Agents of Artifice: A Planeswalker Novel

by Ari Marmell

  “It would.”

  Jace shook his head and allowed himself to fall back into one of the room’s sundry chairs. “I’ve never entirely understood … This Bolas is pretty powerful, obviously. Obviously a planeswalker, or he couldn’t have put together something like the Consortium. So why usurp it from him? Couldn’t you think of any safer way of building an organization?”

  Tezzeret grinned. “Some while ago, Beleren, I found myself in the ranks of a cabal that called themselves the Seekers of Carmot. Sorcerers and alchemists, they claimed a great many fascinating discoveries—but the greatest of all, and one they promised to teach me once I’d proved worthy, was the rediscovery of the ancient arts for creating etherium!” He raised his artificial arm, as though he felt the need to remind Jace of its existence.

  “Well, of course I was intrigued,” he said as though it was the most obvious thing in the world. “The person, or the faction, that learns how to replenish the Multiverse’s dwindling stores of etherium would be powerful enough to trade whole worlds!

  “Imagine my disappointment when I discovered that it was all a lie. That the tales of forging etherium were a deception orchestrated by the true master of the Seekers of Carmot as one of his various convoluted schemes. And imagine my anger when, upon realizing that I knew the truth, the Seekers attempted to have me killed! After all my years of service!” Tezzeret shook his head, then smiled once more.

  “Care to guess who the Seekers’ master actually was?”

  Jace gawped at him. “So stealing the Consortium was—what? Revenge?”

  “I do not,” Tezzeret told him blandly, “take kindly to treachery.”

  Several moments marched by as Jace allowed that to sink in. “All right,” he said finally. “So what about revenge? You think Bolas is going to meet with you peacefully, just like that? You aren’t afraid he might, oh, I don’t know, try to kill you?”

  Tezzeret smiled and began idly tapping his fingers on the desk. The wood made a hollow sound beneath the impact of the etherium. “Bolas controls his own network of organizations, Beleren, and he’s agreed to meet with me leader to leader. He won’t renege on the promise of a safe negotiation, not and risk word getting out to others he might need to bargain with later on.”

  “And you trust that?”

  “Not at all. I only agreed to this meeting if we could each set up wards in advance, ensuring that neither of us can attack the other. And we’ll be arriving early, to double-check those wards.”

  “Well, if you’re sure …” Jace frowned. “So what am I here for?”

  “Ah, that.” Tezzeret’s grin flipped itself over into a faint scowl. “The truth is, I’m not entirely certain what Bolas is capable of. More specifically, I don’t know if he can read minds.”

  Jace nodded slowly. “Paldor implied something similar. So you want me there to let you know if—”

  “No. I’m certain I’d sense it if he did it to me. You’re there to block him.” Jace blinked.

  “It doesn’t do me any good to know he’s reading my mind,” Tezzeret said, “if he gets what he’s looking for in the process. And there are certain details that might rather substantially weaken my bargaining position if he were to learn them.”

  “So why meet him in person? Why not send a proxy?”

  “Part of the deal,” the artificer groused. “He wouldn’t meet with anyone but me, and this mining operation is worth a lot. I have to get this matter settled.”

  Jace frowned. Something about that didn’t ring true at all; he’d swear he almost heard an undercurrent of fear beneath Tezzeret’s normally unshakable facade.

  He also knew better than to question the man. “You know I’ve never actually met another reader, as far as I know, right?” he said instead. “I’ve got a pretty good grasp of the theory behind how to block an attempt, but I’ve never put it into practice. I have no idea if I can do what you’re asking.”

  Tezzeret nodded. “But you’re more likely than anyone else, aren’t you?”

  That made sense; Jace nodded. “All right. Nicol Bolas. Anything else I should know about him, other than that he’s a planeswalker with a serious grudge against you?”

  “Not really,” Tezzeret said, rising to his feet. “Oh, except that he’s a twenty-five thousand-year-old dragon and bigger than an ogre’s barn.

  “Any more questions?”

  “No,” Jace said sickly. “I think that’ll do.”

  After the third time Tezzeret tried, and failed, to pronounce the name of the world for Jace’s edification, the young mage gave up on trying to master it. Frankly, it didn’t much matter if he knew the name of the world.

