At last they came to a large, steel-riveted door with a grill of small iron bars mounted in it. Two bored guards each wearing a simple, red brigandine with black rivets and red hosiery stood at attention on either side of the door. A breath of damp, cold air and soft screams drifted through the holes in the grill.
So, this is the dungeon. My new home. Devin paused and the High Guard bringing up the rear shoved him to the ground with a stiff push of his large gauntlet.
The door guards laughed and jeered as Devin hit the floor. “He's not for the dungeons then?” one of the door guards asked, picking his nose and flicking it at Devin.
“Nah,” the guard who had shoved Devin replied, the man's voice echoing in the helmet. “This one's destined for a high, lonely tower. We got ourselves a celebrity. Gotta dangle the raw bait in the air for a bit if we want to catch his friends.”
“Celebrity, eh?” Door Guard asked, reaching to scratch under his curiass. “What's he done?”
“A colorful career,” Shove Guard replied. “This is the villainous Art-face Mage. He crushed the Red Army in Port Sinclair and then routed those stupid Black Guards in some stupid mountain town.”
The second High Guard laughed. “So don't go telling the lobsters or the beetles we got their man, eh? Bastards might try and nab him.”
Lobsters and beetles, ha. Would that make you lot the butterflies? “Sinclair?” Devin laughed and raised his finger. “No, it's Port Ec—”
The Shove Guard hauled Devin into the air by the scruff of his jacket. The strange fluid powering the guard's plate mail arm gurgled as he lifted the struggling youth.
Maybe I should have paid more attention to that, Devin thought as his feet left the ground and the guard's giant, gilded fist shook him.
“The day I take lip from a mage is the day the world stops turning. This lout also harbored the fugitive Captain Jemmy and started a wee revolution. End of the day, he's just another mage.” He flung Devin to the ground with a twist of his arm. “Let's go, mage.”
The High Guards led Devin to the base of a tall, winding staircase. Devin glanced at the narrow, rickety stairs and back to the ancient mechanized suits and grinned. Officer's and cavalrymen suits couldn't make those stairs, much less bulky infantrymen like these. He touched one of the lower stairs with his metal foot. It wobbled.
Strange security measure, having the stairs collapse behind the prisoner Devin thought, jerking his foot back.
One of the guards lurched forward and gripped Devin while the other proceeded to shed his armor. Devin stared. It was like no procedure he had ever seen before. The cracks started near the back of the shoulders, like a breaking chrysalis. The strange, blue glow coming from within the armor faded as the guard unlatched and stepped out of the back of his armor.
The man groaned and stretched his arms. He was wearing a familiar uniform: red leather brigandine with black rivets. Devin's eyes drifted to the man's legs.
Ah, Devin thought. Red hose. So those jailers must have been High Guards, too. And something else. Only bureaucrats wear red hosiery. I wonder where these gentlemen squeeze into the ranks?
The brigandine guard grabbed Devin's arm while the second High Guard shed his armor. Devin tried to peer inside to catch a glimpse of the odd machinery within before the man closed up his armor. The guard holding Devin chuckled and turned the artificer away.
Then they marched him up the narrow, winding stairs. With each rickety step, Devin was certain the whole tower was about to collapse. The dungeons would be preferable to this.
The guards pushed him into the room at the top of the tower and locked the door behind him. He turned around in his small, circular cell. Brass mage detectors were nailed along the wall, hanging from their cords like cheap decorations.
The perfect place to imprison a dangerous mage. Ha! What else? Hmmm, a pallet, a chamber pot, and a small window. No bars. Devin stepped over to the window. He stretched his arms into the air and admired the view of the capital. A familiar orange tiled roof stood apart from the other buildings. Tobias's house, Devin realized as a passing bird screeched overhead. Devin fluttered his fingers in the breeze and chuckled. Too bad I can't fly.
He examined the door. Solid construction. Small flap at the bottom to exchange food and wastes. Hinges on the outside. Bolt on the outside. I won't be escaping through here either.
