The Artifice Mage Saga Boxed Set: Books 1-3

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The Artifice Mage Saga Boxed Set: Books 1-3 Page 73

by Jeffrey Bardwell


  “Handle him?” Tarbon snorted. “He's not a dog.”

  She closed her eyes and focused. A tiny thread of fire extended from her fingers and wrapped around Ingot's neck like a leash. Patrice tugged gently and Ingot hissed. She pulled hard. He launched from her arm, wings flapping as he glared at the tether linking the two of them.

  Patrice opened her eyes and grinned at the baleful dragon. “See?” she gestured.

  “Get him down, get him down,” Jemmy cried waving his arms. “Do you want to attract the patrols?”

  We had secreted our own brass watches far on the other side of the building from the dragons so their antics would not set off any alarms, but the Black Guards were an ever present danger. Lately, Jemmy's spies in the palace had been less accurate with their timetables.

  Patrice sighed and snapped her fingers. The flame leash disappeared. Ingot shot to the ceiling. She held out her arm and whistled, beckoning to the little dragon who had taken shelter in the rafters. He lashed his tongue and hissed again.

  I grinned and reached with my metal arm to collect him. Ingot hopped down that metal ramp, slinked across my shoulders, and curled around the wooden arm. He curled into a ball in the crook of my elbow and hid his face.

  Tarbon sighed. “We didn't all gather here tonight to play with dragons.”

  “But we're not 'all gathered here,' are we?” Drusilla asked.

  “Gora and Festus are managing their guild affairs. And we will rescue Devin in good time,” Tarbon muttered. “But we need a better plan than wishes for dragons—”

  “I was referring to High Lord Fangwaller and Doctor Drubber?” Drusilla said archly.

  “Fangwaller and who?” Jemmy asked, biting into a fresh roll.

  “She means Tobias,” Patrice sighed.

  Careful not to disturb my sleeping scaly companion, I walked over to the table and waved to everyone as I grabbed some letters and envelopes. I walked back to my corner. My back propped against the ovens, I began to sift through Father's unopened correspondence.

  “We've all heard what happened to Fangwaller by now,” Tarbon said as I split my attention between their conversation and my work. I kept glancing up. Revolutionaries are very distracting people. “The emperor isn't shy about it. Keeping the man chained on display in his throne room like a . . . like a . . .”

  “Like a mage in the Atrium of Justice?” Patrice asked sweetly. “Does it bother you when the mage is also a nobleman, Lord Tarbon?”

  “What happens to the mages is a travesty, but most of them were captured in the act of committing crimes,” Tarbon said.

  “And because High Lord Fangwaller is a merchant and a gentleman, that excuses his crimes?” Patrice growled as she counted them off on her fingers. “Smuggling, extortion, murder, profiteering. All just a part of doing business, right, Tarbon?”

  “Most mages are captured in their homes sitting around the dinner table with their families,” Jemmy offered. “Yes, they're technically criminals,” he shrugged, “but magic is a crime . . . we would be as likely to punish gluttons if eating were a crime.” He popped another roll into his mouth.

  The baker smacked his wrist with a wooden spoon. “I just well might,” she cried.

  Everyone laughed. Patrice chortled and even Lord Tarbon smiled.

  Jemmy slayed another argument, I thought, stroking the gently whuffing dragon in my arms. That sword he waves around is not his most dangerous weapon. I smiled as Jemmy closed his lips and sheathed his tongue.

  A familiar scrawling signature on one of the envelopes caught my eye. Blessings of the gods, Father. Even from a jail cell, you reach down to help us. I opened the letter and read the doctor's shaky handwriting, hoping to find a clue to his whereabouts.

  My Dear Devin,

  I regret I must report a dire threat. Please pass my warnings to the sons and daughters

  of the revolution. I know you like to call us that, and it does my old heart good to hear it,

  but truly we are fathers, mothers, and grandparents of the revolution. Politics is an old

  man's game. We have been planning and arguing and hiding for years, suppressing

  the symptoms of our disease lest they discover, mutilate, and make a macabre spectacle of

  our bodies and display us like lab specimens. And the emperor calls us monsters.

