Rotten Magic
Page 8
“Step aside, miss,” the Black Guard said, his voice echoing.
I blushed. Devin. You're hear to find out about Devin, not ogle the man's armor. “What started the fire? A gas leak? Faulty machinery? I'm an artificer. Maybe I can help.”
The guard shook his head, gripped me gently with his steel gauntlets, and pushed me away from danger. “Nothing like that. It's another blasted mage. We've bottled the dangerous criminal inside. The Mage Hunters are on the way.”
Oh, thank the five. It's just a mage. Nothing to do with Devin at all. I sighed with relief, spread my arms, and let the crowd carry me away from the building as I decoupled the spurious connections my mind had made between my friend and dragon fire and . . . mages. I craned my neck at the receding building. A mage attack. Is that why Devin's been flinching about mages and magic? Did one of those criminals attack his family? Hurt little Misera? Or did one of the brutes attack Devin? I tried to remember if I'd heard recent news of an attack in my friend's quarter of the city.
There were so many outbreaks of mage violence these days. The outer edges of the crowd started to disperse. It was just something you accepted. I glanced over my shoulder at the building. More lives destroyed by those wretches. They always use fire, too. Did one of them attack Devin?
The idea rolled around my head the whole way home, all the loose gears sliding into place with a sharp click. Devin was wildly protective of his mother and sister and would shield them from even the rumors of evil mages lurking in the neighborhood. This explained so much. Devin's recent spate of odd behavior growing darker and more estranged. The bristling at the mere mention of mages. The guarded, defensive behavior. The escalating response to what should have been a simple game. The secrecy. The temper. The fright.
I punched my fist. Someone had attacked my friend, maybe his whole family. And what would any self respecting artificer do in that situation? How would he respond? He would find a handy solution, build it himself. Something involving dragon oil. Something to indulge this new, dark presence sinking its claws into his mind. Was Devin becoming evil himself to fight a greater, looming evil? Was my friend the pretend dragon growing real scales, real claws and fangs, breathing real fire?
A mage attack. Of course. Well that explains the motivation of this strange, new Devin if not his methods or ultimate goals. I felt I was teetering on the cusp of something there, but it eluded me. Mystery somewhat satisfied, I indulged in pure, gushing enthusiasm. I felt it wash over me, sluicing the worries and anxieties away. I could almost see all the raw helplessness, fetid self pity, and anger dripping down my legs and flushing through the drains into the sewer below.
I heard a quiet dripping echo come from the grates in the street and smiled. A fitting place for such negative drivel. I will save my friend. I will not let the mages nor his own fears push him down. Oh, but those mighty gauntlets can push me down any day. I could still feel the guard's steel grip clutching my shoulders. I practically skipped through the woods on the way home.
Devin, if you could have only seen that wonderful mechanical armor. Whatever strange device you're building in secret could not be half so glorious. The sinuous bell-shaped helmet. The graceful articulated joints. You really do need a steel fist in your face before you can truly appreciate the wonder and the artistry of modern mechanical armor.
Could that be what Devin's building? Newer more powerful mechanical armor to protect himself? Using the dragon oil as a volatile fuel source? He would be lucky if the thing didn't explode before he took the first tumbling step. My mind veered and I patted a few useful bits of metal in my pocket. No tumblers in the world could resist them. I had designed and crafted many locking mechanisms over the years. And nestled within the knowledge to build a thing was the power to break it. Another trip to Higgins's office sans Higgins, that's the key to Devin's secret.
I smiled. Not that I needed keys.
9. DEVIN, YEAR 491
The lock was a minor obstacle. The set of picks Drusilla had crafted for him long ago made sneaking into Journeyman Higgins's office a simple task.
