75. Artifice (II) (Patreon)

“Call me Io,” said Dorian softly. He blinked fast, watering his eyes a smidge as he looked up at her.

“Io,” she repeated, and her voice made the syllable a song. She smiled as she held out a gloved hand. “Come with me.”

He eyed the hand warily. Then, with the cautious slowness of a frightened animal, he reached out and took it.

“He’s your issue no longer,” she said loftily to the receptionist. “Off you go.”

“Y-yes…” With another waist-deep bow, receptionist Tao slunk back into his seat. He made sure to glare fiercely at Dorian as he did.

In an instant, murmurs sputtered up all around them. Dorian was the center of attention—and of a good deal of suspicion—yet again. His plans had gone upside-down, but he wasn’t sad about it. He’d follow along, he supposed. Whether this was a pleasant surprise or not remained to be seen.

“Miss Lin!” called a voice, and a fetching young lad in Artificer’s robes strutted up to them; behind him was a loose throng of similarly dressed youths. He looked to the girl, then to Dorian with thinly veiled disgust. “You mean to take this... “ He paused, as though wracking his brain for a word. He settled on—“fellow...into our halls?” Unlike the receptionist, at least he had some tact about it.

“Yes,” said the girl warmly. “Why? What is it, Leo?”

He cleared his throat, then spoke like he was reading off a script. His voice was high and clear. “I feel it’d be improper to leave a lady of your standing alone with a foreigner. If you wish, I’d be honored to escort the both of you.”

Lin giggled. “Very thoughtful of you, but it won’t be necessary. I can handle myself just fine.”

“Alright…” He fidgeted with his sleeve. “Will I see you at dinner?”

She shrugged as she grinned at him. Dorian saw his thoughts flee his head in real-time. “Why not?” she said.

Blushing and stammering, the boy left with his friends. Amusing. She has them on a string. Is that what she’ll try with me?

“Are you sure about this?” A girl behind her, one of her posse, regarded Dorian skeptically.

“Don’t worry, Su. I’ll be back before sundown,” she promised. “Meet you at the murals?”

The girl looked like she wanted to say more, but thought better of it. “Don’t play too long…” she muttered. Then she went off with the rest of the girls.

Play?

Then Lin turned her sun-like smile on him. “Let’s start with your clothes.”

Dorian blushed, scratching the back of his neck. “Err, clothes?” he said. “I only came to learn artificing, miss—I don’t mean to make a fuss…”

She held a hand to her lips as she giggled. “Don’t you worry. We’ll get to that in due time. First, we’ll get you cleaned and fitted. No guest of the Artificer’s guild walks around in rags! Come.”

***

She took him up a flight of stairs, through a set of mechanical doors, then down a long hallway made entirely of sandstone. Light streamed in through a series of huge windows on one side, treating Dorian to a view of the main road below. They stopped before an archway blocked off by black curtains; steams curled at its edges. All around them milled a procession of servants.

“This leads to the servants’ quarters,” said Lin. “Inside you’ll find baths and a clean set of clothes.” Then she frowned, a finger tapping at her lips. “Oh, dear. Do you know how to bathe?”

Before Dorian could answer, she snatched a serving-girl nearby. “You! Kindly bathe our guest in the servants’ baths and send him out in clean clothes.”

The girl was alarmed for a second. She looked horrified as she took in Dorian’s bedraggled appearance. Then she inclined her head, flushed. “Yes, mistress!”

Ten awkward minutes later—the serving-girl insisted on doing all the scrubbing herself, while also trying her best not to look at him—Dorian was back out, this time in a new set of robes. Servant’s robes, matte-black and nondescript.

Lin tilted her head as she took him in; a few stray hair-strands fell across her eyes as she inspected him. Then she tucked them back behind an ear and clapped, grinning. “You sure clean up nicely.”

She took his hand like they were old friends. Dorian didn’t resist; he was bemused.

“Follow me,” she said. And they set off.

“Where are we going, miss?” he said, affecting a flustered look. “To the artificing books?”

Her smile was enigmatic. “You’ll see. Walk with me.” They strode down the corridor and up another marble staircase. Lin pressed her token to an indent in the wall and the stone door before them groaned open. They stepped into a hallway with a set of doors to one side, each marked with a sun- or moon- symbol.

