The Artifice Mage Saga Boxed Set: Books 1-3

by Jeffrey Bardwell

  The apprentice squeezed into the tiny corner workshop and gently closed the door behind him. He breathed a sigh of relief. Sweet, sweet silence. Now I can . . .

  A dry chuckle interrupted his thoughts. “I see we had the same idea, Devin,” Journeyman Waller said. The man's silver cap was so new, the creases hadn't disappeared yet. “Hard to hear yourself think out in that din, eh? Here to work on some delightful little project of your own, hmmm?”

  “Yes,” Devin said, eyes flitting to his tools on the wall behind the portly journeyman. How can I get rid of him? I need my space. I need my privacy. Can't have Waller spoiling the damn surprise when he starts gushing about Devin's 'delightful little project.' Which he will.

  “I see you've got quite the assortment of odds and ends back there, Devin. Are those lamp bits behind you?” Waller asked, rubbing his hands together. “No worries, I didn't peek. Can't wait to see it.”

  “And I would love to show it to you, Journeyman Waller, but it's still in pieces. I was just going to assemble it and . . .” he gestured to the clutter of tools, diagrams, and delicate, steel models surrounding the journeyman and smiled his most brilliant, fixed smile.

  “Oh, don't mind me, lad. Plenty of room here for the both of us,” the journeyman said, spreading his arms and knocking over a steel tube. It crushed one of his models. The clatter echoed through the small room.

  Devin rolled his eyes. “Yes, Journeyman Waller.”

  “Whoopsie! Why so formal, Devin? Waller will do. Word down the pipeline says you'll be getting a silver hat of your own soon, eh?” He clutched his own silver cap as though afraid a gust of wind or cruel fate might blow it off his head. “Best thing that ever happened to me, turning silver.” His eyes widened as he looked at the assorted metal items stacked on the shelves. “That isn't your journeyman's project, is it? Oh, how exciting!”

  Oh, how nauseating. And your damn silver hat does not give you the right to call me lad; if there's more than five years between us, I'll eat my black one. “Yes, journeyman, it's very exciting. But first, I have to pass my evals like everyone else. I'm not a journeyman, yet.” Devin hung his head.

  “No, lad, but soon, I'm sure. Everyone's always talking about your little tweaks and improvements. Why, when you get your feet planted, I'm sure there will be no stopping you!”

  You don't want to know where I want to plant my foot right now, Devin thought, spreading his hands. “What are you doing here, sir? Why aren't you in a bigger lab?” He narrowed the gap between his hands. “A journeyman such as yourself constrained to such tight, confined working quarters. This isn't right, Journeyman Waller?”

  “Ah well,” Waller shrugged. “You'll learn this when you come up through the ranks yourself, lad, but there's a hierarchy within the hierarchy. It's not just the color of your cap, you know?”

  As if I haven't been clawing my way to the top of the apprentice heap for years. Devin smacked his forehead. “Surely not.” But the sarcasm, as with so many things, was lost on Journeyman Waller. Any other day Devin would have pitied the man, but his mounting frustration was transforming into something darker, more insidious.

  “Oh yes,” Waller nodded, his jowls quivering. “Even one as gifted as I,” he pointed at his chest, “must contend with the judgment of his peers. Oh age, skill, date of rank . . . they all factor into it. I suppose everyone must start somewhere. And I was so happy to finally get my silver cap, too.” He started crying softly.

  “They stuck you right at the bottom, didn't they?” Devin asked.

  “No! No! Not the bottom,” Waller shook his head. “Not the very bottom.”

  “Oh, Waller. What are you doing down here slumming with the apprentices? You're so much better than that. You should march right up to Master Huron's office and demand your own research space. It's the least you deserve after ahem . . . all those years you put in as an apprentice, yourself.”

  “I do?” Waller wiped his red eyes.

  “I didn't want to say anything,” Devin whispered. “But the rest of the apprentices were all cheering when you finally moved up to silver. Couldn't happen to a nicer guy.” Of course we cheered. You were finally somebody else's problem.

  “That's so sweet.” The shy, slow, trusting smile spreading across the man's face was truly frightening.

  “I know all the labs are taken, but there's a special space on the second floor for a journeyman with your special talents. A place for you to spread out. I bet Master Huron would be delighted to let you set up shop there.” Anything to get you out of this room and out of my shop space.

