20. DEVIN, YEAR 495
Abigail flicked a crumb off the counter with a swish of her ponytail. Devin watched silently. The last twelve loaves, which he had just tried to purchase, sat steaming on a tray behind her. There was a line of mud-splattered customers from his back to the door. She didn't touch the bread and let the grumbling escalate; most of it was reserved for Devin daring to return to town. It was all Devin could do not to turn and glare at them. The imperials looked worn and bedraggled and the youth felt mixed pleasure at the thought. Their shabby clothes were an affront to his senses as he felt the vestiges of his imperial pride swelling within his breast.
To think Cornelius ever considered me a naturalized Corelian citizen. Just because of my magic. Ridiculous. But did I not want to reduce the haughty imperial nobility to rags? Is that the extent of my vengeance? No, this goes beyond them. Devin glanced at the other customers. He thought he recognized a few locals scattered among the imperials, but mud and grime had turned everyone into citizens of springtime. He pounded the counter with his fist. “Give me the bread.” The Black Guards must pay for their crimes.
“Excuse me, Bold and Blond?” Abigail asked archly, pointing out the window. “Did you have a nice time up on the mountain while we were cleaning up the mess you left behind? That was the shortest exile in the history of exiles. Almost a vacation.”
“It wasn't a vacation,” Devin said, his eyes reaching for the bread behind her. If everyone would be calm and let her sell me their bread, I will have the bulk of the provisions I need to race to Port Eclaire and save this thankless town from the horrible . . . imperials. With a flash of insight, the horrible imperial held up his hands and retreated from the counter, but Abigail had already swelled into a full fury.
“I thought you'd be smart enough to send Styx to run errands for you,” Abigail said. “Half those folks behind you want to stomp that smug face into the mud. Spring time is muck time, city boy. You mucked up.”
“Yes, we all agree I mucked up. Just sell me the bread.” Devin reached across the counter with the last of his gold buttons before she smacked his hand.
“You've been living off nature's bounty for days. Styx has been keeping me up to date on your little meditation bubble,” Abigail said off Devin's sudden, quizzical look. “That poor wooden man has been wearing his fingers down to match sticks setting snares and harvesting greens and flower buds, all for your thankless butt. Now you want to incite a riot buying the last of my bread? Why, Devin? Did you get tired of rabbit haunch and raspberries?”
“Please, Abigail.” Devin braced his elbows on the counter and clasped his hands. “I need that bread. I really need that bread.” You once told me the promise of bread was power. That nobody could travel anywhere without the help of the Baker's Guild. I need your help, Abby.
“After what you did to my town?” Abigail asked, her voice arcing like a raised fist with exaggerated, histrionic grandeur.
That's not fair, Devin thought. She forgave me for that. At least I thought she did. Abby must be putting on a show to placate her tourist customers before she gives me the bread. Very well, I'll play along. Should be fun.
“After what you said to my professor? You kicked him out of his own cottage. A cottage I helped build . . . for him, not you.”
“Abby is good, Devin thought, hiding a smile as he cowered. I could almost believe she was really angry with me and not acting.
“And now you come back to my shop? You have the gall to make demands of me?” Her verbal fist climbed higher and then struck. “Go eat twigs on your mountain. Better yet, starve.”
Devin draped his hands across his heart, playing to the crowd for Abby's benefit. “You know I would not ask this of you if it was not of the most dire importance.”
“You have no right to ask me anything. Dire importance? You think you're more important than these townspeople, you . . . imp?” Abigail backhanded him across the counter.
She's not playacting. Devin bit his lip to keep from crying out and massaged his cheek. “What townspeople? You serve tourists.” Devin glanced at the row of glaring faces behind him and beneath the mud and muck, he saw more colorful Corelian homespun than drab, imperial silks. His eyes must have glossed over such details in his eagerness to gloat over his wretched, splattered imperial foes. “What happened? Where are all the tourists?”
“You happened,” Abigail said, frowning. “Most of you imps ran like wyrms fleeing from a wolf pack. Magic is nice and safe until it isn't; not when the road grinds through town and chews up our tourism. No tourists, no commerce. Prices go up; sales go down. Good job, hero. You saved us from the invasion of the evil pocketbooks. You know none of these folks would twitch an eyelash if I took one of my loaves and crammed it down your throat. They'd probably hold your arms while you choked on it.”
“Abigail, please.” Devin waved the map, backing away from the mob. “The invasion is real. They're coming. I have proof. I need to stop them. I need the bread for traveling food.”
