“What else is in that envelope, Father?” I asked.
Father spread the contents on the porch. “Let's see. An old, bad sketch of me. Some background on my family. The report on my so-called crime mostly seems to be missing. Cornelius must have stolen that. And what's this . . . a map?”
My father picked up the map and we puzzled over it. The map was tucked away in the report like a book marker, almost as an afterthought. The rest of the report was filled with the Butcher's bold, block writing, but someone had written on this map in a delicate, cursive scrawl. The Butcher's pen had never touched this page. Was this an artful trap? Who was the Butcher's co-conspirator and why had they circled part of the border between the Iron Empire and the Kingdom of Corel with vivid, red ink?
“Of course!” Father smacked his forehead. “Styx, these are invasion routes. The empire is invading Corel and they will either come over the mountains or up the river. The dragons will guard the mountain pass now that the snows have melted, but the river is unprotected. What are the puny Corelian Navy against the might of the Iron Empire?”
“You can protect Corel, Father.” I smiled. “Like you protected the town of Ingeld. Together we will crush your enemies.”
“No, Styx. You need to stay here where it's safe. Go deliver a message to Cornelius. Tell him about the invasion. After the things I said, he won't be speaking to me right now. Then offer to help with his experiments. He'd like that. And help Abigail prepare the town. There are two routes and I can't hit them both. What if I miss them?”
“Father, why would they attack the town in your absence . . . ?”
“The empire hates all things magic, remember?” Father said. “No, I will go alone to meet the Black Guards and defend that secluded beach when they make landfall.” He tapped the southern red circle on the map next to a tiny dot labeled Port Eclare. “Try and drag me back to the empire, will they? Ha! I can predict their moves. Now, I shall strike first. This changes the game.”
“I thought the game was rigged?” I asked as my father clutched the map and bounded down the porch steps.
“Not if you don't play by their rules.” Father threw back his head and laughed, jubilantly waving the map over his head like a trophy.
20. DEVIN, YEAR 495
Abigail flicked a crumb off the counter with a swish of her ponytail. Devin watched silently. The last twelve loaves, which he had just tried to purchase, sat steaming on a tray behind her. There was a line of mud-splattered customers from his back to the door. She didn't touch the bread and let the grumbling escalate; most of it was reserved for Devin daring to return to town. It was all Devin could do not to turn and glare at them. The imperials looked worn and bedraggled and the youth felt mixed pleasure at the thought. Their shabby clothes were an affront to his senses as he felt the vestiges of his imperial pride swelling within his breast.
To think Cornelius ever considered me a naturalized Corelian citizen. Just because of my magic. Ridiculous. But did I not want to reduce the haughty imperial nobility to rags? Is that the extent of my vengeance? No, this goes beyond them. Devin glanced at the other customers. He thought he recognized a few locals scattered among the imperials, but mud and grime had turned everyone into citizens of springtime. He pounded the counter with his fist. “Give me the bread.” The Black Guards must pay for their crimes.
“Excuse me, Bold and Blond?” Abigail asked archly, pointing out the window. “Did you have a nice time up on the mountain while we were cleaning up the mess you left behind? That was the shortest exile in the history of exiles. Almost a vacation.”
“It wasn't a vacation,” Devin said, his eyes reaching for the bread behind her. If everyone would be calm and let her sell me their bread, I will have the bulk of the provisions I need to race to Port Eclaire and save this thankless town from the horrible . . . imperials. With a flash of insight, the horrible imperial held up his hands and retreated from the counter, but Abigail had already swelled into a full fury.
“I thought you'd be smart enough to send Styx to run errands for you,” Abigail said. “Half those folks behind you want to stomp that smug face into the mud. Spring time is muck time, city boy. You mucked up.”
“Yes, we all agree I mucked up. Just sell me the bread.” Devin reached across the counter with the last of his gold buttons before she smacked his hand.
