Rotten Magic

by Jeffrey Bardwell

Master Huron waved his hand. “Not a problem. I like to see my journeymen take initiative like that. But setting up shop in an old, dank broom closet? Wherever did you get such an . . . odd notion?”

  Waller took his seat and pressed the crease in his silver robes flat against the table. “Someone reminded me that I should seize an opportunity when it presents itself and squeeze until it begs for mercy, sir.”

  Shit.shit.shit.shit.shit.

  “What a quaint, charming philosophy.” Master Huron's eyebrows rose a fraction. “Hardly your usual outlook, is it?”

  Waller shook his head. “No sir, but then quaint charm would never have reeled and landed me a lab space, would it?”

  “No, I suppose not,” Master Huron replied. “Very well, once the character witness arrives, we may begin. Did you find a suitable candidate, Higgins?”

  “Reeled? Landed it?” Gordon gasped, slapping his knee. “Oh, Waller. You should have thrown that fish back into the sea.”

  Devin stared straight ahead. Thoughts fled. Hope fled.

  Master Huron gently smacked the table with the flat of his palm. “May I remind certain members of this committee that a modicum level of decorum is both demanded and expected as they discharge their solemn duties to the guild?”

  “Yes, sir,” Higgins nodded as Huron sat back down. “I found someone eminently suitable. Best friends with the lad.”

  Hope returned. Devin craned his neck turning towards the door, holding his breath as the last pair of feet walked down the hallway. So I have a few contentious committee members. The right witness will swing things around. Drusilla's sweet praise will rally them all to my side.

  But is she the friend she once was? the mage hissed.

  She is a craftswoman born, that one, the artificer insisted. A loyal, steadfast breed. Unlike dirty, quarrelsome magic-users. Those who work wood and iron with their hands are as solid and dependable as the elements they craft.

  Feh, the mage replied. You forget that wood will rot and iron will rust given time and the right entropic push. So which one is this girl: rotten or rusty?

  No, Drusilla is my best friend. She is strong and kind. She has my best interests at heart, surely? Devin clung to hope. Soon she is going to step through that door. She is going to step through and all will be forgiven between us with a nod and a smile. She is going to . . .

  Hope congealed into a tight, iron ball and sank to the pit of his stomach as the last person sauntered into the room. His character witness was whistling, arms swinging, black cap cocked at a rakish angle.

  Devin raised his head and made himself smile and meet the cruel, laughing eyes of his arch rival. He could feel all his hopes bleeding away. Benson bowed to the assembled adults, and then last, locking eyes from across the room, bowed to Devin.

  12. DEVIN, YEAR 491

  Master Huron consulted his notes and the rustling sound echoed through the small, quiet room, which had just grown smaller. “Excellent, we're all here. Benson, I know it's hard to testify when your friend is on the bench, but please, be honest. The committee just has a few quick questions and then you may leave.”

  “It would be my pleasure to assist any way I can, sir,” the bully said.

  Huron gestured to the youth sitting in the chair, straight as an iron bar, blinking and trying desperately not to clutch the smooth, steel device propped in his lap as five pairs of eyes descended upon him with cold calculating stares as they . . . considered him. Dressed in his finest cotton clothes, sweat plastering the fabric to his body, he had never felt so exposed. A draft blew across the back of Devin's neck and his hairs shot up.

  “Tonight,” Huron said, “we will uncover the true nature of Apprentice Devin and assess whether he is fit to join the ranks of journeyman. To this end, we have selected a witness to help with this process. Not because we doubt the honesty of our apprentices, but because so rarely does any man or boy truly know himself. I need not remind the committee nothing said in this room shall ever pass beyond these doors . . .”

  Benson looked straight at Devin and smiled. The apprentice wondered why and then realized . . . nothing said shall pass beyond these doors. It gave everyone a certain freedom. What exactly was Benny planning to say? And where was Drusilla?

  Huron waited until the committee and Benson had all nodded acknowledgment. “Who has the first question for young Benson?”

