“Keep a lie simple,” Devin said. “I'm your new assistant journeyman. Use my real name. 'Devin' is not uncommon. Good with constructs. Casually mention Styx. They've probably seen him performing around town with his troupe of friends. That one discarded fact will corroborate the rest of your story.”
“But . . .” she protested.
“Tell them enough truth to keep them happy.” Devin wiggled his fingers. “No magic, remember? I have nothing to hide. The detector won't even peep.”
Drusilla pushed her chair back. “Who knew launching a revolution would be so secretive and shadowy?”
Did she just wink at me, Devin pondered as he watched Drusilla walk toward the door. Is she being sarcastic? Spending so much time with Styx has dulled my sense of it. He shook his head and sipped his pink froth. Not bad.
Drusilla opened the door and two armored Black Guards ducked into the workshop. Devin raised his glass to hide a smile. The corporal had removed his helmet. Next to Drusilla, he looked like a father with a shrunken head trying to squeeze into his daughter's playhouse.
Corporal Scintillus tried to salute and smacked the ceiling as his partner limped behind him. “Apologies, Ma'am . . . Master . . .”
Drusilla drew herself up and glanced at the limping guard. “Master will do, Corp. What seems to be the problem? Not another broken knee joint is it? By the five gods, the way you fellows bang up your armor it's a wonder you capture any criminals at all!”
The guard shook his tiny head. “No, no. Well, yes, but that's not why we're here. My own device registered hardly a whisper all morning, but the private's? A broken mage detector, maybe?” His voice rose pitifully like a man who began a question hoping to find an answer before he reached the end of it.
“A false positive?” Drusilla growled, reaching out her hand. The private standing next to Corporal Scintillus surrendered his watch.
“Private Hoggins, Master,” the young man said, voice echoing from beneath his helmet. He did not salute. “It just went off suddenly this morning when I was patrolling a nearby alley. Shrieked like a lost soul. Then, right before we arrived, the silly thing quit on me.”
A smart private, Devin thought. Must be new. I wonder how long that fumbling corporal will outrank him?
Drusilla turned the watch over in her hand. “Happy to take a look at it. Better yet, I'll have my new assistant look into it. He's seen plenty of these before.”
Devin choked on his drink. “'Course,” he sputtered. “I am very familiar with your work, gentlemen. Happy to examine your device.”
“Much obliged, Mister . . . ” the corporal said.
“Oy, Devin,” Drusilla said, tossing the watch across the room. Devin caught it and she turned back to the guards. “This idiot journeyed across half the continent in search of a proper master. Pity he found me, eh? Now he helps me fashion mechanical prosthetics. Perhaps you've seen his last project doing cartwheels through town? A gangly wooden fellow with brass fittings and a steel arm?”
“Ah yes, the Stick Man.” Corporal Scintillus nodded. “Merry fellow indeed. Your work, journeyman?”
“I was only one of three collaborators responsible for creating the construct himself,” Devin said, shrugging modestly. “The metal arm is completely my own design though.”
“Fascinating,” Hoggins echoed. “Please take good care of my watch, Journeyman Devin.”
Devin's hands clasped around the device. “I shall treasure it,” he said.
Drusilla smiled up at the guards painfully hunched in her entryway and gestured further into the cramped shop. “Can I interest you gentlemen in a drink? Devin's wooden man whipped up a fascinating pink concoction this morning before ruining breakfast.”
“No, thank you,” the corporal said. “Our patrol beckons. Come, private.” He turned to leave.
“Goodbye Corporal Scintillus, Private Hoggins,” Drusilla waved. “I will send word after we have examined your device. A very thorough examination, I assure you.” The door closed behind her. She turned to Devin and grinned. “Amateur. 'Keep a lie simple.' Better not to lie at all.”
Devin thought it wiser to say nothing and finished his drink. He glanced at a clock of the non magical variety hanging on the wall. Time to get to work. He got up and placed the mage detector on a shelf above his work station, slotting the device at the end of his queue.
If there's nothing wrong with the thing, maybe I can search for mages tonight. What do I do when I discover signs of a person practicing in secret? Do I confront them then and there? Do I leave and then knock on the door later that evening? Surprise the whole family as they sit for dinner? 'Hello, Ma'am, did you know someone in your family practices magic?'
