Agents of Artifice: A Planeswalker Novel

by Ari Marmell

  He dashed around a sharp bend in the canyon wall, bodily yanking a panting Jace after him. From his pouch he yanked a crystal sphere, the same he’d used to spy on Jace during Baltrice’s test. Holding it to his eye, sharpening his vision far beyond what might qualify as human, he peered back around the corner.

  Distance meant nothing; the falling snow ceased to blur his sight. He saw several dozen men scaling the chasm walls like spiders, some not even bothering with ropes to aid their descent. Each sported a heavy beard of red or brown or blond, and each was clad in leathers and furs belonging to no animal Tezzeret had ever seen alive. Axes and scramaseaxes hung from their waists, short but powerful bows across their backs. Barbarians, then, no doubt hired or pressed into service from native tribes. Of Bolas, he could detect no sign, save for a trace of laughter still hovering upon the frigid winds.

  But what worried him most were not the barbarians themselves, though their numbers were daunting indeed. Rather, it was a pair of men already at the base of the cliff, each of whom wore a heavy cloak of red-dyed fur atop his armor. How they got there, Tezzeret didn’t know, but they pulled a two-wheeled wagon made of old, cracked wood. Atop it stood a box, perhaps five feet on a side, sculpted entirely of black iron and covered with simple runes that steamed in the icy air.

  Even as Tezzeret found himself wondering what might lurk in that cage of steel and spell, one of the bearers leaned in toward the metal, ran a hand over the carven symbols. Starting from that rune, the metal warped, bending and peeling away, a grotesque flower of blackened iron. And the thing within emerged.

  A single limb struck the ice and snow, like the front paw of a stalking hound, yet this was no paw but a humanoid hand. Long fingers splayed out as the palm touched the ice, followed instantly by a second hand.

  It was humanoid, this thing, and indeed roughly human size, yet it crept on all fours as a hunting beast. Tezzeret could clearly see its eyes flickering this way and that, its crooked teeth behind a scraggly bearded jaw. It was built like a man, it moved like an animal—and it was made entirely of mists, individual wisps woven together, the final steaming breaths of a hundred frozen corpses.

  And though it could not possibly have seen Tezzeret through sheets of sleet and a blanket of illusion, nonetheless it raised its head to the skies in a silent howl and began to lope in their direction, the barbarians following.

  Again they ran, Jace panting and wheezing beside the artificer, who seemed utterly tireless. More than once Jace stumbled, tripped up by snow drifts over which Tezzeret smoothly ran; and after his third tumble, Tezzeret stopped reaching down a hand to haul him up. Jace felt a sudden chill that had nothing whatsoever to do with the blizzard around them, and redoubled his efforts.

  Once and once only, Tezzeret—far more comfortable in the role of hunter than hunted—stopped and turned to fight. Mouthing a complex spell, he hurled a tiny shard of scrap metal. It flew far, and against the wind, to strike the iron box in which the barbarian’s ghostly hound had lurked—and that iron began to bend. It toppled slowly off the wagon, accompanied by the sound of rending metal. And then it rose, a mere box no longer, but a construct of enormous size, humanoid but twice as tall as a human, inhabited by whatever spirit Tezzeret had called from the outer void. It stepped forward with a series of clicks and whirrs, ready to engage the barbarians in battle.

  And from above, a shadow spread over the ice-veiled sun. Nicol Bolas circled once, wings outspread as though to clutch the world entire, and melted Tezzeret’s forged ally to slag with a single fiery exhalation, filling the chasm with choking fumes.

  The flames never came near the artificer or the mage, of course, for Bolas was indeed still bound by the ward. And again his laughter echoed through the canyon as Jace and Tezzeret ran once more, the barbarians close on their heels. Jace looked briefly back, and noticed with some puzzlement that the frozen apparition leading those barbarians stopped for a moment to stare at the swiftly cooling scrap; an idea began to work its way through the haze of exhaustion that smothered his mind.

  The chasm grew jagged. Spurs of rock reached into their path, grabbing at cloak and limb; narrow bridges arched overhead, from which extra bits of snow sifted down as savages ran from one side to the other seeking a better vantage. Beneath the snow and the ice, the stone grew precarious, until even Tezzeret had to slow his pace lest an ankle turn beneath him or he find himself planted face-first on the ground.