  Waller rubbed his hands together. “I've got one. Lately, I've been noticing little cuts and bruises on our apprentice here. On several apprentices actually, but his are always the most visible. Nothing major, but still . . . distressing. Apprentice Devin often bares the marks of a common pugilist.” The journeyman's eyes widened and he smiled and Devin was reminded of the innocent glee the man had displayed in the lab. That glee was stripped to the bone and Waller's hollow cheeks stretched over his dimples as he grinned. “Have the apprentice's little games gotten a mite aggressive of late?”

  “Yes,” Benson said as gasps rose from the committee.

  Devin suppressed the urge to glare at his entire committee. Oh, like the lot of you don't know full well how the apprentices fight each other in the courtyard every day. Have you been struck blind and deaf?

  “Apprentice Devin, I had suspected something,” Huron said, “but this cannot be true. Surely, you know the penalty for such crude behavior? Guild apprentices are suppose to be model citizens of virtue and decorum.”

  Do masters really ever truly forget that they themselves were once apprentices? Or do they just suppress those memories? Virtue and decorum. Feh.

  “No, no, no,” Benny shook his head and waved his arms. “There's mock fighting, but not the way you think. It's not a brawl, it's a contest.” He shrugged. “Sometimes our playing gets rough. I've had a few bruises, myself. Devin may bring a few strange items to the game, but he always obeys the rules.”

  You're one to talk about rules, Benny, Devin's thoughts railed. Here you are allowing these men a glimpse of what they should not officially see. The journeymen are bad enough, but he's involving a master, too. Once again, you twist the damn rules to suit yourself without actually breaking them, but violate their spirit completely.

  “Strange items?” Waller pounced on the words. “What manner of items?”

  “Oh,” Benson shrugged. “Geared gauntlets with claws. Crafted head gear. Hardly standard issue. Everyone was admiring them just the other day. I went out and bought a pair of old gauntlets myself, but they were nothing compared to Devin's . . . stylized handiwork.”

  You purchased your gauntlets, Devin's mind screeched. What kind of brick-fingered excuse for an artificer are you?

  “I remember wondering,” Benny said, cocking his head and looking at the ceiling, “just how much time and guild resources he was using to craft such lovely machines?”

  “Misappropriating guild resources, was he?” Waller asked. “Working on his own little projects, hmmm?”

  Projects are what an artificer does, you fat poseur. Who was on the damn committee that made you a journeyman? They should be tossed into a vat of molten iron. They would better serve the guild as trace elements.

  “We can't recruit the best, brightest youths,” Gordon sneered, “future creators and inventors, and then rebuke them for inventing and creating. May I remind you we are here in part to evaluate one of his 'little projects?'” He turned toward Benson. “Do young Devin's unique creations enhance this game?”

  “Oh yes,” Benson said. “His gauntlets inspired me.”

  “Is this a team sport?” Master Higgins asked. “The apprentice contests were always team events back in my day.”

  Benson nodded. “Devin even leads his own team.”

  “I am glad to hear he is a leader,” Higgins said. “It bodes well for his future. How many apprentices does he lead in this mock battle of yours?”

  “He leads himself. Devin is a team of one,” Benson whispered, clutching his shirt as if speaking those words pained him.

  You may be a decent artificer
, Benson, but you are a horrible minstrel. And yet, to Devin's horror, Benny's audience seemed to cling to his every glib phrase and snappy gesture.

  “And has he shared any of these,” Higgins looked down at his notes, “lovely machines with his classmates? Taught them the techniques he used to construct them? Used his expertise to enrich their lives rather than his own?”

  “Well, no, but he has inspired us all to make, buy, or steal better armor,” Benson chuckled.

  “He inspires thievery?” Waller asked, crossing his arms beneath his robes. “How upstanding.”

  “But has he helped you build your armor?” Higgins pressed, ignoring his colleague and focusing on the witness. “Offered his expertise to assist the community?”

  Devin's mind broiled. The heat flowed from his brain and down his arms. Assist the community? Last time I shadowed you to repair a water main Journeyman Higgins, you spent half the time trying to persuade the owner of the house to purchase new light fixtures before attending to the job at hand. Then you overcharged the foreman so much, I thought his fingers would bleed as he counted the coins. Is that your notion of assisting the community?