“I don't care what you have and the five gods can take turns pissing on what you need. Get out of my store. Take that stupid map with you.”
Abigail . . . Devin stepped back, affronted. The curse stung worse than her slap and his cheek still tingled. The only epithet worse than gods' piss was gods' shit. There was only one person left who could help him: Cornelius.
Devin wandered through the alleys and backstreets, trying to avoid the confrontation looming over him. As the sun set, he found himself approaching the old, familiar white-washed shack with the square, little yard and the green door with the tarnished latch with a glob of white powder crusted on the tip of it. Some bird had crapped on Cornelius's doorstep. Devin looked at the sky. He suspected the bowels of the gods at work here. What had that fussy, old wizard been doing to forget to shine his new door latch?
Was it still new? How long has it been since Magnus finished forging that latch? Magnus, Devin thought. Why didn't I go see Magnus? With all the minor repairs from my cobblestone tornado, his business must be booming. Surely, he would not turn away a fellow craftsman?
The youth turned away from the wizard's house. He found himself walking towards the smithy.
“Hail, Devin,” Magnus called as the artifice mage entered. The smith was sitting on a barrel, sipping ale. “Styx has been working day and night deburring the last pieces for your new foot. Fellow even asked me how to craft a set of brass toenails with your little ball peen hammer.”
“You finished? Already?” Devin asked, rushing over to the workbench. “No problems deciphering my notes?”
“The notes were messy, but you'd already built most of it yourself, lad. We finished tuning and greasing the bearings by mid morning. You've got a real, metal foot there. Filigree and everything. Bit fancy for my taste,” Magnus chortled. “But it's not my foot.”
“Yes,” Devin said, running his fingers along his latest creation. “Thank you, Magnus.”
The blacksmith shrugged, slid off the barrel, and poured Devin a mug of ale. “It's your design, lad. I just helped with the fiddly bits. Some minor suggestions. Didn't think I'd get the finishing touches done before you got back. So, a pesky, magic bird tells me you're leaving town again?”
“It's a wonderful, finely crafted piece of work, Magnus.” Devin took the proffered ale.
Magnus crossed his arms. “So is my fancy metalwork as good as those artsy, imperial snots?”
“Better! And I appreciate all your assistance, both mental and muscle. Bet you haven't built anything this fancy since you helped Cornelius craft Styx. Or did the old wizard help you?”
“Subtle as a hammer striking a blank, you are,” the smith said, tipping back his mug before setting it down and rolling an empty barrel over to the bench. He gestured for the youth to sit. “I did say I'd tell you that story over a mug of ale.” Magnus walked back to the tap. He poured himself another drink. “What?” the smith said off Devin's bemused look. “Reminiscing is thirsty work.”
“So Cornelius approached you about building Styx?” Devin guessed, drumming his heels against the side of the barrel.
Magnus nodded. “To Cornelius, Styx was a wonderful magic experiment requiring the services of a metal pounder. Not that he said it like that. The wizard was right humble enough at first asking for my help.”
“Cornelius?” Devi guffawed. “Humble?”
“Man's got an ego to rival the five gods, but he can damp it when he needs to and he's smart enough to know his limitations.”
Devin let the god comment pass. “And you?” he asked, sipping the beer and making a face at the bitter aftertaste.
“The idea of making a mechanical man really stoked my fires. Styx wasn't just another odd job from an odd man, but something different and exciting. This was a chance to leave the horseshoes and door knobs behind me for a bit. Get creative.” Magnus snorted into his beer. “Should have known better.”
“What happened?” Devin asked.
“Well, you really get to know a man working on a personal project with him like that. Spent two seasons puttering around building Styx and I learned three unbendable truths about old Cornelius: the wizard has an unshakable vision of what must happen, the wizard always knows better than you, and the wizard is never wrong about anything. Some days yelling at the walls had more effect than yelling at Cornelius. He wanted to build a mechanical man from wood. Took half a season of arguing before he came around to at least using brass fixtures for the joints instead of oaken hinges.”
“Oh?” Devin smiled.
“So I found the toughest, densest hardwoods I could find. Gave old Cornelius a hand saw and a treadle lathe. Told him he could enchant whatever he wanted after we built the thing, but magic has no place in my smithy. Muscles do all the work around here. Get cutting!”
“Bet he loved that,” Devin said, discreetly pouring the mug of ale down the back of his barrel while Magnus turned to glare at the old lathe propped against the wall and fume.