  The magic taint has been building, spreading inside all of us for ages. I know you planned

  to use the mages to counteract the imperial army. It was a good plan. But too much

  concentrated magic in an individual will have disastrous, likely lethal effects. We can

  recover from a single use, even a brawl or two, but a protracted battle against a powerful

  antagonist may doom us all.

  I repeat, we cannot fight the Red Army with our magic. Pound that notion into their heads

  with your knuckles if need be. We are a stubborn lot. A large burst would be too chaotic,

  too uncontrolled. I'm sorry lad. I know you were counting on that. So with my last breath, I

  test the extent of the ethereal backlash before the disease consumes me. If I must die, then

  I die for science and my fellow mages! I invite you to examine the results on the wall in my

  lab for yourself. I shall use the effect to cast a shadow. The projections coming off my body

  should appear as little swirls or prickly spines corrupting the human outline.

  It has been the greatest honor of my life knowing you. Glory to the revolution!

  Sincerely,

  Tobias Drubber, Physician

  May the five gods embrace you, Doctor. I made the sign of the White Tower, folded the letter, and lowered it to my lap. “I found Doctor Tobias,” I said quietly. The group ignored me, chattering and preening amongst themselves like a flock tiny birds. “The doctor is dead,” I yelled.

  Lord Tarbon ruffled his feathers and blinked like an owl “Excuse me?”

  I waved the letter as they all turned to face me. “The doctor killed himself in an experiment.”

  “And then he wrote a letter and mailed it from the Black Tower?” Patrice smiled.

  “No, he knew the experiment would fail,” I said, flustered.

  “Then why conduct it?” Drusilla asked.

  “He was trying to save you.” I glared.

  “Hardly knew the man,” Drusilla replied, flipping her hand.

  “No you-you, the mages-you. You're not in that you, Dru.” Lord Tarbon's eyes crossed and Patrice started laughing quietly. I waved the letter at them and it rattled in my hand. “A man is dead. This is very serious business.”

  “Styx,” Drusilla said, rising from her seat, walking over, and clasping my shoulders. “Tell us all very slowly what happened to Doctor Tobias Drubber. Did he tell you how he died . . . in the letter?”

  “Did he tell you how he held a pen?” Patrice asked, laughing harder.

  Drusilla turned and glared at the older woman. Patrice grabbed a large roll mid-chuckle and buried her face in it. Drusilla reached out her hand. “May I read the letter, Styx?”

  I handed her the paper and she scanned it. “Hmmm,” she murmured. “Concentrated magic . . . ethereal backlash . . . chaotic, uncontrolled.” She closed the letter, sighed, and handed it back to me. “Thank you, Styx. Why don't you go check on the doctor's last experiment for us?”

  I nodded and passed her Ingot. She sighed and accepted the limp, sleeping dragon. Then she turned to address the others. “The mages are out of the fight. Casting a large spell will release years of suppressed energy and kill you. The doctor's last act was discovering exactly how many people you'll take with you to the Black Tower.”

  “Shit.” Patrice slammed her roll on the table. “Damn army's going to roll over us. Nothing left for the dragons to pick over. Or the dragons will eat us for lunch first and the army can—”

  “Yes, fine.” Tarbon put his head in his hands. “So we need a new plan.”

  “We are running
out of plans,” Patrice cried.

  I left at that point before they all started fluffing their feathers and strutting again. The streets were peaceful and quiet. I waved to a few Black Guards I recognized. They were fellows who Fangwaller had paid to police our magican shows. They did not wave back.

  Do they blame me because Fangwaller was a real mage hiding behind a fake mage this whole time? Or are they just angry we canceled the magican shows? I was angry, too. I enjoyed performing those shows.

  Stupid Fangwaller. I don't care what the rumors say. Father did not betray him. I hunched my shoulders and didn't extend any tendrils of friendship toward any of the other patrols.

  Doctor Tobias's back door was locked, but my metal fist made easy work of that. There weren't any Black Guards around and I certainly wasn't an old politician, so I risked making a tiny flame on the tip of my metal finger. Apparently, holding that stuff inside will kill you.

  Sorry Father, I whispered as I navigated the dark house, but it's for the revolution, so maybe you'll forgive me. My heart fluttered like a hummingbird when I saw a large, brass mage detector hanging in the hallway.

