The Artifice Mage Saga Boxed Set: Books 1-3

by Jeffrey Bardwell

  Sick. It's like watching a steam engine explode. All the shards and metal springs are shooting right at my face, but I can't look away. She stabbed my eyes.”

  “What was that?” Cornelius jiggled as he flexed and latched the bread cages. “Stabbed? Did someone hurt themselves?”

  Oh, by the wrath of the five gods. That's right. Some wizards can pluck the thoughts from your mind. Damn the girl, now I'm thinking about his drumsticks, too.

  “Of course I'm catching your thoughts,” Cornelius said. “Your emotions are buzzing like a bee skep. What's going on?”

  Devin stared at Abigail. “You don't want to know, sir,” he said with absolute, blank sincerity.

  Cornelius followed the direction of the youth's gazing eyes and a knowing smile spread across his face. “Hmmm, so I see. Just as well you're sleeping on the hearth.”

  What is wrong with these people? The whole town sick.

  Cornelius coughed into his hand. “No, the town is quite healthy, I assure you. Winter is safe enough here in the country so long as we ration our food supplies. Most of our sustenance is dried and bland. We have the bakers like Abigail to thank for her fresh, baked goods to liven up our palettes.” He turned to face the girl. “No muffins today?”

  Abigail startled from the window and raised her arms. “No, professor. Not today.”

  “Are you feeling unwell, lad? The wasting diseases typically arrive later in the year with the warm spells.” Cornelius sounded concerned as he wound down his lecture like a rumbling flywheel. He placed one hand on the Devin's forehead. “You don't feel sick. You are a pampered city youth, aren't you?”

  “I grew up in a village,” Devin protested.

  “He's defective,” Abigail said, playing with her pathetic, wooden coins. “Are you not aware what the Iron Empire does to the mages they capture, boy?”

  “Of course, I know what the empire does to mages.” Devin turned back towards the girl. “I lived through it. They round them up. They take them away. They do things like this.” He propped his iron peg on a chair. “How can you ask such a horrible thing? Do you have a wooden heart, too?”

  Abigail looked at him with pitying eyes and Devin was reminded of the fat wizard, Ranunculus. “No, you got off light. Did you slip through a crack? Are you even a real mage? Can you actually not know how your own government treats real mages? He doesn't know. Isn't that fascinating, Professor?”

  “Light?” Devin slammed his iron peg on the table. He tried to gouge the living wood, but the tree table resisted. “Does this thing sound light to you? Does this look light to you? I walked across your whole miserable kingdom with this dead weight strapped to my leg. Every step feels like sharp, little nails driving into my flesh. Don't tell me I got off light.”

  Even as he protested, Devin couldn't quite convince himself. He pushed away the memory of Captain Vice leering over his tray of sharp, little tools. I escaped . . . for now.

  “Boys,” Abigail huffed. “Always so literal. I didn't mean the horrible things what all they did do to you. I meant all the horrible things they did not do to you. I can tell you all about it . . .”

  “They execute us,” Cornelius interrupted. “End of story.”

  “Oh no, sir. That boy deserves to know to full flavor of what's in store for him. It's the Iron Empire. They don't merely execute people in the Iron Empire.” Abigail chewed on the ends of her ponytail. “It's so much more titillating than that.”

  “That's enough, Abigail!”

  “How did you get away, boy? Are you a spy?”

  “I'm an artificer,” Devin protested. “I'm not a boy and I'm not a spy.”

  “As if the imperials needed to infiltrate any spies into this town, Abigail,” Cornelius shook his head. “Far easier to bribe the tourists for information. Devin is as much a wizard as I am, albeit untrained. And an artificer of course. He's a scholar, too. His collection of books rivals my own. A lad of many parts. Don't forget it.”

  “If you say so, sir. But if that little artifice boy is a mage, how come his magic is always disappearing? If he's some kind of scholar, how come he doesn't know anything about how his own country works? He's suspicious.”

  “All artificers are scholars,” Devin said. “We know how the world works because we built it.” Little artifice boy.

  “Don't mettle with things you don't understand, girl. Shouldn't you be getting back to your father? Good day, Abigail.”