  He just knew that it was damned cold.

  They stood at the base of an arctic mountain range, in a crevice that offered only mediocre protection from the howling winds. Streaks of snow and sleet whipped through the air, turned sideways by those winds, sifting downward past the various crags and stone arches. Sleet stung the face, flakes melted through clothes to shiver the skin beneath. Jace felt the presence of mana in the ice below, yet it was faint, almost anemic. Someone or something—Bolas himself, perhaps?—had drawn frequently and thirstily upon the magic within, leaving precious little until the region had time to recover.

  He huddled in a heavy, fur-lined cloak, wrapped about him and held with arms crossed over his chest. Even through his scarf, he saw tiny puffs of mist with every breath. Yet Tezzeret, who was clad in leather leggings and a heavy vest with multiple pockets and straps, looked quite comfortable. From the forearm of his prosthetic hung a brass globe, attached as though with some sort of magnetism or adhesive. It glowed a warm orange and emitted a low hum that made Jace want to reach into his own head and scratch his eardrums until they stopped itching.

  And possibly to punch Tezzeret in the mouth for bringing only one.

  “Where is he, anyway?” Jace called out, shouting to be heard over the roaring winds. “I thought we were supposed to meet him half an hour ago!”

  Tezzeret shrugged. “‘Bolas does not wait for you,’” he quoted. “‘You wait for Bolas.’”

  “I’ve never cared for that expression.” The voice came from everywhere and nowhere, carried on the wind, echoing throughout the canyon. It was deep, the rumble of the mountain’s roots as the earth shifted slowly above; it resounded in their ears, utterly unimpeded by the raging blizzard. “It makes me sound so pompous. I despise other people making me sound pompous.”

  The canyon before them began to darken, as something unimaginably huge took shape. “I prefer,” the voice continued, “to do it myself.”

  And then he was simply there. The eldest plane-swalker. The Forever Serpent.

  Nicol Bolas.

  He filled the canyon, a living mountain of muscle and scale, fire and fang. His dark hide shown green against the backdrop of blinding white; the smoke that rose from his nostrils was thick and red, and rain fell from the heavens where the heat of his breath melted the falling sleet. Vast wings spread wide, extending hundreds of feet from the chasm on each side—and then, impossibly, he drew them in, tucked them tightly against his body and lowered himself to the canyon’s floor. The great head turned, aiming a single eye at the two insignificant humans, and within they saw themselves reflected in a black and bottomless abyss.

  Jace found himself unable to speak, scarcely even to breathe. Even Tezzeret blanched; anyone who had spent less time with him than Jace himself would never have seen it, but there it was. No matter how well he hid it, the artificer was terrified, and Jace found that more disturbing than the dragon itself. Then, taking a deep breath, Tezzeret strode forward, “accidentally” shouldering Jace aside in the process. The jolt was enough to get him thinking once more, and Jace cast his mind out in a net, surrounding Tezzeret’s own. Still, he could not tear his gaze from the impossible beast before him.

  “You do us great honor with your presence,” Tezzeret began, only the faintest quiver in his voice. “It is my hope, Nicol Bolas, that to
gether we can come to a mutually beneficial—”

  “Shut up.” Bolas shifted his head, causing a small avalanche of ice and rock to pour down from the ledge against which he stood. “I hate you, artificer, and I find rare cause to bother hating anyone anymore. The only reason I’m not currently picking your spine out from between my teeth is because you were smart enough to arrange these wards ahead of time.

  “More to the point,” he continued, “I know full well you feel the same about me, no matter how you choose to doll up your words and trot them out like perfumed trollops.” The dragon shifted, dragging a single claw across the ice with an ear-splitting screech. “So perhaps we can save the pleasantries for those who might actually care about them, and simply tell me what you propose?”

  “Very well. First, I want you to stop …” Tezzeret took a breath, coughed once to hide the fact that his voice had nearly broken. “Stop interfering with my operations in the Kankarras Mountains.”

