“So, what's the experiment?”
“Well, it's living, sentient wood, Devin, but how alive is the wood? I don't want to damage my furniture, so we'll experiment on the doll there.”
“He's alive enough to speak and think, which is more than I can say for your chairs.”
“It's not a competition. I already said you did something wondrous. Something I can't do. How far into life did you take the doll? Can he feel pain? Is he truly a human simulacra?”
“Well, he cried the day he was born.”
Cornelius brandished the sword, swaying slightly. “Not that sort of pain. Can a wooden creature feel physical hurt?”
Devin traced his fingers along the burn marks on the woven branches forming the top of the table. He could not help but think of Captain Vice ranting about dangerous, violent mages. What would the villain make of this damaged table? “Did you not see this thing flinch away from the touch of your burning sword? Seems conclusive to me.” I doubt the table can think, but it can still feel pain. Styx is more complex. What can he feel?
“The magic that created the table is different from that which created the puppet man. Break his fingers.”
“Are you sure you're still not under the influence of Armand's thoughts, Cornelius? You're acting strange again.”
“The experiment will help rid me of that. Break his fingers. I hypothesize he won't feel a thing. Whereas the table is alive, this walking statue is dead. Why do you hesitate? He is nothing but a doll. Break him!”
“I am happy to help, father,” Styx said. “Grandfather sent me to clean the roof. After all that work, I could use a little break.”
Devin winced as he snapped one of the wooden man's fingers. The complete lack of any noise or reaction was eerie.
“What a curious sensation,” Styx said, wiggling his stump. “Oh my, the pain. Ow, I say ow. Is that appropriate, Father? Should I scream and cry, now? Whenever the children hurt themselves, they always used to scream and cry.”
“When you're hurt, you should cry,” Devin said, “to let people know you're in pain, whether from a broken finger or a broken heart. Not that you have one of those of course.” Devin glanced at Styx. For all his talk of heartwood, he's just brass and oak. Sometimes he acts so much like a flesh and blood person, I keep forgetting he has nothing beating in his chest. That doesn't make him a slave or someone's puppet.
“That was just the first test,” Cornelius said, his words slurring as his lips creased into a tight smile. “Take the magic sword. Cut his arm, Devin.”
Styx held out his arm and Devin slashed it. A few bark chips fell on the floor. One of the chairs kicked them under the table.
“No, we need to take it clean off. If that doesn't hurt the thing, nothing will.” Cornelius grabbed the sword and lopped off Styx's right arm at the shoulder. “Nothing?”
Devin stared at the arm flopping on the table like a fish. The arm flexed and twitched, growing weaker and weaker, until it was just a piece of dead wood and dull brass in the shape of an arm. What was the point of all that? He wondered.
Cornelius cleared his throat. “That bit of science was just what I needed. Thank you, Styx, you've been marvelous, an excellent subject, worthy of recognition. Now get back on the roof and finish cleaning it before I beat you with your own arm.”
“Cornelius, he's not your drudge. And what's wrong with you? You can't go chopping bits off people. Styx, sit. Have some tea.”
“Why do you persist with this delusions?” Cornelius put the sword away. “Styx is not a person. Styx is a thing crafted from rotten, lifeless wood and cold, brass widgets: a doll that merely mimics life. The table is a living, growing creature, superior in every way.”
Devin bit his lip. What is a man trapped with only his thoughts and no emotions but a wooden doll wrapped in skin? Styx is more human than most fleshy people I know. That does not make the sweet little guy my son.
“I cannot drink, Father,” Styx said.
“Smell it, then.” Devin thrust the tea under the wooden man's nose. Now, this is a more meaningful experiment than dicing his arm. “Does the aroma not trigger something, evoke a feeling in you, Styx?”
Styx reached up and clasped the mug with his good arm. “Let me smell it and see.” The shavings dangling from his nostrils vibrated and his wooden chest fluttered as he inhaled. “The forest. A sunny day in the forest. I can feel the sun, the warmth of its rays soaking into my heartwood. Even after the sun begins to set, I still feel the warmth inside me. Is this a proper feeling, dear Father?”
