Agents of Artifice: A Planeswalker Novel (24 page)

Her great weight and greater strength brought a dozen tendrils crashing to the earth. They thrashed at her, with razor-edged blades and bone-breaking cudgels. Most of its attacks she swatted aside, a cat enjoying the feeble struggling of a dying lizard. Of those that connected, most rebounded from her toughened hide; only once did the golem’s blade cut deep, drawing blood as blue as the sphinx’s fur. She roared once more, reared high, and came crashing down with all her weight, front paws flying faster than the eye could see. And when she finally stopped and stepped away, Tezzeret’s construct was nothing but a pile of shredded strips, for her claws pierced iron as easily as they would have flesh. The courtyard suddenly reeked of strange oils and base metals.

Jace gave her a smile of deep gratitude, even bowing his head as he dismissed the summons, allowing her to return to her distant home. And then he turned and glared as Tezzeret appeared above him, applauding softly.

“Are you happy now?” Jace spat at him.

“Indeed.” Tezzeret knelt until he could meet the younger man’s eyes. “You’ve learned three vital lessons today, Beleren. You’ve learned that strength unused is strength you do not have, that you should never hold back your full potential. You’ve learned to call allies far greater than any you’ve yet commanded.”

“And the third?” Jace asked, trying hard neither to scream at Tezzeret nor to roll his eyes at this “lesson.”

“You’ve learned that you already strip free will from other creatures when it suits you. What else are you doing, when you summon up a sprite, or a drake, or a sphinx, to fight and possibly to die for you?”

Jace felt the blood drain from his face, and he wondered why he’d never considered that before.

“Baltrice told me what you did to the ratman,” the artificer said. “I know you can do it, and now I’ve shown you that you are indeed
willing
to do it. So the next time I order you to do so, I expect you to obey. Without hesitation, and without complaint.

“Go take yourself to the healers before any of those freeze up on you.”

And with that he was gone, striding from the broken courtyard.

Jace watched the artificer depart, and his eyes narrowed in smoldering resentment. Yes, these were indeed the sorts of insights Tezzeret often tried to impart. Yes, he had indeed mastered potent magic today. And no, Tezzeret had never said one word about the failed Kamigawa excursion.

But Jace, clutching at his ribs and his stomach as he rose, staring at the ruins through his one good eye, damn well knew a punishment when he was dealt one.

There was only so much the healers could do, and by late the next afternoon, Jace was still sore all over, and so mottled with bruises he looked like a plague victim. Still, the messenger who came pounding on his door had been drenched in sweat, and the tone in his voice left little doubt that when Paldor had said “Right now,” he’d meant
right now
. So Jace swallowed the pain as best he could and sprinted through the halls of the complex, squeezing past servants and soldiers where he could, shoving them out of the way where he could not. Finally, his feet had carried him to the foyer just inside the main entryway. There he skidded to a halt, panting heavily, and allowed himself a moment to take in the scene.

Paldor stood beside the doorway through which Jace
had just barreled. His hands were clasped behind his back—but the young mage couldn’t help but notice that those meaty hands held a crossbow, cocked and ready to fire. Half a dozen Consortium soldiers and swordsmen, Kallist included, held naked steel in their hands and stood in a circle around a stranger whose crooked grin suggested that he found the whole affair amusing.

He was human, this newcomer, with blond hair slicked back so tightly it just had to be giving him a headache. He was clad in black suede tunic and pants, topped with an ankle-length cloak of deep burgundy, complete with gold clasp and black lace frills at the collar. He wore a curved dagger at his waist but currently held his hands to the sides, well away from the weapon’s hilt.

“What’s going on?” Jace gasped to Paldor.

The corpulent lieutenant harrumphed. “Fellow claims to be a messenger from Tezzeret’s ‘master.’”

For a long moment, Jace just stared. “Master?” he finally repeated.

“Nicol Bolas. Bastard’s got a warped sense of humor, apparently.”

“Who …” Jace’s eyes lit up with understanding. “Is that who Tezzeret stole the Consortium from?” he whispered, so as not to be overheard. He gave some thought to the mind-speech, decided it wasn’t worth the effort.

“I prefer to think of it as having annexed the organization for the greater good,” Paldor replied, his voice equally faint.

“And he knows where to find us? He just, what, knocked on our door?”

“Pretty much,” Paldor told him. “Bolas has a network as large as the Consortium. We may be rivals, but we still have to communicate. Ravnica’s heavily populated enough that nobody’s going to risk open war, so it’s sort of neutral territory. Here, if nowhere else, we each know where to find representatives of the other.”

“I see,” Jace said, though he wasn’t certain he really did. “And I’m here to …?”

“Read his mind. He claims he’s got a written message for Tezzeret’s eyes only. I want to make damn sure he’s not an assassin or some sort of magical construct before I even consider putting him in touch with the boss.”

“Do we know if he’s a mage? If he’ll sense me?”

Paldor shrugged. “He’s welcome to raise a fuss if he wants. Um, but Jace,” he added as the mind-reader took a step forward. “Let’s not push things. We don’t know what sorts of sorcery Bolas himself is capable of. We don’t want to offend him unnecessarily, and anyway, he’s not likely to send a messenger to us who knows anything compromising. Confirm this man is who he says he is and that his intentions are as stated, but don’t dig any deeper.”

Jace nodded, and took a moment to gather his concentration. The fellow glanced his way and offered a smile equal parts ingratiating and condescending, but if he had any notion what was happening, if he felt anything when Jace touched his mind, it never showed on his face.

