“A machine with no purpose? No function? What does it do, master?”
“Artificers have asked that question for hundreds of years, Devin m'lad. Oh there have been some good guesses. Several likely suspicions. No successes. Something turns those gears and spins that little dial. But there's no power source: no winch, springs, no levers, and no engine. I would have said that it's merely a model but for the exquisite craftsmanship. It might even have been made in this very Guild Hall, but it bears no maker's stamp.”
“We don't even know who made it?” Devin asked. The guild dogma to document every step of the process from brainstorming to diagramming to testing to inventing to marketing everything he ever built had been beaten into his head for years.
“I know. Another mystery. Scandalous, isn't it? We know not from whence it comes nor how it works. Apprentices beyond counting have never been able to make that dial spin.”
Devin grimaced.
“Failure is good for the soul. Teaches us all humility.” The guildmaster chuckled. “I dare say if anyone could ever get the damn thing spinning again the hall would collapse around our ears.” He nudged a piece of pipe laying on the floor with his boot. “Speaking of inventions that don't work . . .”
“It's almost ready, sir,” Devin said, wiped his face with a worn black cap, the sweat and oil disappearing into the fabric. The youth waved to the pieces of machinery laid out in front of him. “But those damn journeymen have got me running errands noon to night.”
“Yes, it's shameful.” The guildmaster shook his head and clucked. “Journeymen lording their might over lowly underlings, asking apprentices to fetch and haul the dirtiest, heaviest objects. And for what? So that the journeymen may bend their marvelous mental faculties to decipher projects assigned to them by masters of all people. Meanwhile the apprentices must scurry hither and yon like little rodents beneath the feet of giants. Squirreling some time for yourself I see?”
Devin nodded. “I needed some time alone with my project, sir. My Journeyman's Project?” he asked with a bright, lilting tone, hoping to firm his hesitant question into a statement.
“Perhaps in time it will be judged so by better artificers than you, m'lad. Are you certain you're ready to submit to the evaluation process? It takes more than a touch of genius to qualify for journeyman.” Master Huron removed his cap and held it to his nose. “Right now your invention looks like a pile of twisted scrap metal. Faugh! And that smell. The whole room reeks of brimstone.”
“I'll be ready. The next round of evals is in one week?” Devin asked.
Master Huron nodded. “I've already begun selecting the committees. Have you submitted your application?”
The apprentice nodded. “Last season, based on my prototype.”
“Which prototype, hmmm?” Huron muttered. “You have so many ideas and so few follow through to completion. Especially on the marketing side of things. Well, so be it. Studied your basic principles?”
“Yes, yes. I know it all,” Devin said, waving his hand.
“The evals are strenuous, very strenuous. We must judge the apprentice as well as his or her capabilities. Who are you? What do you offer the guild? What are your capabilities and your potential? The actual project is only one step of the process, you know,” Master Huron said, nudging two broken pieces of metal together with his boot. “A vital step of course . . . ”
“Of course,” Devin leaned over his device, cradling it. “These are just the core components of the mechanism. I must conduct further tests to fine tune the mechanism.”
Master Huron nodded. “Wise of you, no doubt. And just what are you attempting to construct, young Devin?”
The youth smiled. “A device. A fantastic device that shoots flames. A fire-breathing machine.” He looked at the master with shining eyes, but did not find his enthusiasm reciprocated.
Master Huron sighed. “Another derivative dragon gadget? Like those modified Mark 2 gauntlets? And those ridiculous horns ripped straight from the pages of a fable? Do you never deviate from that obsession? Do you never create something unique: a product all your own? When will we get to finally see the real Devin, instead of a pale imitation?”
“Did you not tell us that first day to follow our passions, sir, and see where they lead us?” Devin asked. “Did you not say all great metal artists begin by copying the masters?”
“I did say that and you have enough passion for three apprentices, Devin, though I would not have guessed it when you first walked through our doors with those stiff, little shoulders. But if you truly wish this device to be your Journeyman's Project, it needs the spark of originality.”