  “Have a wonderful day, sir.” Abigail retreated from the window. “Goodbye, boy.”

  “Really, Devin, the sour look on your face. You need to meet the town herbalist, next. Come with me. Perhaps an empirical exploration of magic is in order rather than all this talking.”

  Devin followed the wizard into the bedroom behind the kitchen. He dragged Styx along behind him. Cornelius was standing next to a tall wardrobe and gesturing at the bed. Both appeared to be the same living wood construction as the table and chairs in the other room.

  “I know you're feeling a little skeptical, so I thought I would demonstrate a few practical applications of getting to know your inner tiger. Break a fresh leaf off the bed post, won't you? Make certain the petiole is still attached.”

  “The what?”

  “The twig-like part at the base of the leaf.”

  “Here, Cornelius. Why did you not just ask for the little twig-like bit?” Devin plucked a leaf and handed it to the wizard. The youth sniffed his fingers and wiped the musky woodland odor on his pants.

  “Magic, like vocabulary and grammar, requires precise finesse. Don't artificers use their own jargon to describe gears and pipes and little metal geegaws? Magic is the language of the natural word and if you speak it fluently, you can parse and reorient that world. Again, much like artificers, I suppose, except mages can reshape so much more than mere metal.”

  “You are such a teacher, it's painful.” Just who do you think you're impressing, Cornelius?

  “Whom do I think I'm impressing.” Cornelius closed his eyes and concentrated. The leaf surged with a whiff of wood pulp and grew into a twig. “There. The petiole became a proper little twig-like bit. That's something like what you were attempting with the rose hips earlier. I call this level of magic sniffing the tiger.”

  “Sniffing its butt?” Devin sniggered.

  “Don't be crude,” Cornelius said. “Besides, only dogs do that. This is entry level magic where you are interacting with the force at minimal capacity. It is safe, easy, and simple. As you get to know the tiger better, and it accepts you, other feats are possible.”

  Cornelius led him to corner of the large chimney away from the fire place. He focused on the twig and it vined around his hands. The wizard cursed and wrestled with the vine, shaping it into a square and then a post and then a frame. The shape of a small bed began to emerge. He smiled and with one final flick of his wrist, the tip of the bed erupted into soft, green leaves.

  “You may sleep here. No guests. I have a spare blanket in the armoire.”

  “Wow. I couldn't have done that with the rose hips, Cornelius.” Are all his lessons going to be pithy, little demonstrations? I'm hungry for more. Teach me, Cornelius.

  “Of course not, Devin. Such an uncomfortable bed.”

  “That is not what I meant.”

  “Yes, I know. One day, you will make beds of roses until your fingers bleed. Then you will lie on the rose mattress and the thorns will pierce your flesh and flay your skin and your blood will stain the petals.” Cornelius winced and grabbed his skull. “What visceral imagery. I am so sorry, Devin. A strange man is projecting his rage and violence into my mind with gleeful fantasies to make a corpse blush. Someone I've never met. Someone nearby.”

  A vague uneasiness settled over Devin's mind. The wizard's description of the gleeful, twisted thoughts seemed hauntingly familiar. Someone knocked at the door. The sound of a heavy, metal gauntlet pounding on oak had a distinctive timbre. Devin eased away from the entrance. Don't answer that . . .

&nbs
p; “It seems a strange man with an armored fist is at my door.” Cornelius shooed the youth behind him, sighing as he glanced down at his open robe. He rebuttoned the garment and padded barefoot to the door to look through the peephole. “And I am hardly attired to receive visitors. Hmmm, an imperial citizen venturing to a nondescript house where tourists seldom tread. Coming for tea and cake, I shouldn't wonder?”

  “Tea and cake?” Devin hissed as large invisible, claws reached through the door, plunged into his gut, and squeezed his intestines. All those times looking over his shoulder at shadows gave those claws an icy grip. The sharp, little icicles had been growing and expanding for years as little frets and worries trickled through in his mind and hardened into fears. The unseen giant peering over the mountains from the east ever since he had been exiled had finally stepped out from the shadows. Just when he thought he'd found another home, a new place for himself, the empire had come to tear it all down again.