  “No, he has not.” Benson shook his head. “I'm sure he knows better, though.” The contrite, almost pouting expression on Benny's face as his eyebrows furrowed was a brilliant touch.

  Devin clenched the heat into his fists and half rose in his chair. That smug, half-lying bastard—

  Guildmaster Huron waved him back down. Devin started to speak and the old man stood abruptly, silver beard rising from the table like an unsheathed dagger. “The candidate will sit down. Be silent until your allotted time m'lad as befits a member of this guild.”

  How can I mount a defense against all this . . . slander? Devin resumed his seat, folding his hands behind his head and leaning back against the puzzle box. He tried to project a calm demeanor, but that strange heat kept leaking from his interlaced fingers.

  Devin startled as something behind him gave a soft blip and a sharp object poked him in the head. He ducked, rubbed his scalp, and looked up at the enigmatic puzzle box. The stupid, twisty dial had fallen. He must have jogged the thing with his elbows.

  “The candidate may neither defend against or corroborate the witness testimony.” Huron's face had gone bone white as he fell back into his seat. “Journeyman Gordon, if you would check that the antique puzzle box is not about to crumble on top of our poor candidate? Or whether the device is even active in any way?”

  Gordon rose to perform a perfunctory examination of the box. “Still a frozen piece of junk, sir. Must've been a lose screw or a faulty bearing.”

  “You may speak later, m'lad.” Color flushing his cheeks, the old man sighed with relief and turned back to Benson. “Is Devin a vital part of this game?”

  Benson acted surprised by the question. “He is crucial. We've had to suspend the game recently while he devotes his time to other pursuits.” He wiggled his fingers at the committee. “Prepping for journeyman's exams. Little things like that.”

  Higgins smiled while Waller glared. Gordon and Huron roared with laughter. “Other pursuits, indeed.” Huron wiped a tear from his eye. “Does anyone have further questions for this witness?”

  “What is the nature of Devin's part in this so-called game?” Waller asked. “Exactly what role does the boy play?”

  Devin's eyes narrowed. Waller's questions are precise and cunning, not the journeyman's strengths. He knows too many details about this game he's claimed to never have heard about. As soon as Benny exposes a weakness, Waller plunges the knife. Has Benny been coaching him? Does the bully's rot extend so deep?

  Benson shrugged. “He plays the villain. We are the knights and he the dragon. He makes an excellent villain.”

  “Does the young man never aspire to play the hero?” Waller asked, injecting a note of false piety in his voice. “Surely we want heroes in the ranks of our guild rather than villains?”

  “He has never expressed such aspirations to me,” Benson pointed at his chest. “Devin seems to enjoy the role of the slavering, magic beast. And he is welcome to it. A vital role as I said if maybe not the most . . . dignified?” He shrugged and grinned. “We all just call him Dragon Boy.”

  “And this is how the boy represents our glorious guild?” Waller raised his arm dramatically and tilted his head. “As a beast? A mage-animal?”

  Devin bit his lip to keep from laughing. This character analysis was a farce. The journeyman must have thought he had struck a noble pose, but Devin only saw a blowhard clutching the air while struggling with constipation of the mouth.

  Gordon held up his hands. “It is a game for apprentices. Children in all but name. No doubt some of the younger ones still believe in fairy tales, none of which is germane to this discussion. Did you not have a childhood, Journeyman Waller? Someone must play the villain. The lad seems to be doing a good job of it at least.”

  Waller glared at Journeyman Gordon, who crossed his arms and quirked one eyebrow at his histrionic colleague. Waller lowered his arm and flounced back into his seat.

  “I am concerned about the child's lack of civic virtues,” Higgins said.

  Huron snorted. “If nobody has any further questions for the apprentice?” Hearing none, he nodded at Benson. “Very well, you may go. Thank you, Benson. This has been quite enlightening.”

  Benson bowed again, walked past Devin, and patted him on the shoulder before leaving the room and closing the door behind himself. Devin started rocking in his chair. Let me speak. Let me speak. Let me . . .

  “The candidate may now speak,” Huron smiled, “before he explodes. Before you do lad, I have one, small inquiry of my own. Was any statement that young man just made, to your knowledge, a falsehood?”

