Quillifer

by Walter Jon Williams

  But I knew that I longed not for the blackened, looted Ethlebight as it was now, but the safe, homely Ethlebight of my boyhood, which was gone forever. My yearning was useless. I could not go home even if I tried.

  “Like you my work?” said Orlanda.

  I had half expected to see her ever since I’d received word of my banishment from court, and so I managed not to leap out of my skin, though my heart still thrashed in my breast like a wild animal. I turned to face her, and tried to master my whirling mind.

  Orlanda was dressed in the blue velvet skirt and dark scarf in which I’d first seen her, and didn’t look out of place on the waterfront. Her deep green eyes glimmered in triumph.

  “I knew of the conspiracy against Broughton,” said she. “I knew that bland bitch Berlauda would not welcome the news that her mother was in league with her closest friend and a hired murderer.” A cruel spirit tugged at her lips. “And I knew you, Quillifer. I knew that you could not refrain from trying to get to the bottom of the affair. You would never hold back, not when there was a chance of flaunting your superiority in front of the whole court.” She stepped close. “I know you well, Quillifer. I know that there is one thing that you simply cannot do, and that is to do nothing.”

  “In that case,” said I, “you yourself did nothing. You simply let events take their course.”

  “No. I confronted you the previous night, and told you that I would be concerning myself with you. I knew that would spur you into action. I knew that you would leap into this business in order to prove to yourself that you were your own master, and not my pawn.” Her cruel smile returned. “It was a fine piece of handiwork, think you not?”

  “It called for fine judgment,” said I. “Though the same events may have occurred in any case, without your lifting a finger.”

  “But then how could I rejoice in my victory?” She smiled. “Rejoice in the knowledge that it was I who brought you to this pass, and not mere chance?”

  I regarded her smile, and nodded. “You may rejoice, as well, that you have taught me a valuable lesson. That my successes, whatever they may be, will be mine. My failures will be your doing, and will reflect not on me.”

  Her smile faded.

  “For you see,” I continued, “people are often troubled by their failures, and spend many long, anxious hours scrutinizing their errors, and examining their consciences, and wondering how they might have prevented unhappiness. You have spared me all that—I need concentrate all my efforts only on achieving success.”

  “Perhaps I will raise you up,” she said, “so that your fall will be all the greater.”

  “You may sport with me, sure,” said I, “as a wanton boy with a fly, but it hardly seems worthy of you.”

  Her eyes narrowed. “What do you know of worthy?” she demanded. “Was your conduct toward me worthy?”

  “Ay,” said I, “take me for your teacher, then, and behave as badly as I. Worse, if you like.”

  “Faithless!” she hissed. Though to my ear the word seemed to lack somewhat of its former conviction.

  “I have had time to consider my situation in the last weeks,” said I. “And your own as well. And I would like to know, Where are the rest of you?” I reached out an arm to encompass the island, the sailors, the ships, the hawkers trundling by with their carts. “According to the old epics, the world was full of nymphs, and naiads, and dryads, and mighty gods, all interfering in the business of mortals. Where did they all go? Are they off on the Comet Periodical, as the follower of the Pilgrim allege?”

  “I know nothing of this comet,” said Orlanda. “And that Pilgrim, he was naught but a gaunt, bitter cenobite full of slanders.”

  I looked at her. “Are you the only one left? No wonder you take rejection so to heart.”

  She laughed. “Perhaps we grew tired of mortals so persistent in their foolishness.”

  “But yet you are not tired of me, and I am foolish as the rest.”

  Green fire blazed in her eyes. “You woke me!” she said. “I was content till you came.”

  “Has bedeviling me then made you more content?” I asked. “Are you more content now than you were a week ago?”

  “Are you?” Orlanda responded. “That is more to the point.” Her lips parted in a thin, angry smile. “I have centuries to find contentment. Have you?”

  I blinked, and she was gone, and where I stared was a waterfront lane full of busy chandlers and tipsy sailors going about their day. Perhaps she had made her point; perhaps she was finding a dispute with me harder work than she supposed.