He looked up. The peaked, cone-shaped roof was covered with dark tiles, several of which had shed over the years, giving the roof a piebald look. Slate, maybe? Has any part of this building been updated since they overthrew the monarchy?
Devin sat on the pallet. The main danger was boredom. He pried one of the watches off the wall and tossed it in the air. The things were always heavier than they looked. He winced as he missed catching it and the watch smacked into his knee. He blinked.
It's like getting pummeled by a feather. He picked the watch up off the ground and turned it over in his hands and then twirled it over his head. You really do absorb every kind of force, don't you? I wonder how I can use that?
Several days passed. The guards fed him bland food on a steel plate twice a day except for the morning he neglected to push his empty plate back through the door flap. He did not forget again. The one time he pushed the chamber pot through, it was returned brimming with fresh piss. In fact, he had heard the guard pissing in it.
“We aren't your servants, mage,” the guard had spat before shoving the pot back through the door.
Devin had taken to emptying the chamber pot out the window before he went to bed, the reason for the lack of bars now painfully obvious. During the night his mind wandered. Was the Dragon Party planning a rescue attempt? Was Styx still performing magic tricks? Was Fangwaller still alive? Could you drown a High Guard in half a pot of rancid piss?
During the day, he occupied himself with a game. First he stripped all the watches from one section of the wall. He balanced a large, notched penny on one of the nails, arranging the face so that the emperor was hanging upside down. Then he counted his paces back and dumped the watches at his feet. He selected one, twirled it like a bola, and let fly. When he struck the penny nine times out of ten, he moved back three paces and started again.
When the game bored him, Devin would ponder the questions almost nobody else in the Dragon Revolutionary Party seemed to be asking, not aloud a least. What do we do afterward and what happens to the empire? Can people who just spent all their energy tearing something down suddenly turn around and start building?
Drusilla seems convinced we'll all split back into the five kingdoms. Would that be so bad? Yes, a handful of warring, unstable kingdoms would just weaken us. I don't want to shatter imperial society, I just want to pull the mages into it and erase the injustices. Only a strong and centralized empire can do that. We don't need a new empire, we need a new emperor.
One morning, this routine was interrupted by a loud explosion outside. Devin raced to the window and scanned the horizon for dragons. But there was not a giant flaming lizard to be seen. Just a plume of black smoke coming from the city.
The dragons had not arrived and his heart soared. He breathed a sigh of relief until his eyes traced the plume back to that familiar orange roof. His heart sank like a rock in his chest. He reached towards those fancy clay tiles.
What happened, Tobias? His first instinctive thought was discovery and capture, but burning was not the Black Guards' way. They wanted you alive. They wanted to minimize property damage. Fire was a mage's weapon. Devin stared at the plume. Did the mages descend back into squabbling in my absence? That didn't make sense either. Have more faith in your movement, Devin berated himself. Besides, Tobias never took sides, never debated.
Did the High Guards attack him? Did he destroy himself with his experiments? Devin smacked the wall. By the gods' bleeding ears, I should have listened more. He was the only one of us actively studying magic. Even if his premise was skewed, he was collecting data to help us. Who's to say magic isn't somehow related to
the condition of the body?
That evening, the cell door opened for the first time. Devin blinked as a torch blazed in the darkness. Two guards sauntered into his cell and hauled him from his pallet. “Come on, mage,” one of the guards said, pushing him towards the door. “The emperor wants a word with you.”
Devin shuffled down the tower stairs and through the palace, furiously rubbing the sleep from his eyes. They reached the throne room. The two guards pushed him into the chamber and then took up stations on either side of their prisoner: backs stiff, arms held at their sides, and faces forward. Sconces and a large, gold-plated chandelier lit the room with a pale glow. Devin glanced at the torches and snickered. Not a gas lamp in sight. This whole building is mired in the past. It's like stepping back into Corel.