“Man's not a bad carpenter, but Styx is lucky he hasn't rotted away. That metal arm's a good start to fixing him up proper. The whole project was like that. Craft versus magic. Black versus white. Like grease and water. Never thought I'd see the two mix proper. . . until I met you.”
“What do you mean?” Devin asked.
Magnus spread his hands far apart. “There's a giant chasm between how I do things and how Cornelius does things. Best we can do is yell across the divide at each other. Lucky if we don't start throwing stones. But you're an artificer and a mage. You can bridge that gap with one foot on either side and your crotch dangling over the middle.”
Devin grinned.
“No, no, I'm serious,” Magnus said. “It's a rare man who dangles in the middle like that. You had the right idea about that brass, magic geegaw. Didn't go far enough, though.”
“I didn't?” Devin asked.
“Don't waste time with Cornelius's guesswork. You had the right idea trying to get inside the head of the man who made the damn thing. Don't stop there. Track the fellow down. Meet the man who made that watch. I guarantee he's somebody standing in the middle of craft and magic just like you. A rare breed. More useful than an old smith or a dottering wizard.”
“That never occurred to me,” Devin said, clutching his empty beer mug. “I should come back and sip more deeply from your wisdom before leaving town.”
“Oh, you'll come back again before leaving town. But not for wisdom or beer.” The blacksmith grinned as he helped Devin strap the new metal foot into place. “Wasn't expecting you back so soon. Haven't installed the last of the ankle springs in that foot, yet. Go take it for a walk around town in the meantime; test the balance; kick a wizard.”
The rose bushes next to the green door looked vibrant, healthy, and thorny. Devin glanced at them as he reached for the latch, which was still covered in bird droppings.
Wizard-kicking time. I would have expected the old man to tear those roses out of the ground to spite me. His knuckles hovered over the door. Then he shrugged and flicked the white turds aside. Why knock? This is my home, too, isn't it?
Cornelius sat at the kitchen table, his head wreathed in vibrant colored smoke. Several green logs blazed in the hearth, filling the room with a light haze and the heavy scent of pine. Devin coughed, but the wizard seemed to ignore it as he hunched over pieces of the brass watch spread across the table.
Devin stepped back over the lintel. Smoke doesn't have color like that, his mind insisted. It's gray, blue, maybe black, but this . . .
Dark, eerie shades of red, blue, orange, and green wisps swirled like colorful phantoms around the wizard's cranium, ignorant of the rules in all their vibrant glory. Cornelius ignored Devin and sent the green wisp plunging into the watch gears. The gears hummed, spinning the smoke into a pale spiral which grew fainter and fainter as the gears spun faster and faster. The wizard sent the blue smoke chasing after the green and the gears hummed again, but the pitch had changed. “Hmmm,” the wizard mused, rubbing his jaw. “So it's not just reacting to the raw strength of the magic, but to the unfathomable variables as well. Fascinating.”
The watch parts were piled next to a pair of open books and a stack of papers. Cornelius turned to examine the open pages of the books as Devin closed the door behind him.
The tiny, steel implements in the wizard's fingers twitched. He sent the red wisp streaking towards Devin, which settled around the youth's head and started swirling like a mocking, hazy little crown. “An imperial citizen knocks at my door where none dare tread,” the wizard muttered. “Does the bastard want tea? I'm all out of tea.” Cornelius looked up. “Except, you didn't knock, did you?”
“Why all the smoke?” Devin stared at the old wizard's hands. Those tools seemed familiar. His eyes darted to his satchel by the hearth, contents spilled everywhere. And were those Artificer's Handbook and Principles of Gear Mechanics laying there, spines broken across the table? “Have you uncovered the secrets of the watch, yet? Can you disable them? Destroy them?”
“Every screw and gear in the mechanism funnels all energies into the device and entraps them. Well, maybe not the screws. I can still partially dissemble the device. It's a fascinating machine.”
“Of course the screws don't do . . . whatever the rest of that thing does. What use is a machine if you can't perform maintenance on it!?” Devin buried his head in his hands and drummed his elbows on the table. “But you have the instrument of my doom there and all you can say is, 'it's a fascinating machine,' Cornelius?”
“Beyond understanding its basic functionality and mapping those effects onto a spell, the watch retains its secrets. Neither muscle nor magic affect it.”
“What of Magnus's forge fire? Did you even ask him for help?”
Cornelius waved the question away irritably. “What use is a blacksmith for investigating a magic artifact?”
