Patrice is right, Devin thought. No more knuckles. How can we expect people's perceptions of us to change if we can't even stop brutal violence amongst ourselves?
He glanced at the two sides gathering for battle, their shoulders hunched, hands ready to cast mayhem, fingers twitching. The motions were easy and practiced. The mages had obviously settled debates like this before. One flare, one bolt of lightning, and the entire room would dissolve into a brawl.
Are we truly mere creatures of strife? A public threat that deserves extinction? Or are we just molding ourselves into the image they make of us because that's all we know anymore?
Devin strode to the center of the room as lighting and fire crackled in the air, singeing the hairs on the back of his neck. May the five gods protect me. May the five gods protect me. May the five . . . He stopped in the center of the room and pointed imperiously to the tiles at his feet.
“Fangwaller, I challenge you . . . to a duel of words. No more meandering debates. No more pointless brawls. Quick. Decisive. Final. Can you flap your lips as well as you swing your fists?”
The lord slicked back his hair with one bloody glove. He marched to the center of the room, placed his hands on his hips, and sneered. “The five gods bless, you've certainly tempered everyone's soft positions to hard points. Fine, sharp points.” He gestured around the room. “So why shouldn't the lads and I not just skewer you and yours right now?”
Devin clenched his fists and banged them together. “Lets say we fight. Turn this whole room into a carnal house. One of two things happens, Fangwaller. I kill you. I win for now. But wait. You become a martyr to the cabal. They entrench so deep in imperial politics a dragon could not dislodge them. The cabal fights me at every turn. My rebellion falters and dies. I lose.”
Fangwaller cracked his knuckles, but the sound was muffled beneath the gloves. “Interesting scenario. And the reverse?”
Devin shrugged. “I die and become a martyr to the revolution. They spend their last breath exiling your sorry merchant's cabal from imperial soil. The lucrative market for dragon products collapses. You lose.”
“Perhaps there's something to what you say,” Fangwaller said, scratching his chin.
“Did you really think killing me was going to solve your problems? You think because the imps give you money and allow you to sneak into their country, they respect you? You're just a dog who fetches dragon parts for their amusement. The moment you falter, they will slaughter the lot of you. Probably confiscate your inventory, too. That's bad for business.”
“True,” Fangwaller barked with a short laugh.
“Why not help us change this rotten system?” Devin asked. “Sell your wares openly as a free merchant instead of the emperor's tame lapdog?”
“Perhaps that would be good for business,” Fangwaller said, extending his gloved hand. “I still say you're an untried puling whelp who may yet bring ruin to us all. But what good is business without a little risk, eh?”
Devin smiled, grabbed the man's bloody glove, and shook it. His fingers squelched. “And you're still a foreign born, money-pinching coward who laid an ambush for an unarmed 'puling whelp' and an elderly knight. What good is a revolt without a few foreign allies?”
“Unarmed?” Fangwaller quirked one eyebrow. “Nobody who wields magic like you do is ever unarmed. That particular sword is ever at the side of any true mage. Though your sword's gotten a bit dull and rusty of late, eh?”
“As you say.” Devin scowled. My dull and rusty sword indeed. The man's as subtle as a knife in the guts. “I despise you, but you're still a mage. And I came here to save all the mages, not just the ones who like me.”
There was a commotion among Devin's side of the crowd. Jemmy emerged, pushing people aside with his elbows. “Elderly knight?” he cried, stumping around, shoulders hunched, chipping tiles using his sword like a cane. “Leader or not, savior or not, I can still swot your bottom with the flat of my mighty blade,” he screamed.
Soft laughter and chuckles drifted around the room. Shoulders uncoiled. Fingers unclenched. The two crowds slowly coalesced back into one. Jemmy glanced at Devin and winked before straightening his spine, sheathing his sword, and vanishing back into the swarm of people.
Thank you again, Jemmy, Devin thought. This time you play the fool instead of the soldier. How many masks do you have? His position secure, he began calling mages to the podium while Jemmy stood guard, interviewing them, and then delegating them to start reaching out to their respective classes to quietly start promoting mage freedom. Against Jemmy's vociferous protests, he named Lord Fangwaller as the mage delegate in charge of integrating with the guilds.
