Rotten Magic Page 2

  Misera's eyes grew wide. She clamped her jaw shut.

  “Still want to see me do the thing?” Devin asked, reaching under his sister's wet armpits and lifting her back onto the bed. Less sharp, pointy metal bits up there.

  Jaw still clamped, Misera nodded, tousling her long, blonde hair. She grabbed her knees and rocked on the bed, eyes fixated on her brother.

  Devin patted his sister's head. “The room is closed. The lights are dimmed. Time for your big brother to work his magic.” Devin grabbed a cover sheet draped over a shape in the corner and twirled it around his shoulders. “Behold!” He raised his arm and wiggled his fingers.

  Slowly, the pebble wobbled on the table like a loose cobble. Then it rose unsteadily into the air as if on a rickety, invisible hydraulic lift. Devin clenched his fist. The stone pushed up towards the ceiling. Two seasons of practice and the most he could do was raise and lower it. At least it entertained his sister. And glowed. He could make the stone glow red hot. Sweat beaded from the youth's forehead as the quivering pebble began to pulse and iridesce.

  “Devin,” his mother screamed up the stairs. “Aren't you ready, yet?”

  Devin turned his head. His raised arm followed. The stone swung in a wide, shallow arc and smashed into the oil lamp. Devin could only watch helpless as random calculations for the reaction of oxygen, fire, and dragon oil shot through his mind.

  The volatile fuel ignited, transforming the cheap desk lamp into a weak, tin bomb. Devin turned to protect Misera when the room exploded.

  Shards of metal and glass spewed across the room as the vessel and the lampshade disintegrated in a loud, concussive blast. Devin hugged his sister, syrupy embrace be damned, and threw her low on the bed. The bedroom window shattered. The youth leaned close, shielding the little girl with his body and covering her ears as tiny, painful daggers pinned the shirt and pants to his flesh and lodged in his hair.

  Thank the five gods that rock missed the gas lines, Devin thought, numb as he checked his sister for injuries and then sat up, wincing. After verifying Misera was unharmed and glancing out the broken window, the youth clasped his hands, trigger fingers pointing towards the heavens, and thanked the five gods nobody was injured in the accident. Then, he tweezed the pesky shards from his butt and contemplated the lamp's destruction. The curtain fluttered in the breeze and street noises filtered through the window frame. What if I lose control again? He glanced at the gas main on the wall. Better cap that.

  It's not the gas main that needs capping, the artificer groused. Seal the magic instead.

  Let the magic flow, the mage grinned. Who needs puny gas lighting when you can create fire in your hands?

  Devin ignored the voices as he stared at the ruins of the oil lamp. Mom will never believe I didn't blow up the stupid thing on purpose. Not after all my griping about how much I missed candles last night. Well, it's not like I haven't blown things up before. I doubt the corner cop will even twitch. Wonder if she'll let me walk back to the village now and buy some proper beeswax taper candles? They never exploded.

  Devin pressed a hand to his sister's chest. Misera's tiny heart was still fluttering. He ran a finger through her hair. “You're safe, Missi. You're safe,” he crooned as the flutter eased. “What are we going to tell Mom?”

  “Ass dent,” she said, smiling as she shook the glass bits off her brother's black apprentice cap and handed it to him. “Esplody lamp was a misery to me.”

  “Accident,” her brother murmured, placing the cap on his head and wrapping his sister in a warm embrace. “And it was a mystery to you. Don't think for a moment Mom won't realize I'm coaching you.”

  She squeezed him back. “You're a nice coach, Devi.” Then she stood on the bed and imperiously waved to the bedroom door, which had somehow survived the blast. “Now get gone to the good hale afore Ma' yell achoo again.”

  Devin shook his head, doffed his black cap, and bowed to the tiny barbarian empress. Where does she pick up these things?

  As Devin walked to the Guild Hall, he saw a city lackey in gray coveralls rolling a new poster on the walls. The youth critiqued it on artistic merit; the prose was nothing new. “Danger! Protect your children. Your next door neighbor could be . . . a mage.” A woman huddled over her two crying infants, gripping an iron pan while a large man in a gaudy cloak menaced them from the corner, his arms unnaturally extended and arching over the scene. The curls on his head formed the suggestion of dragon horns, his fingernails looked like claws, his pupils yellow slits, and his teeth black fangs.