  “I don't know. I haven't been called up to the second floor much.” Waller took his cap in his hands and wrung it.

  “Go on up. Tell Huron you want the third door on the left. It's the only free space, sadly, but it's the perfect size for a man of your mental acumen. It's a place where you can finally stretch your talents.” . . . the masters' supply closet.

  “Yes.” Waller pumped Devin's hand. “Thank you, Apprentice Devin. I do deserve my own space closer to the masters.” He squared his shoulders. “I'm marching upstairs, looking Master Huron right in the eye, and claiming that room for my own. I'm a Journeyman now, by the five gods. It's time for me to sweep away the clutter of my old life. Really clean up my act. Apprentice Devin, are you laughing?”

  The apprentice clutched his sides and snorted. “I'm just so happy for you. Don't mind the mess. I'll tell some of the other apprentices to cart it up to your new office. They'll all be delighted.” Oh right, I've alienated most of the apprentices. Maybe I can find some new recruits who haven't joined Benny's clique, yet.

  Waller took a few of his diagrams to show the masters his brilliant ideas. He gave the apprentice a jaunty wave as he bounded out the door.

  Devin smiled and waved until Waller was out of sight. Then the smile vanished and the open palm curled into a fist. He's finally gone. The apprentice poked his head out the door. He peered left. He peered right. No witnesses. Good. Then he pushed the remains of the man's clutter out into the hallway and went back into the workshop. “Goodbye, Journeyman Waller,” Devin chortled as he shut the door. Pity, there wasn't a lock on it.

  8. DRUSILLA, YEAR 491

  I braced my hands and back against the wall, taking some comfort in the numbing chill of the flat, smooth granite as I heard Devin chuckle around the corner. The sound made shivers ratchet up my spine, tiny cog teeth grinding between each vertebrae.

  Who is that? What has happened to him?

  I choked on my shallow breaths and sobbed quietly. The person in that room looked like Devin and had his voice, but his mind . . . this was something beyond casual behavioral warping. It felt as though some stranger had stepped into the skin of my old friend and was shambling around with his feet and cackling behind his lips.

  He was always distant, but never so cruel. What horror is chewing him up inside so viciously? What twisted him into a creature with such a humorless, flat laugh?

  The dusty image of his broken dragon horns and crushed gauntlets swirled through my mind. It fit the pattern, but I pushed them aside. They're just things. They are only things, I told myself, smacking the wall with my fist. Devin's good at redesigning and rebuilding. He likes it. That tiny setback wouldn't turn him into . . . whoever he's become. Is it the stress of his evals warping him?

  The lingering sense of anxiety that had been building inside me as I spied on the conversation between Devin and Journeyman Waller slowly congealed in my stomach. I began to question myself even as I glanced around the corner. Have I not been a supportive friend? Was I in some way responsible for pushing him over this mental cliff? Was I too caught up in studying my friend that I've neglected any opportunities to help him? Did I hesitate so as to study him further or worse still unwittingly shepherd his descent?

  He is my friend. He is not a machine. My friend is falling to pieces while I do nothing but watch and offer cheap words of comfort.

  I'm too close to be objective. My eyes narrow
ed. But this is more than mere evaluation jitters. My true friend is inside that creepy simulacra somewhere alone in the darkness.

  “Who's there?” a tense voice cried. A cold voice. A distortion of Devin's voice. Clattering noises told me he was wading through Journeyman Waller's discarded machinery. He was smashing it to reach me. Any doubts I had vanished. I winced as he crushed the delicate machinery underfoot. Devin would never be so callous in his right mind. He would never treat people or machines with such bleak disdain.

  Devin, what has happened to you? No, not yet. I pushed myself away and stepped further down the hallway. I wasn't ready to confront him without knowing what had happened. I wasn't ready to help him. I needed to know more. I needed something more tangible than my mounting fears. This new Devin had become a locked book. I flexed my fingers. Thank the five gods I'm good with locks.

  Another person, a stronger person than I would have stood firm. She would have known the right tools and used the right words and performed the right actions. She would have leaped to rescue her friend from the clutches of his own bleak depths rather than to see him slip further into darkness.

