Agents of Artifice: A Planeswalker Novel (19 page)

With an uncertain nod, Jace directed his attentions to the man on the table.

“All right,” he said, a moment later, not turning back toward Tezzeret.

“Good. Feel his mind.”

“What?”

“His mind, Beleren. You read minds, you can talk to them. And as you showed Alhammarret, you can destroy them.

“The mind is its own presence! It’s real, no less so than the mana you and I both drink from the world around us. Feel it! See it!”

And Jace did, though he had to close his eyes to blot out the physical world around him. For the first time, Jace felt the mind of another living being not merely as a source of images to be read or as an engine to be turned off, but as something far more. Something all its own. In his own mind he felt the other, turned it, examined it like a jeweler with an unfamiliar stone, prodded at its contours.

“Good.” He heard Tezzeret’s voice, heard the honest pleasure and perhaps even pride within. “You see?”

“I … I do.” Still he kept his eyes squeezed shut, fearful of losing the ephemeral image, or the feather-light touch of the other mind on his own. “But what … What’s this for? What am I doing?”

“Whatever you want.” There was something ugly in Tezzeret’s voice, a viscous toxin dripping from each word. “Isn’t that the point? If the mind is an object, you can manipulate it as an object!”

Jace found himself shaking, and he felt the first stirring of bile rising up the back of his throat.

“Don’t just read his thoughts!” Tezzeret urged, so close now that Jace could feel the artificer’s breath on his neck. “Control them! He lies unconscious, but you hold his mind in yours!”

“No …”

“This is what power over the mind truly means, Beleren! Reading thoughts? That’s child’s play, a feeble game for the man who can
control
thoughts! You can make him move as you wish. You can shape his memories!”

“No!”

Jace staggered away, his eyes flying open, and allowed all contact with the limp form before him to lapse. He spun on Tezzeret, fists clenched.

“No?” Tezzeret asked, his voice deceptively mild.

Could he make Tezzeret understand? Could he possibly explain how revolting a notion it was, the thought of reaching into someone’s thoughts and stirring them like a pot of soup? Could he make Tezzeret understand just how horrifying Jace found the idea of losing his will to another? How filthy it made him feel, to the depths of his soul, to contemplate doing it to someone else?

What he said instead was, “What you’re asking of me … It could go wrong in a dozen different ways. It could kill him.”

“You’re worried about the life of a traitor to the Consortium?”

Jace quailed but stood his ground. “I am if I have to be inside his mind when it happens,” he offered as his excuse.

“I see.” Tezzeret nodded, then turned to face the guards. “A pity. I was hoping to have you erase all knowledge of the Consortium from his mind, so we wouldn’t have to execute him. He truly is a skilled bookkeeper. We could have hired him for some of our local businesses, those that don’t require direct contact with Consortium secrets.” The artificer heaved an obviously artificial sigh, and waved one of the guards forward.

“Ah, well. I can understand your reluctance, Beleren.” He reached out, drew the sword from the guard’s belt and reversed it, holding it hilt-first toward Jace. “So, all right. Just kill him, then.”

The steel walls seemed to close on him so tightly that Jace actually took a moment to stare at them, to reassure himself they hadn’t somehow slipped their tracks. “Why …” He cleared his throat, tried to swallow. “Why me?”

“Because Paldor told me of your ‘problems’ when you uncovered this man’s treason!” Tezzeret hissed at him, his voice as cold as those sliding walls. “Because you cannot become what you could be—what you
should
be!—without overcoming the barriers you’ve placed on yourself!

“You think I’m asking you to kill this man,” he continued, his voice suddenly far more calm. “But I’m not. I’m asking you to save him, Beleren. I cannot trust him to live with what he knows. I’m asking you to give me another, more merciful option.” Jace stared at him, his jaw working.

“Now,” he continued, breathing deeply, “take the sword or not, as you choose. But either his memories must go or he must. And if you’re to have any place in the Consortium, it will be at your hand.”

Jace clenched his fists until his fingers turned white, and then slowly released a breath, uttered the first words of an incantation …

“No.” Tezzeret reached out and tapped him on the head, just barely hard enough to hurt. “No summoning. What you do, you do.”

Choking back vomit, Jace spun back toward the table. Mustering everything he had, throwing his all into the spells so he wouldn’t have to think of what he was doing, he once more wrapped his awareness around the record-keeper’s mind. Again he stared at the fellow’s thoughts, his memories, his dreams. And as the better part of him wept, Jace carelessly peeled those thoughts away.

Then he collapsed to his knees, one hand clenched on the edge of the table above his head.

Tezzeret knelt beside him, placed his hand—his left hand, the hand of flesh—on Jace’s shoulder. “Thank you, Beleren. Come.” He rose, helping Jace to his feet as well. “Share a drink with me in the dining room, before I have to leave Ravnica. Today has been a triumph for us both.”

Surely they must have talked, as they trod the corridors of the complex, as they sat and shared a bottle of Paldor’s finest wine. They must have, but Jace could never recall a word of it. He only remembered sitting there, drinking goblet after goblet, long after the artificer had left; drinking until he could no longer remember the slack expression on the archivist’s face, the stench of his sweat, or the feel of his slowly vanishing mind.

It wasn’t until days later that Jace learned that his powers weren’t nearly so precise as he’d believed them to be; that he hadn’t erased merely the man’s memories of the Consortium, but the memories of his life. That he’d left the man an empty husk, an infant in an adult’s body.

But by then, Jace had managed to convince himself that he no longer cared.