“So, now that you've invested yourself, the thing is an artifact, not some stupid machine He's a smith, old man. Machines are what he does.”
“Regardless, without fire and magic, mere flames would be useless.”
“Maybe dragon fire?” Devin suggested.
“Perhaps.” Cornelius stroked his beard
“I doubt even fire from an ancient drake would mar these watches. Regardless, I have learned all I can about this imperial brass enigma before you embark on your idiot quest to stop the Black Guard invasion and come face to face with a few dozen of his friends. The real invasion this time,” Cornelius coughed. “The puppet got here ahead of you.”
Devin just looked from the tools to the wizard, then back to the tools again. “You were supposed to investigate using magic. Those books are bad enough, but you never touch a craftsman's tools, Cornelius. Even if he gives you permission. Half the time he's just being polite.”
Cornelius set the tools down and raised his hands. “I was unaware. Happily, I am not a craftsman.”
Devin snapped his fingers and the tools disappeared along with the books. The satchel visibly bulged.
“Well, that little retreat seems to have strengthened your precision. So your magic is no longer reliant on those inconvenient bursts of emotion?” Cornelius asked, fishing another tool from his pocket and tossing it to the youth.
Devin smiled and snapped his fingers again. The tool vanished mid air.
“That doll apparently told Magnus you were back in town before it told me,” Cornelius sniffed, scraping the watch pieces into a neat pile on the table. “He was working on a new oil formula for that metallic appendage of yours. I see you've gone and made another one. All this trouble to replace a missing foot with greasy springs and gears? I expected better of you.”
“You obviously stole my charge sheet from that packet you sent up with the barbarian,” Devin said. “I notice you left the personal note from the Butcher; I wish you had stolen that, too. While you were rifling through my folder, did you notice the map, old man?”
Cornelius shrugged. “You would hardly be the first mage who threw a temper tantrum with buildings. What map? The doll mentioned something about red circles of doom, but . . .”
“The invasion!” Devin spread the map on the table and stabbed the southern route with his finger. “They must entering the country at Port Eclare. This is proof of their plans, Cornelius.”
“Trying to sneak a force past those deplorable ruins? Idiots. The guardians of Port Eclare will decimate any invasion without your assistance,” the wizard murmured. “Besides, your evidence is tenuous and suspect. Why not wait until you have better proof?”
“Like an army marching past our door step?” Devin exclaimed. “They send the vanguard knocking once already. I won't keep hiding, Cornelius. They won't capture me again. I will kill them all, first.”
“Will you, indeed?” Cornelius muttered. “And here I thought you were fighting for the town. Really, you should thank the empire for mutilating you like that before they exiled you. Your crimes,” he waved the stack of papers, “warranted a much more gruesome punishment. Abigail,” he sniffed, “can tell you all about it. Ask that girl about her mother's grave.”
She told me, already, Devin thought. Her mother was buried in a mass grave site. That watch on the table is her tombstone. But she did skip from her mother's capture straight into the grave. Did I miss a part of that story? A gruesome part? “I thought we were to not speak of her mother? That the topic pains her?”
“Go ask that girl about the Atrium of Justice,” Cornelius sighed. “Ask her to reveal the fate that awaits you in the empire.”
Ask her about a myth? Devin thought. “Not feeling so solicitous of your favorite student anymore, Professor?”
“This isn't about Abigail,” Cornelius said, banging the table. “There are things you need to know before you throw yourself back into the clutches of the Black Guards. You're dancing on the edge of the dragon's maw. Every wizard isn't lucky enough to escape the empire.”
“Well, I escaped once, didn't I?” Devin asked.
“You escaped like a newborn wyrm with especially glistening scales or odd-colored eyes escapes the noose when the hunter releases it: sure, the creature is too unique to kill, but it's also too scrawny to survive. I'm amazed you managed to escape with your life, never mind your foot. And those little, metal tools you claim to treasure so much would be gathering dust without the constant tweaks and improvements to your . . . other foot. The artificer inside you would have long since starved without that piquant, metal device strapped to your leg.”
“You would prefer I had left a symbol of imperial brutality strapped to my body instead of an engineering feat of my own creation?” Devin raised his knee and dangled his metal limb in the air. The sooner Magnus and I finish installing those negative feedback springs, the better. “The Butcher already threatened to drag me back into the empire to execute me and destroy this town in the process. Or have you forgotten? Is my life enough at stake for you? The fate of this ungrateful town?”
