The Artifice Mage Saga Boxed Set: Books 1-3

by Jeffrey Bardwell

  Where is Styx? Devin wondered as he approached the market square and adjusted the empty satchel slung across his back. He had unwittingly brought the strange black box along for the journey, too. Devin was beginning to wonder if the doctor had cast an incantation on the thing. Cooking I can manage without Styx's 'help', but he knows every market vendor by name. The crowd parted as the grumbling artificer stumped down the street. Then he smacked into a wall of people.

  A woman shoved him back. “Go stomp elsewhere, tin-foot. I'm trying to see the show.”

  Devin peered into the mass of people. They seemed clustered around a tall man wearing a hat. Well, it looked like someone had capped a stovepipe and placed it on their head. And the man was swirling a cape. A suspiciously familiar black cape with silver stars and moons. Styx? Devin thought, elbowing his way through the indignant crowd. What are you doing?

  A white sequined vest under a formal black jacket completed his son's outfit. He was standing elevated above the crowd on a small stage with a large curtained box—a table, perhaps—behind him. Styx waved to the crowd and doffed his hat.

  No, Devin realized, seeing several boys hiding behind the curtains, not a crowd, an audience. This is another one of his minstrel acts. He saw a few Black Guards beyond the edge of the crowd, but they seemed almost relaxed.

  “Ladies and gentleman,” Styx said with wide arms and a wide smile, “welcome to the show. I am here today to amaze and astound you with sorcery most foul.” A flame burst from his hand. Devin's heart skipped a beat. Someone in the crowd screamed, but it vanished amid the ragged cheers. One of the Black Guards began to whistle and clap.

  Devin stared at the guard's large brass watch swinging from his hip. It hadn't made a sound. What was going on here? He turned back to Styx just in time to see his son spray a mist of white rose petals over the crowd. The cheering was more consistent now and the lone guard wasn't the only one clapping.

  The longer Devin watched the act, the more embarrassed he became of his reaction to what must have been a hidden igniter. It was a series of tricks, fake magic entertainments, all for the thrill of the crowd. And they were laughing. They were actually laughing at magic. It gave Devin a quiet little thrill. He relaxed and began to enjoy his son's performance until Styx started talking about dragons.

  The wooden man child gripped the edges of his cape and flapped as he strutted across the stage. “What is a dragon, really? Something magnificent. Something wondrous. Have any of you seen a real, live dragon? Not squeezed into a bottle or served on a plate . . .” Styx waved his arm across the sky “but flying free over the city.” He grinned and formed his fingers into wooden claws. “Looking for tasty little children to eat.”

  Several people backed away from the stage. Several mothers shielded their children. Styx laughed and twirled his cape. He slowly rolled up the sleeves of his jacket, exposing both arms: one of metal and one of wood.

  “Fear not, ladies and gentlemen. I do not propose to bring a full-sized drake in his prime here today. The very idea is absurd.” He gestured to the wooden planks at his feet. “The brute would push me right off the stage. No, I will show you a wee, little dragon. Safe. Adorable. Cute and scaly. What do you say, folks?”

  There was muttering among the crowd. “Bring on the dragon,” a voice called.

  Styx nodded and reached into the hat with his wooden arm. “And now watch in awe and amazement as I pull a dragon out of my hat. A golden, fire-breathing lizard. Maybe even two or three. Little children may want to cover their eyes.

  “What have I done?” Styx cried and several of the audience closest to him jumped back. “Wood—ha!—reacts so poorly with dragon breath. Better use the metal arm instead.” He removed his wooden arm, wiggling his fingers to reassure the crowd and then plunged his metal hand into the hat. “It's dragon time!”

  Oh Styx, you wouldn't. He imagined his son's beloved trio of dragons flapping through the crowd. All the goodwill and cheer would vanish in a pandemonium of blaring watches, hissing dragons, and screaming people. And you were doing so well, too.

  Styx rummaged through the hat. “The beast is around here, somewhere,' he muttered.

  The crowd tittered nervously. Nobody dared to breathe as Styx's arm slowly emerged. A strange beast struggled on the end of his fingers. Devin blinked and then covered his mouth with both hands. A rabbit?