  I am not that person. I ran away.

  The best way to probe the mind of an artificer is to examine their machines with a meticulous eye. Do they built with sturdy lasting joints and rivets or are their efforts slapped together with glue with twine? Are the devices useful or banal? Do they favor easy solutions or devious complexities? Do they have a touch of artistry and aesthetics or are they plain and unassuming? One can dissect a person's soul in the structure of what they craft with their minds taunt and fingers nimble.

  As people changed, so did their machines, incorporating new designs and fresh ideas. Or regurgitating old ideas, which told you something of their psyche as well. I needed a blueprint of this different Devin. I had to discover what secret project he was concocting.

  Waller said Devin's machine involved lamp bits. The best source for those parts—aside from his best friend, the lamper's daughter—was Journeyman Higgins.

  I borrowed a large package addressed to Higgins with a friend's blessing. It was nearing the end of the day and he was glad to be rid of it.

  I smiled and nodded at various other apprentices I knew as I hurried to the southern quadrant of the guild hall and made my way toward the stairs. I did not speak. Who could hear over the cacophony of grunting apprentices: the clumsy hammer swings of the first years; second and third sawing, melding, and bending diligently in small groups under the tutelage of a watchful journeymen; or higher years secreting away in corners and abandoned labs to work on their final, most important projects? The air clanged with the sound of random, fervent industry. Finally, I ducked my head and scurried through the last cluster of younger apprentices, my ears ringing.

  The stairs carried me above the commotion. The rows of offices on either side of the hallway dampened all sound. It was quiet and peaceful. Soon the path branched at perpendicular angles and I glanced at the plaque on the wall for guidance. I had never actually made a delivery for Journeyman Higgins.

  I oriented myself and peered down the side hall. The master's offices were on the left where they abutted the outside of the building, enjoying natural sunlight and ethereal breezes from their large bay windows. The journeymen were on the right: their small wire-frame windows opened to the bedlam of the machine shop below.

  The placement of the journeymen offices on the second floor balconies overlooking the portion of the vast machine shop where the apprentices slaved on our projects always vexed and comforted my friends in equal measure. Some saw it as our betters watching over us. Others saw venal taskmasters always peering over our shoulders. I was ambivalent: some were kind and some were cruel among the apprentices as well as the journeymen.

  From what my friend with the package had told me, Higgins was the sort who couldn't be bothered to look out his office window. I found his office. He displayed a pair of old Cats' Eyes Lamps hanging outside his door, which was ajar. I hugged the package close to my chest and knocked with one knee. I glanced at the large, shiny steel lock on the door and snorted. I could have picked it with one fingernail.

  “What is it, apprentice?” Higgins asked as I nudged the door open with my hips and entered the room. Shelves of broken lamps and glass towers lined the walls. The smell of dragon oil clung to every surface.

  I suppressed a wince, not because of any individual sight or odor, but because the whole place reminded me of the god-cursed workshop behind our house. This was the den of a man who preferred conversing with his lamps to his family. The door swung closed behind me and I startled.

  Higgins looked up from a stack of documents. His desk was piled high and he was using his silver cap as a paper weight. He pinched his nose and slicked his gray hair back with one hand, gesturing to an empty space in the corner with the other. “Set it over there, thank you.”

  I did as he asked and half turned expectantly. What to say?

  “Was I your last delivery for the day?” Higgins asked, smiling. “Run along now. I don't have any packages or correspondence that can't wait until tomorrow. Don't you have someplace else to be?”

  “Yes, sir. Thank you, sir,” I said, tipping my black cap. Where are your inventory records? Have you had any thefts lately? Did Devin ever come to you for help with his . . . new invention? I turned to walk away when a sharp grunt made me pause mid stride.

  “Wait, wait,” the journeyman said, pushing his papers aside and easing back in his chair. “It's getting late. Almost time to go home. Yet here you are with a rush delivery. Such dedication deserves some reward. A small commendation to the Guildmaster perhaps.” He rummaged through a drawer on his desk and grabbed paper and quill. “What's your name, girl?”

  He can't write me a commendation! I turned slowly and smiled. Should I lie or . . . “Apprentice Drusilla, sir.”