“Ungrateful, indeed,” Cornelius snorted. “All you did was strip their road and destroy their livelihood. The wretches.”
“I saved this town,” Devin protested.
“From what, exactly? Tourists throwing money at them?” Cornelius shrugged.“But we're venturing down a side trail. I want to talk more about this foot obsession of yours before you completely obliterate the buildings in . . . this . . . town with another round of magic excesses.” Cornelius set the pile of papers on the table and beckoned to Devin. “But first, I've set up another experiment. Come.”
Devin leaned out the open window, grousing. The call of the stars and a crisp, night breeze tempted him. He turned back to the stuffy, smoke-filled house. He felt as though an unseen pressure was smothering him, pushing him outside. His time with the old wizard had been filled. The next stage of his journey beckoned. “I don't have time for this. They may have already launched their ships, Cornelius. You must persuade Abigail to sell me that bread.”
“For your little trip to the beach?” the wizard asked, smiling. “To follow the map someone planted among enemy documents for reasons unknown? Good luck finding any merchant in this town willing to sell you provisions.”
“Abigail already refused me once while the other townsfolk sharpened their knives. Ask her for me. She would do anything for her darling professor,” Devin sighed.
“Even if I wanted . . . even if you managed to persuade . . .” Cornelius's eyes gleamed with a hint of moisture as his smile drooped. “Dear Abigail does not care to listen to her old professor these days. Gone are those delightful morning visits to deliver her wholesome bread.” He scowled. “Due to strange, foreign young men, I suspect. I always told her father to be wary of all the young drakes prowling about the bakery.”
“Oh? Foreign young men?” Devin leaned against the wall and crossed his arms. “Not due to her diminished respect after you sulked away like a spiteful child when you lost the argument on the mountain? Besides, the girl did help build your dream house and you did refuse the gift, Cornelius. I can't be the only one angry about that.”
“You think you won that argument, do you? Never mind that and never mind the cottage. Come, come, come,” the wizard beckoned gleefully. “The experiment awaits.”
Cornelius led Devin to the bedroom where Styx sat on the bed with his leg propped on a stump. A chopping block, Devin realized. Deep gouges on the surface and black stained sides gave mute testimony to the stump's years of long service.
“Good day, Father.” Styx waved. “Grandfather has been explaining all about this block of wood. Our neighbor takes his chickens' lives in his hands and cuts them short.”
“One last experiment, Devin,” Cornelius said, pushing the youth into the room. He came up behind Devin and handed the artificer a white, glowing sword. Heat shimmered off the blade, but the leather wrapped hilt felt warm and rough against his finger tips. “Let's see this vaunted, new magic control of yours in action.”
Devin slammed the sword into the side of the log and wiped his hands on his shirt. The sword quivered in the wood and the artificer damped the gentle vibrations against his metal toes. “Your joke is in poor taste, old man.”
“Not a joke, a cure.” Cornelius shook his head, snapping his fingers and transporting the sword back into Devin's hands in a firm, two-handed grip. The youth's fingers interlocked and curled themselves around the hilt.
The artifice mage twisted his arms and shook the sword while Cornelius stood watching. The youth's fingers were glued to the leather binding. Devin raised the sword and advanced on Cornelius, but the wizard sighed and snapped his fingers again. Devin found himself poised over Styx and striking at the wooden ankle perched atop the block. He wrenched his elbows to one side and deflected, shearing the tip of the log with white fire. The stench of burnt wood filled the room.
“Can't magick it away can you? I'm suppressing that talent you abuse so readily. A little trick I learned which borrows power from that.” Cornelius smiled, pointing to the brass watch gleaming from the table on the far side of the other room. “Cut off your obsession. Purge your desire for vengeance. Chop off that foot!”
Cornelius sliced his hand through the air. The sword descended, and Devin's arms followed it down as the blade hit the block with a solid, meaty thunk. Styx's severed foot rolled around his ankle and fell to the floor.
Devin dropped to his knees with the sword stuck in the block, bracing his forehead on the pommel of the sword. Silent tears flowed over his cheeks as his entire body shuddered.
“No, Father, don't cry.” The puppet nudged the youth with his wooden stub. “I feel nothing. Your experiment was a complete success. I felt no pain!”
Devin wrenched the sword free and turned to stab the wizard. “I felt enough pain for both of us. What was the point of that awful task? Did I complete your twisted, little experiment old man?”