The emperor sat on his throne brooding and reading a note. He held the paper in one hand and an iron poker in the other. A plinth with a basket of oranges and a glowing brazier stood on either side of the throne. The hot coals popped and hissed as the emperor stirred and prodded them with the poker. A high-pitched whimpering pulled Devin's attention to the far side of the room where Fangwaller was chained to the wall.
The emperor followed Devin's gaze as he folded the paper in his hands. “Do you like my new toy?” He lifted the red-tipped poker from the coals and beckoned with it. “You may approach the throne. I've given orders that none of my guards shall lay a hand on you here.”
“Oh?” Devin asked, walking towards the throne against his better judgment. His guards squirmed and matched his steps, but did nothing else. Curious.
The emperor nodded and set the poker aside. “I crave your conversation, Devin.”
“You think to question me about the revolution, that I will spill its secrets?” Devin scoffed.
The emperor waved the question away and chuckled with a dark, grim smile. “No, the dragons will settle your puny revolution. Anyone I capture when they come to rescue you is just sauce on the goose. No, tell me of the Battle of Port Eclaire.”
Devin shrugged. “You have countless soldiers to interview. Why should you care to hear my account?”
The emperor sighed and shook his head. “Soldiers will lie to protect their reputations. If I try to torture the truth from their hides, they will lie to make the pain go away. But you have no reason to lie. Your fate was stamped the moment you set foot back on imperial soil.”
Devin's brow quirked. “So, since you're going to kill me anyway, I have no motive to deceive you through fear or favor?”
“Just so,” the emperor said. “You are no ordinary mage, Devin. I even gave you a fancy cell because of my respect for you. Do you like your view from the tower? The dank prison cells are not for the likes of you.”
Devin crossed his arms. “Worried I'll suborn the other prisoners?”
“I'm worried you would not survive the day. The Black Guards and the army would cast lots for the privilege of tearing you apart. I need you alive.” He splayed his fingers. “You, my dear Artifice Mage, are to be my bait.” He dangled the note over the brazier, singeing the edges of the paper.
“What of your precious dragons? Are you trying to capture us or destroy us?”
“Oh, I will burn the commoner foundation of your revolt with dragon fire, but dragons are . . . messy. I want your leaders alive. The last time we held a show trial for a mage was so disappointing.”
“I was happy with it,” Devin said, stomping his metal heel against the flagstones, “except for the part where your human ogre sliced off my foot.” He glanced around the room. “If anyone should be baying for my blood, it would be Captain Vice. Where is he?”
“I'm trying to keep you alive, remember?” The emperor sighed. “Major Vice is far away helping engineer the demise of your precious revolution. You should concern yourself with the fate of your friends.” The emperor spread his arms. “The next show trial will be spectacular feast of punitive gore to delight and cower the common man. They won't dare to question the imperial bureaucracy again. I shall put your leaders to the death in the most innovative, gruesome ways imaginable.”
Devin gestured to the flaming sconces on the wall and the armored High Guards lurking behind the throne. “Yes, I've seen how you embrace change and innovation here.”
The emperor gestured around the room. “This room was built to impress and awe. Nobody is awed by the simple things they see every day. They expect a touch of grandeur. The private rooms and banquet halls are quite modern, I assure you. Not that you'll ever see them.”
“And that laughable, antiquated mechanized armor?”
“Functional and traditional.”
“And how will the Dragon Party leaders launch a successful rescue if you are hiding me from the world? I know my people. They will never step into your trap if they can't discover where I am and formulate a plan.”
The emperor leaned forward in his throne and grinned. “I have a conduit inside your ranks who has 'discovered' where we're hiding you. Even now he feeds the revolution little morsels of hope.”
Devin smacked his forehead. “Jemmy.”
The emperor nodded and sat back. “Of course, Jemmy. A Black Guard to his toenails, that one. Did you think he was your ally?”
“Never. Why do you not just capture them now? Why this elaborate ruse?”
