You've been thrashed by his lackeys while she manages the villain on her own. Retreat, the artificer whispered. Fix your leg. Save the heroics for when she needs you.
Girl's not worth saving, the mage sneered. She doesn't even know magic.
Shut up, Devin thundered at the mage, before turning to the artificer. I could go to the smithy and bring help. But Devin knew by the time he could roust the smith and his burly apprentices, Armand Delacourt Vice would have vanished and Abigail would still break that brass watch on his head for interfering. The artificer was right. She didn't need him. With a glance to make certain the barbs didn't follow, Devin walked away towards the smithy, his shoulders drooping.
When Devin opened the door to the smithy, his eyes had a hard time adjusting to the dim light. A gentle sunbeam and glowing forge lit the center, but the outer edges of the large room were dark. Unlike most of the town, the smithy walls were made from packed earth instead of plastered wattle or wood planking. The walls were as thick as Devin's arm was long.
The youth shut the door behind him. The whistling birds, the tourists' fearful chatter, the clopping horse hooves, and the blasting winds all vanished as though they never existed. The thick, earthen walls absorbed all noise. Only rhythmic hammer strikes on an anvil punctuated the muffled silence.
Devin looked up. The only wooden pieces framing the building were the large rafters of the thatched reciprocal framed roof. The smith had arranged two score of whole, peeled logs extending like spokes from the top of the walls to the center of the building in a self-supporting spiral with an opening in the middle.
The central hole reminded Devin of a wooden iris with a pupil mounted in a giant eye. The youth found himself trapped within that eye staring at the slate gray clouds floating free overhead.
The roof looked too much like a circular atrium and Devin suppressed the homesick grumbling in his gut. The reciprocal roof supported not only its own weight, but a winter's worth of snow besides. The smith bragged about his reciprocal roof at every opportunity. He required no supports or braces to clutter his smithy. The lack of stately columns along with the rough, earthen walls of this crude atrium made the building look unfinished, but Devin was still surprised to see such an advanced construction technique out here in the hinterlands of Corel.
Reciprocal frames. Ha! He's almost as good as a first year guild apprentice. Well, he's a smith, not a carpenter or an artificer. Devin patted the thick walls and turned towards the forge. He builds things sturdy, never mind elegant. It's unfair to hold him to the towering standards of the empire.
“Hail, Devin,” Magnus said, looking up from his glowing forge. The massive stone edifice was offset from the giant pupil and the smith stood poised under the glaring beam of light.
Sweat slicked the man's bulging arms and naked torso under his heavy, leather apron despite the cozy warmth in the air. The thick dirt walls absorbed heat as well as sound. Despite the cold winds pounding like icy fists outside and the forge radiating like a burning heart inside, the interior temperature of the smithy remained comfortable.
Devin removed his red cloak, but felt no need to strip his shirt like the smith. “What are you making, Magnus?”
“Putting the finishing touches on that new door latch for old Cornelius before he throws a fit and magicks this building into rubble.” The smith held it up for the youth's inspection and Devin ventured closer to the forge. “What do you think, artifice man?”
Devin blinked as he moved closer, not trusting his eyes. The object Magnus held in the light of the forge was too fancy, too complex. It felt out of place in this rough, elemental earth and timber smithy.
The youth held out his hands, but the smith shook his head and smiled. Devin clutched at the object. The latch was a delicate mechanism of tiny levers, intricate scroll work, and flowing arches. Devin's breath caught in his throat. The thought of nailing this masterpiece onto a thick, wooden plank made him choke up inside. The wizard with his coarse obsession for timber tables and crude, wooden cups did not deserve to own such metal art. This latch should touch the supple hands of emperors—no, kings— and open the gates of a palace.
So the smith can do elegant after all, Devin thought. Such a graceful, intricate device. Even old Master Huron would be hard pressed to find flaws in its design. Wait, I've seen this style before. The latch on the back of Styx's head was a simpler, brass version of this one. “You built Styx.” Devin pointed at the smith. “All his metal gears and delicate joints. Those were your handiwork, Magnus? Not Cornelius? Why did you never finish?”
