Rotten Magic

by Jeffrey Bardwell

Benson growled. “So almost-Journeyman Devin is too important, too busy to play games with the lowly apprentices? Probably still pissy we broke his little toys.”

  “Oh, you haven't seen the last of my toys, Benny,” Devin scoffed.

  “Be sure to remember us lowly, straggling apprentices when you're living in that mansion in the East District.”

  Devin chuckled. “There's not much difference between an old apprentice and a young journeyman so far as the guild's concerned.” New journeyman are stuck at the bottom, like Waller. This quiet introspection was followed by a more vehement thought, but I'm nothing like Waller.

  “Don't kid yourself,” Benson spat. “You don't care. Not about our game. Not about us.”

  “Well, I don't care about you, Benny,” Devin said, “but I promised to play the part of the dragon and I stick to that. The game will continue.”

  The bully laughed. “You won't have time for the old gang when you're a journeyman. You don't have time for us now.” He wiggled his fingers. “Go finish whatever you're building, Dragon Boy. I wonder. Will it carry you soaring up to your mansion . . . or send you plummeting to the ground? Hurry now. The evals are only a few days away.”

  Devin completed his dragon flame machine with three days to spare. The igniter integrated with the larger machine beautifully. The whole thing had an aesthetic of warm, gentle curves that were quite appealing to the eyes.

  The journeyman-to-be admired his invention in the small corner room at the Guild Hall. He double-checked the seals on the pump, the tank, and the nozzle. So what if it looked like a snake crawling out of a metal box?

  Perhaps he should have consulted someone about the aesthetics of the thing, but after the Waller fiasco, everyone had given him a wide berth. It was just what he wanted, but still . . . the urge to show somebody what he created sizzled inside him. Soon, the committee will see and be amazed.

  He lined up his paper knight statues on a small, metal table with Benny leading the pack. Devin pumped the large, steel tank to pressurize the lamp oil and then struggled strapping the thing onto his back. The hose attachment and nozzle dangled at his side as he fiddled with the latches. He raised the nozzle and carefully lit the ignition box mounted in front of it. He squeezed the trigger mounted behind to squirt a small test stream. He was rewarded with a short burst of flame.

  “Soon, you'll get everything you deserve, Benny. But a true artificer always tests his experimental equipment first. Ah, time to face the fire.”

  The paper mâché effigies stood centered on the table, calmly awaiting their fate. Devin smiled as he lowered a pair of machinist's goggles over his eyes. The blued glass gave the room an ethereal tint. He pointed the nozzle and pressed the trigger.

  The smell of toasted bread filled the small room as indigo flames licked up the side of the effigies. Devin devoted special attention to Benny's statue. The gobs of burnt flour started cracking and flaking. It looked like skin peeling off the body. Dark blue ashes drifted into the air as the charred remains of the effigies extinguished in scattered clouds of dust.

  Devin coughed and released the nozzle, raising his goggles. Maybe that's more than you deserve, Benny. But I can gather all of your treasures in a pile and burn those. Make a bonfire of all your wooden swords. Maybe singe your shoes a bit? Then we'll see who wins your precious game.

  Drusilla's words came to haunt him again. You're turning into someone strange and dangerous . . .

  Devin snorted. “I'm the same person I always was.” He waited for the voices in his head to comment as they had lately been wont to do, but the artificer and the mage were both silent. Perhaps they were each basking in quiet admiration of his new machine, which combined the effects of cold tool-hammered metal artistry and warm magic-like fire casting ability with such beauty.

  The artificer set his bulky machine carefully on the ground. Then he swept the ashes off the table with a flick of his wrist. “I win, Benny. The dragon always wins,” Devin whispered. “And now I have the flames to prove it.”

  10. DRUSILLA, YEAR 491

  I snorted as I massaged the clicking tumblers on Higgins's giant gaudy lock, Devin's diatribe heavy on my mind. He's worried about Black Guards now! Paranoia stacked atop everything else. I glanced into the dark office. I stared at the Cat's Eye Lanterns hanging on either side of the door before putting the lock picks away. A thief's tools, all of it. Then shrugging, I eased the door open and creeped into the office . . . crept into the office?