  “I give you the dreaded dragon.” Styx held the poor rabbit by the scruff of the neck and waved it before the crowd. There was stunned silence, then laughter and cheers. The 'dragon' had golden dyed fur and little metal horns and wings strapped to its body. The creature wriggled its tiny nose at the crowd and the cheering redoubled.

  “I admit he's not as fearsome as I'd hoped.” Styx shook his head with a wide exaggerated gesture and waggled his wooden eyebrows. “I can never seem to get that spell right.”

  The crowd began clapping again and throwing money on the stage. Styx bowed.

  “Well, I can't leave you hanging there folks. Not after giving you a fuzzy dragon. One more, just for you.” He produced a handful of metal flowers from his jacket. “Even in the midst of the city, I shall bring you the promise of spring. Now I need a volunteer from the crowd. You there,” he pointed to a boy sheltering behind his mother. “Come on up young man. Don't be shy. You're going to help me make these flowers bloom. Yes, bring your mother, too.”

  Styx reached down with his metal hand. He pulled boy and mother up onto the stage with him. The performer handed the flowers to the boy save one. “And one for your lovely mother of course.” Styx offered the last flower to the old woman with a flourish of his cape and a low bow.

  The woman accepted the flower. She gave a little curtsey and blushed.

  “No, close your eyes, Son,” Styx said, turning to the boy. “Wish for it. Can you wish for it? Wish for the flowers to bloom. We've all got a little magic in us somewhere. Wait, wait, there they go.” There was a small, greasy creak as the metal flowers unfurled into a steel bouquet. He waved the flowers in the air and turned to the crowd. “Let's have a round of applause for . . . what's your name, Son?”

  The boy whispered something, hiding behind his mother. “Mortimer,” his mother replied, placing the metal flower in her hair as she smiled and hugged her son. “His name is Mortimer.”

  Styx grinned. “A round of applause for Mortimer here.”

  Devin smiled at his son's bombastic stage persona. Styx was doing a somewhat overblown impression of several of his father and Cornelius's more flamboyant mannerisms, while adding several unique quirks all his own.

  As young Mortimer and his mother left the stage, Styx waved to the audience. “And now for my last trick I shall make a large, wooden man disappear.” He knelt and placed his large hat gently on the stage. “But not the hat. Too big.”

  The crowd laughed again.

  Styx bowed again and with a cymbal crash both wooden man and hat were engulfed in murky gray smoke. Devin sniffed the air. Saltpeter concoction. Interesting.

  When the smoke cleared, only the hat remained. The crowd cheered, threw more money onstage, and started to leave. In a move that was obviously prearranged, a few of the Black Guards 'helped' the crowd disperse while keeping people away from the stage and the coins scattered across it. One of them nudged Devin's metal foot with his boot. “Move along, eh? What happened to your foot?”

  Devin blanked until he remembered Fordus. “Lost an argument with a fishing line oh years back.”

  The guard nodded and lost interest. Styx and his cronies emerged from under the table. The troupe began to gather the coins. Styx retrieved his hat, leaped off the stage, and ran straight to his father. “Did you like it? What did you think?”

  “Good to see you've found a use for that old cape.” Devin plucked a white rose petal from his hair and examined his son's outfit again. The stove pipe hat was cocked at a jaunty angle. The formal jacket complemented the vest. Styx had stuck one of the metal flowers in his lapel.

  “It's
fake magic,” Styx explained. “The latest craze on the street.”

  “Can I see that flower, Son?” Devin asked, pointing to the metal flower on Styx's lapel.

  Styx unpinned the flower. “My friend Bernulli made it for me.”

  “Fake magic, eh?” Devin examined the flower. The blooming mechanism was really quite ingenious . . . and delicate. He returned the flower. “How charming. Son, can you gather me a bouquet of these pretty metal flowers?”

  Styx nodded solemnly. “I see. Now you've lost your real magic, you want to learn the other kind,” he whispered behind his hand after glancing at the Black Guards.