Too many variables. He glanced at the watch, the cord dangling over the edge of the shelf. Thankfully, it was at the end of a very long queue. Might take a few days to reach it. Reluctance to use the watch wasn't the only reason work ground slowly through the day. Devin also kept one eye on the window. What was Styx doing out there?
Styx returned minus the satchel full of dragons later that evening. He closed the door gently and shuffled past the workshop. The quivering, steam-belching machinery earned hardly a glance. He did not acknowledge Devin or Drusilla, but instead grabbed a handful of scouring sand and a stiff brush and began scrubbing the oven.
“Styx? Son?” Devin called, peering over the top of his work station. “What happened? Where are your wee dragons?”
“In a safe place,” Styx replied, his voice echoing from inside the oven.
“Where did you stash a catastrophe of dragons?” Devin asked.
“Like I would tell you,” his son replied. “Find any mages today?”
“No, but there's someone practicing magic in the neighborhood. Maybe. Some Black Guards came by on patrol. One of their devices went off.”
“Examined it right away, did you?”
“Not really . . .” Devin sighed. Still not sure how to make contact with my magic brethren.
“Still dithering, right?” Styx snorted. “Lucky I saved my dragons when I did. If I'd left them here with you, they'd be on a butcher block somewhere while you debated what to do instead of actually doing something. Well, I'm gonna do something by the gods.”
“Oh?” Devin replied. “What's that?”
“Didn't come back to talk,” Styx muttered. “Just need to finish cleaning the mess I made this morning.”
“Thank you, Styx,” Drusilla called. “I appreciate that. See?” she hissed at Devin. “I don't thank my machines, do I?”
No, you just hug them, Devin thought, but said nothing. The long period of awkward silence was punctuated by the shimmy of wet sand on metal.
“Done,” Styx announced. “Going to bed.” The wooden man gave the oven one last inspection, then closed the door. He put the tools away. He stood in the corner nook of the bookshelf he had claimed as his room. He stood facing the corner, crossed his arms, and closed his eyes. Devin sighed as the heavy, wooden eyelids clacked.
Drusilla glanced at Styx and powered down the steam engines. The engine steamed for one last gasp of life and then the piston-churning gears slowed and silenced. The floor stopped vibrating. “I'm done, too. Ready for dinner?”
“Not much of an appetite, Dru.”
“Time to leave the workshop, Devin. Even your wooden son has a more flourishing life than you. There's a lovely new tavern I want to show you. What's the worry? The Black Guards weren't even suspicious.”
He looked at his grease-smeared leather apron and sniffed his armpits. His nose wrinkled. He removed both shirt and apron, looking toward the sink. “Let me scrub.”
Her eyes twinkled. “Styx left plenty of wet sand. I use the stuff to clean engine parts. Should put a shine on your stained, crusty soul.”
Devin ignored this and scrubbed from the waist up. He glanced at the lavender scented soft suds in his hands and spared a thought for good old Corel, where a bristle brush and abrasive lye soap were high technology. Bless the
five gods I'm home. He smelled his hands and smiled. It's not jasmine, but it'll do. He climbed up to the loft to fetch a clean shirt. He rummaged through his pack to find one that wasn't wrinkled, stained, or torn.
When he returned to the workshop, Drusilla had replaced her boots with soft leather shoes and her scorched leather apron for a short, blue dress. Her machine oil slick curls had been styled and she wore a sapphire comb in her hair. She had done nothing to hide her face and the scar was visibly, defiantly apparent.
“So, it's Milady Drusilla tonight?” Devin whistled with appreciation.
Drusilla curtseyed and offered him her arm. “Shall we go?” she asked.
He hesitated. Isn't this one of those things gents do with their beaus? Walk arm in arm in fancy clothes? Spend an evening together eating dinner at a fancy tavern? Or are we two old friends carousing about the city? Either way, she deserves to relax. By the gods, I need it, too.
He took a deep breath and slid his arm around hers, their elbows forming two chain links. “We're leaving, Styx,” Devin called as he opened the door. His son no more needed to sleep than he needed to eat.