Cornelius snapped his fingers and the sword disappeared, leaving Devin's fingers laced together. Devin bumped the old man with his knuckles as Cornelius gently pushed the youth to one side. “Complete it? No, no, no, no, no. But you set up the conditions.”
Devin waved his knuckles in the air. “What conditions?”
Cornelius plucked the severed, wooden foot off the ground. The old wizard focused and his hand glowed, radiating heat. Tendril of smoke curled around the wooded foot as the sole began to blacken. Cornelius wrapped his fingers around the wooden foot. The foot began to darken and crack. Bits of ash fluttered into the air. The wizard clenched his fist and a pile of fresh ashes drifted through his fingers. He waved his hand and Devin's fingers unweaved and the youth had to restrain himself from clenching his fists. After being held so long in the same position, the pain of merely stretching his fingers was excruciating.
“And this is your experiment?” Devin asked, gingerly flexing his stiff joints. “An exercise in destruction?”
“Far from it,” Cornelius said. “This is an exercise in creation. I will regrow this puppet's foot.” He suited deed to word, running fingers along Styx's sheared ankle and coaxing fresh growth.
The wooden ankle began to drip sap and soft, pulpy strands emerged from the wet scar. The pulp thickened into a solid mass. Toes began to sprout from one end. The heel darkened and hardened. Then the rest of the foot solidified into shape until a ring of brown scar tissue around Styx's ankle was the only difference between his old foot and his new foot.
Styx bounded off the bed. He stomped a few times, wiggling his new toes and tracing his finger along the scar. “What a marvelous trick, Grandfather.”
Impressive, Devin agreed, but he could not squash a lingering resentment. This was yet another demonstration of an advanced trick Cornelius had relegated to a quick presentation and not deigned to teach him. Devin spread and flexed his fingers, imagining the power coursing through his hand into Styx. Surely, if my magic is strong enough to grant life, I could repair a broken ankle?
Cornelius shrugged. “Granted, flesh and bone are not as yielding to my touch as sap and wood, but it can be done with time and proper study. Forsake this obsession with metal gadgets and gears. Only magic can make you whole again, Devin. How can you stand that horrible, steel foot. What is technology but a crude facsimile of life? Just think Devin; we can grow you a new foot.”
“Wouldn't that be something.” Devin eased onto the bed, a dreamy look on his face. “A new foot.”
“Forget metal. Forget technology. Only magic can solve the world's problems.” Cornelius clenched his fists. “Cast aside the artificer. Embrace the mage. Set the tiger free . . .”
Devin bolted upright, scowling. “Tempting, old man, very tempting. You almost trapped me in your magical, fantasy world.” The youth lashed out with his metal foot and cleaved the bedpost. “Magic will solve all the world's problems? Is that why every mage across the border is huddling in basements and most over here live in such rich squalor?” Devin opened his arms to encompass the crude, slat board palace surrounding them both.
Cornelius shook his head. “You misunderstand me.”
“No, I don't think I do.” Devin hopped out of bed. “Magic will make me whole? Can magic solder the cracks in my heart or my head? Can magic reassemble the shattered pieces of my career? Can magic restore my dead sister?”
“No,” Cornelius shuddered. “Death is beyond the scope of magic and of man.”
“Forget the rest of it. I miss my sister,” Devin whispered. “But she's gone and not a day goes by I don't wish I could fix that.”
“I'm sorry, lad,” Cornelius said.
“I miss my foot, too,” Devin growled. “But I can fix that. They gave me an iron peg to torment me and one day I will throw it back in their faces. I am fixing my foot with the sweat of my brow and the ingenuity of my mind, not by wiggling my fingers at it. Magic is just another tool in my satchel, Cornelius. Unlike some, I do not mistake a tool for a miracle.” He perched his steel foot on the edge of the bed. “Every version gets a little better, a bit more improved. It grows. It progresses.”
“Progress?” Cornelius snorted. “Replacing one, hideous metal boondoggle with another? The only growth worth note is the progress of the mind. To be found in books, not scrap metal.”
“I've learned more from designing and crafting this foot than any book could teach me. Sure, I have books to help me, but they're just tools, Cornelius. And I've made mistakes,” Devin chuckled. “Ha! One time I soldered my metal toes together. May the five gods strike me down, but the Butcher was right about one thing: magic is unnatural and it does unhinge the universe. It promotes the quick fix, but you can't fix me by wiggling your fingers, Cornelius.”
“You think there is no progression in magic because you bypass it with your parasitic ways.” Cornelius said. “True mages must study for years before they can accomplish a fraction of what you do, you . . . Tinker! Tool maker! Metal pounder!”