“Yes, he's a snake,” Devin whispered to Jemmy, “but he's also a businessman. The guilds will respect that and accept him. And what better way to tie him to the cause than give him a large stake in it? Besides, you said the cabal excels striking from the shadows. We need a whisper campaign right now, Jemmy.”
“A shadow campaign?” the knight groused.“Are we revolting against the government or gossiping about the neighbors?”
“We need to drum up popular support. The public hates us. Fangwaller can help us with that.” Devin bit back the rest of his rationale, which would not have swayed Jemmy in the slightest toward forgiving his foes.
Devin glanced at High Lord Fangwaller strutting through the crowd. He's organized and he knows how to organize others. He can sway people to his cause, Devin thought. Better to make mage rights his cause . . . even if it's not for the most noble of reasons.
Jemmy gripped his sword and grumbled.
By the five, Jemmy! That man could have easily blackmailed me for a position in our upper ranks with the secret you revealed. He did not. He's either joined our cause with a glad heart—ha—or he's banking on a higher price for that particular treachery.
Jemmy grumbled again. Something about giving away choice prizes to the enemy.
“If I embrace this enemy at my side, I can keep an eye on him.” Much like I plan to keep an eye on a certain reformed Black Guard. “Besides, you can't watch him forever, Jemmy. You'll be too busy liaising with the Black Guards. Softly. Cautiously. See if any of your old friends shares your sympathies.”
“Oh Wondrous Leader,” Fangwaller called, turning to catch Devin's eye and waving. “I had a few ideas that require your receptive ears. Finished doling out all those pesky, little tasks, yet?”
Jemmy bridled and Devin waved him away. “What is it, Lord Fangwaller?”
The man sniffed as he approached the large chair someone had thoughtfully procured for Devin. “High Lord Fangwaller, if you please.” But his sly grin ruined the somber words.
Devin rolled his eyes. The man was smiling like a cat with a bit of string. “I am pleased to see you recovering so well from your premature demise. How may the revolution serve her allies in the east?”
“Oh, I had a few minor ideas, suggestions really, on how we might capitalize on this mage revolt.” Fangwaller rubbed his hands together. “Just imagine all the tithes and tariffs we can impose once we hold the market in the palm of our hands.”
“Why bother, when I have you to imagine for me?” Devin muttered before speaking up, “You mean, 'once we hold the empire in the palm of our hands?'”
“Yes,” Fangwaller nodded, unruffled. “The empire's market. Such a lovely source of plunder.”
Devin put his head in his hands. The man had the heart of a smuggler. To be honest, he was a smuggler. Fangwaller wouldn't stop talking. Moment by moment, Devin felt his soul sinking deeper into an oily pit of viscous spiritual slime as the man took a once noble cause and stripped away the altruism, compassion, and dignity. His compatriots were just numbers on a ledger. The goals of the revolution became another money making scheme. The slogan, 'Free the mages' transformed to 'Free the markets.'
The meeting could not end quickly enough. He gave Patrice the task of choosing the next venue, remembering her rant about old shops and museums, cautioned everyo
ne to quietly and cautiously pursue their objectives, and disbanded the meeting.
He waved away Jemmy's offer to escort him back to the workshop. Fangwaller's twisted ideas had left him greasy and unclean. Besides, he wasn't ready to go home. His old friend Drusilla was waiting at home. In her room. On her bed. Waiting to get very friendly. With him. He was still grappling with that.
Part of him always looked past the scarred, lonely artificer and still saw a passionate young woman with sticks in her hair who smelled of elderberries. A pal. A stalwart friend who had matured into a very passionate, attractive, intelligent compan—
He clamped down before his thoughts veered. Things were getting too chaotic, too warped, too fast. He needed to ground himself. Best seek out a temple.
The weight riding on his shoulders lessened as soon as he made the decision. He glanced at the angle of the moon before shrugging. Temples were open to all worshipers any time. At least they used to be. How long has it been? He asked himself as he started jogging down the narrow cobblestone road.