  “Your operations?” Bolas rumbled. “I seem to recall staking a very public—and perfectly legal—claim to the mineral rights all the way from the banks of the Ashadris to …”

  After only a few minutes of mountains and rivers, mines and foundries, treaties and neutral grounds, Jace found his mind wandering. The voices of the dragon and the artificer both faded into background noise, not unlike the blizzard itself.

  Tiresome, isn’t it, Jace Beleren?

  Jace practically leaped out of his clothes, which might well have posed a problem given the ambient temperatures. He recognized the voice, yet the dragon’s attention remained fixed on Tezzeret, its massive maw moving as it spoke. It took the mage several heartbeats to recognize telepathic speech when he was on the receiving end, rather than the projecting.

  Lord Bolas? he sent questioningly.

  Nicol Bolas. You’d be surprised how little titles mean after you’ve claimed pretty much all of them.

  Jace found himself nodding and forced himself to stop. Somehow, he didn’t think Tezzeret would be all that pleased to learn this conversation was taking place.

  I find myself curious, Bolas continued. How did one such as you find yourself cleaning up the artificer’s messes?

  Again, Jace had to stop himself—this time, from shrugging. It was the best offer I had coming to me.

  Ah. You may find, Jace Beleren, that being the best doesn’t make it good.

  A moment passed, and still the dragon continued to argue with Tezzeret, offering up not the slightest sign of any other effort.

  How did you lose an entire organization, anyway? Jace would have taken the thought back as soon as he sent it, but of course it was far too late.

  Bolas merely chuckled, a strange sound to hear inside one’s own mind. And here I’d taken you for a coward.

  Well, I—

  In short, Jace Beleren, I grew careless. I have many such factions and cabals that answer to me, and I cannot keep as close a watch on them as I might wish. Not anymore, he added bitterly.

  Jace wanted to ask him what that meant but decided he’d pushed things far enough.

  The artificer simply worked his way up through the organization until he was near the top—and then he and his minions slew everyone of higher rank. More important, they slew everyone, save those they implicitly trusted, who knew that the Consortium secretly answered to me. Without my own people to counter his commands, he simply stepped into the power vacuum and continued operating as though nothing had changed.

  I have, on occasion, attempted to slip agents back into the ranks, but he always seems to detect them. Though the dragon’s head did not turn, Jace had the sudden sensation that he was being glared at. It’s almost as though he has a mind-reader in his employ, isn’t it?

  Jace, who had more than once been asked to check a new recruit for loyalty and had pointed out those who were harboring secrets, smiled wanly and glanced around for any place to run.

  But when Bolas “spoke” again, he sounded wistful rather than angry. We were gods once, Beleren. Did you know that?

  I—what?

  No, I suppose you wouldn’t. Not at your age. The dragon heaved what Jace could only call a mental sigh. The Spark burned so much brighter then. We willed our desires upon the worlds, and the worlds obeyed. And then, the catastrophe on Dominaria and we …

  We are less, Beleren. Less than we were… The dragon’s mind threatened to burn Jace’s soul with its sudden heat. And less than we will be!

  Jace felt his world spinning, overwhelmed at the intensity of Bolas’s fervor. Why … Why are you telling me this?

  Why, Jace Beleren? I thought that you would care to know. That, and it made for a magnificent diversion, don’t you think?

  Even as Jace froze, a lightning bolt of panic flashing through him, he felt the dragon’s mind sweep past, arrowing for gaps in the “net” of thoughts and notions with which he had surrounded Tezzeret’s mind.

  His body rigid, as though he’d long since succumbed to the blizzard’s touch, Jace hurled the entire force of his will into a mental lunge. His mind screamed into the ice, and nobody heard. Like a closing fist, he snapped shut the grid of thought, trying to block Bolas before he—

  Oh, dear Heaven!

  Jace’s mind quailed before the greatest power he had ever felt. The innermost depths of Alhammarret’s psyche, the very core of the wizard’s being, had been nothing, a gentle springtime gust to the roaring hurricane that was this single tendril of the dragon’s mind.

  That tendril became a spear, stabbing at Tezzeret’s mind. The web-work of Jace’s magic closed around it, trapping it between ideas. Bolas pushed, Jace squeezed, and for just an instant—precious little time, yet a far more impressive feat than Jace would ever realize—the young mage held fast.