  No. By the gods' quivering ears, he was brilliant. The rocking stopped as Devin paused. “Only once. Not by fact, but by implication.”

  “Yes?” Huron asked.

  “I do enjoy the game and playing the dragon,” Devin said, “but the dragon is not a villain. He is an awesome and powerful beast, but he is not evil. Animals are animals, sir: neither good nor bad. They merely act in accordance to their nature. Good and evil are human attributes.”

  “And you wish to become one of these awesome, magical beasts? Such an odd desire is in accordance with your nature?” Waller sneered.

  “My dragon is crafted from metal, Journeyman Waller, using elements I designed and crafted myself, as befits an artificer,” Devin said. “This metal dragon is neither magical nor bestial. It is no different from other mechanical armor aside from scale, complexity, and the aesthetic component. It attacks. It defends. Such is its purpose . . . sir.”

  “We're not here to talk about metal dragons,” Gordon said, pointing to the tank nestled in Devin's arms. “Show us your Journeyman's Piece, Apprentice Devin. What is its purpose?”

  Devin smiled and started pumping the tank, keeping half an eye on the pressure gauge mounted on the side as the needle flickered. “It shoots flames, Journeyman Gordon.”

  “How violent,” Waller said, clasping his hands.

  Gordon shrugged and spread his hands. “So we market it to officers in the Red Army. We don't live the Daisy Chain Empire—”

  Guildmaster Huron slapped the table, his face thunderous and voice dripping icicles. “Journeyman Gordon, you have very nearly coached the apprentice whom we are tasked to evaluate. By his merits, not yours! Would you like to demonstrate the machine for him, too, as well as provide unwarranted marketing advice?”

  “No, sir,” Gordon said, his shoulders slumping while Waller preened.

  “And where did you acquire the resources to build this device?” Higgins asked, raising one eyebrow.

  “Oh, here and there,” Devin shrugged. “I scrounged, sir.”

  “Quite a pile of old lamp parts in your contraption there,” Higgins said, waving the leaflet schematic. “Have you been scrounging around my office and labs, perchance?”

  Me and every othe
r apprentice with a deadline. “Your work with lamps has been an inspiration for so many apprentices, Journeyman Higgins,” Devin said, struggling to position the loaded tank on his back. “And a guiding light in my own pursuits. I just wanted to create fire light rather than lamp light.”

  “Yes, but how much guidance?” Waller asked. “With Journeyman Higgins permission, I did my own scrounging earlier today. His records vault was most illuminating. I remembered a little idea you were tossing around after I saw young Devin's . . . invention stacked with the other apprentice efforts.”

  “Oh, did you?” Higgins waved his hands. “It seems everyone is running in and out of my office lately. Why I just caught one young lady in the act the other night. I should start charging tolls at the door.”

  “Theft, Higgins?” Huron asked. “One of my apprentices? And you apprehended her? I've received no such reports.”

  Devin glanced at the perplexed look on the guildmaster's face. It isn't the casual theft that bothers him. It's the apprentice getting caught.

  Journeyman Higgins sighed and tapped his fingers on the desk. “Respect for the young lady's father stilled my tongue. And she did not precisely steal anything from the premises.”

  A female apprentice whose father the lamp artificer holds in glowing esteem, Devin thought. He's talking about Drusilla. What trouble has she gotten herself into on my account?

  “Very well, I shall not press the issue. Tolls, you say? Not a bad idea,” Guildmaster Huron mused, stroking his beard. “The fares from the junior apprentices alone would keep me in silver sprocket money for years.”

  “And what did you find while you were snooping around a proper lab space, Waller?” Gordon asked, laughing as he came around the table and helped Devin with his tank.

  Waller fished beneath his robes as Devin struggled to lift the tank onto his back. Gordon helped him cinch the straps. Devin smiled in silent thanks as he lit the ignition box. Gordon nodded to the apprentice and resumed his place behind the table, stomping on the sheets Waller had dropped to the floor.

  “These,” Waller screamed, dusting the sheet off and slapping them down on the table. “They look like an old idea of yours using lamp parts to construct an ignition device, do they not, Journeyman Higgins? A curiously familiar-looking ignition device?”