The Artifice Mage Saga Boxed Set: Books 1-3

by Jeffrey Bardwell

  Devin blinked. Fordus wielded eloquence like an artificer with a hammer. “Indeed Sirrah, but we do not wish to invite any undeserving citizens into our cadre, eh?” he grabbed the man's shoulders and pulled him close. “We shall need a password on the morrow. Each man or woman seeking entry must be a leader, speak for his or her oppressed people, and come bearing the name of a discarded remnant of the unfortunate, ravaged dragon.”

  The artificer sniggered as Fordus vanished again. Did the metal-handed dandy infect you with prosy? Is that like leprosy, but confined to the tongue?

  Devin smiled. “I'm getting an idea. A brilliant idea.”

  “I hunger for this idea,” Drusilla said, rolling her eyes. Her stomach growled. “Let's go home. Ideas are weak, stringy things. Unfilling. I need real sustenance.”

  “Chew on my idea first. Why did the first mage rebellion fail?” Devin waved the crude picture of the dragon and simple slogan. “Image problem. People look at us and see fearsome, wild magic users. Dangerous beasts.”

  “But that's what you are,” Drusilla said, clutching her stomach.

  “Yes, but there's a beauty and grace to the dragon, a quiet dignity. And yet we butcher them for meat and liquor. What if imperials learn to see us not as a predator, but as a symbol.” He reached into the sky and clenched his fist. “What if instead of frightening the masses, we make them our allies? Prove to them and to ourselves we can integrate with our nonmagical brethren? Give them reasons to love mages rather than fear us?”

  “By hiding behind them? By using them for your own agenda?” Drusilla scoffed. “People love to be used. Gonna step up and tell them you're a mage tomorrow at this meeting, eh? Everyone adores a dragon-tongued liar.”

  “I can say I represent the mages and that would be no lie,” Devin said quietly as he opened the door to Drusilla's shop.

  Styx was standing in the middle of the room, arms crossed. “I posted fliers,” he said.

  Devin nodded. “I saw. And you made quite an impression.”

  His wooden arms clattered as he dropped them. “You're not angry?”

  “Because you want to save dragons? I love dragons. Drusilla, on the other hand,” his voice dropped to a whisper as he crooked a thumb in her direction, “she hates the beasts.”

  Drusilla sighed and prodded Styx with her rolled flier. “What I hate . . . are people holding . . . conspiratorial meetings . . . in my shop . . . without telling me.”

  Styx hung his head, stumbling over his apology. “Sorry, Master Drusilla. How can I make repair . . . repartee . . . reparations?”

  She collapsed into a chair and kicked her leather slippers across the room. “Make me dinner and all is forgiven. Show me one of these new recipes of yours. And I don't want to see this meal flying around the kitchen, eh?” She winked at Devin. “Told you he was cute.”

  “You know, Styx,” Devin said, washing his hands to help prepare the meal, “some of the people who respond to your message will have their own ideas. Lots of people out there need saving and hope for change, you know? They might see 'dragons' as something other than impressive winged lizards. They might even see themselves as 'dragons.' Do you understand?”

  “No. But so long as people don't forget the real dragons among all the fake dragons,” Styx said, plucking his apron off the hook, “I guess they can pretend to be dragons, too.”

  “Yes, of course, Son.” Devin waved the flier. “We will all need to be dragons before this is over. Our inner fire shall ignite the hearts of the people.”

  Drusilla smacked his chest. “So there is some fiery passion burning in here after all. Good to know.”

  6. DEVIN, YEAR 497

  The fire crackled in the middle of the room, rough hewn logs transforming the forge into a hearth of sorts. In Devin's mind, they were burning the sorry excuses for rafters holding the roof aloft. All the horrible twisted imperfections of the empire going up in smoke. The special night had finally arrived. Styx had been giddy with anticipation, pacing and muttering all day long, but now the time had come, he was acting demure, almost reserved.

  Ha, Devin thought. We shall see how long that charade lasts.

  As he watched, Styx walked to the door through a small crowd. They had long since run out of chairs and mysterious, cloaked figures were sitting on tables, uncomfortably balancing on the edge of machines, or just lounging on the floor.