Devin reached to take the cup back. “Yes? Maybe? I don't know, it sounds more like the memory of a physical thing than a true emotion. We can try again tomorrow.”
“It's a doll. It doesn't emote. Your experiment does not bring us one whit closer to understanding that thing's creation or function. Well, you have a neat, little problem, child of the empire,” Cornelius said, waving at the dead arm on the table. “Solve it.”
“Didn't you just tell Vice how I am a rightful citizen of the Kingdom of Corel?”
“Did I?” Cornelius shook his head violently. “I guess I did. I think you have potential, but your magic is almost too bizarre to comprehend. What do you think, Devin?”
“I think I want to see the blacksmith in the morning to help finish your experiment and continue my own. I feel the need to create rather than destroy.” Devin lifted the severed arm and dropped it.
“Good answer,” Cornelius yawned. “You've been inside the smithy before? What about the bakery? I need you to take one of the loaves back to Abigail. The girl overpaid me again.”
“Yes, Cornelius. Go to bed.” Devin sighed, pointing to the kettle slung over the low, dying fire. “What of the turnip stew?”
“Leave it. Some things are best left simmering. Dare to apply a little heat and pressure and stir them up, and they will boil over violently.” The wizard grinned, retired to his bedroom, and closed the door.
12. DEVIN, YEAR 494
Two men thrust their chests against the cold, howling wind on either side of the bakery door. The men wore billowing, unlaced shirts and patched pants which while not exactly uniform, looked like they came from the same untanned, sweat-stained leather grab bag. Despite his red, runny, frost-blunted nose, Devin could smell the faint smoky, acrid leather, horse ass stench of good, rough, northern living. Your nose slammed into that wall of funk once, and the smell tattooed itself on your mind. The village with its adjacent coastal city back home always had a few northerners wandering through, traveling across the empire either solo or guarding small caravans. They were a welcome source of news and supplies when delivered at a distance.
The ragged clothing and odors only emphasized the clean, razor sheen of the knives strapped to every corner of their bodies. They looked like men who could use one knife as a mirror and shave with another, but didn't. One of them glanced at Devin and then scratched his armpit and waved the youth along.
“You think the boss is gonna have any problems with that girl? Filly has a set of lungs on her.” The man scratched the blonde curls erupting from the neck of his shirt.
A black and red symbol peeked through the laces as a breeze ruffled the loose fabric. The cloth was so sheer, Devin could easily make out the rest of the tattoo. A bird spread her delicate wings beneath the man's collarbone, black and red lines weaving a tapestry of flight across his chest. Her curving head stretched just beneath the man's neck. Her beak pointed towards the sky. The man's muscles quivered and her feathered wingtips fluttered.
A northern barbarian, here? Devin thought. Such beautiful, ornate tattoos. Who says the empire invented art. But what are a pair of barb mercs doing in eastern Corel?
“Man like that? Girl like that?” his buddy called over Devin's shoulder. “What's the brat gonna do, spank him? We should get in there, slit her throat, steal her bread.”
“The boss paid us to kill highwaymen. Men, not kids,” the man with the flying bird tattoo said. “Let the bos
s handle her.”
Who sets guards to go buy bread? What's happening with Abigail? Devin wondered, pausing with his hand on the latch as he heard shouting through the door. He peered through a crack. This seemed to be the season for pressing his head against doors. The two barbarians continued to chat and ignored him. Devin shut them out and focused on the ruckus inside the bakery.
“Get out! We don't serve your kind here. You think I don't recognize that brass watch you keep dangling in front of all my customers?” Abigail screeched, her arms braced against the counter as she yelled at the familiar man standing in the middle of the bakery. His arms were crossed and his mere presence radiated an aura of menace that pressed the other customers against the wall in horrified submission.
They're all cringing, just like you did, the artificer muttered. At least the girl fights.
Nothing but gentle snores came from the mage. Devin turned within himself and glared. Was he . . . sleeping?
