“It concerns Corporal Irkoff, sir.”
“Corporal Irkoff? Trevor?” the magistrate asked. “Wasn't he a private last season? Promoting men in my absence, Sergeant Jemmy?”
“Pending your approval, sir,” the sergeant nodded. “Begging your pardon, but field promotions are well within the limited scope of my duties. I'm worried about the man.”
You're not going to embarrass us both by trying to expound upon how far you've stretched that limited scope are you? “Has the corporal fallen ill?” The magistrate had no trouble remembering Trevor Irkoff. The corporal had a nasty set of scars across both cheeks, courtesy of Devin the Mage. He was a clever little vain man with glasses from one of the southern villages. And he stuttered. “Is that blemish on his face still bothering him? Surely, he's not the only Black Guard with a prominent battle scar? The men should take pride in their scars, Sergeant: they build character.”
“With respect, sir, the corporal's soul has become as disfigured as his face. If you remember the incident with that mage woman just before you became indisposed?”
“They were lovers, yes? Before we discovered the woman's . . . um, sorcerous proclivities?” the magistrate asked. “I remember the man took the news rather hard.”
Jemmy stared at a point above the magistrate's head. “Yes, sir. Corporal Irkoff acted like a jilted lover. Pushed Captain Vice aside and oversaw the woman's processing with his bare hands. The broken man who went into that room is not the same hardened soul who came out of it. Devin only tore his face. That mage woman tore his heart and the wound still bleeds. Scars only build character after they've healed, sir.”
The magistrate leaned back in his chair. “And you promoted this gentleman? Why?”
“I have used the skills of the men under my command as I saw fit in your absence, sir. After that regrettable affair with the mage woman, Corporal Irkoff hunted mages like a man possessed. His successes demanded promotion. Of course, since we lost the paperwork to prosecute all those mages, the corporal has become more and more unhinged. There have been . . . incidents.”
Regrettable affair with the mage woman. One could parse that phrase several ways, the magistrate thought. “I can hardly discipline a man for performing above and beyond his proscribed duties,” the magistrate quirked one eyebrow, “can I, Sergeant?”
“The corporal wanted to bring every mage back to Captain Vice's chambers, appointing himself Chief of Processing in the captain's absence. Only now that we moved to field executions and capturing fewer mages, there is nobody left in the cells to process. He's taken to processing mages in the field, sir. He harvests intimate trophies from the females he captures and emasculates the males, then watches them writhe and bleed like stuck hogs. He leaves their bodies behind for the Sanitation Guild to recover the next day. There have been complaints from citizens about the screaming . . . and the smell. And while his procedures disturb some of the men, there is precedent, sir. I regret that I cannot abrogate the fine traditions established by Captain Vice.”
Precedent? Abrogate? Did you read my law books, too? My guards will hold themselves to higher standards than the whims of a pair of sadistic butchers. By the five gods, they were supposed to weed out the sociopaths at the academy. “Why do I feel there's something more to this story? Didn't you and Corporal Irkoff go through the Academy together?”
“Yes, sir. But that wretched man is not Trevor Irkoff. He is a shell of hatred and pain. His reckless enthusiasm is becoming a danger to the men under his command, but I cannot demote him without cause. He is an old friend, but I cannot show favoritism and coddle his grief. My hands are tied, sir.”
“Rest assured, I shall look into the matter for you personally. These excesses will stop. Our city streets are not an abattoir. Perhaps we can channel that enthusiasm to more wholesome ends after we've seen to some proper grief counseling for this troubled, young man?”
Jemmy didn't quite scoff, but the look on his face suggested that at this stage, only death would cure Corporal Irkoff of his violent obsession. “As you say, sir.”
“I fear the mental health of the good corporal is but one of many urgent tasks requiring my attention.” The magistrate gathered the stack of papers from Jemmy's desk and hefted them. The weight felt almost comforting. “I think I have everything well in hand. Thank you for looking after my wife and my city, Sergeant. I was indisposed far too long. It feels good to be back.”
Jemmy bowed. “A duty and a pleasure, sir.”