  I doused the flame and dove around the corner. After the clattering echo of my wooden body slapping the tiles died away, I listened for the whispers of the screeching clock. No noise. Not a peep.

  I lit my finger again, feeling like a tiny seedling. Still no sound. I crept into the hallway and examined the machine. It had two, straight dials, though one was a bit shorter than the other. Numbers on the face. I wiped the sap trickling down my forehead. Phew, just a normal clock. Where's that lab?

  I found the room with all the bubbling glass tubes and things inside. There were signs of an explosion: burn marks, scattered papers, and a curious spot on the wall. The spot had once been a man. The doctor had warned me to look for tiny whirls and imperfections in the shadow, but that thing the doctor had left behind was so distorted it hardly looked human.

  I extinguished my finger and felt my way to the back door in the dark. The doctor was an expert on magic and he ended up like that. No more spells for me. I glanced at the entrance to the palace near the doctor's house.

  “We'll be coming to save you soon, Father,” I whispered. As I walked back to the bakery, a pink glow started rising in the east: a brand new day. And something dark behind it. A storm. A massive springtime storm. I could hear the roar of lightning in the distance.

  I hurried home to warn the others and gave my report on the Doctor Tobias's brave, final experiment. We huddled in a circle and Patrice, who knew him best, said a brief prayer for the soul of the departed doctor.

  My three babies had fallen asleep in a ball in the middle of the table. I gently rolled them to one side and started moving the fresh bread from the windowsills and closing all the windows The sky darkened overhead. “Storm's here,” I announced.

  Suddenly the three baby dragons sprang up on their haunches, raised their necks, and started singing their sweet voices into the sky.

  They were soon buried by the sound of whirlwinds, thunder, and fire. Drusilla covered her ears and ran to the last open window. “Styx, you ninny,” she screeched. “This isn't a storm. The dragons have arrived.”

  While everyone else was huddling away from the windows, I scooped my babies and ran out the door. A series of long, lithe shadows passed overhead. My little beauties climbed atop my shoulders, stood on their haunches, and cried a glorious welcome. They were answered by several bass roars.

  I stared up into the sky. I thought my smile might crack my face. I didn't care. Jewel-scaled creatures blotted the sun with their grace. The sky was dark with dragons. Some dropped slowly to the ground or atop buildings or floated in the air. I could see all sorts of dragons: large, small, red, golden, brown, and green. They drifted through the sky like a flurry of last autumn's leaves descending over the capital on a blustery spring morning.

  20. ARMAND DELACOURT VICE, YEAR 498

  Flying through the air on the blustery wind, red, golden, brown, and green leaves, once soft and young when the small company of four left the imperial capital, now littered the ground by the time they arrived on the outskirts of Port Eclare. The company had lingered here waiting for the sun to set. Nobody was eager to face a city full of active dragons. Armand shifted in his saddle to pluck one of the last leaves fluttering on the end of a branch. He crumpled it in his fist and glared at the world before tossing the remains into the wind.

  Armand sighed and tugged at the rope in his other hand. An equine sigh answered him, the high pitch almost buried beneath the low rumbling monotone behind them. General Festus had given Armand Delacort Vice the vital task of leading the cart horse. He supposed he was lucky he wasn't riding the cart horse.

  That would be one indignity too many, he thought, glancing at the two soldiers riding in front of him. Their braying voices carried easily on the wind. The cooling night air would already be lulling the dragons into a stupor. The soldiers were not even trying to be quiet anymore. And if those two immature poltroons attempt one more jape at my expense . . .

  “Hey Scarly,” Private Lowe called. “Some bastard cut some of the girths last eve. We 'ave a sappy tutor in the ranks. Or maybe a spy. Yers get sliced?”

  “The rogue must have missed mine,” Scarly chuckled. “But I saw the major there havin' some trouble mounting this mornin.' Slippin' and slidin'. Dangerous times when a man can't trust his own tackle.” The soldier unsheathed his blade and notched his reins.

  “'Ey, what was that for?” Lowe asked.

  “Jus checkin'. Heard another bastard snuck through camp this mornin' and dulled half the blades. Enemies all around us, don chew know?”