“You've been living off nature's bounty for days. Styx has been keeping me up to date on your little meditation bubble,” Abigail said off Devin's sudden, quizzical look. “That poor wooden man has been wearing his fingers down to match sticks setting snares and harvesting greens and flower buds, all for your thankless butt. Now you want to incite a riot buying the last of my bread? Why, Devin? Did you get tired of rabbit haunch and raspberries?”
“Please, Abigail.” Devin braced his elbows on the counter and clasped his hands. “I need that bread. I really need that bread.” You once told me the promise of bread was power. That nobody could travel anywhere without the help of the Baker's Guild. I need your help, Abby.
“After what you did to my town?” Abigail asked, her voice arcing like a raised fist with exaggerated, histrionic grandeur.
That's not fair, Devin thought. She forgave me for that. At least I thought she did. Abby must be putting on a show to placate her tourist customers before she gives me the bread. Very well, I'll play along. Should be fun.
“After what you said to my professor? You kicked him out of his own cottage. A cottage I helped build . . . for him, not you.”
“Abby is good, Devin thought, hiding a smile as he cowered. I could almost believe she was really angry with me and not acting.
“And now you come back to my shop? You have the gall to make demands of me?” Her verbal fist climbed higher and then struck. “Go eat twigs on your mountain. Better yet, starve.”
Devin draped his hands across his heart, playing to the crowd for Abby's benefit. “You know I would not ask this of you if it was not of the most dire importance.”
“You have no right to ask me anything. Dire importance? You think you're more important than these townspeople, you . . . imp?” Abigail backhanded him across the counter.
She's not playacting. Devin bit his lip to keep from crying out and massaged his cheek. “What townspeople? You serve tourists.” Devin glanced at the row of glaring faces behind him and beneath the mud and muck, he saw more colorful Corelian homespun than drab, imperial silks. His eyes must have glossed over such details in his eagerness to gloat over his wretched, splattered imperial foes. “What happened? Where are all the tourists?”
“You happened,” Abigail said, frowning. “Most of you imps ran like wyrms fleeing from a wolf pack. Magic is nice and safe until it isn't; not when the road grinds through town and chews up our tourism. No tourists, no commerce. Prices go up; sales go down. Good job, hero. You saved us from the invasion of the evil pocketbooks. You know none of these folks would twitch an eyelash if I took one of my loaves and crammed it down your throat. They'd probably hold your arms while you choked on it.”
“Abigail, please.” Devin waved the map, backing away from the mob. “The invasion is real. They're coming. I have proof. I need to stop them. I need the bread for traveling food.”
“I don't care what you have and the five gods can take turns pissing on what you need. Get out of my store. Take that stupid map with you.”
Abigail . . . Devin stepped back, affronted. The curse stung worse than her slap and his cheek still tingled. The only epithet worse than gods' piss was gods' shit. There was only one person left who could help him: Cornelius.
Devin wandered through the alleys and backstreets, trying to avoid the confrontation looming over him. As the sun set, he found himself approaching the old, familiar white-washed shack with the square, little yard and the green door with the tarnished latch with a glob of white powder crusted on the tip of it. Some bird had crapped on Cornelius's doorstep. Devin looked at the sky. He suspected the bowels of the gods at work here. W
hat had that fussy, old wizard been doing to forget to shine his new door latch?
Was it still new? How long has it been since Magnus finished forging that latch? Magnus, Devin thought. Why didn't I go see Magnus? With all the minor repairs from my cobblestone tornado, his business must be booming. Surely, he would not turn away a fellow craftsman?
The youth turned away from the wizard's house. He found himself walking towards the smithy.
“Hail, Devin,” Magnus called as the artifice mage entered. The smith was sitting on a barrel, sipping ale. “Styx has been working day and night deburring the last pieces for your new foot. Fellow even asked me how to craft a set of brass toenails with your little ball peen hammer.”
“You finished? Already?” Devin asked, rushing over to the workbench. “No problems deciphering my notes?”
“The notes were messy, but you'd already built most of it yourself, lad. We finished tuning and greasing the bearings by mid morning. You've got a real, metal foot there. Filigree and everything. Bit fancy for my taste,” Magnus chortled. “But it's not my foot.”