“His name’s Mauriel Pellam,” Jace told Paldor a minute later. “He is, indeed, a messenger for Bolas—or, more accurately, for people who work for people who work for Bolas. And as far as I can tell, he’s just here to deliver a message, no more sinister purpose.”

“Excellent,” Paldor said. Then, more loudly, “All right, boys, stand down. You and you, kindly escort my guest and me to my office. The rest of you, back to your duties.”

Jace watched the four men turn and disappear down the hall. He threw Kallist a questioning glance but the other man could only shrug, equally bewildered. Jace left the foyer far more slowly than he’d arrived, favoring his bruised ribs and wondering what the frying hell that had all been about.

The dining room was among the most opulent and best maintained areas in the Consortium’s entire Ravnica complex. Multiple tables, from intimate two-seaters to enormous slabs capable of seating thirty with room to spare, stood about the chamber. The chairs were comfortable, upholstered works of art, allowing their occupants to sit for hours without growing sore or restless. Multiple doors allowed access to the halls of the complex, as well as to the massive kitchen, ensuring a clear path for servers to come and go. On every wall hung tapestries of intricate craftsmanship, most of which had the vaguely enticing smell of old cooking permanently trapped between the threads, and the ceiling boasted rafters of wood that served absolutely no structural purpose, granting the entire room a vaguely artistic, homey feel.

The floor, however, was bare hardwood; Paldor had reluctantly allowed the fancy shag carpets to be torn out after the entire cleaning staff threatened to resign.

Tonight, as he sometimes did when there was forthcoming business to discuss, Paldor invited some of the cell’s top agents to a dinner provided by his private chefs. Seven of them now sat around one of the mid-sized tables: Kallist and Jace; Ireena, an elf with surprisingly tan skin and clad in a blood-red gown that nobody but she thought looked good on her; the mage Gemreth, with a peculiar, four-winged imp perched on his shoulder and giggling on occasion at nothing at all; the vedalken Sevrien, now clad in the chain armor of a Consortium soldier; Xalmarias, a centaur who had made room for himself at the table by kicking several chairs across the room, clad only in a rich green vest with gold and silver buttons; and of course, Paldor himself.

The soup course, a thick, cheesy tuber stew, had already come and gone. In the center of the table lay
a steaming platter of mild vegetable pastries intended to clear the palate for the mincemeat pies Paldor had specifically requested for the night’s repast.

As they waited, Jace kept his gaze fixed largely on the table before him. It all smelled so good, but he’d eaten only a few spoonfuls of the soup and was wondering if he could stomach the pies at all. Over the past four days he had all but recovered from his injuries, but a nagging unpleasantness, not quite pain and not quite nausea, lingered in his gut.

“All right,” Paldor said around a prodigious bite of biscuit, “let’s get started.” So long had he been talking with his mouth full, he was able to do so now without the slightest loss of enunciation. “Ireena, we’re having some difficulty with our workhouses in the Nalatras alchemical slums. Some sort of poisoning or plague our healers can’t cure that almost seems to move like a living thing. We’ve hired Vess on to help you with this, in case there’s a spirit of some sort involved.” Ireena scowled but nodded her acceptance. “So, if the two of you …”

Paldor went on, and Jace tuned him out. He knew he probably ought to pay attention to what else was going on around him, keep up with the cell’s activities, but today he just didn’t have it in him to care. He scarcely noticed when the servants scurried by, sliding a dish of mincemeat and bread in front of his face.

Only when he heard his name did he raise his head to stare dully at Paldor, who had flecks of meat and a tiny stream of juices dribbling down the side of his chin. “Yes?”

“Nothing too difficult for you this week,” the lieutenant told him, dabbing at his lips with a napkin. “One of the Rubblefield landowners is being stubborn about the value of a property we want for expanding the complex. You and Kallist will be posing as two brothers representing the ‘merchant family’ that wants
to buy it. Kallist will be handling the actual negotiations. Your job is to take a peek inside the man’s head and find something we can use to, ah, persuade him to be more reasonable.”

“Uh-huh. And if there’s no such thing?”

“There always is. You don’t get to be a landowner in Ravnica without stepping on folks. But if not? Then you
make
him sign at our preferred cost. The long-term solution’s the better one, but we do what we’ve gotta do.”

Jace nodded, pushing idly at his dinner with a fork. “How many guards, if things go wrong?”

Paldor shrugged. “My sources say he usually travels with four. Should be easy enough for you.”

“Is that easy like ‘real world’ easy, or easy like ‘nezumi village’ easy?” Jace inquired before he could think better of it. “Because if it’s the latter, I might need backup.”

Several pieces of silverware clattered to the table and a number of mouths stopped chewing as six pairs of eyes fastened on him in wide astonishment. Jace, however, was too angry to feel self-conscious about it.

“I see.” Paldor, too, swallowed his current mouthful and lay his fork and napkin down before him. For a moment, his gaze swept over the entire table. “Is anyone here,” he asked calmly, “unfamiliar with the recent unfortunate events to which Jace refers?”

Everyone looked away, perhaps trying to spare Jace the embarrassment. While few of those in the room knew anything about other worlds, they’d all heard a somewhat edited version of Jace’s recent “failure.”

“And you, Jace,” he continued. “You feel you’ve been treated unfairly?”

At that point, even Jace had come to the conclusion that it might be wiser to shut quite thoroughly up, but he couldn’t bring himself to do it. “I feel like I’ve been punished,” he said, idly rubbing his aching gut, “for someone else’s mistakes.”