  Creeping wasn't my usual style. I grinned ruefully as the sweat of my armpits wafted into the air. Honed these skills to keep others out. Never used them for my own thievery. But so long as wall hooks gripped those lantern handles and not my crooked fingers, it wasn't really thievery. I was just scouting for information. Nothing would ever actually leave this office.

  The faint light of a nearby forge fire some first year apprentice had neglected to bank properly sent wan orange light through the window. Just enough light to see a small metal filing cabinet in the corner. “What are you up to, Devin?” I whispered. “What parts have you stolen from Higgins?”

  The click of a brass eyelid echoed through the small room and a beam of light speared my eyes. “Journeyman Higgins, if you please.”

  I glared into the . . . glare. “How many Cat's Eye Lanterns do you have, sir?” I blinked and squinted. Rough details began to emerge behind the colored spots.

  Higgins patted the polished lantern nestled in his lap, chair creaking as he leaned back. “That is not your concern. You failed to warn your friends. Now I shall have to take steps.”

  “I was just trying to find out . . .” My mouth dried as Higgins slid a sheaf of papers across the desk toward me. His sardonic grin and the tilt of his head told me the contents of those papers. How did Higgins get these?

  “It hardly takes a wizard to see what you want. Clues to young Devin's invention, yes? The scofflaw left his blueprints during the last pilferage. He not only steals my lamps, he steals my concept designs.”

  “Remember his name now that he's written it down for you?” Glancing at Higgins for permission, which he sourly granted, I lit the desk lamp and bent over the blueprints. As I had suspected, the notes and sketches were all in my friend's familiar angular script. “This isn't a lamp,” I cried. “He stole this thing, this weapon, from you? A lamper who imagines himself an artificer, sir?”

  Higgins pushed away from the naked scorn in my voice before recovering and bestowing a truly pitiful glare while I flipped through the sheaf of papers. “He built it on many of the same principles used to construct lamps. But he has perverted their use.”

  I poked the designs with my finger and the paper crackled. “No lamper alive and precious few artificers would have had the inspiration to design much less the daring to build a machine like this. It's awesome, paradigm shifting, and deadly.”

  “It has a few minor impressive components,” Higgins admitted with a dismissive wave.

  The more I saw of my friend's dragon machine, the lower my heart sank. You weren't trying to defend against the mages, were you, Devin? You were trying to replicate their powers. You have replicated their powers. This machine . . . a world where anyone has the destruction of magic fire at their fingertips. It's horrible. What kind of artificer would invent such a machine? What kind of person? Stunned, I pushed the plans back across the desk.

  “Why do you hesitate? Is this not the proof you hoped to find? Is this not what you sought when you broke into my office?” Higgins asked.

  I held hope and dread in equal measure, but I never sought to find anything like this. “I'm not a thief,” I said, shoving the papers back into the journeyman's surprised hands. “I've seen what I need. Keep the plans. Or give them back to Devin.”

  “I must study them further,” Higgins demurred. “Discover what else he's stolen from me for this strange device he's building.”

  “The evals are two nights from now. He's built and tested the thing by now, be sure of it.” I sm
iled and bid Higgins good night as he confiscated my lock picks and pushed me out of his office.

  I bore my eviction with aplomb, but behind the calm face, my thoughts broiled. Devin will become no better than the mages if he unleashes this weapon. If the five gods meant us to have such powers, we would all be cursed with magic powers. This invention can't be produced. It must fail. Devin must fail. I have two nights . . . to sabotage my best friend.

  Guildmaster Huron's office was easier to infiltrate than Higgins's. And to further oil the seizing gears of my casual non-thievery evening activities, it contained no guildmaster lurking within it. I didn't even miss the Cat's Eye Lanterns. Light from the street lamps shone through the large windows, illuminating everything with a pale orange glow.

