would condemn Fangwaller to suffer, but surely he deserves it? Or was it my naivete that led him to treason? I can't help feeling I owe the man something. Immoral thief or not, mage traitor or not, for a short time he helped the revolution flourish.
He stepped towards Fangwaller and the emperor frowned. “What? Are you still here? Guards, take my pert rat up to his gilded cage.” One of the remaining guards reached for the tails of the green and gold coat, but Devin shed the thing, ran up to Fangwaller, and gut punched him.
“Traitor!” Devin screamed. As Fangwaller bent double, retching, Devin whispered in his ear, “The emperor is going to spend days killing and re-killing you once he discovers the true nature of that enchantment. I've got your bloody leather finger in my pocket. How do I destroy the glove and break the enchantment?”
The guard chasing Devin was distracted as two other guards stumbled into the room carrying a large brazier in a sling between them blazing with hot coals. A third walked behind with the cast iron stand.
“Dragon fire,” Fangwaller replied in hushed tones. “Hot, molten dragon fire. Those little wyrms your son keeps as pets won't do. But subject any part of the glove to the flame of . . . large drake or maven,” he wheezed, “will break the enchantment. Old cabal trick. Anyone who wants to kill you . . . must dance in the dragon fire themselves.” Then he yelled and pushed Devin away.
The guard caught and restrained the young revolutionary before he had the chance to 'attack' the smuggler again. The High Guards positioned the brazier in front of the golden throne. The emperor leaned over the orange coals, his face shimmering the heat, his gleeful expression lit with a ruddy glow.
As Devin looked back, the emperor dangled one of the gloves over the coals. “So, my lord, be so good as to tell me how many mages you've let into my country? And where you're hiding them?”
Fangwaller screamed as his left hand blistered and began to blacken and sizzle. The guards threw the fancy coat at Devin's face and pushed him out of the throne room. Devin gagged and wrinkled his nose as the large doors closed behind him. The scent of the traitor's crisping flesh smelled just like burnt pork.
16. STYX, YEAR 498
When my men say I have a wooden nose, they are passing information literally and succinctly just as an apple plummets from branch to ground. I have taught them well. Would that their oaken-head, snarly vine-tongued general learned the lessons he imparted to his soldiers. For I have spread my tendrils deep into the soft, decomposing loam of rich, earthy language and drank deeply of the verbal essence I discovered pooling within those murky depths.
I can taste something with every delicate fiber of my being, but alas my sense of smell has always remained dull and rough. It was Drusilla who first suspected something foul the day the emperor kidnapped my father, but my foreboding grew alongside hers. A vague sense of uneasiness kept pecking at the back of my neck like a determined bird. Then I slowly realized why. Nobody in the alley was looking at us. I tried to wave and they all looked away or shut their eyes.
Drusilla sensed the odor of burnt flesh before I did. She grabbed my arm and started to run. I planted my heels into the street. Father needed more time to prepare his fancy meal. Drusilla tugged harder. “Styx, the burning? Can't you smell it?”
I shook my head and my brain rattled. It was a rare moment of silence in a youth filled with an endless torrent of blustery, crackling leaves falling from my lips.
“There's something wrong,” she muttered. “Come along or stay here.” Then she ran. I reached out, grabbed her hand, and followed. Together, we sprinted towards the workshop, feet slapping the pavement.
When we got close enough that even I could smell something was wrong, I wanted to drag her back the other way. We had to give Father more time to salvage the dinner he had ruined. Then I saw the hole in the wall where our front door used to be and all thoughts of dinner evaporated.
Drusilla stopped short of the broken door and unsheathed her poniard. She held a finger to her lips and gestured towards the workshop with her blade while almost poking out her eyes with two fingers and then jabbing the same fingers at me. I had no idea what any of that meant, so I tromped loudly across the shattered remna
nts of our door and into the workshop. I had to rescue Father from his cooking before he blew up something else.
“Father?” I called. “Shouldn't have sent me away, eh? Cooking's harder than it looks, isn't it? Father, where are you?”
I glanced at the table. The blooming metal flowers looked pretty, but my father had forgotten to set the table. Was that a scrap of paper under the vase? I ignored it and ran to the kitchen. Maybe I could still save the feast in my father's absence.
A thin trail of soot black smoke curled up from the oven and the stench of charred pork grew overpowering even for me. I opened the oven gingerly, dreading the horrors that awaited. I peered inside, wincing. A black lump of coal the size and shape of large, glazed ham stared back at me. I collapsed to the ground and cradled my head in the boughs of my fingers. Father had ruined everything.
“He destroyed dinner. Burned the main course.” If only he had let me stay behind. I had argued that he should have been the one to walk with Drusilla. I was happy to cook for them. I loved to cook for them.
Only silence replied. I glanced around the empty room and sighed. Doubtless he had fled to the marketplace to buy a fresh ham. I wasn't going to let him ruin that one, too. This ham didn't belong to Father. It was really more for—
Drusilla sat at the table, holding the scrap of paper. She was quivering like the last dead leaf clinging to a tree in the icy wind. “Styx,” she whispered, beckoning to me. That gesture I understood. “Forget the burnt food. Come here . . . please.”
I closed the oven and walked back to the table while tying the apron around my waist and wondering what I could substitute for that ham if Father came back empty-handed. I paused to readjust the straps, but my fingers fell away. Father hadn't adjusted the straps. I glanced back at the counter to the array of raw, chopped vegetables. What had happened here? Not even he could manage to ruin a braised summer squash and zucchini medley.
She handed me the scrap of paper. “Read this.”
The Artifice Mage Saga Boxed Set: Books 1-3 Page 69
