The Artifice Mage Saga Boxed Set: Books 1-3

by Jeffrey Bardwell

  Devin imagining a tiny drake perched on a lamper's shoulder, tail wrapped around the man's neck for balance as smoke curled from its tiny nostrils. The beasts are cute when they're small, but the adults . . . Has Styx truly never seen a mature dragon? “They're called 'dragons' on this side of the Black Peak mountains. And there aren't any wild ones left . . .” He glanced at the merchants shuttering their stalls. The only dragons in the empire outside of fairy tales existed as butchered flesh on the black market: forked dragon tongue aphrodisiacs, distilled dragon spleen rum, or charred dragon haunch steaks.

  He whipped his head around before Styx could follow his gaze and cursed under his breath as the wooden automaton stared with bleak eyes at the expiring smoke stacks behind the market stalls. As though the dragons hidden within had breathed their last. Styx was naive, but he wasn't stupid.

  Devin took his son's metal arm and pulled gently towards the fountain. “Come on. Try not to think about it. Let's get you fixed and scrubbed up. I'm not the only one creaking, eh?”

  “Dragons get a bad deal in the empire, don't they?” Styx murmured as Devin pulled the automaton towards the fountain. The lunk was dragging his feet again.

  “Yes, they really do. Just remember, we're not here to save dragons.” Devin glanced towards the center of town where banners hung outside the palace. He could just make out the familiar imperial emblem in the fading light. Organ booze. Bits in jars. Skins mounted on the flag. Such is the imperial reverence for the mighty dragon.

  They both sat on the lip of the fountain and Devin gestured for Styx to deposit the heavy rucksack between them. “You want your tools?” the wooden man asked.

  “Don't forget to lay out the blanket first.”

  Styx rolled his eyes, dug into the pack, producing a torch, a pack of tools, and blanket, and laid them out on the lip of the fountain. A small crowd of curious onlookers had started to gather.

  “Detach your arm. Then . . . carefully go take the torch . . . and light it . . . using one of the street lamps,” Devin enunciated loudly, half afraid Styx would try and dazzle the crowd by creating more magic flames. The automaton had tried to juggle fireballs once for a small group of Corelian villagers, forgetting that only the caster's body was unaffected by his own spells, and proceeded to make a bonfire of his clothes. The villagers had thought the flaming wooden man was all part of the act. Styx lit up from the praise, which Devin doused with a bucket of cold water.

  “Waste of my talent is all it is.” Grumbling, the naked wooden man plucked his metal arm and dropped it clattering on the pavement before taking the torch and stomping towards the nearest lamp post. With exaggerated care, he opened the glass panel on the lamp, delicately maneuvered the torch, and carried it back pinched between two wooden fingers as sap and pitch dripped down the handle.

  “Thank you, Son,” Devin said, gesturing to the citizens gathering around the fountain. “Why don't you sing for the crowd?”

  Styx slumped. “Not in the mood.”

  “Good. Then sit up straight and give me a better angle with that torch. Your termite-riddled chest is blocking my light. And get a better grip on it. A little hot pitch won't kill you.”

  By the time Styx had wiped the resin off his wooden knuckles and readjusted the angle of the torch, Devin had mostly stripped the metal arm down to its larger components by feel just in time for the light to blaze on two precise rows of levers, pistons, and sealed gear boxes. The small audience began clapping. Styx bowed. The torchlight bobbed.

  Devin looked up and glared. Styx stared straight ahead into the crowd, nonplussed. Devin cleaned the grime and dirt off the parts with an oily rag, peering into the collection of imperials they'd gathered, absently waving a large gearbox at them. It was a sea of leather aprons and smudged shirts. A few finer shirts and cloaks scattered here and there. Mostly normal folks looking for a distraction before they trudge home.

  A few black uniforms patrolled the periphery of the crowd. Not breaking it up, just staying close. The lamp light gleamed off the brass devices slung at their hips. Devin smiled as he started reassembling the steel arm. Those brass watches had only one purpose: detecting magic.