  And always the barbarians were there, led by their unerring hound. They lurked above, sending arrows deep into the chasm at the slightest sign of motion. They ran only a few hundred yards behind, following the directions of the ghostly guide from the box. Time and again Jace and Tezzeret took cover and heard only the winds, hoped that they might have lost their pursuers long enough to walk from this world, only to hear the echoes of nearing boots as they began their concentrations.

  Eventually even the seemingly indefatigable Tezzeret was wheezing, and Jace had to keep one hand constantly on the wall to prevent himself from toppling over.

  Turning on his heel, the artificer dragged Jace into still another tiny crevice, one that would provide no shelter at all once their pursuers spotted them. But this time, Tezzeret cried out, calling upon every iota of mana he could spare without stranding him on this forsaken rock of a world. To each side of the fissure, the clinging ice melted into running rivulets, the stone grew red hot. Slowly—too slowly, Jace feared—it poured across the front of the crevice, sealing it away from the main chasm. Tezzeret continued to stand, chanting, face sweating despite the cold, and as swiftly as it had melted, the rock began to cool. In a matter of instants, a featureless wall of stone separated prey from hunters.

  Jace staggered, all but falling against the wall. His head still pounded, and he could hardly speak for the frozen crust of sweat and blood that caked the side of his face. He knew that casting much of anything was unwise, that he had to save his physical strength to get out of this world.

  “That’ll hold the savages out,” Tezzeret grunted, “but I don’t think it’s going to stop that other—thing. How does it keep finding us?”

  Struggling to stay alert, Jace whispered hoarsely, “I think it senses our warmth, Tezzeret.” Again he tried to dig deep into the surrounding ice, hoping, pleading for a source of mana into which he could tap. And again he found nothing but dregs.

  But what he found instead was inspiration.

  “Tezzeret!” he hissed into the shadows. “That gadget of yours? The one keeping you warm!”

  “What about it?” Tezzeret asked suspiciously.

  “Can you make it generate cold instead?”

  “Beleren, what good could that possibly—you’re not serious!”

  “No, of course not. It’s a joke I’ve been saving for just the right bloody occasion.”

  “Do you have any idea how cold the air would have to be to block our own body heat? If we take even half a minute too long, we’ll freeze to death!”

  Jace scowled. “And you’re arguing with me, wasting what time we have, because you have a better idea.”

  Tezzeret scowled back and began to fidget with the device on his arm.

  Outside, the beast of the frost had placed a single hand upon the newly formed wall separating the crevice from the outside world, when it abruptly stopped. Uttering a canine whimper, it lifted its head and sniffed heavily at the air. Puzzled, it tried again, and yet again.

  Nothing. No heat at all, save its masters and their packmates behind it.

  For many long moments it stood, confused as it had never been before. But the tattered soul that empowered the spectral thing was not that of any hound, however much it behaved as one. It had once been a man, and though all traces of that man were gone and forgotten, the beast could reason still. Thus, when it could not reacquire any trace of its prey, it made straight for the point it had scented them last.

  But those few minutes of confusion made all the difference. When it finally seeped into the crevice, i
ts misty form passing between the rocks and snow where even a beetle could not have creeped, it found the hollow empty.

  “How are you doing, Jace?” Kallist asked, leaning against the wall beside the doorway.

  Jace looked up from beneath a veritable mountain of blankets. “I’ll be fine,” he said, “though that may be the last remnants of the kalyola brandy talking.”

  The other man grinned. “Feeling no pain, are you?”

  “Kallist,” Jace said, and chuckled, “I’m not sure I can even feel my head.” His face quickly turned serious, however. “What about your assignment?” he asked. “Were you still able to make it look natural?”

  “Barely. It required a whole lot of fire. You really don’t want to know any more about it.” He smirked knowingly. “And don’t think you can change the topic that easily, either.”

  “Honestly, Kallist, I’m fine. It was just a toe; I’ve got nine more. The healers say I shouldn’t even be limping after a few more days.”

