The Alchemists' Bane
Page 9
The Market Hall never ceased to awe Mikhail. The high, vaulted ceiling sparkled with the warm glow of hundreds of suspended gaslamps. Giant, glistening black pillars sculpted from uzhas into the likeness of the Guild founders—the men who built Kosgrad—lined the hall. But Mikhail’s favourite by far: the plethora of Alchemtek that shaped the world residing in the hall.
Easily a thousand people packed the space, crowding around the many stalls lining the walls as they waited to purchase extracts and Alchemtek. Steam engines roared, adults conversed, children laughed. All around the hall, life blossomed in the beating heart of Kosgrad.
Mikhail couldn’t restrain a grin as he removed his half-mask and hood. He was a part of it, an Alchemist, helping breathe new life into the barren tundra in which the city miraculously thrived. He followed the apprentices through the hall, basking in the glory of the Guild.
The stalls running down the middle all held Alchemtek while the stalls along the wall were for extracts. Mikhail watched an Alchemist vendor extol the virtues of a giant auto-picker to a group of men wearing muddy brown Harvester Guild coats.
The machine was twelve feet tall, twelve wide, twenty long, and looked like a giant arch. It had three large wheels on either side of the arch and a chunky steam engine at the rear. A cab had been bolted onto the left arch with a brass ladder hanging from it to the ground. The auto-picker was designed to drive over the shrubs in the massive greenhouses that surrounded Kosgrad and remove fruit from them.
Mikhail had no idea how the complicated network of cogs and rods inside it worked, but judging by the glowing eyes of the Harvesters, it was impressive.
Beyond the auto-picker, another vendor showed a woman in a purple Fashion Guild coat and an eighth mark Warrior a new steam cart. The steam cart was nothing more than a basic uzhasgart frame with an open cab at the front. A leather bench ran the width of the cab, opposite a steering wheel and some pedals and levers. Behind the cab—taking up two-thirds of the cart—sat an enormous hunk of steam engine.
Mikhail supposed it was the prestige edition; built for speed and inevitable death.
The vendor climbed over the glossy black sidewall and into the cab. He leaned over the steam engine, and, after a moment of fiddling, it roared to life, blasting a cloud of smoke and steam into the air. Clearly, the vendor had the water preheated so he could show it off to prospective customers.
The woman clapped with delight and an eager smile lit the Warrior’s moustached face.
Mikhail shook his head and suppressed a laugh.
The hall’s crowning glory was a huge stage on which an Alchemist demonstrated the latest Alchemtek weapons. The rotund woman was currently explaining how the Mark V Harpoon Cannon fired three harpoons in quick succession thanks to its revolving barrels.
Mikhail and the other apprentices passed the stage, and the crowds thinned. By the time they reached the wide stairway at the back, only a handful of Alchemists scattered the floor. Two Alchemist guards with crossbows guarded the stairs. They nodded to the chattering apprentices.
The apprentices’ voices dropped to whispers as they mounted the steps and entered the vaulted stone corridor at the top. Gaslamps hissed, blending with the echo of boots and hushed voices.
“Mikhail?” Petrov prompted as they stepped into the corridor.
Mikhail nodded and turned to the apprentices. “All right, we’re home and free for the day. We’ll meet tomorrow at dawn in the training lab. Now, get some rest and, for the Sovereign Sculptor’s sake, have showers. Please. I’m looking at you, Boris.”
The apprentices all laughed, and Boris ran a hand through his black, greasy hair, an abashed grin on his face.
Mikhail waved to the group as they split up. He had a lab on the second floor same as them, but something else required his attention first. He ducked into a narrow stairwell and took the steps two at a time to the fourth floor. With every step, his stomach knotted tighter. Would his mother be finished that cursed secret project yet? For two years she’d been kept locked in her lab, only allowed out with an escort—though never to see family.
Mikhail stepped onto the fourth floor. Alchemists hurried to and fro, their heads buried in their notes. He wove through them until he reached a door like every other. Hope bloomed. No guard stood nearby—a great sign.
Chewing his lip, he rapped on the door and stepped back to wait.
An Alchemist glanced up from her notes as she passed Mikhail. When he caught her eye, she quickly looked away and hurried on. Mikhail watched her go, curious about her reaction.
The door remained closed, so he knocked again. Still nothing. Not a sound from the lab. He tried the handle. Locked.
Mikhail’s shoulders slumped. Had they moved his mother to a different lab while he’d been gone? Or was she out with her escort?
Deflated, he returned to the second floor and entered his own cramped quarters. He froze and his jaw dropped as he stared aghast at the space.
Someone had trashed his lab.
Beakers lay smashed on the floor, and his mattress was ripped open, its guts strewn across the room. His bookshelf lay empty, the books and papers scattered everywhere.
“What the depths?” Mikhail muttered, letting the door swing shut behind him. A frown creased his forehead as he stepped deeper into the room.
Bang!
Mikhail spun as the door slammed open and two guards burst into the lab. Before he had a chance to utter a word, they grabbed his arms and dragged him out.
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