“So the revolution tries to rescue you and fails. So everyone sees them fail.” Emperor chuckled. “As for Jemmy? The best spy, the most earnest covert operative, is one who does not realize he is a spy. Jemmy is quite the willing patron of your cause.”
No, he couldn't be. Devin paled. “I don't believe you.”
“My dear Artifice Mage,” the emperor said, placing one hand on his chest. “Just as you have no motive to lie to me, why should I lie to you? Do you imagine I seek to preserve your glittering opinion of me?” He blew the fiery, burnt edges of the note and the bright embers drifted through the air.
“You look more tarnished from where I'm standing.”
“Just so,” the emperor said quietly. “Jemmy's mission was not one of infiltration, but of support for the mage cause. He was inclined to do so regardless,” the emperor's voice rose like a hissing kettle, “but that loathsome, wretched mage sympathizer Lucius Judicar made it all tidy and legal.”
“Supposing Jemmy isn't a nasty Black Guard hiding behind a cloak of friendship. How do you turn such an honest man into your spy?” Devin asked, shoulders drooping. “If anyone could do it, you could.”
The emperor shrugged. “Simplicity itself. I merely inserted my own loyal men to handle Jemmy's reports and feed him information after we destroyed that traitor Lucius. The story makes fascinating reading. Sadly, Jemmy never puts any salient details or names in his reports lest they fall into the wrong hands.”
“Good for him,” Devin said.
The emperor crumpled the paper in his hand and stabbed his poker into the coals, spearing one. He lifted it and waved the glowing object in the air. “So I must dangle you like bait to snare the leaders of the revolution while Major Vice fetches the dragons for me with General Festus.”
“Why would dragons follow Festus? Last time I saw him, it was his mission in life to slaughter every dragon in the world.”
“The general is wise enough to follow my orders. He knows what happens when soldiers . . . displease me.” The emperor guffawed. “He's chasing down a device we discovered from your books, too.”
“My books?”
The emperor nodded, gloating. “The tomes Jemmy saved because he pitied you. That Lucius stole and Armand delivered to me. The seals and secrets protecting the dragon lure would have been nigh indecipherable and deadly without your help, Devin.”
“My help . . .” Devin said weakly, stepping backwards.
“The general sent one of his soldiers ahead with a report. The device will be here in mere days and your doom follows in its wake. The city will burn. The revolution will burn. All thanks to you.”
The emperor roared with laughter and threw
the crumpled paper on the brazier. The report crackled in a ball of flame, sending a dark plume of ashes high into the hot, shimmering air.
19. STYX, YEAR 498
A cool night breeze blew in through the window, ruffling the papers on the table like a sheath of leaves. Unlike the small, grimy windows in Drusilla's shop, these were large, scrubbed clean, and wide open. Drusilla had locked up her shop and we abandoned it until after the revolt. No sense waiting for the emperor to return.
Patrice had led the leaders of the revolution back to the small bakery where we held our last meeting. Gora and Festus both had urgent guild meetings of their own to attend lest their prolonged absence draw criticism and cast suspicion on their party activities.
The party was not ready for the full scrutiny of the more powerful guilds, especially since most of our core members came from weaker, smaller guilds or from downtrodden or outcast members of the higher guilds. The large guilds feared the saplings would grow tall and overshadow them.
The ovens made the room stifling hot. I didn't mind and my dragons seemed to enjoy it, but everyone else was sweating and long since shed their coats and draped them on the backs of their chairs as we discussed among other things how to rescue Father.
The baker ran back and forth between her ovens loading the second batch of breads and rolls for the next morning not so many hours away while shooing Jemmy from the first batch as it cooled on trays by the window. Most of the revolutionaries had scooted their chairs towards the open windows for the cold breeze and the hot buns.
I smiled. Ingot had curled up around Patrice's arm again. Every few minutes she would forget he was there and gesticulate only to have him squawk and tighten his grip. “I don't see why everyone is scared of a few dragons. Mages handled dragons in the past and mages will handle them again.”
The Artifice Mage Saga Boxed Set: Books 1-3 Page 72
