Devin blanched, but barely glanced at the sheets. He knew what he would see. His early design sketches, lost in Higgin's office. Apparently some knucklehead apprentice had stamped Higgins's sigil and filed the damn things in the journeyman's name.
Devin fumed. While I burned all the copies of my advanced plans and notes in effigy to test this device. All the sketches I provided the committee are obviously derivatives.
Higgins shrugged. “Maybe. Maybe not. I have a lot of ideas that never make it into production. That doesn't look like my handwriting, though.”
“Could it be the handwriting of an apprentice who helped you develop your idea? Or acted as your draftsman?” Waller pressed. “An apprentice with a reputation as a busybody more concerned with tweaking others' ideas than developing his own original creations? Who may indeed lack the mental acuity for original thought?”
“I'll stop you right there, Waller.” Gordon held up his hands. “A blind man can see where this stupid mage hunt of yours is going. Let's see what the boy's invention can do before we pick it apart, eh? Or him,” Gordon chuckled. “Fire it up, lad.”
Devin pointed his nozzle at the sheets on the table. “What would you like me to burn, sir?”
“One moment, m'lad.” Huron reached under the table and emerged with a bucket of water. “Can't be too safe, can we? Now, let's see.” He rummaged through his pockets. “I've got some old lease bills for the Guild Hall, lad. It would do an old man's heart good to see them burst into flames.” He crumpled the papers into a ball and lobbed them down the length of the table.
All eyes were focused on him. All debate had ended. The apprentice stepped forward, not daring the breathe. Devin sighted along the arc, leading with his nozzle and every head turned as one to track the device. Devin performed one last perfunctory check on the nozzle.
Everything is ready. One quick sweep to demonstrate and set those bills ablaze and then stop. I don't want to set the table alight. He took a deep breath and flexed his fingers. Well. Time to make some flames.
Devin swiveled his hips, grinned, and pressed the trigger. Nothing happened.
13. DEVIN, YEAR 491
The growing panic was a slow, cold thing, spreading like ice across a freezing pond, numbing his thoughts, slowing his actions. Perhaps the trigger spring broke? He tugged gingerly with his trigger finger, but no, his pull was met with firm resistance.
I need to make this thing work. A dozen little problems danced through his mind and Devin made himself calmly consider each one while he stood there triumphantly wielding a useless, broken machine.
“How impressive,” Waller said, but the apprentice ignored this.
I need this to work. Devin adjusted the nozzle. Nothing. Tried to grab the pump handle. Couldn't reach. Tried to check the pressure gauge. Sadly, said gauge was next to the pump handle.
The next version I design, Devin fumed, the pressure gauge is going next to the damn nozzle and the pump handle is getting mounted on the side of the damn tank.
Devin fumbled with the straps until Journeyman Gordon rose to help him. After examining the machine and making a range of tiny, minute adjustments, he found the flaw. It was the igniter. Devin cried as he manually clicked the wheel against the flint. A faint spark, but no flames.
I need . . . I need . . . The icy panic had encased his body and mind. There was no adjustment, no fiddling with the mechanics that could solve this problem.
The igniter's fuel-soaked wick had gotten dislodged and fallen out sometime during transporting the machine. His eyes narrowed. Or maybe someone had stolen it to sabotage his chances? The heat began building in his fingertips again.
I need fire. But the damn thing won't light. Such a simple thing. And now, I'm ruined. All because I can't . . . light . . . a fire.
An idea began to form in his mind. The icy panic shattered under the warm brilliance of such a thought. A trick of sorts. A way to make fire . . . to make his machine work.
Yes, the mage exalted.
By the five, have you lost your mind? the artificer screamed. Using magic to pass your evals is blasphemous.
I just need a quick burst to ignite the fuel, Devin reasoned. It's not really cheating. Why can't I be my own igniter? Who's going to know? I have one chance to save this eval and a broken machine won't do it.
Devin reached towards the tip of the nozzle. “I need to make a quick adjustment,” he said, pushing the heat into his fingertips.