  “Such horrific thoughts on that man. I will warm the kettle regardless. That white plume is distinctive. Take a look.”

  The wizard gently nudged the youth with one elbow and Devin peered through the hole. The rough wood scratched Devin's face as he pressed his cheek against the door and cold air crept through the gap in the sill, chilling his bare legs, but those were trivial discomforts against the harsh sight of the man standing on the front stoop. The wood pounded against Devin's head as the visitor knocked again. The man had exchanged his white apron and cap for tall boots and a large, wide-brimmed hat boasting a white, plumed feather half as wide as his head. He wore one of the black, mechanized gauntlets on one hand and held a large, brass pocket watch cocked in the other.

  Devin pushed away from the door and turned to Cornelius. “His name is Armand Delacourt Vice. He took my leg.” The artificer startled at the sound of his own voice. How quiet and calm he sounded. He squeezed his fists to stop his hands quaking, and his heart thundered so loudly in his chest, he was amazed the old wizard couldn't hear it.

  “Anybody in residence?” The Butcher looked at his watch and then smiled at the peephole. “I'm just a poor lost traveler and a loyal citizen of the Iron Empire. I find myself missing the sights and sounds of home. Is one of my countrymen in there with you, perchance? A gangly young man with a metal foot?”

  Abigail was right. Mages never escape the empire. Exiling me wasn't enough. He's tracked me down. He's come to . . . finish the job. “You can't refuse him, Cornelius. Black Guard armor is assembled by teams of elite master artificers, the best craftsmen in the world. Even unpowered, that mechanical gauntlet can destroy the door with ease. And that man has the might of the empire standing by his side.” He took a deep breath, forcing his heart to settle back into his chest. Devin squared his shoulders and faced the door, balling his fist and squeezing a trickle of sputtering flames through his fingers. He shook his fist at the door. “I am ready. Let him come.”

  “You most certainly are not.” The wizard snorted as a curious, high-pitched whining noise came from the other side of the door and Devin's flames extinguished. “Sacrificing yourself, already, boy?” Cornelius grabbed Devin's shoulders while the youth flexed his clenched fingers and glared at his latest magic failure, turned the youth around, and gave him a little push. “Is my company so dreary? Go crawl into the armoire in the bedroom. Here, take my key. Lock yourself inside. I will entreat with your villain. Go and hide, lad. Go, now!”

  Devin ran to the bedroom. He parted the clothes hanging in the armoire and burrowed into them. Then he closed the doors and waited.

  9. THE MAGISTRATE, YEAR 492

  The magistrate hung his imperial robes by the door. He threw his wig on the hat rack. He kicked off his boots and shuffled into a comfortably furnished lounge. The cold, bumpy contours of the stone tiles massaged and soaked the aches and pains from his bare feet. The tinted windows dimmed the harsh afternoon glare to a warm, cozy glow. The man placed his large, brass pocket watch on a shelf and sank into an overstuffed arm chair. The chair sighed as his body settled into the familiar curves and grooves.

  Savory smells and a gentle chuffing noise came from the kitchen where roasting meat turned on the brand new mechanized spit. The man closed his eyes and salivated. He could see the sizzling fat pool on the end of the spit and drip down between the warm, red coals. The magistrate smiled hearing his son Sascha careen into the room. The man peeked, grabbed the boy as he ran past, and held him close. Sascha cradled a small, yarn doll. His son had been playing near the hearth again. The magistrate smelled greasy, burnt pork and singed hair.

  Elena will not be far behind. “How was your day, son?”

  His son waved the doll in his face. “Ask Lil' Sascha.”

  “Lil' Sascha, how was your day?”

  His son struggled and climbed up the chair, reaching for the watch. “Can I play with your watch, Daddy?”

  The magistrate ruffled his only child's blonde hair, plucking away the singed bits. Part of him resented his son's mutation, but most of that resentment was reserved for the Bureau of Citizenship, who would not even grant a provincial magistrate dispensation to have more than one child. Safe behind their walls in the capitol, the bureau insisted they kept losing his paperwork. That was not only spiteful, sloppy record keeping, but a wanton dereliction of duty.

