The Artifice Mage Saga Boxed Set: Books 1-3

by Jeffrey Bardwell

  I stared at it and gestured over my shoulder where the kitchen was waiting for the deft touch of a competent chef. “But I need to go finish—”

  “Read it!”

  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

  I scratched my head. “Father's never been to the palace. And that is not a Yolk Soiree in the oven.”

  She laughed, a harsh, brittle sound like a handful of twigs snapping. “It's code: a rough, crude code. Think, Styx. What happened the last time, the only time, you made Yolk Soiree?”

  “Dragons.” The note crumbled as I clenched me fist in triumph. I smoothed the paper and read the note again, smiling. “Big dragons?”

  She waved her arms. “Stop grinning like that. Yes, big dragons. All over the city. And your Father's been invited to the palace. And not for dinner.”

  I pointed to one of the last words in the letter. “What's 'poof' code for?” I asked.

  Drusilla's cheeks turned the color of ripe cherries. Sometimes my volunteers did that when I asked them to step onstage. Befuddlement. Flustration. Embarrassment.

  “Why would Father want to poof you?” I mused, folding the note and placing it back onto the table.

  “Oh, I want to poof him, too.” Her fingers clenched as she gripped the table and her red cheeks vanished beneath a sudden, wide grin. “You see, poofing is a two-person process, Styx and your father is very . . . poofable.” She sighed and brushed her long hair back behind her ears. Her scar was livid, almost pulsating. “Gather the upper ranks of the Dragon Revolutionary Party. We need to discuss things. We need to plan. And I need a new door.”

  I glanced at the note, its implications only now managing to soak into my mind. Father isn't really at the market buying a ham. Father is in the palace. At the mercy of the Black Guards. Father is in danger. My stage lessons came back to me and I planted one foot on the table and raised my fist in the air. Drusilla seemed content to talk among our friends while Father suffered.

  “Words will not break down the cell doors and save my father from the clutches of durance vile. We must act. He needs to be saved, now.” I was very proud of that little speech.

  Drusilla launched from her chair, grabbed my shoulders, and shook me. “This isn't one of your shows where you get to prance around the stage and everything is scripted and pretend. We will rescue your father. But we need to rescue his cause first.”

  “His cause?” I asked, stepping back. I broke away from her as my foot slid off the table.

  “Think, Styx. Would he want us rushing in to save him if it dooms the mages and ruins the revolution?”

  I shook my head. Father had worked too hard building this up. What would he say if my bumbling brought the whole thing crashing down around us?

  “Go. This changes our time table. Gather what leaders you can find. And bring your dragon spawn. This may involve them, too. Go, Styx. Hurry.”

  I glanced back at Drusilla as I left the workshop. The grin had faded from her face. She cradled the bouquet of metal flowers to her breasts with one hand and started sobbing. Her other hand still gripped the poniard. She stabbed the blade into the table, splitting the grain of the wood. I winced, my hand clasping the empty door frame. I could hear every quiet whisper as I released my grip and walked away. My nose may be useless, but there's nothing wrong with my ears.

  “I'm not strong like you, Devin,” she said to the flowers. “No bombast. No charisma. You always saw that young apprentice woman when you looked at me. A pretend knight with twigs in her hair. A leader of mock battles with wooden swords. A fake. Now I'm supposed to storm the palace and rescue you like a fairytale? I can't do it for real . . .”

  Drusilla was still playing with her dagger when I returned with my dragons and several eggs in a satchel and a handful of leaders: Gora, Patrice, Fordus, Tarbon, and Jemmy. Nobody knew where to find High Lord Fangwaller and Doctor Drubber hadn't answered his door. The bouquet of metal flowers had been strewn around the room. I cautiously walked around them with short, mincing steps. Penny thrust her adorable, scaly head out of the satchel and hissed at all assembled.

  I smiled and unclasped the satchel. Penny sprang up and paced up and down my shoulder, flicking her tongue and hissing as Patrice stretched her fingertips to caress Penny's glistening scales. I smiled and shook my head, reached into the satchel, and offered her Ingot instead.