  The guard whose watch had discovered Styx's magic flame must have gathered some buddies. And all of you wearing those brass devices in plain sight. You were hiding them before. Has the mage crisis grown so desperate that you've pushed them into the open? Hunt them in the streets? Perfect. Devin rubbed his hands together before noticing what he was doing. He coughed and wiped his fingers on one sleeve.

  He finished his repairs and reattached the arm with a flourish. Then he waved to the crowd and bowed. The cheering redoubled and several coins rang on the pavement. Styx perked up when a few coins bounced off his wooden frame. People were literally showering him with appreciation. Devin gestured for his son to collect the money.

  Styx flexed his steel arm as he rotated his shoulder to reattach the last of the little branches connecting to the arm controls. Then he bent down and scooped up a small handful of coins. He held one of the coins beneath the lamp light. “Who is this stern fellow stamped on all these imperial coins?”

  “Him?” Devin snorted. “Nobody special. Just the enemy to everything fair and good in the world. The exalted Horatio II, Lord of the Iron Empire and Protector of the Northern Territories, long may he grow boils on his ass.”

  “That's not a happy thing to say, Father!”

  “The emperor is not a man who gives me happy thoughts, Son.” Devin propped his metal foot on the lip of the fountain, loosened his sleeve, and spat. Then he began shining the steel.

  “Won't we be repairing your foot, Father?” Styx asked reproachfully.

  “Forget the foot. We have company.” Devin re-buttoned his sleeve as the crowd began to vanish. One lone figure in a blue hooded cloak stood still amidst the dissipating throng. The figure stepped forward into the torchlight. A pair of small hands emerged from the cloak and began clapping.

  “Impressive work,” the figure said with a soft feminine drawl. “Rare to find a man with such a talent for handling his tools. You would perform better after a good night's rest, yes?”

  “I have many talents.” Devin chuckled as he repacked the satchel and bade Styx to extinguish the torch. “Are you offering me a tour of your workshop or the bedroom?”

  Abigail's rejection after he saved Ingeld had hit him hard. And for a wrinkled old man no less. The grief hadn't quite propelled him into every woman's bed across the Corelian countryside, but he came to this city in search of ahem . . . mage lovers and those sympathetic to his cause, had he not? Devin gave the woman's cloak a second glance. Felted blue wool with silver trim. Wealthy, but not nobility.

  “Both of course. Tables and beds have so many uses.” The woman beckoned and clasped her hands. Her fingers were long and supple with a hint of black grease beneath the nails. “How fortunate you have so many talents. I have several open positions.”

  A fellow artisan? Bless the five gods, Devin thought, grinning. He choked as Styx shouldered the rucksack.

  “Do you have any open positions for me?” the man child asked, radiating innocence.

  “I'm a journeyman artificer,” Devin sputtered. “This is my assistant. A 25% commission on basic smithing, 50% for complex mechanicals. We both do good work . . . in the work shop whatever else may happen or not happen . . . in other rooms.”

  “I agree to those terms, journeyman,” she said, keeping her hood drawn. Devin couldn't see the woman's face, but it sounded like she was smiling. She led them off the main street and through a maze of alleys. The pavement grew rougher, then patchy, then nothing but cobbles.

  “Good day, gutter smith. Do you imagine you can hide from prying eyes beneath a simple cloak? Where's the glorious gadget you owe me?” A one-armed thug stepped from the shadows, waving a pendant in the woman's face. The woman raised one arm and shook her head as Devin and Styx came forward to assist her.

  Devin peered closer. Not a pendant, a s
evered hand. The man wore it on a string around his neck. He looked down at the man's shoes. Satin slippers. Not a thug, either.

  “Empty-handed again? My best work takes time, Fordus. Now scurry back home for the rest of my money.”

  “I paid a premium for swift, accurate service, you bi—” the man squealed as the woman produced a long poniard with a lever mounted in the white handle and balanced the tip against his throat.

  “You paid one-eighth when I asked for half. You will bring me the rest of the deposit tomorrow. And when I finish, you'll pay the other half on delivery,” she hissed.