  A slim person hidden beneath a red cloak stood waiting as Styx opened the door.

  “Password?” Styx asked.

  “Tee pass ward his dragoon wing,” a woman replied in a lilting voice.

  Styx nodded and led her into the workshop.

  Devin smiled. She didn't acquire that accent growing up in the Iron Empire. Good. We need a diverse perspective. It will help us remember the empire threatens the entire world.

  There was another knock on the door. Styx strolled across the room to answer it. The routine was the same.

  “Password, citizen?” Styx asked the green-cloaked gentleman with broad shoulders and a beard spilling over the lip of his hood like a red, hairy waterfall.

  “Dragon toes,” the man whispered. It was a secret meeting advertised on the city streets, yet everyone felt the need to whisper. Devin wouldn't be surprised if a guard or two hadn't infiltrated their ranks already.

  Styx nodded, gestured for the man to enter, and then closed the door. He led the man to the others and then resumed his station by the door. As agreed, the password was some sort of dragon processing byproduct.

  Another knock. Another cloaked figure. This one dressed in a black cloak.

  “Password?” Styx asked.

  “Dragon spleen,” the man replied, his voice low and hoarse. No beard. No whispers. He appeared to be clutching something to his chest. Devin peered closer. A small, lacquered box. Curious.

  Styx stepped up to block the doorway. “I do not believe spleens are—”

  “Please,” the man said. “I once knew an honorable man brought low by the lure of Dragon Spleen Rum.” He shifted the box to one hand and reached down with the other to pat the hilt protruding from his cloak. “I would shatter the spine of every profiteering guild master if it meant dumping all those fermenting spleens into an explosive garbage pile.” He draped the cloak over his hilt and chuckled. “Or just keep the feisty organs intact within the noble beasts themselves, of course.”

  “Then you are welcome to enter, sir.” Styx bowed and stepped aside to let the man pass.

  All the cloaked men and women had something short and spiteful to say about the guild masters. The evil ones were bad enough, but many seemed to grift and oppress more from habit and entrenched tradition than maliciousness. How do you crush the spine of a worm? Devin wondered.

  He had been keeping score. The emperor and the nobility were hardly loved, but it was the guilds who won the majority of these peoples' ire. I should apologize to Drusilla, he thought.

  However, this was the first cloaked figure to even mention saving the dragons as anything more than a simple metaphor. Devin nodded to himself in approval as the clock struck the appointed time. He rose and walked to the center of the room, gesturing for everyone to gather around the forge.

  “Welcome. Let us gather around the fire. Some of you are here because you are curious. Some wanted to meet the author of the fliers.” He gestured to Styx. “My son, Styx authored and posted those. Wave to all the revolutionaries, Son.”

  Styx bowed and waved. Several cloaked figures waved back. Most glanced at Styx and turned their attention back to Devin. “This is not how I would have gathered you all, yet here we are.” He clasped his hands. “Everyone here represents a discarded piece of the dragon. No spicy bottled liquors, prime haunch platters, or ruby scaled throw rugs today. We gather the waste, the offal, the scraps. We, the forgotten refuse.” He clasped his hands. “Today we bring those scraps together. Show that we, too, have purpose.”

  “We, the glorious, slimy clump of garbage,” one of the voices scoffed. “Th
e Black Guards shall kick us to the gutters easily enough.”

  “We're already in the gutters,” one voice wailed.

  “A warm day in spring next to a cozy jail cell in the palace,” the first voice sneered.

  “Gentlemen, ladies, please. What danger if the Black Guards come?” another figure said with a hollow, tiny laugh. “We are merely a group of enthusiasts. New friends meeting to talk about dragons. A hobby group, nothing more.”

  “But hour hobby is justice,” another voice cried. “It is time every wan remembered the sigil on tee old, red banners. Not tee fist of emperors. Not tee coins of tee guilds. A dragoon, flying free. Tee time is now. We shall reclaim hour sigil. No more shirking. No more hiding in deharkness.” The voice stepped into the harsh fire light and threw back its red hood. A woman emerged from the hood, her dark, angular face glaring at those assembled.

  “Yes,” Devin agreed. “If we must hide from ourselves and the enemy both, we are lost. Reveal yourself or leave.”