  As I pondered this matter, I joined the Roundsilvers in one of the foundry’s buildings, where wine and dinner had been provided, and some dull entertainment in the form of Ransome discoursing on his alchemical experiments. He was very much involved, he said, in removing superfluity from his Stone through Calcining, Loosening, Distillation, and Congealing. I asked him what Stone was to be so congealed.

  “Any Stone you wisheth,” said he. “The process of purification is the same. For look you—” He lifted a piece of honey-cake. “When I eat of this cake, it goeth to my stomach, where my stomach’s great heat concocts it, just as it might be concocted in my study by an alembic. The cake is then transformed into chyle, which then passeth to the liver, where it is concocted a second time to become blood. From the liver the blood goeth to the right-hand chamber of the heart, where it receiveth an admixture of vital spirits, and only is then fit to be taken up by the body as nourishment.

  “So it is with the Stone. For a Stone must pass through stages until it reacheth perfection, and of course the most useful element for refining is known as the Ravenous Gray Wolf.”

  I had just had a disturbing interview with a divine being, and that made Ransome’s pronouncements about his Stone, and his guts, all the more fatuous. I wished the actor Blackwell present, that I might enjoy his sardonic observations on Ransome and his art, but it appeared that I would have to provide any such entertainment for myself.

  “What is this Wolf?” asked I. “Has it another name, or must I believe that purification can only be achieved through the employment of a wild beast?”

  Ransome feigned amusement, but he ate his honey-cake before he answered. “We who are adepts in the Art can translate these names esoterical. The Ravenous Gray Wolf, depending on its usage and the occult school to which the philosopher belongs, is known also as the Green Dragon, or—begging your pardon, your grace—the Menstrual Blood of the Whore.”

  The duchess showed more fascination than embarrassment, so I felt free to continue.

  “I fear that I am only more confused,” said I, “for I see nothing to connect public women with dragons, or with ravenous wolves, except perhaps the fanciful mind of a dreamer. Perhaps the element has also an exoteric name?”

  “Those whose knowledge of the Art is imperfect—an apothecary, perhaps—do call it antimony.”

  “Terrible stuff,” said the gunner Lipton. “A doctor prescribed an antimony purge for me once, and it cleaned me both up and down. I barely survived.”

  I looked at him. “Did you feel more perfect afterward?”

  He cackled. “Nay. But I had lost my superfluity, sure.”

  I turned back to Ransome. “Why do you need these esoteric names at all? Why not print up your recipes in plain language, like my mother and her recipe for red hippocras?” I turned to the duchess. “Which, by the way, I recommend, for she uses spikenard and ginger, which in winter produce a pleasing warmth in the blood.” I looked at Ransome. “Or perhaps in chyle, I forget which it might be.”

  Ransome’s answer was a little short, which indicated perhaps that his patience was growing thin. “With all due honor to your mother,” he said, “Practitioners of the Noble Art can scarcely be compared to hostesses and brewsters. Many years of study and experimentation are necessary to perfect our understanding.”

  “The years would be less if you hadn’t had to sort out your Purple of Cassius from your Powder of Algaro
th, your Orpiment from your Phlogisticated Air. Why, if you merely wrote the recipes down in plain language, everyone could perfect their own Stones.” Lipton gave another cackle. I affected sudden illumination. “Well,” said I, “if that were the case, they would not need to pay alchemists, would they?”

  “Your examples sort not together,” said Ransome, “which demonstrates to the illuminated mind the dangers of an untutored experimenter. For much of what we do is dangerous, and if we hide our Art behind metaphor, it is as much to protect the public as to shield our mysteries.” At which point he excused himself, to drop more of his powders into the crucible.

  After some hours, the time came for the second pour, which progressed much as the first, with the sparks flying and the pure-hearted monks praying till the roof-beams rang. I joined the Roundsilver party in their galley for the return to the capital, and there returned to my room, empty and cold, and where no message from Amalie waited. I had nothing to do but contemplate my failures, and my longings, and my losses, and wish my mother present with the rest of our family, and hippocras warming on the hearth.