Waller laughed. “Leaving us cold, apprentice?” he sneered.
Devin pushed the anger and frustration down his arm and focused it in his fingers. The heat pulsed. The flames burst in his hand as a high-pitched, wailing keen emerged from the puzzle box. Devin screamed a bit too loudly as his hand caught fire, curious ephemeral flames that did not hurt in the least, and plunged it into the bucket of water Master Huron had helpfully provided.
Once the fire in his hand was 'extinguished' and the noise ceased, Devin cheerfully withdrew his hand from the bucket to display his unburnt fingers. Once the committee verified that he was unharmed, everyone was free to turn their attentions to the machine. The fire at the tip of the nozzle captivated the room as Devin gleefully waved it before his audience.
“What was that strange, eerie sound?” Gordon asked, scratching his head. “I've never heard the like.”
“I have,” Master Huron whispered, refusing to look at Devin, instead glaring at the puzzle box with a wide-eyed stare as though the device had somehow betrayed him. He pinched the bridge of his nose. “But for now, we have a machine to judge, gentlemen.”
Devin fumbled with the nozzle trigger as Master Huron's face grew darker and darker. The apprentice tried to catch the guildmaster's eye, but the old man refused to look at him. A gout of flames splashed across the room, singeing robes and eyebrows, and turning the paper into a soot print on the far wall.
“Well, it's certainly one of the more energetic inventions this year,” Huron sighed. “And who are the interested parties wanting to purchase this invention?” He glared at Gordon. “Besides the army?”
I get his attention. He asks about marketing. Devin winced. Somehow, it always came back to marketing. I guess that's how we pay those bills I just flamed.
The apprentice pointed the nozzle at the floor and turned to face the committee. “The Lamper's Guild will likely be our first customers in a utilitarian capacity if only for the pocket-sized ignition component. Besides the Red Army, the Black Guards may also find the entire assembly useful as an offensive weapon. Farmers may find it helps in agricultural tasks clearing fields of brush and weeds . . .”
“Not to mention flushing the burrowing animals: gophers, moles, and rabbits.” Gordon chuckled and Devin remembered the man grew up on a farm. “By the five, what a wonderful deterrent.”
Devin nodded. “It may take several years for customers to discover every applicable permutation of this invention. The concept sells itself. Who wouldn't want the power to created a tongue of flames in the palm of their hand?”
“Some have that power, already,” Master Huron sighed. “Are you not worried the public would associate this device with the horrors of mage fire, lad? Crackling flames shooting from your hands is not an image one associates with lamps or guards or farms, but with violent, magic attacks. No matter what their other abominable, cursed . . . skills, all the mages can shoot fire from their fingertips. The public would not glimpse the utility of your invention beyond the blanket of their own fears.”
“Surely, it is better to fight fire with fire, sir?” Devin asked, propping the long nozzle on his hip. “We could market it to home owners as a crime deterrent against both magical and physical attacks alike. Someone breaking into your home?” He pointed the nozzle over his shoulder toward the ceiling and triggered a small burst of flames. “Fwoosh. Crispy criminal.”
“Turning every citizen into a vigilante.” Higgins said, tracing a finger along the scorch marks on his robes. “The Black Guards would love that. Do we no
t have a responsibility to safeguard the public from themselves . . . and us?”
I have more faith in people than a cynic like Higgins, Devin thought.
Gordon clapped and spread his hands. “The Artificer's Guild: Protecting you from yourselves since 521. A catchy slogan if I ever heard one. I like the bit about 'fwoosh, crispy criminals,' too.”
“We would have the damn city burn down around our ears when people start shooting fire at every spooky shadow and back alley cat,” Waller grunted.
“So we agree it is a potentially useful invention with wide market appeal despite possible societal perception issues and potential, violent repercussions?” Huron asked.
“A high, fixed price point would alleviate most of those issues. Everyone's not going to run out and flame their neighbors if they can't afford the thing,” Gordon smiled. “The guilds can afford a price hike and we can always offer a discount to the farmers. Besides, what worthwhile invention didn't turn society upside down and shake it?”