  Nobody moved. The hoods stayed up.

  Devin coughed. “Perhaps you could introduce yourself, madam?” He bowed to the woman in the red cloak who had stepped forward.

  She smiled. The flickering light gleamed off her teeth. “I hear so much moaning and muttering in tee streets. Tee guilds are monsters. Tee council has der fingers on hour throats. You tink if I go elsewhere, I survive. No. Jus' another council. Tees one worse than tee one you left. More rules. More taxes. Damn tee guilds.” She frowned and laughed. “So tey say. My name is Gora. I am leader of tee Sailmaker's Guild.”

  “A pleasure to meet you.” My name is Devin. I am leader of the mages, he thought. But I'm not their leader. They don't even know I exist yet.

  “You think we see profit from tee docking fees? Money from tee port tariffs? Feh,” Gora spat. “We cannot even afford a Guild Hall in a proper port city.”

  “So your guild does not have membership on any town or city council?” Devin asked. But they make sails. How are they not in positions of power? The entire length of the western empire is one gigantic coastline.

  “Guilds operate by tee grace of tee councils.” Gora shook her head. “We are too small, too weak to earn a seat at tee local council. We jus' make sails until we die. Then tee sails become our shrouds.” She formed a hook with her finger, twisting it in the air. “We sew tee last stitch straight troo your nose to check that you are truly dead. Ten we place your corpse in tee sewers. You float to sea among tee shit and tee rats. But you are free from tee bureaucrats.”

  “A coin-starved guild?” one of the voices scoffed. “Such creatures exist?”

  “Oh no, we are very, very rich wit our shit hall and our shit funerals. Seats on all tee councils every war. Jus' like tee artificers!” Gora scowled and pointed an accusing finger at Drusilla, who was sitting on one of the only remaining chairs in the corner. She had scooted away from the circle as soon as the meeting began.

  She has every right to be angry. When I discovered how deeply artificers sank their fingers into politics, I was angry, too. But I never imagined the corruption went so high, that we actually had a seat on the council.

  Devin knew rich, old people ran the bureaucracy, but guilds were supposed to be artisans and craftsmen. Something pure. As an apprentice, discovering the nasty political side of his beloved guild had been shattering. Drusilla's insistence that every guild had such supremacy made him ill and her views on the local council were even darker.

  The council is an unknown. He glanced at Gora. But maybe not all guilds are evil.

  Gora said nothing more. She just glared at the Drusilla.

  Devin held up his hands. “Direct your anger west toward the Artificer's Guild Hall, not at your hostess, Madam Gora. She is—”

  Drusilla hissed. She waved her arms.

  Devin turned upon his old friend and glared. “Loud or quiet, this revolt will fail if we do not extend the truth as well as demand it.” He peered into each of the hidden faces gathered around the forge until everyone had nodded. “Drusilla is not affiliated with that guild any longer. They kicked her out. She has as much reason to hate the system as anyone here tonight. She is not a council spy.” He raised his arms to encompass the small, cramped room. “A councilwoman would surely provide a larger venue for our treachery.”

  The nervous titter of desperate people who would have laughed at anything swept around the room. Gora nodded and left the firelight.

  “Your chose 'dragon wing' for your password?” Devin asked as the sail maker stepped back into the semi-darkness. “Do you dream of a shroud of leather and bones rather than canvas? Of a future that carries your friends aloft into the sky instead of flushing them through the sewers? Madam Gora, we shall craft that future together! Who will join us?”

  The man with the green cloak and red beard stepped forward. “I will join you.” He pulled back his hood. A few gasps rose around the room. The man snorted. “Some of you know me already. For those who don't, my name is Lord Rulus Tarbon. I own the Dragon's Flagon Bar and Distillery down the street. We buy dead dragon parts. Hang them on little hooks in the cellar.”

  The man in the black cloak startled. Then he composed himself.

  A roar rose up in the small crowd. Devin raised his arms. “Let the man speak. You've picked a curious place to be, friend. Why come to a meeting dedicated to saving dragons?” He glanced around the room. Where was Styx? “Styx, go sit in the corner with Drusilla. Go!”