  * * *

  For lack of any other occupation, I returned to the foundry next morning, to see the clay molds knocked off the guns. Revealed were shining red-gold pillars brilliant as a blazing fire, all wreathed with ornament perfectly cast and gleaming in the light. The tubes were marred somewhat by the bronze that had filled the sprues and channels that allowed air to escape the mold, and the metal to reach every part of the matrix. These would be sawn off, and the remainder polished.

  Also, the cannon had been cast as solid metal pillars, and the great bores would have to be drilled out. The guns would remain upright for this procedure, lashed on platforms like huge capstans, and rotated by teams of oxen. The drill would be suspended point-down from the ceiling, and carve out the cannon over the course of many hours.

  Now that the cannon had been cast, and the metal cooled, the monks had returned to their home. Apparently, it was not necessary to bless the oxen, or the drill.

  Ransome bustled from one task to the next, perfectly satisfied in his own genius.

  “He hopes for an appointment as the Queen’s Gunfounder,” said the gunner Lipton. “The office is vacant.”

  “He seems at least to have done a good job,” I commented.

  “We’ll see. I’ll have to test the guns before her majesty’s government can accept them. Put forty pounds of powder in the breech, and fire a sixty-eight-pound solid shot to discover if the gun shatters.” He nodded at the guns. “We’ll see if Ransome knows his business or not.”

  Lipton invited me to dinner at the Companie of Cannoneers the next day, and I was pleased to accept.

  No message from Amalie waited at home. I began to wonder if the finger of Orlanda was again stirring my affairs.

  The dinner with the Cannoneers was pleasant, though there was no talk of artillery. All anyone wanted to do was talk about the court, and about the conspiracy against Broughton, and my own part in uncovering it. The gossip had tumbled down from the castle and spread itself over the town. At least I did not lack for an audience when I told my story.

  I did not see Amalie for another few days, when she arrived early, while I was still digesting my breakfast. Her father had been visiting, she told me, and it was impossible to get away. He had agreed to loan the money to ransom Stayne, so provided that Sir Basil remained honest in the matter of ransoms, her husband would soon be free.

  I was not entirely delighted to hear this, but tried to be as pragmatic as she in regard to her marriage and its necessities. “We should enjoy your freedom while we may,” I said, and she agreed, though only after a cup of wine.

  As I was an exile from court, my chief source of news became Amalie, who provided a pleasingly satiric view of life at the Castle. Broughton’s departure had cleared the field for every lord in the kingdom to dandle his son before the Queen, and the unending parade of ephebes, imbeciles, rakes, middle-aged widowers, down-at-heels gamblers, jack-a-dandies, and mere schoolboys was described by Amalie with wicked relish. What the Queen thought about them all could hardly be imagined. If Berlauda intended to choose a new favorite, she was keeping her choice to herself.

  Indeed, her majesty was proving very adept at not making up her mind. Half the offices in the land remained unfilled, which kept hopeful situation-seekers thronging the court, gossiping, conspiring, and trying to somehow attract the Queen’s attention.

  And soon there would be more of them, for Berlauda had called the Estates to raise the money in order to prosecute her war with Clayborne. The Estates normally met over the wintertide, in the winter capital of Howel; but Clayborne was presiding there over his own assembly, and so quarters had to be found in Selford for a new wave of arrivals. The House of Peers would meet in the Great Reception Room of the palace, while the Burgesses would use the prayer hall at the Monastery of the Pilgrim’s Treasure. In the meantime, the arguments over taxation had begun, and there was much talk of socage, scutage, tallage, carucage, ship-money, the salt-tax, and escheats. All wanted relief for themselves, and for the taxes to fall more heavily upon others. It was hoped that Chancellor Hulme would keep the Burgesses, at least, in order, though nothing could discipline the nobility, unless it were the monarch herself.