  Devin nodded, deadpan. “Yes, that's exactly right. And your poor fumble-fingered Father will need lots and lots of metal flowers to practice on. What do you call yourselves?”

  “Well, not mages,” Styx said, throwing his hat in the air. “That would be stupid. We're Mage-i-cans.” He flipped his hat. “It's shaped like a black can, see? We started off doing a few tricks and then passing the hat around for money.”

  Devin spread his arms. “You and your friends funded and devised this entire thing by yourselves, did you?”

  “Not exactly,” Styx replied, fiddling with his hat. “I can't betray my illustrious benefactor.”

  “Your benefactor wouldn't happen to be the head of this mysterious client faction within the revolution?” Devin sighed.

  Styx nodded and placed the hat back on his head. “We rotate between different street corners every day in little groups to avoid something called market saturation. Why is it called that, Father? We rarely perform in the market square.”

  “It's a clever bit, no matter who came up with it,” Devin mused. “Fake magic. Turning spells and sorcery into entertainment. Something to amuse rather than frighten.” But who thought up of this little gem? Patrice? Jemmy? Fangwaller? If they're all charging money, are this organized, wearing fancy costumes, and have an actual rota . . . The whole thing reeks of Fangwaller. Poach my son for one of his dirty little schemes, will he?

  “The idea is to get them laughing, Father. The more the public laughs at fake magic, the less they will fear real magic. That's the idea at least.”

  “Wasn't it dangerous when you started flashing fire and rose petals everywhere?” Devin asked. “Didn't the Black Guards take interest?

  “At first. But their watches didn't go off and we led them through one of the tricks and then they laughed. Now they protect us from thieves and protestors for a small cut of the profits. Not so many protestors anymore. Everyone knows it's fake and they still love it. It's showmanship, Father. You'd never understand.”

  Devin watched the coins slip and roll across the stage as Styx's friends gathered their wages. The emperor is slipping through my fingers again. The goal used to be so simple. Save the mages. Kill the emperor. How did we get to Mage-i-cans? First, I need to explain something called civic duty to my son before he loses his soul to the Dark Cabal.

  Styx looked at his father with shining, hopeful eyes. Devin swallowed his rebuke as Styx asked, “What's inside your box, Father?”

  Maybe Tobias has a point. Can't fund a revolution on dreams and promises. And this work is certainly a better use for Styx's talents than delivering covert letters. He's even having fun. But the fact it's working and benefits the cause does not excuse Fangwaller for sneaking behind my back like this. I'll skewer that stupid merchant with his own dragon hooks. Hmmm, the vest is gaudy, but I must admit, Styx looks quite stylish with that hat, jacket, and the cape.

  “Father?” Styx asked, twisting the edge of his cape. “Are you all right?”

  “Just lost in my thoughts.” Devin smiled and patted the box. “As to the secret, utterly mysterious contents of this box? Well, I can't betray my illustrious benefactor.”

  “Fa–ther!” Styx groaned and rolled his eyes so hard the eyelids clacked.

  14. DEVIN, YEAR 498

  Devin clacked his stylus against the engine casing. It had taken half a season and he'd worked through the New Year's celebration, but he had finally competed the first mechanized timber saw. He put the stylus down. Any redesigns at this point were purely for aesthetics. He remembered Lord Tarbon's burnt, severed fingers, glanced at the wicked, serrated chain spooled next to the small steam engine, and winced. Safety is important, too, he thought as he lit the boiler and fiddled with the intake.

  Drusilla had made her workshop and knowledge freely available. Devin turned to thank her before remembering she wasn't home. Designing a serrated metal belt to match the teeth on the gears had been the hardest part. The belt looked more like a chain with barbs now.

  The flat, wobbly body of the original manual saw design had been transformed into a lattice of interlocking triangles nested in a rectangular frame with rounded corners. The frame was constructed using welded metal bars to act as a mounting platform. The new saw body was of course thinner than the width of the chain.

  The rotating chain was powered by a small steam engine with a simple clutch mechanism and a scaled ratio of gears to change the speed or torque of the chain blade. As one increased, the other decreased. The timber harvesting dockworkers would appreciate a saw that was fast or powerful depending on their needs. Weight restrictions limited the size of the tank, but water was plentiful and a simple condensation feedback loop from the exhaust port to the tank allowed a portion of the fuel to be conserved and reused.