Why do I think of her at a time like this? Devin pondered as he raked the tumblers. The picks were a useful gift, surely, but why did his thoughts fill with Drusilla when Higgins was a much more obvious target? It's this wretched split between us, he thought. She is acting so . . . strange, lately. Too many odd looks and low mutters. What does she know? What does she suspect? Devin chewed his lip as the raker caught and the last tumbler rolled aside. He glanced at the old lock picks and sighed before burying them deep in his pocket.
Devin entered quietly and raided the office. Soon the apprentice had acquired the extra lamp pieces and oil he needed to finish his project. After smuggling everything back to his lab space, Devin checked his plans for the ignition device, but couldn't find them anywhere. Devin shrugged. He had spent more time on the damn market analysis than the schematics; the plans were in his head.
Did I leave them in Higgins's office? Devin wondered before turning back to assembling his parts. No time to recover them now. Back to work. This circular, abraded flint striker is ingenious if I say so myself. And Master Huron says I never invent anything original. Wait until the old coot sees this! Nuts to the plans. I'll poke around on my next oil run.
Devin crafted a small, metal box he could grasp in the palm of his hand and coiled the thick lamp wick inside it. He poured a small amount of oil to soak the wick and then capped the box, pinching the wick through the hole in the cap. Then he carefully mounted the box under his striker mechanism.
He closed his eyes and rolled the striker with his thumb. He heard it scratch the flint. He opened his eyes and a soft, yellow flame greeted him. He blew on the flame. It sputtered, but remained lit. He shook the ignition box. The flame flickered indignantly, but persevered. Devin took the box, twirling his arms, and capered around the room. The flame stayed lit, lit, lit. He took an old fluid injector and squeezed a thin stream of lamp oil through the flame. A small gout of dragon fire shot out the other end. Glorious!
The door opened and Devin hastily snuffed the flame and spun around. Not Waller again?
Master Huron eased into the room. “Quite a pile of debris outside the door. I've instructed the other journeymen to help Journeyman Waller move to his new accommodations. Someone once suggested the apprentices do enough heavy lifting around here. I do try and listen to everyone's input in this guild, high or low. We are a team here. You know that, don't you, Devin?”
“Waller, sir?” Devin asked.
“Yes, Journeyman Waller.” The old man stressed the title. “He had the oddest proposal regarding lab space requisitioning that I have ever heard in my life. Quite innovative certainly, but one must wonder what curious whimsy inspired him to suggest it.”
“I thought you cherished innovation, Master Huron?” Devin asked, beginning to regret the poor joke he had played.
“Sometimes you must consider the source as well as the idea.” Huron walked over to the brass puzzle box and wiped some of the dust away with his sleeve. “Any more thoughts on solving this little puzzle?”
“From time to time,” Devin said. No, he thought.
“What if it was broken?” Master Huron asked gently. “How would you fix something if you couldn't recognize it was broken, first? If you didn't even know how it worked?”
“Is that a potential evals question, sir?” Devin asked.
Master Huron shook his head. “More a potential life question. The real reason we do things isn't always the reason one might assume. Take this brass box. Did everyone tell you that we bring it to the apprentice exams as a hazing ritual?”
“More or less,” Devin said, sensing a trick question.
“That is a reason, surely. But not the real reason. The hazing ritual is a lie we tell ourselves to mask its true purpose. Because the truth is too painful,” Huron said.
“Oh,” Devin replied. He let the silence linger. “So somebody does know what this machine does.”
“No, sir,” Devin shook his head.
“I studied it and made a model as part of my own journeyman's piece. A fascinating vibrato mechanism with three narrow atonal rods. It makes an eerie wailing sound. Terrified half my evals committee.”
“Did your committee not find your invention a touch derivative, sir? Lacking in innovation?”
Master Huron gave a short bark of laughter. “I said I made a model. That wasn't all I made. I did not merely copy and modify m'lad, I extrapolated. I divined. I took that eerie melodious box and created a full brass orchestra using the same fundamental principles to produce a joyous sound.”
“I see,” Devin replied.