“Yes,” Devin said, running his fingers along his latest creation. “Thank you, Magnus.”
The blacksmith shrugged, slid off the barrel, and poured Devin a mug of ale. “It's your design, lad. I just helped with the fiddly bits. Some minor suggestions. Didn't think I'd get the finishing touches done before you got back. So, a pesky, magic bird tells me you're leaving town again?”
“It's a wonderful, finely crafted piece of work, Magnus.” Devin took the proffered ale.
Magnus crossed his arms. “So is my fancy metalwork as good as those artsy, imperial snots?”
“Better! And I appreciate all your assistance, both mental and muscle. Bet you haven't built anything this fancy since you helped Cornelius craft Styx. Or did the old wizard help you?”
“Subtle as a hammer striking a blank, you are,” the smith said, tipping back his mug before setting it down and rolling an empty barrel over to the bench. He gestured for the youth to sit. “I did say I'd tell you that story over a mug of ale.” Magnus walked back to the tap. He poured himself another drink. “What?” the smith said off Devin's bemused look. “Reminiscing is thirsty work.”
“So Cornelius approached you about building Styx?” Devin guessed, drumming his heels against the side of the barrel.
Magnus nodded. “To Cornelius, Styx was a wonderful magic experiment requiring the services of a metal pounder. Not that he said it like that. The wizard was right humble enough at first asking for my help.”
“Cornelius?” Devi guffawed. “Humble?”
“Man's got an ego to rival the five gods, but he can damp it when he needs to and he's smart enough to know his limitations.”
Devin let the god comment pass. “And you?” he asked, sipping the beer and making a face at the bitter aftertaste.
“The idea of making a mechanical man really stoked my fires. Styx wasn't just another odd job from an odd man, but something different and exciting. This was a chance to leave the horseshoes and door knobs behind me for a bit. Get creative.” Magnus snorted into his beer. “Should have known better.”
“What happened?” Devin asked.
“Well, you really get to know a man working on a personal project with him like that. Spent two seasons puttering around building Styx and I learned three unbendable truths about old Cornelius: the wizard has an unshakable vision of what must happen, the wizard always knows better than you, and the wizard is never wrong about anything. Some days yelling at the walls had more effect than yelling at Cornelius. He wanted to build a mechanical man from wood. Took half a season of arguing before he came around to at least using brass fixtures for the joints instead of oaken hinges.”
“Oh?” Devin smiled.
“So I found the toughest, densest hardwoods I could find. Gave old Cornelius a hand saw and a treadle lathe. Told him he could enchant whatever he wanted after we built the thing, but magic has no place in my smithy. Muscles do all the work around here. Get cutting!”
“Bet he loved that,” Devin said, discreetly pouring the mug of ale down the back of his barrel while Magnus turned to glare at the old lathe propped against the wall and fume.
“Man's not a bad carpenter, but Styx is lucky he hasn't rotted away. That metal arm's a good start to fixing him up proper. The whole project was like that. Craft versus magic. Black versus white. Like grease and water. Never thought I'd see the two mix proper. . . until I met you.”
“What do you mean?” Devin asked.
Magnus spread his hands far apart. “There's a giant chasm between how I do things and how Cornelius does things. Best we can do is yell across the divide at each other. Lucky if we don't start throwing stones. But you're an artificer and a mage. You can bridge that gap with one foot on either side and your crotch dangling over the middle.”
Devin grinned.
“No, no, I'm serious,” Magnus said. “It's a rare man who dangles in the middle like that. You had the right idea about that brass, magic geegaw. Didn't go far enough, though.”
“I didn't?” Devin asked.
“Don't waste time with Cornelius's guesswork. You had the right idea trying to get inside the head of the man who made the damn thing. Don't stop there. Track the fellow down. Meet the man who made that watch. I guarantee he's somebody standing in the middle of craft and magic just like you. A rare breed. More useful than an old smith or a dottering wizard.”
“That never occurred to me,” Devin said, clutching his empty beer mug. “I should come back and sip more deeply from your wisdom before leaving town.”