18. DEVIN, YEAR 495
Devin unclenched his fists, head bowed as he stared at his soft hands and smooth fingertips. His calluses were starting to disappear. They looked less and less like the hands of an artificer. They had . . . softened. They were becoming a mage's hands, a scholar's hands. The cottage behind him cast a partial shadow over his face, reaching past his shoes. The dark tip stretched out to stab Cornelius.
“You think I paid for this cottage in blood, Cornelius?” Devin splayed his fingers, raising his hands out of the shadows and into the light for the wizard to inspect. They deserved to be rough, callused hands that burned with cold fire: the hands of a worker of miracles, a builder of wonders, and a creator of life, the youth decided, a melting of muscle and magic. What evidence of usefulness could Cornelius's wrinkled fingers offer to the world: ink smudges and paper cuts? “I wish I could say the only blood I spilled was from the broken blisters on my fingers, but I built this with the sweat of my mind, not my hands. Your precious cottage did not cost one drop of blood.”
“I meant tiger's blood and you know it. You may not have any calluses, but you left plenty of scars.” Cornelius gestured to the winged carcasses and plucked bones dangling from the trees. “What does the fate of all the baby wyverns in the world matter against the toll you exact upon magic itself?”
“I'm not the sort of person who seeks the death of innocents,” Devin said, shaking his head. “Would you accept this small, wooden token as payment for unlocking my powers? One small act of contrition to help balance the slaughter of the baby wyverns?”
“Payment for unlocking your powers?” Cornelius sputtered. “For freeing a magic-gorging mosquito? And this magnificent cottage is my traitor's reward? Do you feel no guilt for half destroying the town?”
Devin gestured to what small pile of cobblestones remained after the building's construction. “Let's not . . . um . . . Abby, help me. What was that expression, again?”
“It depends.” Abigail smiled and dimpled as she shrugged. “He's either poking the wyvern by twitting you about it or turning a wyrm hole into a wyvern pit by implying your little magic tantrum had more far reaching consequences than you thought.”
“I destroyed the street and broke a few windows, Cornelius.” Devin spread his arms to encompass the width of the cottage behind him. “You focus too much on the destruction of the thing. Look at what I have created. Is it not an impressive feat of magic skill?”
The old wizard crossed his arms and examined the cottage critically. “It is overblown and grotesque: more a mansion than a cottage. I see nothing but more of the same pattern, Devin. Your magic revels in excess. You have no control. You have no sense of proportion. What is that expression you said the master artificer used to say? 'He would use a sledgehammer to swat a fly' was it? Magic is supposed to be wondrous and yet you waste it to create something common.”
Devin goggled at Cornelius and gestured to the building behind them. “I'm confused, old man. Either this is a huge mansion and I've wasted too much power creating something ostentatious or it's nothing but a tiny cottage and I've abused my talents using the dregs of my power to create something banal.” He raised his finger. “You're only allowed to pick one.”
“You waste power for everything, large or small,” Cornelius spat. “Whether lifting stones or throwing mountains, your brand of magic will bleed the tiger dry.”
“Are you still whining about your ancient, magic cat, old man? That stupid nature spirit? All my evidence says your cat doesn't exist,
yet you cling to those musty, old traditions. You've replaced the five gods with totemic, mystical nonsense.” Devin stepped into the sunlight and crossed his arms. “Well, mysticism doesn’t impress me. You surround your magic with layers of flab and fat and fairy tales. My magic is stripped down to the blood and bone and power. I am a simple, magic creature, like any other. I am a dragon, Cornelius. Best warn that cat. We devour tigers.”
“You devour tigers, do you?” The old wizard's eyes narrowed and he wagged a finger at his so-called partner. “You might find this one a tough meal, boy. This tiger is as real as a tornado and just as powerful and capricious.” Cornelius traced a spiral in the rock dust with his toe. The effervescent, silver particles swirled and twinkled in the light before vanishing in the gentle wind.
Devin wrinkled his nose and sneezed. He swatted at the dust.
“Just because you cannot see something, you do not acknowledge its existence?” Cornelius gestured to the breeze rustling the trees on the edge of the clearing. “You imagine yourself as a dragon? Flap around all you like on those petty, little wings, but that does not make you a dragon. You are a winged pest, a gorging mosquito buzzing around the edges of something magnificent.”