  Fordus gulped and the bulge in his throat danced around the tip of the blade

  “Like my new blade? Custom made for Lord Kilandee. He didn't want to pay either. Even after I demonstrated his awful little toy. Do you want to know what happened when I stabbed his forearm and pulled this little lever?” She pushed Fordus back with her free hand as she flicked the lever with her thumb. The poniard blade split and whipped in a frenzy of spinning, steel death before snapping together with an ominous click.

  Fordus wept and tried to fend her off with one arm.

  “You're running out of hands, little man.” The woman sheathed the blade, fingers tapping on the handle. “Lord Kilandree has a sick, brilliant little mind, and I followed his design to the jot. So many tiny interlocking parts. But a simple leather-wrapped wooden handle just would not do. Do you have any idea how many ivory blanks I cracked trying to mount coiled spring steel into a hollow cored handle?” she screamed.

  Fordus nodded, twitching as he backed away. The woman sighed and composed herself.

  “That's a dead end, Fordus. Come.” She held up her hands. “I've put the blade away. Go slither on home.” The woman stepped aside as the man eased past. Devin flattened against the wall of the narrow alleyway and motioned for Styx to join him. The severed hand smelled foul. The man looked behind him and started running towards the main road.

  The woman led them around the corner, then gestured to a ramshackle door. “Step inside, gentlemen. This is where the magic happens.”

  Devin tensed and then forced his shoulders to relax and followed the woman inside. Calm yourself. It's just a phrase.

  The woman lit a small oil lamp and kicked off her boots. Devin gasped. It was the workshop from his dreams. The walls were festooned with tools of every shape and description. A small forge glowed in the corner and large steam-powered lathes, drills, and boring presses dominated half the room.

  Devin extended his hand absently as he peered into the dark corners. “I don't think I've introduced myself, my name is . . .” His words faded into her smirking lips and quirked brow. She gestured to a small table and two chairs.

  “I know who you are. That boyish face looks more rugged after five years and you sound like you're gargling pebbles, but style never changes. Those metal limbs have your signature all over them.” The woman chuckled as she eased into a chair and threw back her hood. An ugly, faded scar crossed the left side of her face. “So, tell me why you deserve 50% commission for custom work. That's for a proper journeyman. We both know you never passed your evals. Your failure was . . . spectacular.”

  There was something familiar about the face behind that scar, but he couldn't place it. Devin took a deep breath to clear his thoughts. The shop smelled of elderberries and pine resin. The scent began to massage his mind and loosen old memories. “Drusilla?” he asked, reaching across the table. “What happened to you?”

  “Master Drusilla, if you please. The scar's old history, Devin. One of my lofty clients was hungry for a discount.” She set her feet on the table and wiggled her toes at him. “We've both come a long way from our days at the Guild Hall, haven't we? What are you doing back in the empire? And with a Corelian construct?”

  “This construct is my son,” Devin said, wrapping his arms around Styx, who grinned and returned the embrace.

  “Isn't that nice? Well, your son won't be the one getting killed for breaking exile. You'll have the Black Guards and the Red Army baying to drain the grease from your veins. Why should I risk my neck—and my workshop—to shelter a failed apprentice?”

  “So you won't be risking your bedroom?” Devin asked with a grin. He imagined the sweet girl from his youth and the smile faded.

  “Heh. Not that I don't enjoy seeing you again, but you should have stayed in Corel. The empire is going to grind you into a pulp and me along with you, mister mage.”

  Devin shook his head. “Not if I destroy the empire first.”

  3. DEVIN, YEAR 497

  The master artificer drummed her heels on the table and laughed. “You couldn't defeat one lonely guild and now you want to battle the whole empire? What are you going to do, burn down the palace like you burned down the Guild Hall?”

  Devin imagined himself sauntering into the imperial palace, towers of flames balanced in each hand. Then he remembered. No magic. No towering flames. Cornelius silenced the mage inside me and buried it deep. Even in the privacy of his own thoughts, it was never 'rotten Cornelius' or 'my friend Cornelius.' Devin vacillated between the two. Magic was a gift and a curse and he still wasn't certain if he—

  Surely, you don't miss that foul creature? the artificer in Devin's mind sputtered. No good ever came of the mage or magic. Your hands are meant for greater things than crafting spells.