  Patrice smiled as she ran her fingers down the length of the young dragon's neck. Ingot pushed his snout along her arm and whuffed with pleasure. I glanced in the bag. Shiny was happily curled up on the eggs and fast asleep.

  “So the Dragon Revolutionary Party has our own tiny mascots now? Do you want any help, Dru?” Patrice asked as Drusilla, who had left her dagger embedded in the table top and started crawling along the floor collecting her scattered bouquet.

  “No.” Drusilla reddened and grabbed another flower. Everyone watched for a moment before Gora knelt down to help her. The large sail mistress scooted past several discarded flowers straight to Drusilla and opened her arms. Drusilla threw herself into the woman's embrace like a chick burrowing under her mother and sobbed.

  “He's gone, Gora,” Drusilla wailed. “And he got me flowers.”

  Patrice snagged the vase off the table with her free hand, cradling Ingot with the other. Drusilla screamed into Gora's chest and all the men save Jemmy took one step back.

  “Men,” Patrice snorted, waving my dragon in their faces. Ingot chirped and wrapped himself around her arm. “You'll face uncounted toils and monsters and fire-breathing lizards before confronting a sobbing woman.”

  “Hit is not so bad,” Gora said, stroking her fingers through Drusilla's hair, gathering the flowers from the artificer's loose, sweaty palms and dropping them in the vase Patrice extended. “You saved Devin tee last time all alone. You shall save him again. And tees time you are not alone now. Tee Dragon Party fights together, hey?” She made a wide, expansive gesture with her unburdened arm and beckoned to the rest of the party members as she scowled over Drusilla's bowed head.

  A chorus of hasty nods and declarations of hope and agreement answered Gora's dark, glaring eyes from every corner of the room.

  Patrice stooped to collect a few more flowers and then set the vase back on the table. She patted the bouquet. “Always knew that Devin was a charmer. Well, I've been a damn quill jockey chained to my desk all day. What's the whisper on the street?”

  I passed the coded note around, explaining the significance of the phrases. Drusilla looked up and smiled through her tears as I lectured the party of Father's awesome code, finishing with, “Dragons are coming to the capital. It's the emperor's plan somehow.”

  Jemmy's eyes widened as he eased into one of the chairs, adjusting his sheathed sword so as not to gouge the floor. “That connects with a report I received awhile back from one of my spies in the palace. A small military expedition heading towards Port Eclare led by General Festus. Thought nothing of it. Everyone knows how much Festus has been spoiling for a rematch ever since he twice lost an army to the dragons . . . and Devin. Good to get him out of the country, really.”

  “Tat is goot news? Gora asked, lifting Drusilla off the floor and placing her in the opposite chair.

  “Madam, if you're planning to overthrow the government,” Jemmy replied, “then having the canniest general in the country off fighting dragons is a blessing of the gods. It's almost as if the emperor is courting an attack. Does he suspect the party? Are the Corelians riled the empire invaded Port Eclare last year? Fangwaller and his contacts among the cabal could have told us more about the state of the Corelian army.”

  Fordus shrugged. “I
've had my dockworkers scouring the streets for that scoundrel. There is scarcely any carpentry work in the winter and I disapprove of idle hands. The boys can only grease up the dragon tooth saws so many times before they wear away the blades. I sent them out to canvas the entirety of the outer city, although it may take some time to find our man Fangwaller.”

  Tarbon growled. “And what if they never find him? There were a handful of nasty rumors blowing through the merchant's stalls tonight. They all said our lad Devin betrayed High Lord Fangwaller to the High Guards as a traitor of the state. The rumors could only speculate what dire secret he held over Fangwaller,” Tarbon's eyes narrowed as he glanced at Patrice, “but we know, don't we? Our glorious leader betrayed a mage.”

  “You can't think that's true,” Drusilla cried.

  “When did truth ever matter in a rumor?” Tarbon asked, shrugging. “If it was a choice between life and death, I would have tossed that damn smuggler into the dragon's maw, myself. Hate the man.” He threw up his arms. “But by the gods, we need Fangwaller to shore up the guildsmen and the traders. They want reassurances our brawl with the emperor isn't going to destabilize their markets. And parading by Fangwaller's rotting corpse in the Artrium of Justice isn't going to be very damn reassuring, is it?”