Since you slipped inside a temple? the artificer snorted. Or . . . something else? What was the name of that fair maiden in western Corel? Don't act so innocent. Feh. Captain Jemmy isn't the only one wearing a mask, holy man.
The holy temple was deserted save for a single attendant priest tending the five sacred braziers in the main atrium. The saintly man in red robe with a square trimmed white beard was making the rounds, diligently encouraged the flames with gilt ceremonial bellows. It didn't look like the flames really needed any help.
The priest turned as Devin's footfalls echoed on the marble tiles. “Good evening,” the man smiled. “How may the temple serve you, young . . .?”
“Devin,” the youth said, glancing down. Several of the tiles were discolored or cracked and crumbling. He tiptoed across the floor towards the braziers taking care with his metal foot.
The priest threw back his head and roared. “Stomp at your leisure lad. The foundation of the five gods is sturdier stuff than mere mortal feet.” He winked. “Even mere metallic mortal feet. We need to replace a few of those old tiles anyway.” He peered at Devin's face. “What's wrong? You look positively distraught.”
“Many things are wrong,” Devin said. “But most of my problems can be traced to certain people in my life taking my visions of something wholesome and glorious transforming them into something . . . skewed.”
“Is that right?” The man sat on a small cushion and slapped his thigh. “Tell me, Devin, have you ever heard of the parable of the dragon who chased his own tail?”
Devin sat next to the priest and shook his head.
“Once there was a dragon who had everything he could ever want: a fine cave, a horde of gold and jewels, knights and princesses aplenty . . .” The priest smiled. “By all rights, he should have been a very happy dragon.”
“But he was miserable?” Devin guessed.
“Not miserable as such. Not yet. Let us merely say he was unsatisfied,” the priest said. “For you see though he had riches beyond measure and pleasures beyond counting, no jewel in his horde or flushed cheeks of his victims could ever match the glowing splendor of the beast's own tail. The tip was remarkably splendorous and radiant. It's edges curved like a the prow of a ruby ship. Each keeled scale was like a tiny immaculate shield. The tail mocked him, twitching, ever beyond reach. Always in sight, but never in his possession. Do you understand?”
Devin nodded. “I think so.”
“That tail preyed on his soul.”
“Dragons have souls?” Devin asked, smiling.
The priest flounced his robes and chuckled. “In this temple in this parable at this time under the blessed eyes of the five gods, yes, I have granted this particular dragon a soul. Though the poor beast may lose it again after you leave. May I continue?”
Devin nodded.
“His tail consumed the dragon's thoughts. His gold became as tarnished brass. His jewels lost their luster. The finest princesses in all the land turned to ashes in his mouth. He resolved to pursue the one thing left that mattered: his tail. He waited until the sun was high in the sky and his beautiful tail sparkled at it's finest. Then he chased it. The mighty dragon, reduced to chasing his tail like a dog.” The priest sighed and lapsed into silence.
“What happened?” Devin asked.
“Oh, the specific endings vary. In some versions, the dragon actually catches his tail and remains latched to it for eternity. In other versions, he remains chasing it to this very day. My favorite has him crashing into a swamp where he remains preserved forever circling himself. Or as a skeleton entombed in rock.” The priest fluttered his hands. “So many versions.”
“And what is your interpretation of this parable?” Devin asked.
“There are as many different interpretations as there are endings,” the priest said. “I like to think of it as a cautionary tale against chasing a single-minded objective at the expense of everything else.”
“Oh?” Devin asked, leaning back on his hands and gazing at the sacred braziers.
“Consider this thesis: despite your perception as such, nobody is actually intruding on your vision. Rather, they are merely offering to enrich it. Rather than protecting your vision, you are impoverishing it by not letting them contribute.”
“I suppose that's a different way of looking at things,” Devin mused.
“Said the princess from inside the belly of the beast,” the priest laughed. “Look at the situation from their perspective. Perhaps you are the intruder. Imposing your expectations on their dream. Disrupting their ideal world.” He spread his hand wide and then brought it close to his chest, closing his fist. “It is a very lonely person who merely chases his own tail.”