“Yes, but returning to the crux of the matter: the originality of the thing?” Waller waved the schematics he had stolen from Higgins's office. “Without that handy ignition box, it's just a big, ugly lamp that squirts fuel everywhere.”
Huron sighed. “Much as I hate to admit it, Journeyman Waller has a valid point, lad. I have never seen that vital spark of originality in any of your work. I had so hoped this would be the first of many fresh, new creations, but I only see old, bad habits. Your little flint box is mostly scrounged from leftover lamp parts?”
“Yes,” Devin said, “but . . .”
“And you admit to sneaking into Journeyman Higgins's rooms to pilfer said parts?” Master Huron asked. “It does not look good, m'lad.”
Devin sighed and nodded. Do I dare claim those schematics as my own? Master Huron's face looks dark enough already.
“And all the plans you can offer us are these pithy, little leaflets?” Huron waved his in the air. “Whereas Journeyman Waller has pulled independently filed, complete early schematics diagrams from among Higgins's own record vaults? I'm not impressed, Devin. Not impressed at all.”
“A wise man once told me it is vital to modify, extrapolate, and divine,” Devin choked back his tears, “to produce something joyous. I cannot prove it against Waller's claims, but the igniter at the heart of my dragon flamer is something joyous. Something revolutionary.”
Something broken, the artificer reminded him.
Good riddance, the mage snorted.
Devin's heart sank as Master Huron's face lifted. “You're right, lad. Show me this device.”
Devin numbly disengaged the igniter and passed it to the guildmaster. “You flick the little wheel, sir.”
“Yes, I see that. Hmm, interesting use of a flint.” His eyebrows rose as he worked the mechanism. “A spark machine? You expected to excite me with a spark machine? A child's plaything?”
“No sir, I . . .” Devin protested.
“Not only did you steal designs and parts from Journeyman Higgins, you stole the very idea itself from the barbarian horde.” Master Huron looked as though he were about to spit and his expression leached any arguments or resistance from his one time favorite apprentice.
“A spark machine. A toy. Yes, that's all it is.” Devin hung his head as Master Huron slid the metal box across the table.
“I expected better of you, Devin. You have a genius and a talent, lad, but your attitude is execrable and where is your spark? Why do you never create and invent, but merely copy and improve? Why did you spend so much time fiddling with your own gauntlets and not those of your fellow apprentices?”
“But I helped all the journeymen with their projects,” Devin whispered.
“Yes, you offer reams of advice to every journeyman alive, but never take it yourself,” Master Huron replied. “You steal someone else's ideas and claim them as your own. You need to be a team player to advance in this guild, yet you play for a team of one. That isn't how we do things in the guild.”
Waller grinned and clapped his hands. He practically quivered in his seat with anticipation.
Huron turned his sad gaze towards the journeyman. “Waller here used to be the most cheerful fellow and now he schemes to stab a mere apprentice in the back. When I look at you, Devin, I don't see an artificer, I see something . . . darker.”
Gordon frowned. “You're being too hard on the boy, Huron. Happy or vengeful, Waller will always be a bastard. And derivative inventions are hardly a crime . . . or unprecedented. Else we would still be hunched in caves looking at the pretty flames.”
“Don't speak to me of flames,” Huron cried, wincing and forcing himself to look at Devin. “I have seen the most promising career in years burn to ashes this night. Your friends named you well, Dragon Boy. Your toxic flames singe everyone around you.” Master Huron sagged in his chair. “Not only have you failed to make journeyman this night, we must evaluate your suitability for the apprenticeship program as well.”
“What are you saying, sir?” Devin asked.
“The guild is not unkind. You may finish your education in the morning classes. But the heart of the Artificer's Guild, the machine shop, is forever closed to you. If you ever set foot in there again, I shall contact the Black Guards.” His eyes narrowed. “You know why, m'lad.”
Devin felt himself sinking in the dirty wells of pain that were his mentor's tearing, brown eyes. The tank slipped off the youth's shoulders. It clanged to the floor.