“Tell me, Io,” she said, and even without looking at her he could feel her gaze on his skin. She pressed a hand to his upper arm. The original Io would’ve been reduced to slobbering jelly. “Where do you come from?”

“Nowhere special,” said Dorian. He gave a nervous laugh, pitched an octave higher than normal. “A little tribe wandering the desert…”

Her frown was nearly a pout. “Don’t say that. Everyone’s home is special.“ She sidled up to him with shining eyes. “Tell me about it? Please?”

What a strange diversion. By the look on her face, she was very insistent. I’ll toss her some bland answer. Then, back to the matter at hand. “It’s small, no more than two hundred in size, men and women and all…it’s no more than the number of people on that street”—he gestured out a window to crowd on the street outside—“if you can believe it. It was a lot of scavenging, foraging, sometimes hunting…we didn’t have walls like the Oasis, you see…”

“Mmh?” Lin’s gaze seemed to give off its own light. “It sounds like quite a tough life,” she murmured. “You must’ve had it hard all these years…”

Dorian squirmed. She was getting a little too close. “Yes, well—that’s life in the desert. About the artificing—“

“Did you ever meet with Wyrm-kings? Exopods? Or packs of sandwolves?” She almost seemed eager for him to say yes.

“A few times. I lost my mother to a sandwolf,” he said hastily.

She gasped; her hand went to her ample chest. “I’m so sorry!”

Dorian smiled awkwardly. “It’s okay, miss…it’s been a decade. I can hardly remember it.” What’s she up to?

As they went, they passed several men in artificer’s robes. The men stopped to gape, then seethe at him when they saw Lin on his arm.

After wandering a maze of halls and stairs they emerged at an exit into an open-air rooftop space dotted with plush chairs and lined with a sandstone railing. From here, the whole of the city was spread out before them: blocky houses, gleaming towers, colorful plazas, all a chaotic bloat of stone and gears. Dorian’s lips twitched. Not a furnace nor vault in sight.

“Does that sort of—oh, awful, horrible tragedy—does it happen often?” she implored. Then she put a hand over her mouth. “Oh! That was rude of me…”

Ah. So his first instinct had been right. He gave her a sad little jerk of a nod.

I’m a stray cat after all—to her, I’m a little tribes-boy she can dress and fix up, and feel good about herself for doing it. The more tragic my backstory, the better she’ll feel, I wager. What I want hardly matters.

The little goblin of undying cynicism at the core of Dorian’s being nodded in satisfaction. This was almost certainly it, he thought. There were exceptions—idiots like Fate, for instance—but almost no-one gave anything for free. If the cost wasn’t material it was in intangible things—ego, for instance, or good feeling.

She handled him the way a child handled a doll. She’d already dressed him up; now she was bending him around her pinky finger. She had a host of little innocuous mannerisms—brushing back her hair just as it caught the light, or giggling and tilting her head just so, touching his arm or chest at innocent-seeming moments.

He was perplexed. It’ll be useful to have this strange creature as an ally. She seems important around here—I suppose I don’t mind humoring her. Still, daylight’s draining. I didn’t come here for clothes or a scenic tour.

“I’m real sorry to rush you, mistress, but my sister waits for me back at camp,” said Dorian. He made a big show of being too embarrassed to meet her eyes. “Can we start learning artificing, please? Or… will you teach me?”

***

Lin almost petted the poor boy. He was adorable—so innocent, so kind, so full of hope! She wanted to stuff him in her purse and carry him around all day. She’d feed him cream-puffs and dollops of sugar, and give him head-pats when he was well-behaved.

She noted with relish how his face lit up red as she touched his arm, or tilted her head, or slapped his chest with a laugh. She didn’t miss how his eyes flickered down when she hopped, or how they trailed her as she went up stairs. Savage-boys are still boys, after all…

This one was a fine specimen—the finest she’d seen from Outside. She could tell from the moment she first laid eyes on him. Tan skin, darker than any she saw around these parts, smooth like chocolate. Muscles in all the right places, but still nicely svelte. A gorgeous face too. He was simple—a little dull, as their kind often were, but she liked it that way. She wouldn’t mind keeping this one about.