  Kallist nodded. “You think Tezzeret had to have anything amputated?”

  “I have no idea, but you be sure to let me know when you plan on asking him. I’d like to be elsewhere.”

  “Well, it won’t be today,” Kallist said, his own expression turning serious as well. “Today he wants to talk to you.”

  “Oh, for the love of … ! He can’t give me a few days to—”

  “He sort of wants to see you now, Jace. He’s waiting in Paldor’s chamber.”

  “Fine.” Jace tossed the blankets off to one side of the bed and turned so he sat upon the edge. From the nightstand he took a length of bandage from a bath of herbs and potions, and began the arduous task of wrapping his mutilated foot. Kallist did his best to ignore the wincing and the occasional hiss of pain.

  “The next time someone tells you that freezing to death is a ‘pleasant way to go,’” Jace muttered, his face grown pallid, “you tell them to come talk to me about frostbite.” His foot properly wrapped, he rose and threw on his heavy cloak, not bothering to change out of his bedclothes.

  “If Tezzeret wants to see me before I’m done convalescing,” he explained, “then he can damn well live without the formalities.”

  By the time they’d reached the office door, however, and Jace heard the muffled sound of Tezzeret ranting at Paldor within, he began to wish he had taken the time to clean up and change, if only to put this off a little longer.

  And maybe to deflect at least a tiny portion of Tezzeret’s fury.

  Jace hadn’t taken more than three steps through the door when Tezzeret was before him. Two hands, one of flesh and one of metal, grabbed his shoulders and dragged him forward, until his face was inches from Tezzeret’s own.

  “You idiot!” Tezzeret hissed. Even through the lingering pain, Jace could feel the artificer’s hot breath against his cheek. “Do you have any idea the money you’ve cost me? The operations you’ve ruined?”

  Maybe it was the pain. Maybe it was still the lingering effects of the kalyola brandy. Maybe it was just panic. But whatever it was, Jace said exactly the wrong thing in his defense.

  “You don’t understand!” he protested weakly. “You have no clue what you were asking of me! I don’t think I could have stopped him even he hadn’t distracted me—”

  He knew the words were a mistake the instant he spoke, but he had no time to regret them. He felt the hands gripping him tense, and had barely drawn breath before they hurled him to the floor.

  Tezzeret dropped to one knee beside him, grabbing Jace’s hair in an etherium fist. “I should kill you,” he whispered, his voice barely more than a gentle breath. “You’ve opened me up to all manner of problems and reprisals—but so help me, I’ve put too much effort into you to just throw away. So I’m going to give you one more chance. One.

  “But I’m also going to make damn sure you learn from this debacle.”

  Without releasing his grip, Tezzeret reached out with his other hand. “Paldor? Your blade, if you’d be so kind.”

  Jace looked up, dizzy, his brain refusing to settle on any one detail. He saw Kallist still standing in the doorway, jaw clenched, his hand hovering near his sword. Jace was grateful for the thought, but equally grateful that Kallist hadn’t been foolish enough to actually draw steel.

  Then he saw Paldor hand over the black, steaming dagger, and blind panic erased all other emotions. He felt the edge of the blade on his back, and knew what was coming, knew that he couldn’t do a thing to stop it.

  And then he knew only pain as the dagger sliced open his flesh and his soul.

  None of the Consortium healers would touch him, not this time. Everyone knew just how he’d been injured, and nobody was willing to interfere with Tezzeret’s discipline. For almost two days, Jace tossed and turned in agony, unable to sleep, barely able to move. His sheets and mattress were stained with dried blood. The cuts along his back and his arms were shallow but long. The pain was excruciating, but not nearly so much so as the pain within.

  Jace felt as though he’d been burned from the inside out. The very notion of spellcasting made him queasy, and he’d been unable to absorb so much as a sliver of mana, no matter how hard he tried to concentrate.

  By the evening of the second day, he knew that he could take no more of it. Staggering out of bed, he pulled on the first tunic he found, wincing with every move, every bend. He slowly made his way out of his chambers and down the hall, heading for the nearest exit.

  If nobody in the Consortium would help him, he’d go to someone who would.