  The office was palatial, but my eyes were drawn to the desk in front of the window. While Higgin's desk had been a chaos of old brass lamps and papers, Guildmaster Huron's desk was sparse and clean, with a neat stack of folders in one corner and a few favorite teaching devices displayed facing those who found themselves sitting on the other side of the massive ornate metal edifice. I smiled, remembering one of the old man's favorite maxims: “An uncluttered desk is the hallmark of an uncluttered mind.”

  Sighing, I rummaged though the folders, trying to preserve something of the guildmaster's dignity. This was not the office of an old lamper who liked to tinker with machines. This was the head of the guild. He had a seat on the local council, by the gods.

  It was an authority my father often decried actually, once lobbying for rights among the smaller guilds. That was his public face. In private, that awful man boasted about how much prestige he had gained with the Lamper's Guild. How this was his first step into the political realm of the imperial bureaucracy.

  Other, more supportive daughters would have rallied behind their loving paters familia, but there was no love there. I merely saw a sullen, angry brute with a narrow mind and even narrower ambitions who had better luck attacking the sun.

  After the city council slapped his coalition down, my father returned home more angry and sullen than before. He never admitted it, but part of me suspected the whole affair was merely an excuse to spit upon his daughter's chosen profession. He failed: his life and enterprise both. My eyes roamed across the stately grandeur of the guildmaster's office.

  Exposed in the quiet of the night, I examined the furnishings and decorations with a freedom I never had during the bustle of the day. Every apprentice came in this office at least once a week to either deliver another package or a report on various projects. The man took an interest in every stage of his guild. I growled to myself as Higgins's stupid face flashed through my mind. Guildmaster Huron certainly knew the names of every apprentice.

  I pursed my lips as my eyes ranged over the elegant statues, esoteric diagrams, machine cutaways, and teaching models. Perhaps it was unfair of me to hold other men before the high standard of the guildmaster. But here is a man who had succeeded with his life. And I was plucking through his domain like a common thief.

  Blushing, I skimmed through the upper tier of files, trying to avoid looking at details while hunting for anything related to Devin. Surely the registration and notes for this year's eval candidates would have risen to the top with the test only days away?

  “Where is it?” I murmured, frantically scanning through files. Finally, a familiar name surfaced along with his selected eval committee and alternates. I startled. Guildmaster Huron had placed himself as chair of the committee. Devin always was the old man's favorite.

  And of course you're only doing this for Devin's sake, I told myself. Because his behavior has grown so bizarre, his inventions so dangerous. Not from any sense of jealousy? Not because never in your craziest dreams could you have imagined such an awesome flame-throwing device? And you, the lamper's daughter no less!

  I've always helped Devin . . . with his inventions.

  As a lackey, a stooge, a helpmeet. With Devin gone—you know how he's going to react after you stack the committee against him in his current mental state—your inventions will be preeminent. You will be Guildmaster Huron's favorite apprentice . . . once the guild exiles Devin.

  I glared at the names on Devin's committee list and smiled at one of the alternates: Journeyman Waller. I closed the file and slid it back into place. I do this for Devin, I thought, clenching my fists, not for myself. My friend needs me.

  To help him fail? the quiet part of my mind asked.

  To avoid the catastrophe of success. To starve whatever horrible mania he's suffering. This is for his sake! But doubts had begun to chip away at that certainty. Perhaps Devin's burgeoning insanity was infecting me. For days after watching him berate, bully, and manipulate poor Journeyman Waller, I was already planning to do the same tomorrow.

  My stomach heaved. What good were noble intentions against such a vile plan? Now any budding artificer worth their steel knew the greasy touch of politics as well as they knew their way around grimy gears and pistons. Apprentices sparring with each other wasn't limited to our afternoon skirmishes. The competition raged at several levels.

  But below that surge of skill and competence existed . . . other artificers. Those content merely to fix things. Those who sat on the sidelines while the rest of us sparred. I suspect Higgins had been one of those in his day. Who builds a career studying lamp designs by the five gods? Waller was another, albeit closer to my own generation.