“Had to draft a few of my apprentice friends to cart the pieces into the exam room. Good to have lots of friends, m'lad. Sometimes you can't do it alone. Took nine of us to assemble the pieces behind a curtain before the evals began. Selling your invention is more than charts and numbers, Devin. It needs a bit of theater, too. Remember that. What was I talking about before we got side tracked?”
“Your fascination with the brass puzzle box, sir?” Devin prompted. “How you and only you know its secret?”
“Oh, I was obsessed with this box. Had to know its use, its purpose, its mystical function. And now after so many years of wondering and guessing, I do.” His expansive face stiffened and his smile vanished as he pointed to the brass box. “I know the secret of bringing that dead machine to life. And I pray to the five gods I never see it. But if the machine starts to spin and scream, someone must know why. Someone must bear that burden.”
Knowledge, a burden? Devin thought as he nodded mutely. That is contrary to everything the guild stands for.
“Be careful which boxes you choose to open and which you choose to leave closed. Remember that, m'lad, as you pursue your own endeavors.” Master Huron nodded to the bewildered apprentice and left the room.
Thoughts of Master Huron's cryptic advice and the pieces of Devin's invention assembled and reassembled in the apprentice's mind all evening. Dinner at home was a quiet, tense affair. Devin's mother tried to strike up a conversation, but fell silent after her son muttered a few noncommittal replies. Misera just stared at her fidgeting brother as if sensing the enormous pressure settling over him, smothering him. Devin wiped his lips. “Dinner was great, thanks. I need to go fiddle with my invention. Do we have any flour?”
His mother gave a little laugh. “Of course, dear. Take all you need.” She pointed to the cupboard. “I only wanted to wish you the best of luck in your evals.”
“Thank you. But if I want to be ready in time . . .” Devin said, grabbing a spoon and mixing a bowl of flour and water into a paste slurry.
“Yes, yes,” his mother nodded. “Go up to your room. Make me proud, son.”
Devin sat in his room, looking over his second set of design blueprints. Thank the five gods I made copies of everything. He dipped the paper in the slurry.
Is this wise? He asked himself, absently using his new ignition device to light a beeswax candle on his desk. He up ended a mug over the device to extinguish it.
Surely, the committee will want to see your notes and records? the artificer asked. Records are the backbone of the guild.
After all that work, he deserves a little fun, the mage argued. But don't use that mechanical geegaw. There's no fire like magic fire.
Devin smiled as he crafted a small, paper mâché effigy of a tiny knight. Then he made a tiny, wooden sword and a little helmet. Then he made another and another, amassing a paper army on his desk. He made a version of Benny and one for each of Benny's rotten lieutenants and lackies. Devin set them aside to dry. Then, sighing, he crafted one for Drusilla.
He spent the rest of the evening trying to get her hair to fall just right. Devin smiled at what he had created, pushed Drusilla away from the other effigies, and stumbled into bed.
In the morning he packed the other paper knights in his satchel, but left the hardened statue of Drusilla on his desk. Devin glanced at the lonely effigy as he closed the bedroom door. She shouldn't be a part of this.
The flesh-and-blood version of Drusilla greeted him at the gates of the Guild Hall, arms crossed and lips pursed. “Am I late?” Devin asked, forcing a smile.
“A little,” she said, sighing. “Did you pick a different route today? Spend too much time looking over your shoulders?”
Devin snorted and nodded toward the Guild Hall grounds. “Why should I? The danger's in there. Benny—”
“The gods' cold fingers take Benny!” she hissed. “You are safe in there. The masters can protect you in there.”
Devin hefted his satchel strap. “Dru, what's wrong? I'm fine. I walk to and from the hall every day after all.”
“And every night. So far home. Do you know what filth patrol the streets at night?”
Patrol? Black Guards? His heart lurched. How did she discover my run in with the Black Guards? “Lots of unsavory people out after dark,” Devin muttered, “your father among them.”