  Devin stared at the poster, reaching up to pull the cap over his face before he stopped mid gesture.

  It's only a crude image, he scoffed.

  But the squinting, yellow eyes followed his movements. The smile leered at him. The shoulders were hunched, ready to spring. A sense of vague foreboding swelled in Devin's chest as the cruel, clawed hand reached out to strangle him.

  3. DEVIN, YEAR 491

  Devin rubbed his neck, stepped back, and shook his head. The mage in the poster retreated as Devin made himself examine the image more critically. What, no majestic scales or flaming breath today? Real mages don't have fangs or claws. They don't advertise their powers. Not the sane ones. Not the ones still in control . . .

  The image of the orange rock blazing a path of destruction across his bedroom smashed through his thoughts. He leaned against the wall and drew a deep breath. He pulled the chaotic sounds of the city around his shoulders like a cloak as he glanced back at the poster and dismissed it. It's their hidden fire we fear, that horrible force waiting to burst out. But they're not monsters. They're human beings lost in their own power. His imagination placed little bat wings on the caricature villain and the sense of foreboding vanished.

  He pushed off the wall and kept walking. The only danger from those who wield magic is their loss of control. It is a more quiet and subtle thing than fangs or horns.

  There is nothing subtle about magic, the artificer snorted. Not a suitable occupation for anyone of note.

  And you think twisting bits of metal is majestic? the mage cried. You merely bend steel bars to your will. I bend the frame of the universe.

  Devin focused again on the normal urban commotion of his morning commute, immersing in the familiar city noises to quell the sneering voice of the mage inside his head and mask the thunderous beating of his heart. The apprentice placed a hand lightly on his chest as a crowd of people swept past. Any other time and the bustling streets would have annoyed him, but they were convenient if you wanted to lose yourself . . . or hide.

  His heart still shuddered beneath his fingertips like a flailing machine. The accident this morning has me jumping at posters, Devin thought. What if I lose control again? Here in the streets? All the pedestrians in the world wouldn't shield me from them. The guards have mysterious ways of hunting mages. He glanced around and only spotted a single Black Guard on patrol.

  The young apprentice ducked his head and continued walking towards the market near the center of the city. It seemed everyone else had the same idea: the morning sun had crested the tops of the buildings and the tangy ocean breeze blowing from the west had whetted everyone's appetites. Old matrons swathed in somber robes strolled with little wicker baskets tucked under their arms. Young men carried larger baskets strapped to their backs and either scanned the long list of items glued to their hands or muttered through the contents of their list while they walked. Little children darted everywhere, jostling, pushing, pulling, screaming.

  Devin frowned as he looked at their tiny shod feet. So many years in the city, yet children running around in shoes still looked strange to him. In the village, every child ran through the mud, on the grass, and over stone barefoot. The stains they accumulated at the end of the day were a badge of pride. But in the city . . .? Devin sighed and glanced at his fingernails. There was still a trace of grime under his nails.

  The youth's nose revealed the first market stall long before he saw it. It was a food vendor. F
resh meat roasting on mechanical spits with fresh bread with another smell wafting underneath the food.

  He closed his eyes and took a deep breath. Ah, such a lovely, complex aroma when the grease in the machines melds with the oils in the food. Nothing like it. As he came closer, he heard the welcoming chuff of a properly tuned steam engine, no doubt running the ovens. He picked up the pace. And maybe powering one of those new freeze boxes to provide little frozen delicacies to placate the horde of little children.

  Not to mention young apprentices, the artificer snorted as Devin saw the line of children in front of the stall. He smiled at the glowing oven mounted above the steam engine. A tiny glass door revealed a roast inside slowly turning and dripping.

  Machines creating fire, the mage huffed. It's unnatural!

  As Devin walked through the market, ever vigilant of Black Guards, he noticed the occasional silver cap of journeyman artificers moving among the stalls and making minor repairs to the machines. He hid from these with more vigilance than from the guards.