“Maybe so,” Devin patted Styx's leg. “But when my boy Styx here lost his foot, what was your response? Did you encourage him to step up and solve his own problem? Did you tell him he needed improve himself one step at a time with study or skill or work? No, you stepped in and used magic to make his problem disappear. The real world doesn't stand for that. You can't snap your fingers and make a problem vanish like you can a tea cup or a hammer.”
“Oh, Father,” Styx said, clasping his hands.
“I fixed him,” Cornelius said, gesturing to the grinning puppet.
“You just repaired him,” Devin spat. “Fixing implies you solved a problem. Magic skips too many steps, Cornelius. How can you miss this point with all your books on philosophy? You're missing a lot of the process when you use magic to solve your problems.”
“Hypocrite! I warned you never to use sorcery for everything. Are you not rushing to that lonely, southern beach to use magic to solve your problems?” Cornelius asked.
“I didn't say I never use my tools,” Devin said. The right tool for the right job, Cornelius. I didn't need you to teach me that lesson. “I use each tool as appropriate when I need it. But magic is no more special than my hammer or my wrench. Come on Styx, we're leaving.”
“Devin,” Cornelius reached. “Please, lad. I can fix you.”
“You could glue my feet to the floor with that new magic trick and make me stay.” Devin grabbed his satchel and turned to glare at the wizard. “Another quick fix. Won't solve the underlying problem though, will it? You can't mend a broken life. Magic alone never could. Goodbye, professor. Thank you for the lessons. I will tell Abby you miss her.”
The bakery was shuttered and closed and a small sign hung on the door proclaiming that fact to all the world. Devin approached the side of the house where faint candle light flickered within a second story window. The youth sighed, levitating a stone before dropping it into his hand and tossing it at the window. I hope her father sleeps in the bakery . . . or the other side of the house.
Abigail leaned out the window and her ponytail brushed against the building as she thrust a pewter candlestick and flickering nub into the darkness. “Devin?” she asked. “Is that you? I'm sorry I slapped you. But can't you read, Blind and Bungling? The bakery is closed. Please, just go away.”
“Abby, Cornelius misses you,” Devin called. “Can't you go chat with the man for old time's sake?”
“It's complicated,” she said, a pang in her voice.
“Well, Cornelius tends to do that. The old man is a mass of complexities. And you're his favorite.”
“Let him find another favorite,” Abigail hissed.
“Abby, please. He's working on an important project to help destroy the Black Guards. But he's distracted. He's lonely. He misses your bread. Go see the old man . . . for me.”
“I will. Now scram,” she said, waving her arms and shooing him.
“Abby, he said to ask about your mother's grave,” Devin called. “He insisted, actually.”
The pewter became a metal missile, bouncing off the side of the house in its rush to hit the ground.
“I told you all about that,” she stammered. “I even gave you my mother's watch for your little experiments. Why haven't you returned it, yet?” Abigail asked.
“And what haven't you told me?” Devin asked. “Why does Cornelius want me to ask you about the Atrium of Justice?”
“It's nothing,” she demurred.
“Nothing enough to scare one of the most powerful mages in Corel? Nothing enough to frighten one of the strongest women I know?” Devin asked softly.
“Fine,” she sighed, her voice cracking. “Meet me at the back door. Hurry before I change my mind. Bring that candlestick with you. And Devin?”
“Yes?” he asked, tiptoeing towards the house.
“Money's tight right now,” Abigail said, her voice fading as she turned from the window. “Try to find the nub, too.”
Devin walked around behind the house. Abigail opened the door and let him into a large kitchen. She gestured to a small table in the corner and sat across from him.
“You are lucky my father's a sound sleeper,” Abigail said. “You wanted to talk. So talk.”
“What happened to your mother . . . after that night?” Devin asked. “The night the Black Guards took her away.”
“People who don't live in the imperial capitol only know rumors of what happens after that,” Abigail shrugged.
“But you know more, don't you?” Devin pressed.
“I want a drink. Can I get you one?” Abigail stood and walked towards a large pitcher on the counter.
“No, thank you. About your mother?”
“What do you know of the Atrium of Justice?” Abigail asked.
“Rumors and horror stories,” Devin said. “The Atrium of Justice is a myth, a tale to frighten small children. Be good, or Mommy will call the High Guard and send you to the Atrium of Justice. I used to tell such things to my sister when she misbehaved.”
