The Scofflaw Magician (The Artifactor Book 3) (22 page)

It was Sevana’s
turn to look around her as if she were seeing Big with new eyes. “Bring him
here, where we can lay traps and prepare for him? Oh, I like that idea.”

“Me too,” Aran
admitted, also looking around. “Big, you can rearrange tunnels on a moment’s
notice, can’t you?”

Can,
the
mountain agreed. He sounded happy to be asked to participate.

“We’ll have my
whole nation nearby to lend us aid if we need it too.” Aran rubbed a finger in
a circular pattern on the table’s surface, as if on another level he was
already planning things. “This plan is a sound one, I think. How do we get the
message out fast enough?”

“Kip,” Sevana
answered promptly. “This sort of thing is tailor made for him. Master, I think
the plan genius. And I think the special doohickey should be exactly that, a
device that can nullify human magic. It would be the simplest way for us to
release these people after all.”

“We have to
time this right, otherwise it won’t work,” Master cautioned. “Let’s say, after
we know that our solution will work, and while we’re freeing people. That’s
when one of us should contact Morgan and have him start spreading the story.”

Yes, that did
seem the safest bet. “Then we need to decide now how we’re going to trap this
man. And what we’re going to do with him after we have him.”

Aran’s mouth
stretched into a feral smile, body straightening as if he were preparing to leap
into motion that very second. “We will take care of that.”

That smile sent
a chill up her spine. Eyeing him sideways, Sevana ventured, “Aranhil has an
opinion, I take it?”

“All of the Fae
do.” Aran gave her a challenging stare. “We do not wish to leave him in human
hands.”

“That’s fine,”
she assured him, words a little hasty. Fae were scary when mad. “Human
magicians won’t be able to hold him for long, anyway. Not with the skills he
has. It’s better if you take him.” Although what they would do with him
afterwards was another matter.

Satisfied, Aran
stood. “I will go report this to Aranhil so that preparations can be started.
Sellion, before I forget, Aranhil has requested a miniature statue so that he
can speak to you at will as well.”

Her Fae king wanted
a Caller? She knew good and well that the man could talk to her easily over
long distances if he was of the mind to. Was this more of a request from a
grown man that couldn’t resist a new toy? Likely. “Fae magic works a little
differently. I’ll have to adapt it. Tell him that I’ll come and work on it when
this mess is settled. I’ll have to tune it directly to him.”

“I will tell
him,” Aran promised. With a nod to them both, he slipped out of the workroom
and was gone.

Out of sheer
habit, Sevana got up and checked on the two mixtures, making sure that all was
well and they were blending as they were supposed to. “Master, I don’t think we
should just have the story to bandy about,” she said as she replaced the lid on
the water/blood mixture. “Maybe we should make some sort of mockup as well, to
show people if they ask, so there’s more substance to it?”

“A good
thought.” Chortling, Master reached for a blank sheet and a pencil. “What do
you think it should look like?”

Most of the
time, when Sevana created something, she was limited in the design by the
functionality. It had to be a certain size, a certain shape, to do what she
wanted it to. It was a new feeling, to be able to design whatever she wanted to
with little limitations. Feeling the same sort of enthusiasm spark in her, she
swung a leg over the bench to straddle it. “It shouldn’t be big, to begin with.
Something as long as my forearm?”

“Good, good.
Maybe an earthy color?”

“The Fae like
brighter colors too, actually,” she corrected. Bending at the waist, she leaned
more over the table. “How about something blue?”

Happily
planning, they went far into the night, playing with the design like two small
children who had just discovered magic.

In their desire
to craft something that the Fae would make, Sevana and Master had to lay aside
their more absurd ideas and focus on something that stuck closer to nature.
Sevana had snitched a few things while up north, and they played with those
until narrowing the selection down to two objects: a blue crystal shot with
gold inlays and a branch of mahogany from a two thousand year old tree. It
seemed a shame to use such high end materials for what amounted to a cheap
prop, so she decided to actually make something useful out of them. If there
was live magic in them, it would be more convincing anyway.

So she carved a
niche into the branch, sanded it down, and polished it to a high shine. Then
she set the crystal into a knot of the wood, making it look like a highly
unorthodox wand, as the crystal was toward the tip instead of the hilt. From
what she had seen of Fae designs, this was a credible copy.

Aran came back
near midday and entered Big as comfortably as he would his own home. She was
putting the final touches on the wand, making sure that the crystal was secure,
when he stepped into her workroom. “Sevana.”

“Aran,” she
greeted, setting the wand down and twisting about to greet him. “You’ve come to
see if our idea will work?”

“That and to
convey news to you.” Aran came closer and took a good look at what was in her
hands. “That looks almost…Fae?”

“Precisely so.”
She beamed at him. After six hours of hard work, if he had said anything else,
she would have promptly kicked him in the shin. “This is our fake specialty
tool. I thought it would be more convincing of a story if I have something to
show people.”