“Is that what that scoundrel Cornelius says? He built the doll? I don't finish my projects?” Magnus scowled and scratched his forehead, painting black streaks across his brow.
“Maybe?” Devin asked, rolling his hand, inviting more. “Something like that?”
“The thing was a group effort that ended badly. There's a dark story behind your wooden friend, Devin. Maybe I'll share it with you one day over a mug of ale. Not today. It's too early.”
“Cornelius tells you drink your breakfast, Magnus,” Devin said, lilting his voice at the end of the sentence, turning it into a teasing, probing quasi question.
“That damnable, rascally wizard would say that.” The smith set the latch down gently and crossed his arms. “Cornelius is a fair woodworker when he's not wiggling his fingers, but the fiddly bits of that doll? The metalwork? Nobody magicked them. My boys and I, we work with our hands. You can appreciate that, right, Devin? Never met an artificer who didn't like working metal with his own two hands.”
“Where are your apprentices?” Devin gestured around the smithy with the loaf of bread still clutched in his hand.
“Oh, out and about.” Magnus waved towards the door. “Running errands. Boys likely stopped by the bakery one too many times. Had to go see Abigail.”
“Oh?” Devin asked, not knowing what else to say.
“Oh, yes. A pretty gal, our Abigail. Pretty fiery.” The smith chuckled, glancing at the bread in Devin's hands. “Looks like you've been up to the bakery, too. That girl ever apologize to you like she aught?”
“Never mind Abigail. Where's your workshop, Magnus? I want to see the workshop. I want to see the tools that created Styx.”
“Guess Cornelius rushed you through here the last time. That man may be crafty, but he's no craftsmen. Always rushing. Certain things take their own time. The tools are over yonder, lad.” The smith gestured with a tiny ball peen hammer to a workbench against the far wall behind the forge. “Go see for yourself while I tend the forge.”
Tools spread across the wall in rows on little wrought iron hooks. Everything was organized, hanging around waiting for the smith's next project. A selection of augers neighbored with various sizes of hammers which gave way to an assortment of saws which transitioned into chisels and other fascinating gadgets Devin had never seen before.
The smith's workbench squatted below the tools. Holes marched near the leading edge of the bench top at regular intervals like round footprints. Like the roof, the smith used whole logs to construct his bench, squaring and gluing them into a massive, narrow slab with legs. Long cross pieces stretched between the legs. The workbench sprouted vises like a log sprouted toadstools. Devin counted six: two attached to either front leg, one along the left end, one near the middle on the right, and two mounted on the table top.
Devin smiled as he saw a rack of barrels tucked away beside the workbench. The smith had enough ale to last several projects.
Magnus walked over, wiping his hands. He handed Devin a greasy, paper wrapped package tied with twine. “Take the latch on back to Cornelius. Do you like her? I built this bench from aged, solid oak. She's a splendid sight, ain't she?”
Devin ran his fingers over the smooth bench top polished by years of sweat, friction, and various projects sliding over her surface. “She's beautiful.”
“She gets the job done.” Magnus patted the bench. “Come by another time and we can take her thro
ugh the paces. You don't want to walk around on that metal peg forever, do you? Oh, I've got some ideas that might interest you, lad.”
“Before we fix my leg, we need to repair Styx,” Devin said, describing Cornelius's experiment to Magnus.
“That bungler. He's acting like before. You don't chop a man's work into kindling like that. You just don't. Bring Styx into my shop, Devin. We will fix that doll up right. Give him a proper arm.”
“A proper arm?” Devin asked, imagining Styx's severed limb twitching on the kitchen table tree.
“Oh, yes! We will use it as practice for that metal foot of yours. Teach you the basics. Some days that wizard makes me so mad.” Magnus kicked the wall and the monolithic structure absorbed his anger like it absorbed everything else. “Let's see old Cornelius wiggle his fingers at good, solid steel.”
Devin waved the bread as he headed back towards the door. “I will bring Styx by later, Magnus, I promise.”
“Living in that house?” the smith asked. “Be careful, Devin. Promises have a way of backfiring around Cornelius. He's a decent enough mage. Tries so hard to be a good man,” he sighed. “You just be careful around that wizard.”