  Another pressing issue was the matter of who would command the army. The Knight Marshal was an old veteran of the late King’s wars, but perhaps superannuated; and the other candidate was the Count of the Stable, known less formally as the Constable. He was a hale, vital man, martial and gallant, but unfortunately his son and heir, Lord Rufus Glanford, had not only joined the rebels, but taken with him his regiment, the Gendarmes, which were based in Howel, and who with the Yeoman Archers formed the monarch’s bodyguard. On account of the son’s considerable sins, Berlauda therefore was not inclined to trust the father.

  Many of the great nobles also felt themselves qualified to be the Queen’s Captain General, and were cultivating a martial appearance, and loudly discussing ravelins, sallies, culverins, and defilades whenever her majesty was within earshot.

  “I think the Queen should have a tournament and make them joust,” said I. “At least we could see which of the candidates can sit a horse.”

  Amalie smiled sadly. “Berlauda would never do anything as amusing as that.”

  I considered the Queen and her throngs of courtiers. “I begin to see a method in Berlauda’s decisions,” said I, “or rather the lack thereof. As long as so many offices remain unfilled, the candidates will remain in hope, and will strive to please her. Whereas if she fills all the offices before the Estates can meet, they will not only have no reason to please her, but some may be active in thwarting her.”

  Amalie cocked an eyebrow. “Do you think Berlauda’s so ingenious as that?”

  “Perhaps not. But the Chancellor is.”

  “You could ask your exquisite little friend, the duke. He sits on the Great Council.”

  “He is discreet where those meetings are concerned.”

  “Offer him your theory. Then see what he says—or admits.”

  I did so. His grace smiled and said, “Please don’t mention this to the office-seekers. They are petulant enough already.”

  It was some time before I could report this to Amalie, for her husband had returned, though he didn’t stay. Berlauda had not forgotten Stayne’s presumed treason and snubbed him at court, which convinced him that there was no point in remaining for the meetings of the Estates. Stayne remained in the capital less than a week before riding off south to raise a militia and beat the Toppings for Sir Basil and his gang. I very much doubted whether Stayne would find his quarry, and wondered rather if Sir Basil would capture him a second time.

  Amalie once more began to visit my rooms, but we both began to discern that our liaison was undergoing a period of fatigue.

  Certainly, our horizons were limited. For fear of discovery by the servants, I could not visit her at her own home, and so we met a
t my lodgings. Amalie was too well-known among her set to walk with me in the street, or meet me at the theater—she was far too grand to be seen with me, at least without suspicion. Nor could she pass for anyone of my class—her languorous manner, her accent, and her clothing all marked her as a member of the aristocracy, and though the clothing could be changed, the rest could not. Plus, she was carrying a child, which could not be concealed.

  And so, we were confined to my two small rooms, which seemed to grow smaller, darker, and colder as wintertide progressed. She came less often, and the visits were not prolonged. When she was not there, I found the rooms filling with memories of her scent, her long, lazy eyes, the satin touch of her skin, even her little white teeth. . . . But I could feel the memories wither, even when she was with me.

  I wondered if Orlanda had a hand in the fading of the affair, but I was inclined to doubt it, and instead found myself absorbed in the same sort of self-examination that I had told Orlanda would no longer be a part of my life, and I reviewed my past conduct to see if there was aught I could have done to produce a more hopeful result.

  But no, the girl was married, and carrying the child of another man, and our end was foredoomed.

  Our doom fell shortly after the new year, when the Marquess of Stayne returned from his punitive expedition to the Toppings, having failed to capture a single outlaw, let alone retrieve his ransom. I didn’t hear the news for a week, until the Duchess of Roundsilver informed me at one of her dinners. She looked at me with care as she told me, to see if I was badly affected; but I had been anticipating the news, and merely asked if he’d encountered any bandits, and for the next weeks concentrated on my business.

  For, as Orlanda had remarked, I could not do nothing. I had decided to put my fortune, such as it was, out into the world, and earn my living as a speculator. My father had done well in business, and I hoped to emulate his success. But my father had also made most of his income from loans, and I decided against that course, for he had loaned to people from Ethlebight who he’d known all his life; and I knew no one in Selford, and most especially no one I knew to be trustworthy.