“For something
that is fake, there is much magic in it.”

“I also decided
it was a waste of good materials to have it be nothing but a prop. So I made it
into an extremely high level anti-glamour wand.” Sevana held it up and admired
her own handiwork. “If anyone tried to camouflage what they are doing, this
wand will promptly cut through their spell.”

“You look very
gleeful saying that,” Aran observed dryly.

“I hate it when
people try to hide things from me. It always causes me trouble in the end.”
Putting the wand carefully down, she asked, “What news?”

“Aranhil wishes
me to tell you, Sellion, that he will send others here to help you when you
expect that man to come. He does not wish you to be in danger.”

Sevana would
have dearly loved to say something like ‘I can take care of myself’ but in
truth, this man was highly dangerous. She might or might not be able to defeat
him and either way she was bound to be injured in the process. She’d avoid the
pain of a major battle if at all possible. “This might take two or three weeks
to play out. You all realize that, right? It’s going to take time for news to
get to him, and more time for him to come here and try to steal it from me.”

“We are
patient. We will wait.”

Truly, the Fae
were probably the most patient race on the face of the planet. Why shouldn’t
they be? With some of the longest lifespans, they could afford to wait.

Aran looked
around the room, seeing that all of the portraits were still lined up on their
easels. “You have not tried your wash yet?”

“I just mingled
the two together an hour ago. It’s almost ready to use, but not yet.” Sevana
levered herself off the bench and went to fetch the bucket. “But see how dark
it is? I think it’s still too thick.”

Bending at the
waist, he peered inside. “I believe you are right. But that could be because it’s
enclosed like that.”

“I’m hoping so,
that when I spread it over parchment, it’s actually thinner.” Ink washes could
be deceptive that way. Checking her clock, she noted, “We’ve only a few minutes
before I can use it. Let’s create a test paper, shall we?”

“Test paper?”
Aran repeated in confusion.

“I don’t
actually care if the wash is dark enough to destroy the original painting,” she
explained, pulling a bottle of Fae ink off the shelf behind her and reaching
for a quill nearby. “But of course, it can’t be dark enough to smudge the
lines. So I need to create a drawing of my own in the ink to make sure that the
wash is light enough and reacts the way I expect it to.”

“I thought you
had a room full of things you could use?” He pointed to one of the portraits
nearby. “Not everything on the painting is of them. Sometimes there are chairs,
or ground, included.”

“I don’t dare
touch any part of it. The spell on these things is intricately tied to every
trace of ink on the parchment. I can’t predict what it will do.” Pausing, she
looked to the one on the worktable in growing concern. “The oldest ones, those
I worry about the most.”

Aran didn’t ask
a stupid question but instead looked the same direction she did, seeing it for
himself. “The magic is fading? It’s not as strong as the others.”

“You’ve got
good eyes. That’s exactly what’s happening. It’s not the ink that’s the problem.”
She went back to what she had been doing, unstopping the ink bottle and dipping
a quill carefully into it.

“Then what is?
The spell?”

“Yes. The spell
itself is so demanding that it’s leaching all of the power imbued in the ink.
The spell is literally eating itself, trying to sustain itself. Cannibalistic
magic is the worst sort. It often destroys itself from the inside out within a
matter of months. I’d call it sloppy, but in this case, I’m not sure if the
magician was being lazy. It might be he intended for this to happen.”

Aran’s tone
became quiet and hard. “He wanted all of these people dead. That’s what you’re
saying.”

“He wanted to
kill the Belen king. The others were test subjects to see if the way he had
crafted the spell would work as intended.” Sevana darted a look up at his face
and found him staring at the portrait on the table in silent fury. He was
almost grey with it. “They were acceptable losses. Everything he’s done tells
me that.”

“A silent
assassination through a painting. It’s fiendishly clever.” The way he said this
was clear he didn’t mean it as a compliment.

“And evil, yes.
You understand why I curse him so routinely now, don’t you? I did the same when
I came across Bel. And Aren. And when he took off with my hard-won artifact.
I’d admire his cleverness if he wasn’t doing such hideous things with it.”
Since this wasn’t something that needed to be pretty, Sevana just drew random
circles and boxes on the page, enough so that she could test the wash several
times. “Alright, test ready. Hand me that huge bristle brush.”

Plucking it
from the glass jar it was sitting in, Aran passed it over. She dipped it
liberally in the bucket before painting a swash of it across her parchment.
Almost immediately she realized that this was not going to work. “It’s too
dark,” she growled in vexation.

“I agree.” Aran
pursed his lips thoughtfully. “Perhaps half again as much water?”

“You think?”
she peered at it judiciously, numbers scrolling and rearranging themselves in
her head as she did the calculations. “Yes, perhaps you’re right. Hand me the
large jar of water, then. No, the other one next to it. That’s the right spring
water.”