“If I am a gorging mosquito,” Devin sneered, wiping his nose and trapping a dust mote by pressing his thumb to his trigger finger, “then you are a bitty, little louse hitching a ride, stuck to the back of your precious tiger, chewing on little sips and morsels of power. I will take all I need and fly away while you're still burrowing into the skin and begging for scraps. If that tiger is more than a delirious figment of your imagination, old man, then you're as much a parasite as I am.” He smiled and flicked the dust mote into the cold oblivion of the shadows.
“If I am but a louse on the back of the tiger, then I ride the greatest power in the world.” Cornelius spread his arms.
Devin snorted. He turned his back and walked away, stepping into the shadow of the cottage once more. Let the old man play in the dirt and rant in the hot sun. What was the point having built this cottage if he could not even enjoy the respite its shade provided? He patted one of the squared timbers. It really is a nice building. Cornelius doesn't deserve it.
“What's wrong with little sips and morsels of power?” Cornelius asked Devin's back. “You drink too deep of the heart's blood of that tiger and the pressure will split you like a ripe tomato. A point of fact: it is the female mosquitoes who engorge themselves. The males are puny, pathetic creatures.”
Devin turned and glared. “Don't you dare ruin your own analogy with natural philosophy, Professor.”
“A leech suits you better,” Cornelius sneered. “You're nothing but a weak, squishy, bottom crawler wriggling in the dark. Do you see magic as anything more than a meal to feed your soft, personal ambitions? Have you no appreciation for something greater than yourself? Magic is an art form. Abigail was right: show some respect.”
Abigail held up her hands. “Oh no, sir. I will translate if either of you hits a . . . language wall, but I refuse to be a part of this argument. I thought you were both wise and mature enough to settle your own affairs. Styx and I will sit and watch. Come along, Styx, we're sitting and watching. Bring the barrel, please.”
“Magic is a tool. I would just as soon respect a shovel or a sword,” Devin said, glancing at the retreating backs of his two friends. Abigail whistled loudly and swished her hips, leaving boot tracks in the dust. Styx wrapped his arms around the barrel, hugged it into the air, and then followed in Abigail's footsteps.
“Could you not select a more magnificent metaphor?” Cornelius asked. “Of course not, I forgot to whom I speak.” He smacked his forehead and wrapped his fingers around his skull.” Your mind is shrouded in metal. Your heart is filled with greasy little cogs and gears. My heart runs pure. My thoughts are like the mighty, flowing river . . .”
“Yes, like a river: swollen, meandering, and cluttered,” Devin spat. “You have a lot of sewer lines draining into that river, old man. One of them is spewing out your mouth.”
Styx gasped. Abigail perched on her barrel and hissed, then covered her mouth with both hands. Both combatants turned to glare at the duo for interrupting them.
“This shovel or this sword you struggle to grasp is alive, Devin,” Cornelius said. “It will turn in your hand and stab you if you do not show respect and handle it carefully. It is not the product of smithies and steel.”
“I'm an artificer, Cornelius. I know how to make a sword. Smithies and steel are both integral to the process.”
“Do not ruin my analogy with logic, boy. And do not rise above yourself. This is an ethereal sword.”
Abigail threw back her head and laughed.
Devin smiled. Glad to see someone is not entirely in the thrall of her darling Professor. “Of course, an ethereal sword. All my knowledge is useless next to your sagacious spewing. Please, tell me more of this ethereal sword. Can we use it to attack the invisible tiger?”
“You may mock an old man, boy, but do not mock the tiger. You think this mystic beast does not feel you pierce its flesh and sup from its heart? It strives to swat you from the sky even now, and will clutch you by your throat while you bleed it drop by drop with your little pinpricks. You can't dodge what you cannot see, Devin.”
“The sword, Cornelius?” Devin yawned as he paced up and down the front porch. “You were telling me about your wonderful, ethereal sword?”
“Yes,” Cornelius coughed, “the ethereal sword. The mountains were the anvil that cradled this sword, the pounding seas the hammer on the blade, the winds a mighty bellows, and the forge was the very molten rock of the earth herself.”
