The Alchemist's Apprentice

by Christopher G. Nuttall

  “You can do the recipe, then you can clean the room.” Reginald looked thoroughly displeased, although I wasn’t sure why. He was experienced enough to know the dangers, surely? Perhaps he just didn’t like being contradicted. My stepfather had never reacted well when my mother had disagreed with him. “Make sure you do it all yourself. I won’t have anyone else entering this room.”

  “Yes, My Lord,” I said. “I’ll fetch the cleaning supplies personally.”

  “Very good,” Reginald said. He picked up Master Travis’s notebook and held it out to me. “And don’t try to take this book out of the room” - he leered at me - “or you’ll find that there are worse things to be than earthworms .”

  He stood and strode out the door, closing it behind him. I felt the wards sizzle into place, poking and prodding at me until they finally decided I was allowed to be there. I guessed that would change in a hurry if I tried to leave the chamber, with or without the notebook. He’d probably locked me into the room. I looked around, wondering if Reginald had thought to leave a chamberpot. It didn’t look like it. I’d have to improvise if nature called before he returned.

  And that isn’t going to be easy in this dress , I thought, grimly. The wretched outfit was designed to be hard to remove in a hurry. It might have been a futile attempt to protect the wearer’s virtue, but it had its inconvenient side. I really need to ask for some proper work clothes .

  I snorted and turned my attention to the notebook. My head swam, just for a second, as I opened the leather cover. Master Travis’s spells were still clinging to the pages. I felt oddly uncomfortable as I flipped through the collection of experimental recipes, some more complete than others; it felt, as much as I hated to admit it, as if I was prying into my old master’s private affairs. I’d had so little privacy for most of my life that I felt guilty about invading his privacy. But he was dead. The notebook was technically mine.

  Master Travis had been a genius, I reflected, as I skimmed recipe after recipe. Some I recognised, potions he’d taught me how to brew; others, more complex than the simple recipes I’d mastered in my first year, had no discernible purpose. One particular recipe seemed to go through several different variations, with hundreds of adjustments and minor embellishments, before becoming a healing potion he’d taught me only last year. I made a mental note to study how the recipe had been changed, when I had a moment. It would - I was sure - teach me a great deal.

  And you’re delaying the inevitable , I told myself, sternly. Go to the last page .

  I sighed as I opened the final page. The recipe - Reginald’s recipe - opened up in front of me, page after page of complicated notes boiling down to a final list of instructions. Master Travis hadn’t bothered to add any warning signs to the earlier versions, but I had no trouble seeing why they’d been discarded. Three of them were so dangerous that I knew they were beyond my ability to brew, while two more would be poisonous. A third had been discarded without apparent cause. I studied the recipe time and time again, trying to determine what was wrong with it, but nothing came to mind. A real Potions Master would probably have taken one look and known what was wrong.

  Master Travis discarded it for a reason , I thought, numbly. And I shouldn’t try to experiment until I work out why .

  I reached for my journal and carefully - very carefully - started to copy out the final version, line by line. Master Travis had definitely left gaps in the instructions, although I thought I knew enough to fill in the holes. Reginald might have been able to fill some of them, if he’d been able to actually read the notebook, but others ... I shook my head as the complex recipe took on shape and form. It wasn’t going to be easy to brew, even if there weren’t surprises waiting for me to just stumble over them. I could imagine it blowing up in my face very easily. Somehow, I doubted Reginald’s wards would be able to contain the blast.

  It would certainly set off alarms , I guessed. Reginald had used a pocket dimension to conceal his workroom, but the spellform might not survive the blast. It was clever, I supposed, yet ... there was something about it that bothered me. Master Travis had certainly never brewed within a pocket dimension. And an explosion might collapse the entire dimension, taking me and the potion with it .

  I considered the possibilities for a moment, then turned my attention back to the journal - my journal. The recipe was going to be expensive as well as dangerous. Dragon Scales were the least of it. Master Travis had involved a piece of Dragon’s Heart as well as a handful of other ingredients, some of which were staggeringly expensive. I supposed I should be grateful that Zadornov was only demanding five hundred golds. Dragon’s Heart was so expensive that even the aristocracy had problems finding it. Zadornov had some very good connections.

  And Master Travis was able to buy it, I thought. What did he offer the smuggler to make it worth the risk ?

  My imagination failed me. Five hundred golds? A piece of Dragon’s Heart was worth far more than five hundred golds. Zadornov wouldn’t have had trouble finding potential customers, people who could pay far more than Master Travis. Hell, Zadornov could sell to Jude’s. The school’s potioneers wouldn’t ask too many questions. They’d be too glad to get their hands on Dragon’s Heart.