“You don't serve imperial citizens, girl? Why, most of your customers are imperial citizens.” The man gestured to the people huddled against the wall, making the word customers sound like a curse word. Most of the accursed glanced at the door or the shelves or the foodstuffs clutched in their hands, but none dared to raise their heads and look at him. The man tossed his wide, floppy brimmed hat to another customer, a shivering woman in a dark, silk dress. The poor wretch screamed as she caught it before covering her mouth with one hand. He sauntered over to the counter, selected a fresh, steaming loaf of bread shaped like a wizard's hat, tore a chunk between his teeth, and then tossed the remains over his shoulder. “If my countrymen patron places such as this, then they only deserve the scraps.”
That feathered hat. That horrible swagger. That oil slick voice. Armand Delacourt Vice. Buying groceries. Run!
“I know what you are, Black Guard. How dare you threaten my customers,” Abigail retorted.
Captain Vice laughed and turned to gesture around the room. Wet crumbs peppered the cowering mass of huddled people. He dabbed his lips on the hem of the woman's silk dress and reclaimed his hat. “I have threatened nobody, fair damsel.”
Abigail came around the counter, broom and ponytail flying. “What were you doing at the professor's house? It sounded like a catastrophe of dragons fighting in there.”
“I was looking for a youth with a metal foot. Have you seen him?”
“Devin? He's staying with the professor.” Abigail swung the broom at Vice.
“Yes, I know.” Vice raised an arm to block the broom and drummed his fingers on the counter. “That wretched wizard shelters him. The man is going to regret pitting himself against the mighty Iron Empire. What do you care about Devin the Mage? And why don't you sell normal bread here? Sparkling stars? Pointy hats? It makes my gorge rise.”
The barbarians and their knives glittered on the edge of Devin's vision. I could grab one of those knives. Run into the bakery. Save the girl like in the fairy tales. Defeat the villain.
Does she look like she needs saving? the artificer asked.
“That's what my customers want.” Abigail reversed the broom, and after contemplating the blunt tip, started sweeping the floors. “Now, get out of here. You're disrupting my business.”
“Oh, but I have business with you. How do you know about this watch? Black Guards never venture this far east. Believe me, I checked the records before they sent me on this fool's errand. Nothing out here but mage lovers and pig shit. I doubt this town is even on our maps, but it's getting marked when I return. And speak up, please. I can barely hear you over that damn wind.”
His back is facing me. Magic isn't an option with that damn watch, but his bodyguards are outside and he's not wearing his gauntlet, Devin thought, scouting the best route from the door to the monster within. He planned different deaths, treating Vice's body like a map. For once, he thanked the five gods for making him search all across the country before finding Cornelius. A traveling mage does not meet half the highwaymen in Corel without picking up a few tricks. Angling up under the ribs to reach the heart would be tricky from the back. One hand braced on the pommel, two-handed thrust, sever the nerves in his spine. Or pull his head back, slit his throat from behind. Quick, painless. Don't make it linger. Don't touch the calves or twist the blade in his kidneys. No torture. I am not the monster here. I will take my revenge and save Abby. Then I'm dumping his corpse in an old privy.
You will only win this fight in your mind. Besides, how are you taking your revenge when she is the one defeating the villain? the artificer asked. If anything, you are a spectator for her revenge.
“We used to live further west in the foothills.” Abigail swept the dust and crumbs into a little circle, her voice getting softer and softer. “A tiny border town. There . . . raid . . . took my . . .” She whispered the last bit and when as he leaned forward, she raised the gritty straw bristles and flicked them in his face.
“What?” Vice swatted the broom away and cupped a hand to his ear. “What did you say? There was a raid and then what?”
Abigail tossed the broom, latched onto one of his ear lobes, brought his face down close, and bellowed, “You bastards took my mother away, you smarmy, half-deaf monster. And you all had those stupid watches.”
The Black Guards took her mother? They separated me from my mother, too, Devin thought, staring at Abby's poised, glowering face as she stared down his nemesis. And from my sister. A different face floated to the surface and superimposed over Abby's. Devin squashed it.
You need a better plan to help Abigail, the artificer clucked, than dreams and fancies with little knives. The intent is there, but I question your skill with a blade.