Bread in hand, Devin trudged back to the bakery, readjusting to the sharp, stinging breeze after such a long time relaxing in the warm, cozy smithy. Vice had gone and taken the barbarians with him. Word had obviously spread since that morning and the normal late afternoon parade of customers stretching out the door and around the building to grab the second batch of bread was absent. The bakery was abnormally quiet. The youth entered and found Abigail alone, her back to the door, staring at the watch hanging by the chain on a bent nail in the wall over the counter.
The watch ignored Abigail. It focused on Devin. The brass eyelid was wide open. The black spiral pupil glared down at him. The watch did nothing but stare.
“Here,” Devin slid the loaf across the counter. “Cornelius says you paid him too much.”
“Hey, Sick and Scrawny. The Professor says a great many things.” She sighed, still looking at the watch. “That does not make them true. Why don't you toss that old loaf and get a fresh one?” She gestured to the trays of unclaimed breads stacked on the far side of the counter. “They'll just go stale and you look like you need it.”
“They took your mother, Abigail?”
“So blunt, Devin.” Abigail nodded, hoisting herself up on the counter, still locked in a staring contest with the watch as if expecting it to blink. “All the other boys dance around the topic like they were barefoot on hot coals. I could almost like you; you have no tact. Yes, my mother is gone and yes, the Black Guard took her away. It was another place in another time. I was young. The details are fuzzy. I don't want to remember it. I don't want to talk about it.”
Devin propped his elbows on the counter. “You know you don't have to hang that up just because some monster tells you to.” What else would you do if he asked it of you?
“Captain Vice,” Abigail hissed and Devin smiled at the girl in spite of himself. “You think I do this for him? You have less sense than tact. I have stolen his pride and nailed it to my wall.”
“Aren't you doing what he wanted?” Devin lowered his head, resting his chin across his arms. “I was spying. I heard you. I heard him. I saw you both and you did just as he commanded. Would you turn me over to him if he commanded it?”
“I am not doing this for that slimy, putrid man.” Abigail tore her eyes from the watch. She looked down at Devin. A trail of streaking tears led up to a pair of red, puffy eyes. “You don't understand. You can't.”
“Yes, I can,” Devin whispered. “You think you're the only ones they've hurt? The only person who lost someone? After my magic erupted, after the Black Guards found me, I ran. I pulled down buildings. I made pipes erupt from the ground. They kept coming. Nothing stopped them. Nowhere left to run. Like an idiot, I ran home. They burst down the door and I lashed out. I launched bricks from the walls like missiles. The house started crumbling. Timbers dropped from the ceiling. The Black Knights turned white with the mortar dust. The lime powder burned my nostrils. I heard the back wall buckle and slap the floor like a giant hand. My mother screamed behind me as a brick grazed my head. I turned and there was my little sister's pale arm stretching from the rubble as my mother clawed at the debris. Misera's tiny, fragile corpse was already buried, but she still reached for her big brother . . . she was still reaching for me to come and save her.” Devin hung his head. “I gave up . . . ”
“That poor girl. What a horrible story.” Abigail wiped her red eyes furiously. “And you never tried to rescue her? Hold her? You just let the Black Guards take you away from it all? You're despicable.”
Devin wiped a tear away. “We can't always save the ones we love, can we, Abby?”
“So you share and then I share?” She asked, closing her eyes and squeezing the tears out. “I'm just supposed to tell you now, is that it? Fine, I'll share.” She opened her eyes and patted a stool. “Sit down and eat your damn bread. Mom always complained we lived too close to the empire, but she never gave any sign that I could see, never told anyone she was . . . like you. The Black Guards came for her one night like monsters in the dark. They surrounded our house and took her. Our home was destroyed. Our things were destroyed. I don't remember much of my mother, but I do remember this: the last time I saw her, she was defiant and covered with a blazing halo. She was surrounded by a closing circle of knights holding those mournful, keening watches. They were so loud, Devin. I felt like my ears would shatter.”
“The greater the magic, the louder the watches screech. Your mother was a great mage, Abby,” Devin confided, not knowing what else to say, but wanting to say something. “I know I have no right to ask this, but can I have that watch to run some tests?”