“It is a dragon gadget, sir.” Devin shook his head. A spark? I have originality burning from my fingertips. “But it is not derivative in the slightest. Unless you count rubbing two sticks together as a false inspiration?”
The old master snorted. “At least this machine has the redeeming advantage of being somewhat original. You are certain you didn't steal this one, too? No, I have never seen such a curious idea before. And this device has the wet, unpolished tarnish of a scheme mid birth. Excellent! You made a proper blueprint schematic and sourced your parts?”
Devin nodded, biting his tongue. Another derivative dragon gadget indeed.
“And what gnarled snag have you stumbled across on this little proof of concept model you're building to shoot flames?” Master Huron asked. “And did you run a cogent purview of the market, m'lad? Where's the practical use? Who would want to shoot flame?”
“Guards, Army, Kitchen Workers, Chefs,” Devin ticked them off on his fingers with a screwdriver. Devin sighed. He considered market analysis reports to be one of the more daft requirements in building prototypes. He didn't want to sell the devices, just design and construct them.
“And the snag?” Master Huron asked, rolling his hand.
“The fuel ignition sequence, sir. I can spray a stream of pressurized dragon oil . . .”
“Wait.” The master held up his hand. “Why dragon oil? Rather old-fashioned of you. Not much of a market for that stuff these days.”
Because . . . dragons and fire go together, Devin protested in his mind as his mouth formed a more glib response, “It's cheap and I can steal it from Journeyman Higgins, sir.”
Master Huron guffawed patted Devin's shoulder. “Spoken like a true apprentice artificer.”
“The oil sprays out of this primary nozzle here.” Devin pointed with his screwdriver, continuing his explanation. “But when the stream reaches the ignition point, it snuffs the damn thing out like a candle.”
“Hmm, yes. I see. Your ignition point looks very much like a candle. You can't spray flame, but you spray wax quite handily.” The master closed his eyes, envisioning the process. “A suggestion: why not draw your ignition fuel directly from the well of pressurized oil itself?”
“I did try that at first.” Devin looked around for the remains of his first prototype. “It won't work. The tank exploded.”
“Quite a frustrating problem.”
“Do you have another suggestion, sir?”
Master Huron smiled. “Several possibilities, young Devin.”
“And?” The youth spread his arms.
“It's not my Journeyman's Project, is it?” The master waved the apprentice's question away. “It's not my job to offer solutions, young Devin. But you may rest assured a solution is within the realm of reality,” he sighed and nudged one of Devin's early taloned gauntlet models with his boot heel, “not fantasy.”
“Yes, sir,” Devin sighed.
“Discovering a workable solution is your job, Apprentice. I suggest re examining your choice of fiery ignition fluid, focusing on the base component and the additives. Don't forget to utilize your budding reference library. You might try rereading Chapter 6 in 40 Recipes for Drinks, Inks, and Oils.”
“As you say, sir,” Devin said, turning back to his project, screwdriver poised. As if I would put anything but dragon oil in a flame-spurtin
g device.
“But before you investigate that conundrum,” the master said, gripping the youth's shoulder like an iron clamp,“I do believe I have hit a snag of my own. A problem only you can solve. You see, I have this large package in my office which needs hauling to Journeyman Otel's workshop all the way on the other end of the building.” The master spread his arms and patted Devin's shoulder as his grin widened. “So do you know where I can find a stalwart apprentice, nay a budding journeyman elect, to help me with this urgent, vital task, young Devin?”
“I know just the young go-getter you need.” The youth sighed and dropped his screwdriver. “You fight dirty, sir.”
Huron looked at Devin's face as if he could see the bruises lurking under the grease stains. “And you know all about fighting dirty, don't you, m'lad?”
“Sorry, sir?” Devin asked in the midst of putting his tools away. He rubbed more grease across his cheeks with his elbow.
“Nothing, nothing.” The master waved his hand. “Just a passing thought.”