“There are people far more dangerous and powerful than my father. Why didn't you tell me they were after you, Devin? I could have helped you.”
“Help me? Against such a horrible foe? How?” Devin snorted, imagining his friend holding back wave after wave of Mark 3 powered armor with a single raised palm. And she'd do it, too. Admiring every rivet and crafted joint as they stomped her body into the cobblestones. He shuddered. No. I will not let it come to that.
“I know you've been targeted. I know they already attacked you once,” she said quietly, scanning his face for bruises. “I'm not stupid. Not that hard for someone to figure it out if they know you.” She smiled. “And I know you well, yeah?”
“They invaded our home, Dru. Our home. Scared my sister half to death. And you think I should have involved you? So they can invade your home, too?”
She grabbed his palm and turned it over, glaring at his fingers. “What are these? Soot stains? Is this from the attack? Did they try and burn you?”
Devin jerked his hand away. “Hardly how they do things in the guards.”
Her eyes narrowed. “Now the guards are after you, too? How deep do the secrets go? What are you building for your evals, Devin? A shield? A weapon? . . . a bomb?”
“What?” Devin growled. “Why would I be building a bomb?”
“You've stolen so much dragon oil—” Drusilla murmured.
“How do you know about—” Devin bit his lip. “Spying on me, are you, Dru? What do you know? No,” he shook his head, “what do you think you know?”
“I know you're turning into someone strange and dangerous.” Drusilla turned on her heel, leaving him at the gate. “I thought you were my friend.”
You are my best and only true friend, Drusilla, Devin thought, watching her walk away. But the less you know, the safer you'll be. And if you found out about the oil, others may have, too. I need to hide it in a more secure location. What else do you know?
Devin did not find any answers in the courtyard. He did find Benny, peeling an apple with a belt knife and smirking. The bully chuckled as he gestured over his shoulder with the knife. “Girls, eh? Always so melodramatic. She thinks you built a bomb for your evals? The only thing exploding that night will be your career.”
Devin pushed past the larger youth. “Go shove that apple up your exhaust port. I don't have time for you right now, Benny.”
Benson flicked an apple slice at the back of Devin's head. “You don't have time for anyone these days, Dragon Boy. Used to go off alone from time to time, but now it's every day. I never see you. Nobody has seen you. Been missing the afternoon game for days.”
Devin turned and shrugged. “And I need to beg off again. The evals are coming up soon. I still need to test my journeyman's project . . .”
Benson s
cowled and discarded the apple peel. “Well, I can see your little bomb project is important to you, but you're vital to the game, you know? It's hardly knights-and-dragon without our Dragon Boy.”
“Just one more apprentice in a sea of apprentices,” Devin muttered. “Can't you find a substitute dragon? A stand in?”
A substitute? But nobody else has your . . . talents, the mage snickered covering his mouth. What would they think if they knew the real fire burning beneath that metal dragon shell? But those two don't know anything, do they? Not even the girl. How egalitarian: you treat your best friend the same as your worst enemy.
Loathe as I am to admit it, the little shit has a point. Tell Drusilla at least if not this puling wretch, the artificer pleaded. One should not bear such a secret alone.
Devin said nothing. Nobody else should bear the weight of such knowledge no matter how awesome or powerful the secret. It was just too dangerous. He began to understand Master Huron's pleasure and frustration regarding the mysteries of the puzzle box.
Benson leered, holding the apple slices clasped between his fingers. “You're the bolt holding us together. Without you,” he loosened his grip, letting the slices fall from one hand into the palm of the other, “everything falls apart. You are a piece of something greater than yourself. I don't think you realize how important that is . . . Devin.”
Drusilla's words rose up, haunting my mind: Knights are common as dirt, but there's only one Dragon Boy. “If I'm a piece of something greater than myself, then I'm the biggest piece.” Devin grinned at the slices dripping in Benny's palm. “Be careful you don't choke on me.”