I wonder what he tastes like.

She shoved the thought from her mind instantly, a little horrified at herself. She helped him because it was the right thing to do. It was the duty of the noble to help the downtrodden; it was what Grandmother had always said! Yes. That was why they were here.

Then she realized he was looking at her, expecting an answer. What had he asked? Oh, right! The silliness with wishing to become an artificer. It was her duty to help those in need, of course—she’d clothe him and feed him and send him on his merry way, along with a few artifacts to play with—but there was nothing to be done about his cute little dream. Artificing was tough, brain- and body- intensive work; and even if he could handle it, there was no substitute for a decade of formal training. Best for him to stick to his role. Let the Oasis-folk do the hard metalwork.

How best to rid him of the fantasy, she wondered, without hurting his feelings? This was a soft, sensitive boy—she could tell. He needed to be handled tenderly, with love and care. She was worried saying it outright might break him. He’d been near tears at that old fool Tao’s berating.

“Hmph.” She pressed a finger to her lips. Then she lit up as idea came to her. She’d show him how tough artificing really was, she decided. He’d draw the conclusions himself. “Why must you be in such a hurry?” she said, smacking him playfully on the arm. “Very well, as you wish! This way.”

She led him back inside. They descended several flights of stairs, crossed a handful of hallways, and re-entered the main chamber. All the while she pried him with questions about his past—his sad, lovely past. She heard of how he woke before sunrise every day to drain cacti for his ailing father. She heard of how he and his tribe spent months escaping a horde of gryphons. She heard of how just two weeks ago, he lost his dearest friend Hento to a Vordor attack; she saw him sniffle, fighting back tears as he did. It made her feel like her own heart was splitting in two.

“I’m so happy we met, Io,” she gushed.  “We’ll be great friends—I can sense it already.”

“Aww, miss…” he said, blushing, scratching the back of his neck. “You’re too kind…”

They stopped before the door to the Furnace Floor proper: a sliding door twice as high and wide as all the others. This one was airtight and marked with a simple hammer, but the thuds of crashing metal on the other side still reverberated through the floors. She pressed her IT to an indent in the wall.

“You’ve told me so much about you,” she said, wide-eyed and beaming. “It’s time for me to share my world.” The door slid smoothly open.

It was like they’d been transported into the belly of a volcano. A wave of heat burst out of the open doors, fluttering their hairs.

She grabbed hold of his hand and led him through the doorway. “Stay close,” she said.

They emerged at a metal catwalk overlooking a vast factory floor. Below, a network of bulging wrought-metal furnaces lined up in rows, fitted with exhaust-tubes linking up to the ceiling. Each furnace belched plumes of fire-aspect qi; hooded Artificers worked at each station, wrestling big roiling balls of fire onto sizzling, glowing masses of molten metal. At their sides were tubs of qi-dense water for quenching. Clangs of metal on metal rang out endlessly in the din. To those who’d never seen it before, it must be an overwhelming sight.

“This,” said Lin, sweeping her arms out grandly, “is Artificing!”

She looked at him, expectant. For a half-second, Io looked strangely conflicted. Then he met her gaze and flinched.

“Woah!” His face was suddenly a picture of awe. Just as I thought. He pattered up to the rusted railing, leaning in for a better look.

Smirking a little, she pointed to one of the artificers below. “See that man?” she pointed at one of the artificers below. He was carefully wrangling a frothing python of flame with one hand and pounding a cube of silvery metal with the other—an impressive feat. Intimidating, she thought. “He’s a Tier 1 Artificer, the lowest rung of the Artificer profession. See how he’s grabbed hold of the flame?”

Io nodded, transfixed.

“That skill is called flame-throwing,” said Lin. “It takes years of practice to do right. If it’s not right—if you lose your focus for just a second—you may blow your hand off! It’s tough, risky work. Less than one in a hundred who try it succeed…”

That ought to disillusion him some. It’s not for you, cutie. She turned back to him, already imagining ways to comfort him. She’d put a hand to his crestfallen face, or offer him a shoulder to lean on. Give him a heartfelt hug, maybe. There, there…

Instead—

“Awesome!” breathed Io. He looked at her with stars in his big brown eyes. “When do we start?”

She stared.

What?