  Jemmy nodded slowly. “I've heard something about that, too, but the rumor is so fresh is bleeds.”

  Drusilla sagged in her chair. “Can't be true. It can't. He wouldn't do that.”

  Gora leaned down and massaged the artificer's shoulders. “When we rescue Devin, we can ask him hourselves. Men do strange tings trapped in tee corner wit a rusty knife and no hope.”

  “Yes!” Drusilla reached up and clasped the sail mistress's hand, chuckling weakly. “When we charge into the palace to recue him, we'll find the place already overthrown: bureaucracy in shambles, emperor fleeing or dead, and Devin lounging on the golden throne. Job finished. Well done, Dragon Revolution Party.”

  “Hit is always goot to hope, dear . . .” Gora sighed, patting Drusilla's shoulder.

  “You jest,” Patrice sighed, “but right now it's just 'Dragon Party.'” She surrendered Ingot back into my care as the young drake squawked in protest. “There's no revolution in sight. We're just not ready for a full blown revolt.”

  Tarbon nodded to Patrice. “We need to get more people on our side. Anti-mage sentiment still runs deep in the empire.”

  Patrice crossed her arms and laughed. “And fat, happy guild members still loathe change almost as much as they hate imperial taxes. We don't have enough strength to batter down the doors, yet. Would Devin want us to risk exposing the existence of the party before we're ready to strike?”

  Drusilla whipped her poniard from the table and brandished it. “Then we attack from the shadows. If we can't break the door, we pick the locks. We engineer a quiet revolt and stay hidden as much as we can.”

  “Will that even work?” Tarbon asked, crossing his arms and frowning. “Revolutions rely on fervor and public frenzy. Impassioned speeches.”

  “Not always.” Jemmy smiled, rocking back in his chair. “Devin once told me of a girl who flattened the entire justice system of the Western Province on its ass with a few whispers and quiet threats. All to save his measly hide. He wondered at the time if it had been worth saving.”

  “Oh?” Patrice asked, glancing at Drusilla. “I haven't heard this story before.”

  “She produced our first and only mage trial in centuries. For once, mages got their due justice in the empire.” Jemmy raised his arms as if pushing a giant stone. “Didn't stick, but imagine if a strong organization had come through afterward and propped it up until the idea set?”

  Drusilla reddened again. Truly, her cheeks were broken.

  Tarbon gaped and stared at the artificer. “You were the reason they held that large, extravagant mage trial?”

  Drusilla nodded and quirked an eyebrow at Jemmy. “So there's a chance the emperor knows about us already. He's inviting attack and who knows how he discovered that Devin was hiding here.”

  Jemmy snorted. “The lad was hardly discreet.”

  “Yes, and now he's in a cell,” Drusilla said. “We work from the worst case scenario, which is High Guards coming for the rest of us any day. This isn't the revolt we planned, but it's the one we've got. If a sneaky rescue mission is what kicks off the demise of the Iron Empire, so be it.” She smiled and wiped a tear away. “We'll need a distraction. I think dragons will suit the Dragon Revolutionary Party.”

  “Yes!” I cried, upending the contents of my satchel on the table. Six eggs and one irate dragon tumbled out. “We can hatch these eggs tonight and begin breeding our dragon army.”

  Drusilla smiled and held up her hands. “Not quite the plan I had in mind, Styx.”

  I collected my eggs and my three dragons and huffed. “I'll just build my own army then.”

  “Devin wrote that the emperor intends to destroy us with dragons—” Drusilla began.

  “Wait, wait,” Tarbon said, shaking his head. “How can the emperor possibly do that?”

  Drusilla waved the coded message. “I don't know how, but Devin is confident that Horatio II can and will instigate an attack of dragons on this city. I trust the leader of the Dragon Party to know a little something about dragons. They're coming and we need to prepare. I say we turn the emperor's plan against him. The capital will be chaos, smoke and fire everywhere. That's when we strike.”

  “So we hide, muster our allies, and watch the skies for dragon sign?” Patrice murmured.