  Devin smiled. He was surrounded by tools. There were other ways of torching the palace. Machine ways. He started imagining improvements to his ill-fated dragon flamer, which Drusilla had destroyed in a fit of pique. And now she is a master I am an outcast. No more jealousy. “Maybe I will burn the palace down. Would it change anything?”

  “No. Buildings come and go. Empires rise and fall. Nothing ever changes. The dragon out there isn't just on the flag.” Drusilla pointed towards the grimy window. “By the gods' bloody eyes, the fat, scaly beast is coiled around the entire country.” She clenched her fingers. “It squeezes and we bleed.”

  “I know something about slaughtering large, impossible beasts.” Devin dug a coin from his pocket, slapped the emperor's copper face on the table, and then chopped his hand against the coin. “To kill a dragon, you cut off his head. Quick. Clean. Humane.”

  After you cripple it by melting its spine with magic, the artificer snorted. Really, that sorcerous little imp always brought out the worst in you. Bless the five gods he's gone.

  The emperor is responsible for everything that's wrong with this country, Devin thought. Chopping that smug, aristocratic neck is too good for him.

  “Kill one emperor and another rises to take his place,” Drusilla said. “Destroy one palace, they just build another.” She wiggled her fingers at him. “Do you really think you magically obliterated the Guild of Artificers the day you blew up the hall? They coerced the apprentices into helping rebuild that by the way. All except the classroom where it all began. Grandmaster Huron insisted we leave the scorch marks untouched.”

  Devin quirked his eyebrow.

  “He said it was a reminder. As though anyone was going to forget. A monument of sorts to the dangers of . . . hubris? Wrath? Seclusion? He wasn't very clear. Mostly as a monument to you, though he wouldn't admit it.”

  “What a sweet, old man,” Devin said.

  Who treated people like tools, the artificer reminded him.

  Drusilla sputtered. “Sweet, nothing. That old codger ran the largest, most influential guild in the empire with a gold-plated, steel fist. They have fingers in all the imperial machinery. They grease the gears. They manipulate people like puppets, safe behind a wall of status and infrastructure and every one of them all vital to the empire. Forget emperors. The guilds are the true masters.”

  “You sound vexed. But you are a master artificer now?” Devin gave a little bow and gestured around the room. “These machines. This shop. Clients of your own. Status. You've attained everything I always dreamed I wanted in only five short years. Ha! And you were suspicious of my skills when I left.”


  “Lucky you. Dreams have a way of paling when you finally reach them.” She gave a bitter laugh and waved her hands around the room with mocking, exaggerated gestures. “The machines are refurbished or stolen, the shop is almost broke, and all my clients are criminals. As for my status? Do you think I would live in a gutter hole like this if I were still a loyal member of the guild?” Her voice rose to a screeching pitch, steam building in her throat.

  “What happened?” Devin asked quietly, reaching across the table again.

  “You happened,” she screamed, kicking and trying to strike him, which overbalanced her chair. She crashed to the floor. “You and your little magic temper tantrum.”

  Devin shielded his face, but it seemed the explosion had already . . . happened. “Right. I unwound your glorious future career all the way from Corel.” Devin walked around and helped her off the floor. “What did you do, Dru?”

  “After the Black Guards arrested you. After your mother and poor Misera . . .” Devin glared and she grew silent. Drusilla swallowed and continued. “After you had demolished part of the Guild Hall and destroyed half of South District, and then your house? Were you trying to pull the whole city down around you? Do you have any idea—” She began building steam again.

  “Stop it,” Devin said. “We're not talking about my actions. We're talking about yours.”

  Drusilla shrugged. “I broke into Grandmaster Huron's office. When he was walking the younger apprentices back to the dorms late at night like he used to do? The whole mess had all started with your botched evals. I had to know why.”

  “I suppose that was my fault, too.” He grinned and wiggled his fingers. “Deep in the cells of the guard house, I manipulated you and—”

  “Yes, you made your point. I dug my own hole. Happy? It's still your fault. Maybe not what you did, but who you are. You were my best friend, Devi, but everyone else seemed in a hurry to forget you ever existed. They struck your records. They cleared your lab. The masters and journeymen stamped hard if anyone so much as whispered your name.”