Devin pondered the priest's words as he walked home. The parable didn't tell him anything he didn't already know of course, but the simple story was thought provoking. None of which told him how to satisfy Drusilla's expectations without ruining their friendship. In the end, the priest's rambling story did provide one solution to Devin's immediate problem: Drusilla had fallen asleep in her bedroom sometime during the telling of it.
Her door was wide open. She sprawled on her back across the bed, chest swelling and quivering as she snored. Her hair was matted and disheveled, but there was something peaceful about her soft, exposed features. She twitched as one foot dangled over the edge of the mattress.
Devin reached for the errant foot—that soft, smooth arch—and then withdrew his hand. He covered her with a sheet instead, bid his friend goodnight, and then backed quietly away from the foot of her bed.
11. ARMAND DELACOURT VICE, YEAR 497
Armand watched from the foot of the bed, balancing his lantern on the top of the bedpost. The shape of a wretched, little man in a loose night gown stirred, half covered beneath rumpled, wet silk sheets. Cut into strips and braided, they would have made an excellent noose. Armand's lips formed a small moue. Now where is the golden thread to complete that vision?
Details blurred in the gloom, but the semi-darkness heightened Armand's other senses. The odor of sour perspiration drenched the room. He shielded his lantern and the man awoke in darkness. There was an eerie, echoing thumping sound as the man thrashed about.
“Elena?” the man called into the gloom. “Is that you, darling? Are you back from your mother's house already?”
“Oh, how the mighty have fallen,” Armand murmured before baring the lantern, illuminating the room with harsh, orange light. He tilted the device so the glow reflected off his face for the best effect. “No, my dear,” he cooed, “it is only . . . Major Vice.”
“I know that oil slick voice. Major? So the Imperial Bastard promotes you and censures poor Jemmy,” the old man said, rubbing his eyes and groaning.
“That 'bastard' is the Lord of the Iron Empire and you will show him respect,” Armand hissed before taking a few deep breaths to calm himself. Focus. Don't lose control. Let the old man rant. His opinion is worthless.
&
nbsp; The old man coughed.
Old man, Armand mused. Once that title had been a symbol of Lucius's respect and the camaraderie between the old man and his faithful subordinates. Now, respect had fled and those subordinates were under the command of another. Nothing left of the man's station or dreams except an empty husk in a lonely bed.
“The emperor,” the old man sneered, “does not deserve my respect. Nor my allegiance. The Iron Empire has become a disgrace ever since the Battle of Port Eclare.”
A political mess you instigated, which I had to clean up. Armand snorted. Careers had imploded after that fiasco, including that of the ex-magistrate. He was nothing more than a frail, pathetic figurehead now, something to prop on parade, and stripped of all his judicial powers. Captain Jemmy ran the Black Guards, the council managed the city, and some young stripling from the capital administered the affairs of the Western Province.
Captain Jemmy, no less. Armand sighed. The ex-magistrate's last act of wanton lunacy had been to promote that stupid, soft-hearted sergeant to a position of command. Captain Jemmy of the Black Guards had been censured for failing to apprehend the dangerous criminal, Devin the Mage.
The man had offered no rational defense of his actions. Then, in the midst of turning the Black Guards into a joke, the idiot had vanished. Armand had hoped to question the man to find his quarry, Devin, but now the emperor had made Jemmy his quarry: a traitor if ever there was one. The circumstances of his disappearance, his subtle disobedience to the law, his questionable allegiance to the ideals of the empire . . . all very suspicious.
“What do you want, Vice?” the old man spat. “Haven't you done enough to me already?”
Armand clenched the bed post with one hand as though wringing a very wizened, very stiff neck. If Lucius Judicar leads me to Jemmy who then leads me to Devin, what man would dare say I did not faithfully serve my emperor and justice both? Armand plucked one of the wet sheets and pinched it between his fingers. “Trouble sleeping? Does the weight of all those deaths at Port Eclare weigh on your mind?”
The Artifice Mage Saga Boxed Set: Books 1-3 Page 63