Plans? the mage asked, yawning. What did I miss?
Heroics, the artificer smiled, but not his. Several revelations. And a terrible, half-baked plan to rescue the baker's daughter.
Why bother with plans? Just blast the door down. And why rescue a girl who hates you? the mage groused.
No, she hates the empire, the artificer argued. But to Abigail, you and the empire are one and the same. Especially with that crude, metal leg. Weren't we going to see the blacksmith about that? She does not need your help right now. She will resent you all the more if you barge in there. Leave.
No! I can't leave her alone with that monster, Devin thought.
“We are not supposed to invade sovereign territories,” Vice said, shrugging, “but on the border? They're little more than bandits with badges. Your country must contaminate them. Like you contaminate these imperial citizens with your filthy, magic bread.”
“I sell fresh, wholesome bread. Here, take that loaf and get out. I hope you choke on it.”
“Then allow me to pay you in brass.” Vice set his watch on the counter. He draped the chain over Abigail's wrists. She shook it off.
Yes, Devin exulted. The Black Guards shall not bind us even with symbolic chains. Now wrap it around his neck, Abby. Pull it tight.
“You can pay me with wooden tokens, same as everyone else,” she said, rubbing her wrist as the chain dangled below.
“Oh, I would never dream of using something so plebeian. Since you have such tender memories of this watch, allow me to present you and your magical tourist town with a souvenir of my visit. Hang it high. Nail it to the wall. In memory of your dear mother.” He turned around the room, plastering the imperials to the walls with his glare. “It would do all of these citizens good to see a cozy, familiar reminder of home as they stray so from the empire.”
Smack him again, Abigail. You stun him. I'll stab him. Devin flexed his fingers, reaching towards the knives. In his zeal, he forgot the mercenaries attached to them.
“Enjoin the show, kid?” One of the barbarians smacked Devin's hand. “Girl started yelling soon as the boss gone in there.”
“Hey, Raven,” the second man said, flicking a flea off his arm. “Stop scratchin your balls an look sharp. Ain't that the kid got a metal foot? Boss might pay extra if we catch him.”
“Well, lucky day,” the man patting Devin said as he grabbed a handful of shirt. “The boss wanna chat with you, kid.”
Devin squirmed away. The man's wild, earthy stench was overpowering, but his easy, confident smile was even more disquieting. Devin scythed his metal peg at the man's ankles.
After sidestepping this clumsy attack, the barbarian stood there, bemused, arms crossed under his bird tattoo. He made no counterattack and offered no resistance. “Little wizard gonna be a battle mage reborn? Come then. Let's battle.”
Devin stared at his foe and stepped within reach of those passive, muscular arms. An iron peg leg was useful for stomping feet and kicking limbs and the end of the spring was sharp enough to slice to the bone . . . if he didn't keep missing. Devin's knee cocked back a second time to strike the man with his peg. Maybe I can distract him with pomp and magic strategy like Cornelius recommended. Devin pushed a trickle of power into his finger and shot a tiny, pathetic flame at the mercenary's face. The man dropped his guard as the spring whistled in the wind and the thick, iron bar slammed into the man's hairy calf. Success!
Pain! The peg rung like a bell. Devin screamed as he grabbed his foot and fell over. The vibrations traveled through his leg into his spine. Like kicking a tree trunk. He glared at the barbarian.
The mercenary smiled and bowed to the youth huddled in the dirt. He raised his arms in mock defeat and then backed away.
His partner reached for a knife and spat on the blade. “Killin that kid, now.”
“We kill highwaymen,” the other man repeated. “Men, not kids. We gonna let the boss handle this one, too,” Raven said, restraining his partner.
“You neva let me kill the kids, Raven.”
“Boss wants this kid alive. And he's one of them wizards. Boss doan pay us to mess with wizards or guys with iron hooves. Get gone kid, afore we change our minds. Same trick, she never work twice.”
Devin hobbled away. The men resumed their posts.
The Artifice Mage Saga Boxed Set: Books 1-3 Page 30