“Oh I know all about the earth,” Devin muttered, running his hand along the railing and refusing to look at Cornelius. “Metal mind, indeed. Do you see any metal in this cottage we built? Mankind did not create the trees in the forest or place stones in the ground, yet we still chopped and hewed such fruits of the earth to build this cottage. Magic is just another fruit and I will pluck it, skin it, and eat it.”
“You will choke on that bitter fruit someday,” Corelius said. “And the rest of the world will choke alongside you. And would you stop pacing, boy?”
“I'm not a boy, you senile old codger.” Devin turned and slapped the railing. “All your books and so-called knowledge and you still resort to mysticism, Cornelius? Did I say magic was a sword?” Devin smiled, swinging his fist down to strike his palm. “No, magic is a hammer. I built your cottage with it. A craftsman does not ask the permission of the hammer before he swings it. Yes, yes, old man, I know: I will squash my thumb with that heavy hammer someday and flatten the world or something.”
Abigail was making some sort of commotion with Styx. Devin blocked her annoying buzzing noise.
“Magic is not a tool,” Cornelius said. “Have you no reverence in your heart?”
“Isn't it, showman?” Devin pointed an accusing finger at the old wizard. “Don't you dare lecture me on reverence. You may mouth the words, but your actions do not speak of reverence. You are a hypocrite who cautions me not to use magic for everything and then proceed to abuse it. How much reverence did your heart feel when you used magic to serve tea and peddle cheap toys and trinkets? Did you feel any pride when you perverted your art and created a wooden puppet to shill merchandise for the good people of Ingeld?”
“I have always used my magic to help the people living in that town,” Cornelius protested. “I helped build that town. I made all my neighbors happy, healthy, and prosperous with my school and with my magic. What about your actions, Devin? What about your magic? All you've done for the townsfolk is tear up their streets.”
“You don't worship magic, Cornelius,” Devin spat. “You worship money.”
Abigail ground her teeth and hissed, distracting Devin for a moment. Are you angry because I belittled your professor or because I belittled money?
“What do you worship, Devin? What do you believe? Do you think you breathed life int
o my wooden man?” Cornelius asked, lifting his chin towards the heavens. The wizard raised his arms slowly, fingers outstretched. Then he lowered his chin back down to earth and quirked an eyebrow at the youth. “Do you see yourself as divine? A child god who birthed a puppet?”
Devin steepled his fingers and said a quick prayer. Life force is the gods' domain. Life force is the gods' domain. Life force is the gods' domain. The earth did not swallow him. The lightning did not smite him. Devin held his fingers rigid. “I am not a god. I am . . . not . . . a god.”
Abigail waved her arms, but Devin ignored her. She sighed and in the corner of his vision, Devin saw her sliding off the barrel. Styx shivered and hid now that they quarreled over him, hiding his face behind a pair of rustling, twig-like hands clutching his hat like a little shield.
“No, you are merely an agent of magic,” Cornelius nodded.
“Didn't you tell the Butcher we were agents of chaos?” Devin sighed. “Make up your mind.”
“I told you that was just to irk him,” Cornelius said. “You were searching for a master? Magic is your master, boy. Although you have taken the natural flows and corrupted them with your gray, steel mind. Couldn't you have at least given that puppet a wooden arm? Who ever heard of a steel puppet?”
Devin planted his metal foot on a stump. “The parts don't make the man, Cornelius. Am I any less of a person because of this metal foot? Styx is still himself no matter how he is made: by wood or by steel.”
“He was made by magic,” Cornelius said, “whatever the paltry elements forming his mortal shell. Just as magic created the powers within you, magic created that wooden man, pulling the puppet's strings, lad.”
“Styx doesn't dance to your mystical strings, old man. He lives, he breathes, he talks, he thinks. He is not a tool. He is a man and he is not your puppet.”
“Oh, he is no puppet of mine after you befouled him, but that wooden simulacra over there is still a puppet. He is a mere wooden doll,” Cornelius said, arms waving. “His chest moves, but that is not living breath. He mimics words. This is not true speech. His clay brain may parrot emotions, but he cannot produce real thoughts. He can't even feel pain.”
The Artifice Mage Saga Boxed Set: Books 1-3 Page 39