“Return that ignition box to its proper owner. Then turn in the rest of that violent contraption and leave.” Huron rubbed his nose. “It's been a long day. Please, just leave.”
I made it. I own it. The dragon flamer is mine. Devin ran away with the device and his books and his tools. Nobody chased him. He didn't remember walking behind the Guild Hall. His feet moved on their own. His mind went nowhere but tighter and tighter circles. He wedged everything into the hole in the tree in the field. It was a tight fit, but without the helmet or gauntlets there was room next to the dragon scale cuirass. His shame hidden, the youth went home. The city passed in a blur of hot tears.
Can't go back to the house like this. Devin heard the splash of the public fountain and veered towards it. He cleaned his face one last time in the fountain and wiped his eyes before pushing off the cool, stone ledge and going home. And for once it felt like going home, not just walking to the place they lived while waiting for a better place. The prospect of losing everything had finally smoothed a few sharp edges off the rough city neighborhood.
“Welcome home, Journeyman Devin,” his mother called as he opened the door. “Oh, I'm so proud of you.”
He closed his eyes so he wouldn't have to see the happiness drain from her face.
“I didn't quite . . . make journeyman this time, Mom,” Devin said, bolting a grin below his nose. And they kicked me out of the program. “Gave it a good shot. Not quite up to par with the other fellows. Maybe next year, huh?” Maybe never, huh?
“A good shot? You've been prepping the last two seasons for this. Oh, Sweety.” His mother rushed from the kitchen, wiping her hands on an apron. “I'm so sorry. Was it your marketing strategy? I told you not to spend all your time inventing. They probably wanted a more thorough market analysis.”
“That was probably it,” Devin nodded, pulling away as his mother tried to hug him. “I really don't want to talk about it. I just want to go to my room.”
“But I cooked all your favorite foods.” His mother gestured to the kitchen. “Maybe just a bite?”
Devin shook his head. “I'm not hungry.”
“Go on upstairs and relax. I'll send Misera up with a plate later,” his mother said, biting her lip as she gently pushed her son towards his room.
When Misera ventured up the stairs later, she peered through the cracked door to see her brother lying in bed staring up at the ceiling. She knocked. “Is me,” she called. “Momma sent you din dins.” She set it on the desk. “You don't wanna do that special
thing you do?”
Devin looked at his hands. “They won't let me do the special thing I do anymore, Missi. Maybe never again.”
“Makin rocks glow?” his sister asked, puzzled as she hopped up on the bed. “Who gonna stop you iffn you wanna do it?”
Who indeed, the mage said as Devin clenched his fists. All that struggle to make fake flames with . . . machines, the voice sneered, and you needed magic to save it. You kept me cooped in here too long. What use is the artificer except to help you build an ugly, broken machine?
Help the boy? I merely watch. I do not interfere, the artificer said. No good ever comes with meddling. A lesson you should take to heart, you magic manic.
No, you were no help at all, the mage agreed. It was my magic mania that stepped up to save the day.
You cheated. It was supposed to be a contest of skill and machinery and you . . . cheated, the artificer said, choking as though the words burned him. You killed the boy's dreams.
Dreams come. Dreams go, the mage sniffed. Nature of the beasts. He will chase better dreams one day.
Devin screwed his eyes shut. He didn't want to think about his dreams. His guts twisted around themselves. He pushed all the pain away. His fists grew warm.
Yes, feed all that rage and despair down into your fingertips, the mage chuckled. Swallow your pain, don't wallow in it. Use it. Burn it to a crisp.
“What are you doing?” Devin whispered, opening his eyes as the pressure swelling inside squeezed his chest and locked his arms in place.
I am doing nothing, the mage said. Merely offering simple words to encourage a battered soul. The pain is yours. The power is yours. Use it. Burn all your pain away.
His sister had crawled onto the bed and wrapped her arms around his torso. “Gonna be fine, Devi.”
You tried to replace magic fire with a thing of gears and metal and old lamp wicks. The nerve of it all, the mage chuckled. You deserved to fail tonight, you damn upstart mechanic.
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