  Devin smiled as the small engine in front of him began to whuff and emit little puffs of steam. Placement of that engine had been a nightmare. The logical, most balanced place to mount it would have been the center of the saw with gears to keep the chain on track mounted on either end. However, there were two glaring flaws with this design: the weight of the combined engine, clutches, and gears would have broken the body of any saw long enough to handle the largest trees and the useable length of the saw would be halved, making the machine useless for all but the smallest trees.

  Devin finally split the two components, placing the engine on one end and the clutch and gear mechanism on the opposite end with the chain looping between them. A heavier safety guard on the clutch side balanced the weight distribution nicely.

  Fordus had been overjoyed when Devin returned to the forest with a crude prototype. Fliers and word-of-mouth had filled the sylvan auditorium. The large attendance had been gratifying.

  Devin had chuckled to himself after scanning the audience. Another lesson learned. Don't spout simple platitudes about how great the new future will be after the revolution. Focus on how it will benefit them specifically.

  “What do you call them?” Fordus had asked, watching two of his men slice through a large, tough oak with ease. A flurry of sawdust drifted through the air like large snowflakes.

  “Dragon's Teeth,” Devin had smiled. “They'll bite through anything and if you don't treat them well, they'll shoot flames at you.” He had clapped Fordus on the shoulder. “Make sure they keep those bearings and gears well greased, eh? The metal guards will protect the dockworkers, but all that sawdust will gunk the mechanisms in a trice . . .”

  The artificer revved his newer, lighter saw engine and grinned. Maybe some of these redesigns were practical after all. The dockworkers might not be able to sing along to this tune, but oh such sweet music. Devin shut the machine down and looked around the cluttered workshop. He had gathered enough materials to make several more mechanized saws. He had even identified his target market ahead of time. Master Huron would be so proud.

  Devin washed the grime off his hands at the kitchen sink, admiring the array of foodstuffs on the counter waiting to be prepared. And Styx nowhere in sight, Devin thought. Still missing a few things. Best visit the market later. He glared at his coat hanging on a hook by the door. It was too fancy and still felt like a stranger's coat he had merely borrowed.

  Duty first, then pleasure. He groaned and rolled his eyes as he slipped his arms into the coat sleeves. This is going to be a long meeting.

  The meeting was endl
ess. Devin held his head in his hands as he groaned softly and rolled his eyes. Then, realizing this might be misconstrued as hiding his face, peered over his fingertips and glared at High Lord Fangwaller. Then for good measure, he rolled his eyes again and smacked his head against the back of his tall, high-backed chair. It was almost a throne, but Devin didn't like to think about that.

  He straightened the lapels of his new gold and green coat. This had been a present from the committee heads of the mage revolt for their beloved leader. In a cold light, the fancy jacket appeared to be the clothes of a nobleman or minor royalty. He didn't think about that either.

  This night had been a long time coming and not because of this stupid meeting. He had plans for tonight, by the gods and they didn't involve a room full of squabbling people.

  The leader of the revolution settled his hands on the armrests of his . . . throne. His behavior was a touch histrionic, but wide gestures seemed appropriate. Perhaps he had been attending too many of Styx's flamboyant magican shows.

  The latest meeting of the mage revolutionary party was earlier and more public than usual at Devin's insistence. Safer to hide in plain sight. And he had important affairs to get home to tonight.

  Patrice had moved the venue to a bakery owned by a sister of the revolution who was even now bustling around her large ovens. The woman's flour-starched apron was a poignant reminder of Abigail, but Devin buried his old regrets beneath a pile of agendas, committee reports, and cost ledgers.

  Devin had dipped into the revolution's coffers to buy out the baker's fresh stock. Well-fed mages were happy mages. And even the most strident argument often runs afoul of sticky breads and sugar-coated dragon twists. The strategy seemed to be working on everyone except Fangwaller, who naturally added this profligate expense to his litany of complaints.