“Oh, you'll come back again before leaving town. But not for wisdom or beer.” The blacksmith grinned as he helped Devin strap the new metal foot into place. “Wasn't expecting you back so soon. Haven't installed the last of the ankle springs in that foot, yet. Go take it for a walk around town in the meantime; test the balance; kick a wizard.”
The rose bushes next to the green door looked vibrant, healthy, and thorny. Devin glanced at them as he reached for the latch, which was still covered in bird droppings.
Wizard-kicking time. I would have expected the old man to tear those roses out of the ground to spite me. His knuckles hovered over the door. Then he shrugged and flicked the white turds aside. Why knock? This is my home, too, isn't it?
Cornelius sat at the kitchen table, his head wreathed in vibrant colored smoke. Several green logs blazed in the hearth, filling the room with a light haze and the heavy scent of pine. Devin coughed, but the wizard seemed to ignore it as he hunched over pieces of the brass watch spread across the table.
Devin stepped back over the lintel. Smoke doesn't have color like that, his mind insisted. It's gray, blue, maybe black, but this . . .
Dark, eerie shades of red, blue, orange, and green wisps swirled like colorful phantoms around the wizard's cranium, ignorant of the rules in all their vibrant glory. Cornelius ignored Devin and sent the green wisp plunging into the watch gears. The gears hummed, spinning the smoke into a pale spiral which grew fainter and fainter as the gears spun faster and faster. The wizard sent the blue smoke chasing after the green and the gears hummed again, but the pitch had changed. “Hmmm,” the wizard mused, rubbing his jaw. “So it's not just reacting to the raw strength of the magic, but to the unfathomable variables as well. Fascinating.”
The watch parts were piled next to a pair of open books and a stack of papers. Cornelius turned to examine the open pages of the books as Devin closed the door behind him.
The tiny, steel implements in the wizard's fingers twitched. He sent the red wisp streaking towards Devin, which settled around the youth's head and started swirling like a mocking, hazy little crown. “An imperial citizen knocks at my door where none dare tread,” the wizard muttered. “Does the bastard want tea? I'm all out of tea.” Cornelius looked up. “Except, you didn't knock, did you?”
“Why all the smoke?” Devin stared at the old wizard's hands. Those tools seemed familia
r. His eyes darted to his satchel by the hearth, contents spilled everywhere. And were those Artificer's Handbook and Principles of Gear Mechanics laying there, spines broken across the table? “Have you uncovered the secrets of the watch, yet? Can you disable them? Destroy them?”
“Every screw and gear in the mechanism funnels all energies into the device and entraps them. Well, maybe not the screws. I can still partially dissemble the device. It's a fascinating machine.”
“Of course the screws don't do . . . whatever the rest of that thing does. What use is a machine if you can't perform maintenance on it!?” Devin buried his head in his hands and drummed his elbows on the table. “But you have the instrument of my doom there and all you can say is, 'it's a fascinating machine,' Cornelius?”
“Beyond understanding its basic functionality and mapping those effects onto a spell, the watch retains its secrets. Neither muscle nor magic affect it.”
“What of Magnus's forge fire? Did you even ask him for help?”
Cornelius waved the question away irritably. “What use is a blacksmith for investigating a magic artifact?”
“So, now that you've invested yourself, the thing is an artifact, not some stupid machine He's a smith, old man. Machines are what he does.”
“Regardless, without fire and magic, mere flames would be useless.”
“Maybe dragon fire?” Devin suggested.
“Perhaps.” Cornelius stroked his beard
“I doubt even fire from an ancient drake would mar these watches. Regardless, I have learned all I can about this imperial brass enigma before you embark on your idiot quest to stop the Black Guard invasion and come face to face with a few dozen of his friends. The real invasion this time,” Cornelius coughed. “The puppet got here ahead of you.”
Devin just looked from the tools to the wizard, then back to the tools again. “You were supposed to investigate using magic. Those books are bad enough, but you never touch a craftsman's tools, Cornelius. Even if he gives you permission. Half the time he's just being polite.”
The Artifice Mage Saga Boxed Set: Books 1-3 Page 42