  I stood and inspected the ingredient cupboards. Reginald had stacked his small collection of ingredients together, heedless of his personal safety. I blanched when I saw that he’d put a handful of volatile ingredients together, knowing that a single spark would be enough to trigger a devastating explosion. Reginald really had been incredibly lucky. Master Travis had commented, when he’d been teaching me how to store ingredients, that carelessness was invariably punished by the universe itself. A careless brewer would be lucky if he only blew off his hands.

  I’ll have to fix that too , I thought. Reginald had been lucky, but I placed no faith in luck. His carelessness would inevitably catch up with him and I didn’t dare assume that it wouldn’t catch up with me too. It would take time to clean up the mess, and check that everything had been adequately labelled, but it was better than being blown up. And then I’ll have to go to work .

  I shrugged, then finished searching the chamber. Reginald had stockpiled vast amounts of ingredients, including a number that he’d get in trouble for possessing, but he hadn’t thought to bring any cleaning supplies. I rolled my eyes in dismay. What had he used to clean the room? Water? I’d been taught to use several minor potions to clean the work surfaces, after taking every care to remove as much as I could with an iron knife. Reginald really was lucky. I scribbled down a list of things I’d need, then returned to the supply cupboards. There was no point in trying to clean without the right tools.

  The list of ingredients mocked me as I cleared a table and started sorting through the cabinets. Some of them were relatively simple and easy to find, others were hidden away in recesses or concealed in wooden drawers. I was surprised that Reginald had actually bothered to label the jars. It was a little too careful for him. But I supposed he might have learnt that lesson the hard way. I knew from experience that it was easy to forget what one might have shoved in a jar.

  I finished retrieving the ingredients - including a tiny fragment of Dragon’s Heart - and sat down. Reginald had more money than ... I shook my head in disbelief. Master Travis had had to ration his money carefully, doling out coppers as if they were golds, while Reginald had built a huge stockpile of ingredients. There were so many that I couldn’t imagine how Master Travis and I could use them all before they started to decay - half of them hadn’t even been preserved properly - and it was hard to imagine Reginald using them all. I understood the need to have supplies on hand, but this was ridiculous. He’d wasted half his money ...

  The wards shifted. I heard the door opening behind me. Reginald was back.

  “Well,” Reginald said. His voice was hard. “Have you brewed the potion?”

  I turned to face him. Reginald looked ... frustrated. I had no idea where he’d gone, or what he’d been doing, but it clearly
hadn’t been a success. He had to know that it would take time to brew the potion, yet ... he seemed to think I could have completed it by now. That wasn’t true. I could have started the moment he left me alone and it still wouldn’t be completed.

  “I haven’t even started,” I said. He had to understand that, didn’t he? “I need to clean the chamber.”

  Reginald twitched. His fist clenched. I thought, for a horrific moment, that he was going to hit me. I braced myself, remembering the salve in my room. I’d be fine ...

  “Right,” Reginald snapped. He controlled himself with an effort. “And when can you start?”

  I took a long breath. “I need to collect some cleaning supplies and protective clothes,” I said, carefully. Cleaning a potions workroom was far harder - and far more dangerous - than scrubbing floors. A trained magician would know that, wouldn’t he? “And then I have to clean the room from top to bottom. And then ...”

  Reginald’s face darkened. “Are you wasting time?”

  I looked back at him. “This is an incredibly complex piece of work,” I said, gesturing to the notebook. “The slightest mistake, or the slightest hint of contamination, will render the potion useless. And then ... I’ll have to start again. It’s better to clean the room than risk losing everything.”

  And perhaps losing more than you think , I added, silently. The thought of Reginald accidentally blowing himself up would have been funny if I wasn’t at risk of being blown up too. If the potion explodes here, in the chamber, it’ll detonate everything in the storage cupboards too .

  Reginald glared at me. “Very well,” he said, finally. “Get whatever you need. Get on with it. And then, get on with the potion.”

  “Yes, My Lord,” I said, relieved. My stomach rumbled. “Can I also get something to eat?”

  “If you must,” Reginald said. He picked up the notebook and sat down. I felt oddly offended as he opened the journal - my journal. “Bring me something to eat too. And a bottle of wine.”

  I swallowed, hard. A drunken man in a potions’ workroom? “My Lord ...”

  “Do as I tell you,” Reginald snapped. He raised one hand, as if he intended to hex me on the spot, and then dropped it back into his lap. “Go!”

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  If there was one advantage to being Reginald’s personal maid, it was that no one asked questions when I requisitioned a handful of supplies from below stairs. Lucinda would have made sarcastic remarks if I’d asked for a new mop, and then perhaps threatened to turn me into a mop if my old one was still usable, but she would have wondered why I might want cleaning potions designed to deal with magical spillages. It would have led to questions I didn't want to have to answer. Now, however, I could practically take what I want.

  Which might be a problem , I thought, as I collected a set of overalls as well as the cleaning supplies. Reginald might expect me to run all kinds of errands for him .