  I remembered him as one of the elder apprentices before pity or seniority advanced him through the ranks. Always kind, always with a chubby bewildered expression when someone asked him a question that taxed his intelligence. I'm sure he was a competent enough journeyman, but if they ever raised him to mastery level, I would eat my black cap.

  This was the same sweet, hard-working soul whom Devin had nailed to the wall. And now I was going to do the same for all that I would hide my hammer within the shadow of a bright smile.

  “Journeyman Waller. How are you, sir?” I bolted the most earnest grin I could muster on my face, but the man's appearance shocked me. His once flushed cheeks looked sallow. His once cheerful expression had twisted and wrinkled into a perpetual scowl. His silver hat was askew. His robes were a frumpled mess. He gave the aura of a large apprentice who had tried wearing journeymen's clothes for a lark and found them an ill fit.

  “Hmmmm? Oh, hello, Drusilla. Getting ready for your evals?” Waller made an attempt to straighten his robes and his face when he turned to greet me.

  I bowed my head. “Maybe next year. I don't feel qualified to seek journeyman status. Too many apprentices rush into it. The ones who thrust their arms into the bowels of a broken machine without examining the schematics first. The ones who get their hands caught and their fingers crushed. They're just not ready for the job, sir.”

  Waller stroked his chin. “Yes, this is true. But how does one know if you are truly ready until we administer the test? The final proof is in a person's performance when they stand before their committee, not in preparation for a handful of rote questions. And let us not forget their journeyman's pieces.” He gripped his collar. “Of course, it is the nature of the man that is telling, not the machine.” He winked at me. “Or the woman, of course.”

  “Did any of your friends have problems the year you aced the evals, sir? Did they find themselves deficient in some way?”

  Waller chuckled and his scowl eased further. “Oh, I had a few friends who had troubles. Everyone approaches their evals in a different manner. Sometimes, a lack of knowledge doomed them. Or they were too inexperienced or too—”

  “Or too arrogant?” I pressed, letting my smile fade.

  “Yes,” Waller said, his scowl returning. “Much too arrogant. You're talking about one particular friend, aren't you?”

  “Yes, sir,” I replied, bowing my head. “I know it would take a man of great moral fortitude to even consider helping an apprentice with Devin's talents and intellect—”

  “The gods will bleed before I eve
r consider helping that wastrel boy—” Waller said, clenching his fists and staring as they quivered.

  “—to fail his evals,” I whispered, tucking an errant strand of hair behind one ear.

  Waller unclenched his fists. His knuckles popped. “Help him . . . fail? What do you mean by that?”

  I shook my head, injecting a sad tone that was only partially feigned. “I'm worried about him, sir. He's charging into this exam like there's a dog biting at his heels. He needs restraint. He needs to start questioning himself.” I slapped my fist into my palm. “He needs to fail hard, sir, and only you can ensure that happens.”

  Waller quirked one eyebrow. “I don't see how I could possibly be any assistance . . . a mere junior journeyman.”

  “You give yourself too little credit, sir. Devin is becoming unhinged. This goes deeper than mere arrogance. This is for his own good. It's for the good of the guild. People in his mental state can't handle power. What happens after we make him a journeyman artificer?” I threw up my hands. “And I may have discovered . . . somehow . . . that you are a possible alternate on Devin's committee.”

  His eyes narrowed. “How could you possibly know that?” As a rule, committee members were only told of their duties the morning of the evaluation. It was supposed to be a surprise, but I knew plenty of masters and upper echelon journeyman who knew about their assignments before they 'officially' knew. Poor Waller would hardly be a part of that lordly network.

  It's supposed to prevent favoritism, bigotry, hypocrisy, and situations just like this one, my treacherous mind hissed.

  I threw my hands in the air. “Please, sir. You know how he gets. How he sweeps people up with his slick words and tricks. You know whatever invention he creates will stun any committee member not willing to look beneath the glamor to the horrors such a machine represents. Only you can provide a balancing force for such a committee. You would judge the nature of the man, not the machine.”

  A look of horror diffused across Waller's face, bracketed by a pensive smile. “You know his committee members and his invention designs, too? What have you done to uncover such secrets, little Drusilla?”