  The man sighed. “I can read the unwritten word as well as the next man. Is anyone truly here to rescue dangerous, fire-breathing, scaly beasts?”

  “Yes,” Styx shouted, squirming as Drusilla gripped his wrist. “You awful, awful man.”

  A few others joined the cry, but most kept silent.

  Lord Tarbon nodded. “As I suspected. The rest of you, pick your jaws up off the floor. Dragon's goot eating.”

  “But . . . you're nobility,” Devin sputtered. As likely to find an artificer in the crowd . . . He glanced at Drusilla and sighed.

  Tarbon chuckled. “Minor nobles don't fare any better than minor guilds. As to the rank? Eh, my ancestors were just better thieves than yours. And yes, some nobles pissed on commoners during the time of the monarchy. No kin of mine was ever less than fair to those the old kings entrusted under us.”

  “Oh really?” a voice in the crowd called.

  “Oh yes,” Lord Tarbon replied. “My ancestors were far too busy pissing on each other. Well, we don't have kings no more, do we? The empire is a cursed place for anyone not a part of the emperor's precious bureaucracy. We all suffer for it.”

  “A nobleman, suffer?” the same mocking voice cackled. “Did you run low on Dragon Spleen Rum in your palatial mansion?”

  “I don't drink the stuff. I just squeeze the spleens.” Lord Tarbon lifted his right hand into the light of the fire. Three of his fingers ended in tiny stubs. Only his thumb and trigger finger remained whole. “I'm in the slaughter pit every day right alongside my workers. Dangerous task, butchering dragons. They don't give up even in death. They make you fight for everything you dare to take from 'em. So let's go be dragons, eh?”

  “You never sought to get those fingers replaced?” Devin asked, mentally calculating the work and joint dynamics involved.

  “Good reminder of the danger,” Tarbon said, chuckling ruefully. “Lest I slice off somethin' else I'll miss more. Still got enough fingers to squeeze Horatio's skinny little neck.”

  The tension in the room eased. Someone had finally said it.

  They continued around the room, throwing back their hoods and declaring affiliations. After each one, Devin grew more and more excited. I am a mage. Not strictly true. I come to end tyranny against mage-kind. Too flowery. My name is Devin and I represent the mages. None of the little speeches he practiced in his head worked.

  Fordus stepped forward, leading the man in the black cloak with the lacquered box by the arm. “My name is Fordus. I am not unknown to most of you. I hail from the Dockwo
rker's Guild. I assure you, my brethren and I are as overworked and under appreciated as the rest of you. I brought a friend with me to this illicit gathering of dragon aficionados. He hails from a city far to the south, but I vouch for this man.”

  “Why did you bring a stranger into our midst, Fordus?” someone asked.

  “Bring him?” Fordus snorted, pushing his friend forward. “I almost had to drag him. He would not even consider joining me in this venture until the name 'Devin' passed my lips. Like a spell, his doubt vanished.” Fordus stared across the crackling forge into Devin's eyes.

  Devin frowned. He tried to peer under the man's black hood. Finally, he waved the man forward. “Let your friend speak for himself, Fordus. Do I know you, stranger?”

  “How well does one person ever truly know another?” The man in the black hood passed his box to Fordus who in turn passed it to Devin.

  The Artifice Mage hefted it. Heavy, but small. A gift? A bribe?

  “So many people here,” the black-hooded man said. “Some claim to be oppressed dragons. Some profit off dead dragons. Where are the real dragons? Scaly monsters wrapped in human hide? Legends tell of people born with dragon blood in their veins. Dangerous people. Terrible people. They are the true dragons. Will none step forward to claim that birthright?”

  Tarbon and those nearby backed away. “You can't be . . . a mage?”

  The man laughed, the sound muffled beneath his hood. “Would I not deserve to take my place here among the dreck of the empire if I were? Do mages not better deserve the title of 'dragon' more than anyone else in this room?” The man in the black cloak leaned closer to Tarbon, who flinched. “I'm not dragon borne. I'm a dragon hunter. So many dragons in the room. How many of you have true fire in your veins?”

  “A dragon hunter, eh? You a new guy from the cabal?” Tarbon asked. “I've not seen you making deliveries before.”