  I carried the supplies upstairs, then hurried back to the kitchen to collect the food. Cook looked relieved to see me, somewhat to my surprise. I was tempted to ask her about brewing potions - perhaps she had a hidden workroom of her own - but there were too many listening ears. It felt odd to be the centre of attention - as if I was an ugly duckling that had become a swan - and I wanted, as I collected the tray, to be invisible again. Tongues were going to start wagging the moment I left the room.

  Gritting my teeth, telling myself it didn’t matter, I walked back up the stairs. Reginald’s door was closed, but - this time - it opened at my touch. He was still sitting at the table, reading through the notebook. I put his food in front of him, feeling an odd flicker of déjà vu , then carried mine into my room. If nothing else, I could eat and change in private.

  Unless he decides to walk in , I reminded myself, as I wolfed down my food. Cook hadn’t stinted on anything, even the expensive sauce. I supposed that was yet another advantage of being a personal maid. I had all the privileges of rank and yet people still felt sorry for me? I doubted that was a good sign. Being close to Reginald is like being close to a destabilising potion when you don’t know when it’s actually going to explode .

  I smiled at the thought, then changed into the overalls. They’d definitely been designed for someone larger than me, and felt rough and uncomfortable against my skin, but at least they’d provide some protection. Reginald was still sitting at the table when I returned to the chamber, a large potions’ textbook open in front of him. I glanced at the title, then shrugged inwardly. Reginald had years of schooling I lacked. If he couldn’t brew the potion before hiring Master Travis, he was unlikely to acquire the skills in the next few weeks.

  Although he might think he can brew the potion , I thought, as I started to work. He was certainly willing to risk brewing a number of other potions .

  I could feel Reginald’s eyes following me from time to time as I scrubbed the floor thoroughly, lingering on my backside just long enough to make me feel uncomfortable. I wanted to say something, but what could I say? He’d just find it funny. I scrubbed harder, working as quickly as I could. Reginald hadn’t thought to wash the floor, let alone anything else. The handful of stains - and decayed ingredients - could have been very dangerous, if he’d managed to spill an active potion. He would have been lucky not to blow himself sky high.

  And if he had , I thought savagely, he wouldn’t have caused me all this trouble .

  I felt a surge of hatred as I pulled myself upright and started to clean the tables. I understood what it was like to be illegitimate, even though he knew who’d given birth to him. I knew, all too well, what it was like to be unwelcome in your family’s home. I could’ve felt sorry for him, if he wasn’t such an asshole. He hadn’t had to kill Master Travis. He’d been incredibly lucky I’d stumbled into his chamber of horrors ...

  And without me, his little project crashes and burns , I thought, sourly. Perhaps I should have fled the city. I could have tried to convince a sea captain that I’d be useful to him. And instead I have to help him see it through .

  I silently cursed him, time and time again, as I scrubbed layers of old experiments off the floors and worktables. I’d never seen anything so grotty, not even the ancient desk that Master Travis had purchased for my workspace ... and ordered me to clean thoroughly before I used it. My overalls were damp and stained to the point where I’d have to peel them off my body and reduce them to dust, rather than try and clean them. Reginald probably wouldn’t let me hand them over to the washerwomen either. The dirty clothes were just too incriminating.

  My body ached as I stumbled to my feet and looked around. The room was clean - or as clean as it was ever going to get. There was no way it would ever be pristine, no matter what I did. I sagged, feeling as if I’d been working for hours. Reginald watched me, his eyes unblinking, as I sat down. My skin itched, my hair felt grimy ... I shuddered to think of what might have oozed through the protective charms. I was going to need a long shower before I could do anything.

  “Good work,” Reginald said, grudgingly. He looked down at the notebook. “Are you sure you copied the recipe precisely?”

  “Yes,” I said. I tried not to notice that he’d finished an entire bottle of wine. “There are just ... pieces left out.”

  Reginald let out a heavy sigh. “Did your master know I was going to kill him?”

  I was too tired to be angry. “Potions Masters often leave out a handful of instructions when they write their personal journals,” I said. “They don’t want their secrets to be shared too openly.”

  “Smart of them,” Reginald said, with heavy irony. “And are you going to be doing the same?”

  I shrugged. Master Travis had explained the complexities of potion brewing to me, time and time again, and then forced me to explain it right back to him to be sure I understood what I’d been told. The half-completed recipes were a test, he’d said; a brewer who couldn’t fill in the gaps was a brewer who really shouldn’t be brewing the potion. I could see the value in it, even t
hough I also saw it as a major headache. I didn’t want to waste time reconstructing a recipe I needed to brew urgently. It would be dangerous.

  “I need to shower,” I said. “And then I need to rest.”

  “You need to brew,” Reginald said. “Come back after you’ve showered.”