  Sweat poured from his brow and froze, forming a tiny hedge of his hair. His eyes watered, threatening to do the same, and Jace blinked them clear before the forming icicles could blind him. His head pounded, and the sky and the snow turned gray before his fading vision. In seconds, what little mana waited to be tapped underground was gone. He strained to reach farther out, hoping for more, and found almost none to be had. Bolas, or whatever wizards dwelt on this inhospitable world, had truly sucked the region dry.

  His breathing came in short and ragged gasps, the frigid air burning his lungs. His stomach knotted, his fists clenched inside their gloves. He felt a capillary burst in his left eye, heard something pop deep in his sinuses. He felt a liquid warmth running from his nose, a warmth that didn’t last long before it, too, began to freeze.

  Still the pressure grew, the mind-tendril shifting in his grasp, and Jace knew, without knowing how he knew, that the dragon had not yet begun to struggle. Maybe—maybe—if Jace had remained focused, if he’d caught the attack before it had already penetrated his scattered defenses, he might have had a chance. He could have altered the phalanx of concentration and deliberation that protected Tezzeret, closed the gaps before Bolas exploited them, and just perhaps repulsed the dragon long enough to get Tezzeret some sort of warning.

  But now? Every instinct Jace had, every part of his soul, shrieked at him to retreat, to draw back into his mind and get as far away as possible. With a defeated gasp, he tumbled to the ground. His body shook, and the ice and snow around him turned pink with blood.

  Tezzeret saw none of this. The artificer, still in mid-sentence, staggered as the weight of Nicol Bolas’s mind touched his own. Only then, jaw slack with shock and a growing alarm, did he glance behind long enough to notice Jace crawling across the ice.

  “Really, Tezzeret,” Nicol Bolas said, his tone unchanged. “I’m disappointed. Of course, I’ve already killed him; I’ve known he was being paid off for some time. But he didn’t seem to know who was receiving the ore he skimmed from my shipments. Smart move, using a third party.

  “Coming to see me afterward, somewhat less so.”

  “You can’t touch me, Bolas!” Tezzeret insisted, drawing himself back to his full height even as his body
began to shake for reasons that had nothing to do with the cold. His left hand was behind him, hovering over a pouch of implements and tools, while his prosthetic was raised high, ready to cast a battery of potent spells. “Whatever you’re accusing me of doing outside this place, the wards bind you while you’re here!”

  The dragon’s laughter thundered through the canyons and set the snow atop the nearest mountains to quivering. “Little artificer, you are absolutely correct. I am bound by the same wards you are, and you would be long gone by the time I could break them.”

  Tezzeret felt at least a bit of tension drain from his shoulders—only to return twice over as an arrow thudded into the ground at his feet, sending shards of ice slicing into the leather of his boot.

  “Of course,” Bolas continued, as a veritable mob of humanoid silhouettes appeared atop the chasm’s walls, “as you’ve already so generously established when bribing my servants, third parties don’t count.”

  The crunch of his steps drowned out by the sounds of running men, twanging bowstrings, and the hideous rumble of Bolas’s laughter, Tezzeret fled.

  The snow gave only slightly beneath the artificer’s feet, scarcely slowing him, as though he were partly held aloft by some invisible platform. Swiftly he drew even with Jace, and for a moment he appeared disinclined to stop. Only when he saw the younger mage already struggling to rise did he reach out a metallic hand and haul him to his feet.

  “Can you run?” Tezzeret demanded of him.

  “I—”

  “Run or die.” Jace ran.

  Arrows fell around them, thick as sleet, and Jace stumbled frequently in the deep snows, slowing their progress. One of the razor-edged missiles sliced through the flesh of Tezzeret’s left arm, sending a spray of blood to solidify swiftly on the freezing earth. The artificer grunted, scooped a fistful of snow in his etherium hand and clamped it over the shallow wound to stanch the blood, but otherwise seemed scarcely to notice.

  Yet the sleet was their ally, as was the howling wind, for they caused most of the native hunters’ bows to aim wide, protecting the fugitives until Tezzeret gathered his wits sufficiently to cast an illusion of shifting white above them, blending, at least from a distance, with the fallen snow.