  An apprentice is nothing but a pair of arms to a journeyman, he thought, pulling off his black apprentice's cap and stuffing it in a pocket. And when they see it's me! I'll get dragged into their mechanical conundrum. They can fix their own problems. I'm late.

  Devin sighed. He hadn't given himself enough time. He gazed longingly to the east at the mansions and their lush, verdant lawns as he passed through the market in the center of town. Some day, he would be a Master Artificer, Then he wouldn't have to walk across the entire city to reach the Guild Hall. And his mother and sister could live someplace nice. These city aspirations conflicted slightly with the wry observations of a stalwart village youth that devoting all that space to a large house was wasteful and all that green grass really needed some sheep and pigs.

  Black, hairy pigs. Devin glared as he skirted wide around the walled block containing the city administration building. Black Guards lounged by the gate in burnished, mechanical armor and behind the wall, sounds of martial vigor and . . . screaming? There was an unsettling quality to their languor, like the pressure of a coiled spring. The pigs were in fact boars displaying their tusks. You saw the guards everywhere in the city, but they were concentrated here, in their nest. Or is it their hog wallow?

  Devin felt a tight lurch in his chest this close to a cluster of guards. It reminded him of the time he stole a russet pear in the marketplace under the watchful eyes of the patrol. He could feel the glaze of the Black Guards burning holes through the back of his tunic. Any time one of them so much as turned his direction, his heart skipped. Devin fished around for the long eaten sweet, red fruit; he could almost feel the weight of it, see the bulge. But he carried something heavier than a mere piece of fruit today. He had carried it with him every day this last half season as the leaves curled and blackened and fell off the trees.

  Do they suspect? Devin thought, stealing furtive glances at the Black Guards. Do they know? Are they waiting, lurking, gathering evidence against me? Can they detect my magic even now?

  Devin tried not hunch as he walked past the knot of guards. He had not always had such a mistrust of them. The Black Guards kept the streets safe.

  His mother had always told him and his sister, “If you're ever in any trouble, find a guard. They will shelter you and punish the wicked. They protect us against killers, against thieves, against those whose crimes are too horrible to name, and most of all, they protect us from the mages.”

  They can't protect you and Misera from mages now, Devin thought, sighing, wincing as he pushed the mental image of his mother away.

  Black Guards hunting us everywhere, the mage growled. It is the magic users who need protection from them.

  The guards are merely the sweepers of the city machine, the artificer smiled, cleaning garbage off the streets.

  Garbage? the mage cried.

  Just like every other criminal, the artificer said, crossing his arms.

  Devin looked at the calluses on his hands. I'm not a criminal. I'm an artificer. But in his heart he knew the truth. The guilt. The hiding. The little twinge when a guard looked his way. But the magic in my veins damns me. He clenched his fists and looked over his shoulder, but he had long since walked past the market and the Admin Building.

  Neither voice replied as the youth looked up at the glorious symbol of the city's artifice princes and felt his heart soar. The ancient Guild Hall of Artificers was the stone rose of South District. It towered above adjacent more recent buildings like a quiet old man kneeling amongst a crowd of garish babies. There was an unassuming grandeur to those time-stained, smooth granite walls. The masters took pains to preserve the aesthetics of the outside even as they implemented every new gadget and technology inside, but always with restraint and style. As Master Huron always said: “It is not just our duty to build, but to inspire. Why can't a machine be beautiful as well as functional?”

  Drusilla was waiting by the gates of the Guild Hall as she did every morning. His steadfast best friend slung a welding apron over one shoulder. The scent of the wild forest lingered on the leather. How a gal from the heart of the city managed to smell like moss and elderberries, Devin never knew. The girl teased a stick from her hair and smiled as he approached.

  “Hear about the new Mark 3 Drake Armor?” Drusilla asked, walking alongside him.

  New mechanical armor? Since when? “No,” Devin said.

  “There was a demonstration in the market yesterday. I tried to find you, but you went and vanished again.” Drusilla laughed. “Still working on that secret project, eh?”

  “Every chance I get.” Devin smiled.

  “Always hiding away in that lonely workshop.” She pursed her lips. “Sure you don't want my assistance with this one? We used to help each other all the time. But lately . . .”