  “Yes.” Drusilla nodded. “We just need to free Devin. Then we can depose the emperor and his guards. And then we vanquish an entire catastrophe of giant, marauding dragons.”

  “Do you have any idea how we're going to accomplish that?” Tarbon asked.

  Drusilla did not reply. She just stared at the dagger clenched in her fist as a cloud slowly drifted past the sun and the room grew dark.

  17. ARMAND DELACOURT VICE, YEAR 497

  The bright room smelled of starched clothes and washed bodies, but something dark and insidious lurked behind those hopeful, fresh-scrubbed faces. This could have been a meeting of dockworkers or disgruntled guild members or any facet of the lower classes but for one glaring flaw: the somber, satin brocades of noblemen stood beside the patched leather aprons of the common working folk. Their clean, smiling faces masked something grotesque within each of them and here and there Armand added horns and fangs and forked tongues.

  Nothing but mages. Friends of mages. Faugh. Armand had to restrain himself from wincing as he saw more and more silk garments sprinkled among the rough leather garb. That spoke of wealth and funding. Fuel for this emergent little revolution. He felt a prickling on the back of his neck. He kneaded the sore muscles between his shoulders and tried not to glare. Who in this abominable crowd was a mage and who was merely a sympathizer?

  Armand gagged as the press of bodies in the room squashed him against the wall. Infiltrating this meeting had been a pathetic jest. The password that old Lucius had provided gained him entrance. His half-hearted attempt at a disguise was unnecessary. His sorrowful tale of knowing several people savaged by those brutish Black Guards was . . . honest.

  Armand patted his pockets. He felt undressed without his brass mage detector, but the thing was too obvious. Why not just wear a uniform and be done with it? The lack of personal recognition was almost insulting, but Captain Armand Delacourt Vice had not ferreted mages from their urban dens or chummed with junior guild members or sauntered through the gilded circles of noblemen. Only one person here today could possibly recognize him: the speaker. He looked at the empty stage and a tiny shiver trickled up his spine as he turned and surveyed the audience. He had to shield his face from the bright sunlight as he tried to commit each face to memory.

  An entire room of foul wizards and mage lovers and I cannot arrest a single person. My emperor has sent me on a perverse mission. Perhaps a test of loyalty for an ex-Black Guard? Such a sunny roo
m. All the darkness is on the inside.

  Armand wiped his nose on a handkerchief. Beneath the mocking, cheerful sunlight streaming through the windows, a foul, spiritual stench pervaded the room. Their bodies wallowed in it and their pores oozed with the heavy scent of treachery. Armand, the one clean, honest man in the entire room, forced himself to relax. He turned towards the stage with an expectant smile. He joined the whistling and the cheering as a familiar man strode onto the stage and waved to the crowd. He sneered to himself. The man was out of uniform.

  Armand's smile deepened as the cheering grew to a roar. The traitors shook the walls with their fervor. Have you truly gone full mage lover, Captain Jemmy, or is this just an act? Are you intelligent enough for this to be an act?

  “Please, settle down, my friends.” Jemmy made a calming motion with his hands and the traitors obeyed in mere moments.

  Not just a speaker, but a leader, Armand thought approvingly, crossing his arms.

  “We come here today to redress a grave problem in the empire. A threat that affects every man, woman, and child, highborn or low: the mage threat.”

  Armand found himself warming up to the man. Ah, Jemmy, I may have misjudged you.

  “More mages are discovered every day,” Jemmy said, raising his arms.

  Yes, more vermin to squash, Armand thought. Perhaps I was wrong. Perhaps old Lucius chose a fitting successor to the mission of the Black Guards despite his many flaws. He suppressed the gorge rising in his throat. His stomach still hadn't settled since killing the old man. He belonged in this crowd of villains and traitors.

  “The threat is clear. We all know what needs to be done,” Jemmy said. “Something bold. Something drastic. I shall say it aloud if nobody else will. We need to . . .”

  Kill the mages, Armand gushed in his mind. And you've gathered them all right here. No doubt they're lurking among these wretched plebes. Barricade the doors. Bring the torches.

  Jemmy's shoulders slumped. He coughed.