  Higgins tapped his quill on the desk. “Drusilla . . . I know you. The lamper's daughter. Do remember me to your father. Wonderful man.” He raised the quill and dipped it in a brass inkwell crafted to resemble an old oil lamp.

  My teeth clenched. “Yes, sir. Of course, sir.”

  “Hmmm, you're friends with that apprentice obsessed with dragons. The clever one.”

  The smile froze on my face. A paper record linking me here is the last thing I need. Can I distract him with a different name? I nodded. “Devin, sir? He talks about you all the time. He's fascinated by lamps, sir.”

  The man's eyes narrowed. “Does he? Is he? I've heard rumors of apprentices jabbing their noses into my office, pilfering my equipment.” He pointed with the quill. “There's a new lock on that door, hear me?”

  I nodded and kept my smile fixed. The man may know his lamps, but that lock is pathetic. Any artificer worth the name could demolish that ten tumbler box in moments with a mechanical hammer if not skill and a decent set of picks. What's the use in locking doors? It's respect or fear that holds the apprentices at bay, but Higgins is coated in the smelly oil of the Lamper's Guild. What artificer born wouldn't scorn such a man?

  Of course you should respect him! A small part of me rebelled, standing there surrounded by those sights and smells. Suddenly I was a little girl again tinkering in her father's shop. I spared a thought for those warm, well-oiled tools and the dutiful daughter, pigtails unraveling as she struggled to craft a better, brighter lamp from scraps, dreaming of presenting her new invention to a proud, happy father.

  “I've a list of names, and I'm making certain your friend is at the top,” Higgins said, breaking my reverie. “Devin. A name I shall not forget again. Another three barrels of oil just went missing yesterday, by the gods' greasy fingers. When I catch him . . .” He clenched his fists.

  I mentally added my name to the list and gave Higgins a slight bow. “Rumors are not proof, sir. I will warn all my friends that your office is inviolate—”

  Higgins stopped me with a dismissive wave. “Every journeyman's office is inviolate, by the gods. Just
make certain they all stay away from mine. Blasted apprentices. Likely using my precious lamp oil to make paper dragons and brass sparklers. Forget the commendation. Be gone with you.”

  I nodded and left. The door latched with a merry click and I promised the simple locking mechanism I would visit again soon. Three barrels of dragon oil? I mused. What did Devin want with three barrels of dragon oil? It's finicky, volatile stuff. Not unlike a certain apprentice I know.

  I spared a thought for the dragons. Oil drums, rotgut, and broken bits were all anyone in the empire ever saw of the beasts that graced our banners. Paper dragons were a toy to frighten children. Only Dragon Boy had any reverence left. And now he had a stockpile of raw, undistilled dragon juice. No, he built that suit for reverence. The oil was for some darker, more sinister purpose.

  I pursed my lips as I absently waved to a few friends gossiping by the doors and I left the hall. I nodded to the lampers who called my name as I walked down the streets. Dragon oil and mages. What's the connection? Devin's stolen enough oil to burn the entire—

  Around the corner, a giant gout of flames roared into the hazy orange sky. I ran towards the fire and my thoughts raced ahead of me. Devin, what did you do?

  The building was in flames, several windows breathing fire like rows of dragons' nostrils while the soot black smoke stained the wall above them. The plaster facing was webbed with large, peeling cracks. Due to the age of the materials, not the fire, I realized. Ragged men and woman and half-naked children ran past me with screaming haste.

  They kept coming from every door and every first story window, some leaping from higher perches onto smoldering mattress or cushions or even—I peered through the smoke and shuddered—dead bodies. Anything to avoid the bone-crunching slap of hard cobbles. Others threw their valuables, which bounced off the ground or shattered. I shielded my face with one arm as a large urn smashed five paces to my left, moving against the crowd like a fish swimming up a roiling stream.

  A company of Black Guards in full armor had the building cordoned. One saluted as he waved me away, gauntlet clanging against his helmet. I almost forgot about Devin as the tiny servo gears purred to me. The Mark 3 Armor gleamed in the fire light. The evening's misery squelched as I grasped at anything pleasurable in this horrible day. I stood on my toes to admire the subtle craftsmanship. It was even more beautiful up close. They never let me get this near at the public demonstration. I had restrain myself from yanking the helmet off the man's head and examining it.