For a time, then, Jace’s life was routine. His assignments for the Consortium primarily required him to verify information or guard shipments of goods, and while he accompanied Kallist on a great many operations, only a few ended in violence. During the many days between such activities, their lessons continued apace, and if Jace never became more than an adequate swordsman, and Kallist never mastered more than a smattering of spells, still the both of them kept trying.

As Tezzeret had promised, Jace’s regular practice honed his spellcasting to a level he might never have achieved alone. His pursuit of Consortium goals took him to new regions of Ravnica, and even twice to other worlds. Here he touched the essence of the land, connected with it, absorbed an ever-increasing flow of mana that empowered his spells further still.

As his power grew, the nature of his assignments became ever more nefarious, ever more brutal. After a few months, he was once again accompanying Kallist on assassinations, though still it was always the swordsman to do the final deed.

And eventually, he no longer needed to drink to stifle the guilt.

W
hat’s wrong, Jace?” Paldor asked, leaning back beneath the clock that hung over his desk.

“A great deal, actually. To start with, I’m trying to find a polite, respectfully subordinate way to tell you to drop dead, and I’m not coming up with one.”

Paldor chuckled, as did the other figure in the room—a figure who was quite definitely not Kallist.

“Afraid to work with me, Jace?” Baltrice sneered at him.

“If by ‘afraid’ you mean ‘would rather run my genitals through a clockwork engine,’ then yes.”

Paldor stood and slapped his hands on the desk. “This,” he rumbled, and suddenly he wasn’t nearly so cheery as he had seemed, “isn’t going to go any further. Jace, what’s your problem?”

“My problem, Paldor, is that I’d rather work with Kallist. Or Ireena. Or Gemreth, or, um, pretty much anyone else.”

“That’s nice,” Paldor told him. “It’s also impossible.”

“Paldor …”

“It’s not as though I’ve a lot of people I can assign to this. The target’s not, you might say, local. And
you planeswalking types aren’t precisely ten a copper. Baltrice is the only other Consortium walker available right now, so that means you work with her.

“But more to the point, these orders come straight from Tezzeret. You’re welcome to try to contact him and bitch, if you want.”

“We can do that?” Jace asked in puzzlement. Baltrice snickered.

Paldor pointed to the peculiar, æther-filled glass contraption. “Every Consortium cell has one, in case we need to get his attention. Break it, and Tezzeret can feel the æther within slip away, knows we need to speak with him.

“Of course, they’re only meant for emergencies, and I understand they’re monstrously hard to create, but by all means, go ahead. I’m sure he’d consider your misgivings a worthwhile usage.”

Jace wilted. “I would love beyond all measure to have Baltrice accompany me on this endeavor,” he said hollowly. “It’s a dream I have.”

“I thought that might be your reaction.”

“Same arrangement as with Kallist?” Jace clarified. “I’m backing her up, I’ll be her eyes, but she’s doing the job, right?”

“Aww …” Baltrice taunted. “Does Jace have a weak stomach?”

He ignored her. “Right?” he asked again.

Paldor nodded. Baltrice smirked. Jace sighed.

“All right. What’s the objective?”

“Take a seat, both of you.” Then, once they’d done so, “You ever hear of a world called Kamigawa?” Paldor asked.

Jace perked up like a wolf spotting a limping dromad. “Absolutely! I’ve heard all sorts of fascinating things about that world. I’ve thought about visiting for some time.”

“Well, tough. You’re going, but I don’t think you’ll
much care for the company.”

“You mean Baltrice?” Jace asked smugly. She glowered at him; Paldor only shook his head.

“No. I mean that you’re not going to be dealing with, uh, people. We need you two to exterminate the shogun of a nezumi tribe.”

“Nezumi?” Jace asked.

“Ratmen,” Baltrice sneered. “Vile little creatures.”

“I’m sure they’d be just as disgusted by us.”
Or at least you
.

“If you two are done,” Paldor warned, leaning over his desk. Then, when he was sure they were listening, “We’ve got nothing against the tribe, the, uh … Damn it, I can’t pronounce it without spraining my tongue. I’ll give it to you in writing before you go.

“It just so happens,” he continued, “that this particular tribe lives in a mana-rich swamp. Tezzeret wants access to it for the Kamigawa cell, but their chieftain won’t deal.

“His heir, however, is willing to deal just fine.”

Land? The Consortium was killing over land, now? When did that happen?
For just an instant, Jace’s stomach churned once more. He turned his attention inward and banished his qualms like a flawed summoning. He’d made his choice long ago, and it was far too late to make any other.

“What’s the point?” he asked instead. “I mean, I can’t imagine the tribe’s got eyes over the entire swamp at any given time. It’d be more convenient to have their permission, but it’s hardly necessary, is it?”

It was Baltrice, oddly, who answered. “Some regions of Kamigawa aren’t exactly what you’d call friendly to foreign mages, Beleren. There are—things living in the land. Spirits, demons … The locals call them kami. You piss them off, drawing mana’s the least of your worries.”

“All right. And?”

“And,” Paldor said, “the tribal prince swears to us that his shaman’s traditions of spirit-binding are sufficient to keep the kami from interfering with us while we establish our links with the land.”

Jace felt his lip curling. “That’s awfully convenient.”

“It is. That’s why you’re going along. Baltrice’s job is to make sure the shogun goes away; yours is to make sure his son is telling us the truth.”

One final objection, then. “So why not have the Kamigawa cell deal with this? Why do we have to go all that way?”