Styx did not reply. Either he was still irked or perceived silent slumber as a people thing.
“You sure about that comb?” he muttered, closing the door. “This neighborhood doesn't strike me as a place to flaunt your wealth.”
She shrugged. “I'm Queen of the Gutter, remember? You think true guild masters would ever set foot here? My customers depend on me to fix all their delightfully antiquated contraptions and broken second hand devices. They would not only deliver the stolen comb, but the hand of the thief who stole it.” She stepped around a pile of something in the street. The stench was attracting flies. “Thank you for the concern. It is lovely, no?”
“Will we actually be paying for this meal or will we threaten to break the poor merchant's thumbs should my queen find the food unsuitable for the royal palette?”
“Don't pretend I'm some kind of criminal,” she snapped.
“You have a legion of street urchins waiting to slash wrists to defend your honor,” Devin sputtered, “and if the majority of your clientele doesn't shit themselves when the Black Guards come knocking, then I'm a baby dragon.”
“It's a corrupt system,” she growled. “Why should I play by their rules?” Off his horrified look, she specified, “the ones concerning unlicensed guild shops, not larceny and murder.”
“You are a curiously law abiding criminal queen.” Devin smiled. “Unless you bribe the Black Guards to look the other way?”
She shook her head. “I run a legitimate shop. It's just unlicensed and unsanctioned.”
“But you did steal those steam engines.”
She shook her head again. “The engines were my severance after they booted me from the guild registry. What else could I do? A Master Artificer is one of the most over specialized occupations in the world. No haughty council was going rob me—”
“They'd better not,” Devin chuckled, shaking a limp hand in the air. “Their poor wrists. I never realized there was a level above Grandmaster Huron.”
“You would have learned all about it if you ever made journeyman. Huron probably had a seat on the council. Not that he tried very hard to stop them when they banished me.”
If I ever made journeyman? “I'm as much a journeyman as you are a master,” Devin said. A piece of paper blew past in the wind. He reached up and crushed it. He tossed the paper over his shoulder. “Our dreams, eh?”
“Yeah. Dreams.” She kicked the paper into a puddle. It bobbed and swirled in the wind, going nowhere. “Come on, they sell alcohol at this place.” Another paper fluttered past and she swatted it away. The papers blew across an intersection only to get stomped into the street under large, black steel greaves.
A procession of Black Guards escorted a prisoner down the perpendicular street. The prisoner wore a black hood covering their face. The front of the hood puckered with the prisoner's short, shallow breaths. As the Black Guards passed the mouth of the narrow alley, Devin could hear the watches slung at their hips buzzing like brass hornets.
That's a mage under that hood, Devin thought, glancing at the crowd trailing the procession. Why don't they do something?
Devin winced as one of the citizens threw an orange at the mage's head.
“Get to the Black Tower already,” one man screamed.
“The gods spit on you,” a woman cried.
Devin watched an array of fruit sail through the air and pelt the prisoner. No withered lettuce or turnips this time, he thought, perversely horrified and pleased with the imperial citizens. They only threw the best. Now if he could only refocus that energy toward saving mages rather than cursing them.
Nobody else is going to help. I have so much work to do. He squared his shoulders. Might as well start the revolution right here . . .
Drusilla jerked him back mid stride. “Are you unhinged?” she hissed.
“So this is the custom in the capital?” he whispered. “Parades and black hoods?”
She nodded and rolled her eyes. “In the provinces, you just disappear. But this is the city of the Atrium of Justice, Devin. Every part of the process is a spectacle.”
She held his arm until the procession was long past. Devin sighed and looked back down the alleyway. There were fliers everywhere, papering the walls. Absently, he began to read a few. Simple slogans and crude drawings. That one looks almost like a giant, flaming—“Dragon rum. Does this tavern of yours serve it?”
Drusilla dropped his arm and peeled several fliers off the wall, passing them to Devin. “Someone's been busy. Yeah, there's a factory making the stuff around the corner somewhere.”