Master Huron rounded up the apprentices several hours after nightfall and shooed them out the Guild Hall doors. “Out, you rascals, out until tomorrow. Get home for supper.” The master yawned, peering into the dark streets. He scowled at the unlit street lamps. “Pity your prototype is unfinished, young Devin. The slothful Lampers Guild appears to have desperate need of it. Be sure to add that to your final market report. Now shoo!”
The young artificer's apprentice stopped by a well lit public fountain. He stopped to pat the strange insignia stamped on the iron post: a crude brass oil lamp that looked like it came from a fairy tale. At least the Lampers had gotten to this street. He spared a moment of sympathy for his apprentice brethren sent scurrying down the side streets with their little flint strikers.
The youth sat on the edge of the fountain and did his best to clean the grease and oil off his face with his shirt sleeve. He glanced at his murky reflection in the pool. Tell tale bruises should have started forming hours after the game. A dirty face might fool the guild, but not his mother. Devin pondered whether grime or bruises would raise her ire more. Then he sighed and finished scrubbing his cheeks, working slowly around the tender spots.
He glanced at the wavering water of the fountain again. His face couldn't possibly look as terrible as it felt. Best present a clean image.
Devin lingered outside his house, wiping his feet on the mat as if the day's aches and pains could flake off with the dirt. The youth opened the door, took one look at his mother’s face, and knew his efforts to present a clean, wholesome face had failed.
The woman hissed like a kettle as she reached through the door frame and hauled her son into the kitchen by his ear. “By the five gods, Devin, I won't have you fighting.”
“I wasn't fighting, Mother.” Devin said, thrashing as she held his head over the sink and scrubbed the grime off his face. “I was playing a game.”
“Yes, your sister told me all about this game.” His mother said. “The game that gives you bruised flesh and lumps on your head. I would dread to see what you look like if the other apprentices stop playing games. You might actually get hurt.”
Never. “Yes, mother,” Devin nodded, feeling the hot water sluice across his face, over his head, then trickle down his neck. He could feel his greasy hair starting to plaster to his skull.
“How was your apprenticeship today?”
Devin pushed away from the sink, wringing his hair, and glared at the traitor, who clutched Mom's skirt. “Good. The apprenticeship went good.”
“The apprenticeship went well,” Devin's mother corrected him.
“Master Huron offered some very helpful tips on diversifying my device's commercial applications. He thinks it has the potential to be the journeyman's piece for my evals.”
His mother put her hands on her hips. “Skimping on your marketing analysis research again, were you? Devin, I taught you better than that!”
Curse all clever mothers, Devin sighed and shook his head, flinging the wet, blonde curls from his eyes. “He suggested the Lampers Guild might be a bright idea . . . ”
“Yes, very witty dear.” His mother pursed her lips and tossed her son a dish rag. “Wipe your face and get your witty butt over to the table. I brought you a surprise for supper,” his mother said, a little catch in her voice. “I don't know that you deserve it, now. A son who comes home looking like a street thug doesn't deserve surprises. When did I teach you to solve problems with your fists . . . or by misusing your gadgets? A most ungrateful son, wasting the gifts with which the five gods blessed him.”
“No, I don't deserve it,” Devin said mournfully, ducking his head, playing along to please his mother. Haven't I played enough games today? “Not your most ungrateful, wretched, humble of sons. What did you get me?”
His mother merely smiled and gestured to the far side of the room towards the kitchen table where a soft light glowed. Devin's eyes followed the edge of the table cloth. A meal was spread across the surface with the carafe of water, a plate of succulent pork slices, and a platter of steaming broccoli all bathed in the glow of candlesticks, which rose from the center of the tableau like fat, marble columns.
Orange flames sat meditating atop the candles, burning with quiet passion, enlightening from their pedestals like the philosophers of old. Devin closed his eyes and inhaled. The wisdom of the bees flowed through his nostrils.
“It almost smells like home again.” Devin smiled. “Where did you find them?”
She glanced to the heavens and steepled her fingers. “Oh, a mother has her ways, my son. A mother has her ways.”