Aran handed it
over, and then reached for the measuring cup without being asked, passing it to
her as well. She took both and measured out the water, stirring it into the ink
with gentle strokes, trying very hard not to jostle any of the ink over the
sides and onto the floor. Big would definitely feel that and she’d never get
the ink back off. It would cause complications that she did not need.

Satisfied she
had put enough in, she stepped back and re-stoppered the vial.

“Now we wait?”
Aran guessed.

“For a half a
day. So after dinner, we’ll try this again.” Sevana stared at the portrait on
the table, the one of the woman in her early fifties, who seemed intent on
shelling peas into a large wooden bowl. Was it her imagination, or was the
portrait fading in front of her eyes? “I hope she can last until then. Whether
or not the wash is perfect in six hours, we’ll have to try to get her out
regardless. She won’t make it until morning.”

~ ~ ~

Aran, lovely
man, cooked her dinner. It wasn’t a simple dish of just meat, either. He did
fresh bread, stew that was rich with spices, and a chilled glass of lemon water
to wash it all down with. Then, in an impressive display, he helped her clean
up the kitchen afterwards. It was enough to make a woman swoon.

Master of
course ambled in when dinner was done and ambled out again before the troubling
cleanup process started. He was not one to clean up a kitchen, nor did Sevana
want him to. His idea of ‘clean’ and hers were worlds apart. Sevana was elbow
deep in suds and water when Master bolted back into the kitchen. “Sevana!”

She dropped the
bowl and it clattered onto the counter. Whirling about, she demanded, “What?!”

“We have to do
the wash
now.
” There was a light of panic in his eyes that she had
rarely seen. It usually meant someone was in danger of losing either life or
limb.

Swearing, she didn’t
even pause to wipe off her hands, just sprinted for the hallway. Even though
she was normally faster, Master had a head start on her and beat her into the
workroom. But he didn’t beat Aran, who was leagues faster than either of them.

Aran was hovering
around the table as she skidded to a stop, saying in worry, “The magic
shouldn’t be disappearing this quickly. Is it still strong enough for us to get
her out?”

Sevana took in
the situation in a glance. The spell in the portrait was literally fading in front
of her eyes, going from a strong, vibrant glow to something so muted that she
could barely tell it was supposed to be magical at all. She had miscalculated.
Her earlier estimation had been that the woman’s portrait would still have
enough magic in it until roughly midnight, and then things would become hairy.
But this...this was past dangerous. It was critical.

“Whether the
wash is ready or not, we have to try it,” Master said what everyone was
thinking aloud.

“I’ll do the
wash, you get the portation spell ready,” Sevana ordered, her hands already
moving for the brush in her jar.

Aran darted to
the far side of the table, out of way so that they could work, but still close
enough so he could see what was going on. “If you can’t get her out of the mirror
before the spell completely fades, what happens?”

“She’s forever
stuck inside that mirror.” Sevana didn’t have to look up at his face to know
how he felt about that. She felt the same. Ink ready, brush ready, she hovered
over the portrait. “Master?”

Master had his
hands on the mirror, turning it to face the portrait, his wand clenched between
his teeth. He nodded and mumbled, “Weady.”

With quick
strokes, she deftly covered the portrait from top to bottom with the wash. It
was still a touch too dark, but Sevana prayed it was light enough and kept
working. It didn’t matter if it still wasn’t right, they had no choice but to
use it. The instant she was done, Sevana grabbed the portrait off its easel and
slammed it into the mirror’s surface.

The magic sparked
as it encountered another magical surface, then a brief glow—too dim, by her
reckoning—surrounded the edges of the portrait.

“Release!”
Master commanded sharply.

Sevana jerked
the portrait free of the glass, giving it an anxious look as soon as it was free.
The woman in the portrait was all but gone, only the edges of her outline still
visible. That…was not good.

Master was
saying the portation spell quickly, the words almost tumbling over themselves
in his haste to get them out. “
AESE NE
FOLE
!”

Nothing
happened.

The vestiges of
the magic died. Not a trace of power was to be seen. All that was left was an
ink smeared portrait, one that was poorly done, of a middle-aged woman shelling
peas.

Sevana’s knees
gave out, sending her straight to the floor. The bitter taste of failure filled
her mouth and she nearly choked on it. Tears pricked her eyes, not just from
sorrow of a life lost, a life that she had been supposed to save, but of anger.
She shouldn’t
have
other people’s lives depending on her like this.

Master let out
an animalistic cry of rage and ragged disappointment. His wand dropped to the
table in a clatter, his shoulders slumping, eyes closing in grief.

Aran reached
out for her tentatively, putting a hand on her shoulder. He didn’t say a word,
just gripped her in support, silently offering comfort. She didn’t return the
gesture, but some part of her appreciated it, even though anger coursed through
her like a living pulse. Sevana hated the words ‘I don’t know’ but even more
than that, she hated any form of failure. Having someone die on her was the
worst sort of failure to be had.