  He’d made it as far as the first main corridor when someone appeared from the shadows off to the left.

  “I was wondering if you were going to try something like this,” Kallist said.

  “Have to. No choice. Hurts too much.”

  “Jace,” his friend told him, voice ripe with worry, “you can barely stand. How do you plan to get out? I don’t think the guards would hurt you, but they’re certainly not going to let you leave without permission, not until they’re sure your punishment’s up. Go back to bed. I’ll bring you something, some brandy maybe, to help you sleep.”

  “No. Kallist, please. You’ve no idea what it’s … I need your help.”

  Kallist frowned, and then sighed deeply. “You owe me,” he said softly. “How long do you need to get to the exit?”

  Jace took a moment to picture the halls, thought about his current state. “Ten minutes.”

  “All right. Get close and be ready.”

  Jace never did find out exactly what Kallist did to trigger the magical alarms that protected the complex from unauthorized entry—but he did so, and clear on the other side of the building. By the time the chaos was sorted out, and the patrols returned to their standard routes, Jace had slipped out the nearest door and onto the streets of Rubblefield.

  What should have been a five-minute walk took him fifteen, but he finally found himself in the next district. It took another twenty minutes, given the lateness of the hour, to flag down a coach-for-hire.

  “Where to?” asked the centaur who was both driver and hauler.

  “Ovitzia,” Jace gasped, all but collapsing into the seat.

  “Hrm. I don’t know, sir. That’s an awfully long trip for this late at night. Maybe—”

  Jace groaned, reached into a pouch and dropped a handful of gold coins on the shelf before him without even bothering to count.

  “Ovitzia,” the centaur announced, standing suddenly straight. “Right away, sir.”

  The jostling of the carriage over the cobblestones, though agonizing, almost managed to lull Jace to sleep with the promise of relief to come.

  “You sure I can’t get you anything, Berrim? You really need to keep your strength up.”

  “Just my shirt,” Jace said, shuddering slightly—and not just from the chill—as Emmara’s fingers softly, gracefully traced the newly healed scars across his back. “It’s pretty cold in here.”

  “You’ll get dressed when I’m satisfied
these are healing properly, and not one second before. And Berrim,” the elf added, “if you make one snide remark about me touching you like this, I may just heal your mouth shut.”

  Jace clamped his teeth together, swallowing the comment he was about to utter like a half-chewed dumpling.

  They sat together, not at Emmara’s dining table downstairs, but at a small desk in her library—”library” being defined as “that bunch of pillars with the bookcases between them.” It and the guest quarters were the only areas Jace had seen in the two days he’d been here. He’d slept a great deal as his body recovered from Emmara’s magic, and tried to pass the rest of the time perusing those shelves. Unfortunately, the only books that were written in any script he could read were either cloying romances or high adventure fiction for which, thanks to recent events, he was very much not in the mood.

  “All right,” she said finally, standing up and handing him his wadded tunic. “I think I’m done. It looks like the physical damage is mostly healed. How about …?” Jace hadn’t given her much in the way of details, of course, but he’d had to explain the nature of the manablade to ensure she could heal him properly. He frowned briefly, turning his attention inward, flexing muscles that weren’t at all physical.

  “I’d feel better if I could get near the water,” he said finally, “but I think I shouldn’t have any trouble once I do. It feels like everything’s working.”

  “I’m glad.”

  “Are you sure you won’t let me pay you something?” Jace asked. “I really feel like I owe—”

  “Berrim, no.” A shallow smile, then. “Although, if you find yourself in possession of another shipment of fruit …”

  For a time, they sat in silence. Then, “I think he’s losing it, Emmara,” Jace said softly. “Tezzeret?”

  He nodded. “He’s always been a hard man, but now he’s getting cruel. Or maybe … Maybe he always was, and it just wasn’t aimed my way.” Jace shook his head miserably. “I knew from day one he wanted power. It’s part of what drew me to him; I thought I could share in it. But now I think he’s honestly going mad with it. He may have just started a war with a competing mercantile interest, for no better reason than he got overconfident in his abilities. His and mine both, actually, but he’s only interested in my mistake, not his.”