  The entire trip had been one long succession of sinister deadly veiled threats, dangerous reckless juvenile pranks, and butchered grammar. Armand quivered. His white mare picked up on the man's mood and stomped her hoof. One chops off the front of his words and the other chops off the ends. It's a blessing of the five they can string a whole sentence together between the two of them.

  Leading from the front, General Festus half turned in his saddle, abrading his men like an exasperated parent. “What's all this noise? You lads know what the word 'covert' means, don't you?”

  “Sorry, sir,” Private Lowe muttered.

  “General,” Armand said, “I must protest.”

  “Must you?” Festus replied, sighing.

  “Your men have continuously offered me violence. I am a Major in the Red Army—”

  “May the five gods preserve us,” Lowe muttered.

  General Festus reined in his horse on the narrow game trail, forcing the troop to do likewise. He unsheathed his sword and brandished it over Armand.

  Armand stared at the blade, unruffled. “Discipline your men, sir!”

  The general turned his attention to the soldiers, blade still raised. “Tell me how one of these motherless bastards violated their oaths Major Vice and I shall gut him here and now.”

  Armand ground his teeth. “They have not forsworn their oaths, General, but . . .”

  “Well, they're either disobeying or they aren't.” Festus sheathed his sword. “The Red Army isn't like the Black Guards. We keep our oaths.”

  “The soldiers are not technically disobedient, but they twist the spirit of their vows like a ball of twine,” Armand hissed. “One could hardly tell where the flippancy ends and the insubordination begins.”

  “Insubordination? One of my boys? Surely not.” The general snorted. “Merely youthful exuberance. Dismount and check your girth belt, won't you, Major? Your grip seems to be slipping. Don't want to slide off your horse into a dragon's maw, do you?”

  “No, sir. I do not.” Armand gripped his pommel and swung his leg across the saddle. As he slid over the side of the horse, his saddle began to slide with him. One of the soldiers guffawed.

  The bushes rustled ahead of the party. Armand's horse startled as he struggled to examine the girth strap in the fading light.

  “Losin'
control o' things, eh, Major?” Scarly grinned.

  Festus raised his arm. “Quiet.”

  A tiny dragon with dark crimson scales emerged from the brush, its hide blending into the long forest shadows and the scattered colorful leaves.

  “Aw,” Lowe said. “Cute nipper, i'nt he?”

  The beast yawned and began waddling towards the ruins, its wings dragging along the ground. “Lowe, get a torch and igniter from your packs,” Festus whispered. “I want to test something.”

  The private dismounted quickly and passed the items to his general. Festus dismounted, lit the torch, and waved it at the beast. The change in the dragon was instantaneous. It gave a soft whuff and its head swiveled towards the flame. With a happy chirp, the beast tucked its wings tight against its sides and undulated towards the company like a snake streaking across a pond. Festus smiled grimly and reached behind him. “Private Lowe, your spear.”

  The private gripped his weapon tight. “Pardon, General? But he's just a wee—”

  “Are you disobeying an order, Private?” the general snapped as the dragon slithered across the ground, its eyes rapt on the flaming torch.

  “No, sir.” Lowe shook his head, handing Festus the spear.

  Festus lobbed the torch, then gripped the pike with both hands, the blade hovering like a promise. The dragon raised on its hind haunches. Its head swiveled on a long neck, following the arc of the flame. Its forked tongue flickered like a scaly dog chasing a stick. Then the general lunged forward and skewered the beast.

  “Was that strictly necessary, General?” Armand asked. He had no great love for the beasts, but where was the justice? What harm had the dragon inflicted on the party to deserve such retribution? What laws had it broken? Armand's eyes narrowed. The crimson dragon was a symbol of the empire after all. Did the general just symbolically skewer his emperor?

  “You would pity this little monster?” Festus asked as he kicked the corpse off the blade. “He would have grown soon enough. You know how many of his big brothers and sisters have slaughtered countless soldiers in my regiment? Each one of those boys was like a son to me. Any hint or a whisper of a threat to my boys must be crushed. Before it's too late.” He handed the spear back to Lowe. “Clean that blade, private.”

 

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