  Devin glared. “This isn't any old project, Dru. It's going to be my journeyman's piece. Understanding how it works is my responsibility. Delving into its dangerous secrets is my burden. This invention is going to change the world.” He paused. I almost said too much there.

  “Not like this new armor,” Drusilla shook her head, eyes flashing. “It was awesome, Dev. The tiny gears and servos in the fingers are top rate. The precision. The sheer artistry. They had a man dressed in the suit knitting a little scarf with tiny, little needles. Knitting with a suit of mechanical armor. Those gauntlets are the size of your head. Fantastic!”

  “Knitting? Really?” Devin chuckled, quirking his eyebrow to encourage her enthusiasm. At least she's stopped pestering me about my project. “Are they going to chase down thieves with tiny, hand knit handcuffs, now?” Behind his cheerful facade, he grimaced. Someone gave them better, more violent tools to hunt mages? Glorious.

  What does it matter? The artificer groused. You spend your days crafting with your hands, not with magic. You are not one of those foul criminals preying on the weak with fire and fury once the sun sets.

  He is a magic user, the mage said. For that quality alone, they will make a criminal of him regardless of his daytime activities making . . . metal things.

  Drusilla clucked and snapped her fingers. “Devin? You faded there for a moment. Even you have to admit it's impressive, yeah? Any mech gauntlets we create can barely grasp a cheap, wooden sword.”

  “Just pondering craftsmanship.” Devin blinked and forced a smile before flexing his fingers. “Feh, swords. So old-fashioned. I prefer claws, myself.”

  Clawed gauntlets that she helped you design, the artificer mentioned. No craftsman exists in a vacuum. No wonder the girl is suspicious.

  The mage was silent.

  “Well, you're special like that, Dev.” She shielded her lips with one hand and whispered with a conspirator's flair. “Benson the Barbarian has been smashing things in the dorms and looking for you all morning. He's about to start breaking the other apprentices. Shouldn't have put that stuff in his soup yesterday. All the boys left the privy giggling over that bastard's hot pink piss. What did you give the
poor brute?”

  Devin shrugged. Benson deserved whatever ribbing he got from the other apprentices and more. “Nothing harmful or painful, unfortunately. Just enough to you know . . .” he bent down and whispered, “take the piss out of him.”

  “Didn't work.” She snickered and held out her hand. “You'll have to give him something else, Dragon Boy.”

  Dragon Boy, Devin mused, taking her hand as Drusilla escorted him into the building and down the wide stone and timber hallway. The pair glanced over their shoulders and down side halls, ever vigilant for Benson on the rampage. The nickname had started as a taunt and eventually stuck. Devin still made a show of hating his epithet, mostly to appease the brutish Benson, but he had grown to like it after awhile. Dragons had many admirable qualities which most of these city-bred children never even considered or appreciated. Easier to merely fear the dragon.

  Journeyman Druge's metallurgy class was in sight. Drusilla grabbed Devin's arm and dragged him towards to door.

  Benson rounded the corner. “Why there you are, Dragon Boy.” He punched his fist. “What's your flaming hurry?”

  Devin closed his eyes. It would be so much easier to evade Benson if the lout was stupid as well as thuggish. Sadly, there was nothing wrong with Benson's agile mind; it was just wasted on his oafish personality. Benson didn't have bulging muscles and he wasn't large, but his ego was the size of a house. The brute loomed without even trying just by crossing his arms.

  “Good morning, Benny,” Devin said, pushing Drusilla through the door ahead of him. “Heard you had a spot of trouble in the privy this morning? Who knew you had so much pink inside you it's leaking out your little peepee?”

  Benson ground his teeth and then smiled. “Enjoy your prank, prat. I've got some friends joining us for the competition this afternoon, Dragon Boy. We'll see what colors leak out of you then. Red, green, brown, yellow. You're always so colorful.” He waved his arms and bowed, allowing Devin to enter the classroom. As Devin walked ahead, the brute clapped a hand on the youth’s shoulder and kicked the back of his knees, driving him to the floor with a soft, sinuous whisper. “Remember: the dragon always loses.”