Abigail returned with her water and sipped. “When I was twelve, on the fifth anniversary of my mother's . . . abduction, my father took me to see her grave behind the Atrium of Justice. The place is real. The horrors are real. The atrium is where the empire puts mages to die after it breaks them. They dumped my mother's body in a mass grave, a ditch. We brought daffodils, her favorite. We had to walk through the atrium. My father tried to hide my face in his shirt. What I remember most is the smell. The cloying stench of putrid flesh and sewage and burying my face in the flowers to breathe. I could still see the rows of dismembered, living corpses screaming behind the glass, squirming in a pile of their own shit. A man went around with a bucket and cleaned their cages like they were animals. Their eyes begged me to reach inside the air holes and strangle them with my tiny hands.” Abigail looked at her fingers.
“Did you try to help?” Devin asked. “Did the guards stop you?”
“What guards?” Abigail asked. “That wasn't a prison: it was a gallery of tormented souls. You think I didn't want to help them? I had to cover my ears with these hands. I still hear their wordless screams when I lie awake at night. And you want to go back? So they can cut off the rest of your limbs? Pull out your tongue? Put you in a little, glass cage? Why?”
“It's not enough to want to defeat the evil empire who mutilated and exiled me? I'm the empire's mistake. I'm the mage who got away. And Captain Vice is going to strike me down if I don't strike him first.”
“This fight is bigger than you, Devin. Why not fight for something greater than yourself? Don't just fight for one mage, fight for them all. Free the mages. Break the glass cages.”
“Why should I? Because you feel guilty you left them to their fate? Abby, by the time those mages are brought to the Atrium of Justice, they're already living death in a glass cage.”
“Your heart is living death in a glass cage,” Abigail muttered, before she turned and stabbed him with her eyes. “Why are you really rushing to attack the Iron Empire, Devin? What's that reason you keep balled up inside beneath the fears and vengeance? Is this all just to keep yourself from rotting behind glass one day? To strike at those who slighted you? Are you really so petty?” Abigail asked. “Tell me and I will give you the damn bread for your stupid revenge quest. I'll even throw in some pemmican rations, which is what you really need.”
“There aren't any dried fish bits in pemmican are there?” Devin tapped his fingers on the table and held his breath. Memories of the last time he had to live on field rations almost made him puke. He swore he could feel the cracked, flaking flesh choke down his throat and taste the sharp tang of the salt on his tongue.
“Of course not,” she said. His explosive exhale made her smile for a moment before she scowled and shook her head. “It's just venison jerky and dried fruits mixed with hog's lard. You'd know that if you bothered involving anybody else in these plans of yours or actually planned ahead with one of your stupid revenge schemes. You've been driving poor Styx crazy.”
“You want to know why I'm picking a fight with the empire? Would you believe me if I told you I wanted revenge for my foot?” He kicked the table with his steel toes.
“Would you believe me if I told you the sky was green?” she sneered.
“Fine. There's no great mystery about it.” Devin crossed his arms and pushed his chair away from the table. He turned his head and looked away. “If you must know, I fight to save Ingeld.”
“Liar,” Abby hissed, her throat constricting around the words. “You don't believe that any more than I do. I saw it in your eyes. You're going there to crush Black Guards. It's the next step in your own little personal vendetta against Captain Vice. Aside from your total lack of any sort of plan, I even approve. But don't hide your true motivations by pretending to care for this town. Not after what you did.”
“I do care.” He spread his arms. Why doesn't anyone believe me? Surely, my actions speak for themselves? “Even when everyone here hates me, I still remember that this place gave me a home when my own country kicked me to the gutter. How can I prove that I care?”
“Hmmm, maybe not destroy the town or chase away our livelihood? You may be half a wizard, Devin, but living here for a year doesn't make you half Corelian. You're still an imp and deep inside that black, iron clad, oil-pumping heart, I think you realize that.” A tear swelled at the corner of her eye. “You think you want to defend the town from a problem that you created by coming here? That's not noble, it's selfish and delusional, and this town will be a . . . better place after you've left us. We can't survive as your refuge.”
“You don't mean that, Abby.” Devin reached across the table.
She gulped and jerked her hand away. “I do. Of course, I do. Almost, I could see that shining, golden drake you keep imagining. But you lie to yourself as much as you've lied to me. Dragon Boy: what a joke. Go seek your revenge. How could I be so stupid? You're no majestic wyvern. You're nothing but a lone wolf thirsty for blood.”