“This is Styx's handwriting.” Devin thumbed through the fliers. They were all hand-written with crude images of fire-breathing circles with wings. He read the slogans aloud. “Hmm, 'Save the Dragons. Don't fear the dragons, embrace the dragons. Killing dragons is murder!' Passionate writer. Not much of an artist.” He scanned down the flier and laughed. Ha. Drusilla is going to disassemble the poor lad for parts.
“He's following in your footsteps,” Drusilla muttered. “Mages and dragons, father and son. Not a dram of sense between the two of you. One will save those horrible, magic spewing menaces that threaten to torch our society to cinders. The other will rescue dragons.”
“Did you read the rest of his enlightened message to the people?” Devin handed her one. “He invited all imperial citizens with a righteous fire emblazoned in their hearts and a noble, burning hope for change to gather in your shop tomorrow evening.”
She grabbed the flier and scowled. “It does not say that.”
Devin shrugged. “Not in so many words, but he's got a fair point. They're dragons. Should we be squeezing their spleens and fermenting the juice? Eating their steaks in fancy restaurants?”
Drusilla sighed, took him by the shoulders, and turned him around.
“What about dinner?” Devin cried.
“I just realized you wouldn't like anything on the menu and I don't want to be seen in public with my name plastered across a wall of political propaganda.” She nodded to the procession heading down the street. “Do you think they'll be any more gracious to a traitor who doesn't wield magic? I don't want to wear a black hood. Quiet revolutionary, remember?”
He waved the fliers. “This is just my son's foolish quest to save magical beasts from cruel slaughter. It's hardly political.”
She patted him on the head. “Oh, sweet, innocent Devin. Your raw, blind idealism is one of the things I've always liked about you.” She rolled the paper into a baton and smacked him with it. “Open your eyes. Grow up. This is the empire. Anything that smacks of people gathering to embrace hope or change is political. Subtext, you idiot. The more you read these slogans, the less innocent they sound. It might be cute if it wasn't terrifying. You said it as much yourself earlier.”
“Said what?”
“What other enlightened magical crea
tures does the empire treat like dangerous animals? Capture and slaughter? Display their corpses behind little windows?” She poked him in the chest with her paper baton. “Look at these fliers. Substitute 'mage' for 'dragon' and read them again.”
He waved a sheath of fliers he'd been collecting. “You said these were cute.”
“Sure. As a child screaming at an unfair world . . . until he calls for a gathering of 'dragon' lovers. Now it's a meeting. An organization. A place to raid. My place. Shit. Help me take the rest down.”
“You know,” Devin mused, peeling fliers off the wall, “you could really substitute any downtrodden group for 'dragon.' All the slogans still fit like a foot in a boot, if bursting a bit around the seams. Anyone could be a dragon.”
“Did you post these?” A familiar metal hand thrust from the shadows clutching a flier.
“No, but I'm responsible for them,” Devin replied, pushing the hand away. It clutched reflexively and the inner gears whirred with quiet efficiency. “How do you like the new interface and the smaller actuators, Fordus?”
“Oh, they are so wonderfully responsive. A dream, a—” The man leaped from the shadows, affronted. The metal hand curled into a tight fist and the gears protested. “By the gods' merry eyes, is that you, Journeyman Devin? However did you recognize me?”
“That hand. I spent hours hunched over a desk building and calibrating that bit of metal gadgetry attached to your wrist.” A horrible thought occurred. He turned to Drusilla and whispered, “He's not one of your hapless jewel comb thieves, is he? Do you wear expensive baubles and prance around alleyways just to keep yourself in business? That's . . . clever.”
“No, no,” Drusilla giggled. “Can you see me . . . prancing? An evil fishing line's to blame for Fordus's lost hand. I just patched him up afterward and gave him his life back in exchange for a modest fee. Just like any other career criminal would do.”
“So you know the sage who crafted this masterful treatise? Oh, wondrous day!” Fordus waved the flier and danced in the puddles. “A masterful command of short verse and stunning metaphor. The comparison is unsettling, but it strikes at the very core of injustice. Are we all not dragons served up for our ravenous political masters? The Dockworkers Guild supports you, brother.”
The Artifice Mage Saga Boxed Set: Books 1-3 Page 57