  But that hair! The color is unheard of in the capitol and uncommon even out here in the provinces. Surely, our child gets those blue eyes and thick, light curls from Elena's side of the family, the magistrate thought, reaching up to pat his own not so thick dark hair. Certainly my wife's brutish mother is barely two steps removed from some northern barbarian tribe. “No, son, it's not really a watch, remember? It's more like a badge of office. It doesn't tell you the time.”

  The boy climbed higher up the chair, using his father as a ladder. “But I want to play with it!”

  The magistrate grappled with his son for the watch and the device fell to the floor, cracking a tile. The magistrate glared and smacked his son on the wrist.

  “Sorry, Daddy.” The boy hung his head and then hung the doll's head. “Lil' Sacha's sorry, too.”

  The magistrate snorted and retrieved the watch, holding the boy on his lap. The magistrate glanced at the tile while his son remained entranced by the watch.

  The tile would have to be replaced. The watch case was unmarked. It was a plain, government issue machine with no frills. The case was built to survive, not crafted to impress. The brass was thick, dull, and unadorned. The magistrate worked the latch with his thumb and tilted the watch so that the boy could admire the artistry of the inner workings.

  His wife sneaked behind the chair and grabbed the watch. “No, it doesn't tell time, Sascha. It's a Daddy Day Detector.”

  “Oh, is it, dear?” the magistrate asked.

  His wife cradled the device to her breasts, humming. “Yes, did my husband have a good day today? Tell me, watch! The watch says no, darling. The dial did not move. If your father had a happy day, Sascha, the dial would be spinning like crazy.”

  “It doesn't work that way and you know it. Now please return the watch so that I may explain properly to our son how it works?” The magistrate crooked his fingers. “I'm certainly not going to wrestle you for it. We don't want another cracked tile, do we?”

  “No, we can wrestle for it later.”

  “Dear, not in front of the boy.” The magistrate covered his son's ears. The boy squirmed and smacked his father with the doll. “Proper imperial ladies do not speak of such things.”

  “Then you should have married a proper imperial lady. Oh, let Sascha have the watch, Lucius. Let him run loose across the floor and swing that thing like a mace. He can play guards, smashing as many stone tiles as he pleases.”

  The magistrate lifted his son and placed the boy on the floor. “Sascha, run and play. Yes, go get the watch from Mommy. No, don't smash any more of Daddy's tiles. We're having grownup talk, now. Go into the kitchen. You may have one cookie.”

  “Now you
can finally buy that marble tile you've always promised me.” His wife shooed their son away. The boy grabbed his doll and ran screaming from the room, the watch all but forgotten with the promise of cookies. Elena shrugged and breathed on the case, shining the brass with her sleeves.

  “Next year, my love,” the magistrate smiled.

  “You said that when we moved into this hovel. Before Sascha was conceived. Proper imperial ladies have proper marble tiles. All my friends have marble up to their ankles. River stone is for those rough, coarse, provincial wives.” Elena slid next to her husband, stroking his brow. The woman propped her thigh across his arm rest. She twined the thick fob chain around her fingers and dangled the brass case over his crotch. “Is that why you don't tend to my tiling needs, darling? Do you like keeping a rough, provincial wife?”

  “The rougher the better,” the magistrate said, squeezing her thigh. “The weak violets in the capitol tittering beneath their parasols may satisfy those pale, puissant senators and statesmen. Give me a wild, bushy rose. I prefer my tanned, provincial wife any day. Really, dear, your skin looks like leather. I love it.”

  “Thank you, because that's what you've got.” She dropped the watch in his lap. “That's for the leather comment. And I just trimmed that bushy rose.”

  “I only meant the softest most supple calf leather of course. And am I not an attentive gardener, fertilizing the rose bush as oft as she desires?”

  “Charmer,” she hit him with her elbow, driving the watch deeper into his crotch.

  “Oof, it's a good thing they won't let us have any more children. You just incapacitated me.”

  “I'll massage it later,” she kissed him, “and bring you back up to capacity. Tell me, what happened today?”

  “I have two subordinates who should never have been admitted to the Black Guards,” the magistrate sighed. “And they've got all my men in a turmoil.”