“Mother! Your hands!” The candles were special surely, but hardly divine. Devin reached to pry her fingers apart. “That's blasphemy.”
“Why should it be blasphemy?” she asked, smiling.
“There is a certain way things are done. You make it sound as though you prayed the candles into existence. As if you cheated the natural order. . .”
As if she used magic, the artificer coughed.
The woman should only be so lucky, the mage replied.
“You mock the five gods, Mother,” Devin sighed, squashing the voices. “They have better things to do then make candles.”
She slapped his hand away gently. “Devin, don't be such a prude. I think you mistake a flippant statement for blasphemous one. Surely, the gods have a sense of humor. Did they not provide the bees and the pollen that made the wax? So, in a way, these candles did come from the gods.” She stuck out her tongue and Devin was reminded of his sister.
“I suppose,” he grunted, fighting a smile.
“Would you like to bless this meal?”
Devin said a short, ritual prayer thanking the five gods, leaving out any mention of divine candlesticks. Then he tucked a napkin under his shirt collar and plucked a slab of pork off the platter with his knife. He dropped the meat deftly onto his plate.
Misera grinned and copied her big brother, but started crying when the meat kept slipping off her knife. She screamed and stabbed harder. The beleaguered slice of pork began to bleed savory juices all over the white platter. Devin rescued his sister's pork and flopped it on her plate. The youth smiled as Misera's tears vanished.
“Devin? How could you?” His mother asked. “Such a gigantic slab of meat. She'll choke on it.”
“Toke on it,” Misera said, giggling.
As the youth sat around the table basking in the glow of his family, all the stresses of the day vanished as the flames flickered and the black wicks curled like little dragon claws. Devin shook his head to clear his mind as his mother stabbed a generous head of broccoli with her fork and passed it to him.
“You don't eat enough vegetables,” she muttered. “So Master Huron thinks you're ready to stand for your evals? That's wonderful news!”
“That's not quite what I said.” Devin pushed her fork away. “He thinks my latest project has potential though . . . with some minor tweaking.”
“Th
is one didn't explode again did it?” His mother rolled her eyes as she cut Misera's meat into little bite-sized chunks. “Rebuilding the thing from scratch are you?”
“Mother.” Devin whipped the napkin off his chest and wiped his lips. “Not everything I build explodes.”
“Oh?” She quirked her eyebrow. “Then what was that ruckus upstairs this morning?”
“That was something somebody else built exploding.”
His mother stared. Her eye slits demanded details.
“The lamp,” Devin said, shielding himself with the napkin. “The dragon oil exploded.”
“All by itself?” his mother asked, smiling. “Didn't get any help from a certain son of mine?”
“Nobody was hurt. And it wasn't my fault. Not really.”
“No, it never is,” his mother sighed. “I know I swore to respect your privacy, Devin, but there are limits. Are you going to build us a new oil lamp, oh mighty artificer?”
“Artsy fartsy, artsy fartsy,” Misera sang, smashing her broccoli into green paste, spittle dribbling off her lip.
“You mean 'artificer,' dear heart,” his mother corrected, wiping her daughter's lips.
“No, but the explosion might have cracked the gas main. I capped the pipe though just to be safe. So the house isn't filling with smelly, noxious gas.”
“Methane.” His mother farted and excused herself. “Well, that's a relief. Not one word, oh witty son of mine. And how do you intend to light your room at night: a merry bonfire, a pet dragon from the mountains, or the incandescent light of your soul?”
“Um, I'd like to use the candles you bought me,” Devin said.
“Oh?” His mother's fork paused halfway to her lips. “I'm glad you like them, but why is my mechanical genius son so hot for plain, beeswax candles? Why not invent some crazy, light generating contraption that melts the plaster off the walls?”
“They smell like home. Like the village.”
She put her fork down. “Devin, honey, we talked about this. It's been three years since we moved. You are home.” She spread her arms. “This is home now. Maybe if you made some more friends among the local children.”
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