Abigail just stared, her fingers hovering over the brass case.
“I don't have much to offer in exchange. I can send Styx to help out around the bakery.”
“That memory is all I have left, Devin. My mother and the watches. This is her monument. This is her tribute. This is for my mother and only my mother. They didn't even give her a tombstone, Devin. They threw her body in a mass grave. Well, this is her tombstone. It's not for Captain Vice and it's not for you. You would desecrate my mother's memory for an experiment?” Abigail wiped her eyes again and sniffed.
“Please, Abby. That watch may be the key to defeating Captain Vice . . . for both our sakes.”
Her eyes narrowed. “Don't pretend you're doing this for anyone other than yourself.”
“No more pretending,” Devin sighed, his shoulders sagging. “I'll send Styx over regardless. I should have offered his services seasons ago. But as a friend, not a trade.”
“Thank you, Devin,” Abigail said, running her fingers over the brass case. “I really do appreciate the gesture, but I don't want anyone else soiling my mother's memory. I need to remember her as the tough woman who battled evil to save her family, not as a broken body tossed into a mass grave. That watch is the trophy of her sacrifice. It stays with me.”
13. THE MAGISTRATE, YEAR 493
The sergeant advanced like a supplicant with an altar sacrifice, placed a large fruitcake on the magistrate's desk amidst the piles of paperwork, and after a little bow, stepped away. “I was so sorry to hear about your son, sir.”
The magistrate stared at the slanted lump of liquor, blackened dough, and sugar-frosted fruity bits. Sergeant Jemmy had attempted to decorate the cake with what could only charitably be described as slabs of white icing. From the delicious, eye-watering aroma rising off the thing, the good sergeant appeared to have devoted a copious amount of Dragon Spleen Rum to the enterprise, likely adding half the bottle after his cake emerged from the oven.
The magistrate glanced at the bottom drawer of his desk where his own half empty bottle of Dragon Spleen remained safely hidden away next to a lonely little yarn doll. That rum must have cost the sergeant half his last paycheck. I should reimburse him.
“Thank you, Sergeant,” the magistrate nodded, waving towards a chair. “Please, have a seat. We need to talk.”
The sergeant braced his broadsword against the wall. He eased into the chair, which creaked, but held the weight of his armor. The sergeant removed his helmet and cradled it in his lap. He took a moment to slick back his hair. “Yes, sir?”
“Sergeant. Jemmy. May I call you Jemmy?” The magistrate pushed the cake away as the sergeant nodded. “Jemmy, this career may not be the right path for you, son. Sergeants do not bring their superiors cake. Sergeants do not break down crying after administering corporal punishments to a prisoner. Sergeants do not, absolutely do not, sneak extra rations and sweets to those poor wretches awaiting execution. Stop shaking your head. Six people saw you do it. I should put you on report, Jemmy.”
The sergeant drummed on his helmet. He paused and looked up at the magistrate, nodding when he saw the man had ceased speaking. “Yes, sir.”
“Jemmy,” the magistrate pinched the bridge of his nose. “You are a damn fine NCO. I have a stack of letters and commendations in your file. I shouldn't share this with you, but I will. Do you know the men are all convinced you fight a dragon bare knuckled before breakfast and then pick your teeth with its bones?”
The sergeant smiled cautiously. He resumed tapping on the helmet. “That's high praise, coming from you, sir. They're good lads. Thank you, sir.”
“It's not coming from me, Jemmy, it's . . . oh never mind. I pulled your file this morning. Quite a number of commendations in there to balance those less savory reports. The reports for which strangely, no one ever files any paperwork. The good sergeant can officially do no wrong, it seems. The magistrate mentally wrote a reminder to have another talk with the men about the importance of filing prompt, honest, complete, and accurate reports. For all the good it would do.
“Sir?” Sergeant Jemmy asked.
“Corporal Billings would have lost his right arm if not for your timely intervention. Private Holmes may never see colors again, but at least he is alive. Private Irkoff was trapped in a cell with that murderous psychopath for two whole days . . . ”
The Artifice Mage Saga Boxed Set: Books 1-3 Page 31