by Lyndon Hardy
The wall on the right was also shelved, but stacked with a tumble of small boxes. Alodar could see a label on each, but in a script that he did not recognize. Most of the containers were of rough-hewn wood, but an occasional one had sides of shiny steel, clasped shut with a strong lock and chained to a nearby support. Crucibles, aludels, and curcubits competed for space on the floor, leaving only a small winding path from where Alodar stood to a workbench on the far wall. There, beneath a bookshelf sagging with almanacs and grimoires, huddled a robed figure intent upon his task. The fiery heat of an anthanor colored his plump cheeks red, and large beads of sweat formed upon the folds of his neck. He stoked the furnace and pumped the bellows, oblivious to Alodar’s presence.
“Alchemist Saxton?” Alodar called to the man. “Are you alchemist Saxton, the one with the powder of deep sleep?”
Saxton turned to look briefly at the interruption, waving his hand back towards the doorway. “In the outer room, the second display case. It is ten coppers a vial; leave it on the counter.”
“No, no. I have come to see you about another matter,” Alodar said. “I understand from the street that you work independent of the factories and need a novice to help you in your craft.”
“Yes, that I do,” Saxton answered without looking up from the anthanor. “One with enough stomach to stand by his job once I have taught him. But leave me for a moment, I have a formula to complete.”
Alodar watched as the alchemist withdrew a crucible glowing red hot from the furnace door and set it down to sizzle on the workbench.
“Well, no lightning this time,” Saxton said, running one hand across his bald pate and then wiping it against his robe. His smile split his round face like a wedge removed from an orange, and his small, close-set eyes nearly disappeared into the folds of his cheek.
“One more step,” he said, “and we may yet line our purse this month.” He waddled down the workbench, withdrew one of the grimoires from the shelf overhead, and rapidly thumbed to the desired page.
“Bloodroot,” he mumbled and ambled around the clutter on the floor to face the wall of boxes. After staring for several moments, he reached on tiptoe and pulled one container from its resting place. He extracted a large red bulb and returned to the workbench, placing it in the middle of a stack of clean parchment.
“And now the activation,” he said as he withdrew a quill from a nearby bottle and deftly drew a complex symbol on the sheet beneath the root. As the ink dried, he stared at the strange glyph and grunted satisfaction.
“About the novice,” Alodar interjected.
Saxton’s eyebrows jumped and he turned to look at his intruder. “Still here? Then you are either brave or foolhardy. This last step could make the dancing ball look like a toy, and it only has six chances in ten of going right.”
“I wish to learn of alchemy,” Alodar replied, “but do not care for the way a factory offers to teach it. I have heard that there are risks and am willing to accept them.”
“Very well, then, we will see the fiber of which you are made.” Saxton shrugged, returned to the bench, diced the bloodroot into a fine powder, and added it to the crucible now already cool. He looked warily back at Alodar and threw the inscribed parchment into the anthanor.
“All is ready for the final formula,” he said as he began to write upon the next page in the stack. His pen rapidly flicked out line after line of intricate symbols, pausing only occasionally to dart back to the well for more ink. In an instant, the page was covered, and Saxton set it aside to begin a second. He filled half of another and then paused a moment with his pen poised high.
“The last symbol,” he said as he glanced at the crucible. With a flourish, he added a few more scratches to the paper. Alodar heard a sudden bubbling and turned to watch a thick froth come over the top of the little stone dish and descend to add its stain to the richly covered bench.
“By the signatures,” Saxton exclaimed. “Chance is with us today. No explosion to test you with. Instead, more than two whole gills of the finest nerve elixir north of the isthmus.”
Before Alodar could interrupt again, the alchemist scurried to the wall on the left and removed a rack of small corked vials, covered with dust like the rest.
“Here, if you want to be a novice, make yourself useful. Dust them off and label and fill them properly. And when you are done, place a sign on the door that we have nerve elixir here, freshly brewed and only two gold brandels at that. The factories may be able to undercut us on the sweetbalm, itching powders, and the like, but they would never risk trying for nerve elixir.”
The alchemist set the vials down, ran his hands across his smooth brow, and began a small shuffling dance among the paraphernalia around the workbench. He kicked up the dust with several energetic stomps and then suddenly stopped and looked Alodar squarely in the face.
“You are too old to seek seriously the robe of a beginning novice,” he said with a frown. He pursed his lips and stood a moment in thought.
“And so, let us see this wonderful formula then.” He smiled at last. “Though I warn you, some deluded soul comes here with such a tale fortnightly, and I have yet to see one worth the effort to look upon it.”
“You do not speak of fees,” Alodar said.
“No, no, that is not my way,” Saxton answered. “If you have spent your good money on a hastily scrawled piece of nonsense, I will tell you so.”
Alodar hesitated a moment, then removed the old scraps from his cape and handed the first across to Saxton’s outstretched hand. “I come to you, alchemist Saxton, because I have inquired carefully and the street gives you the reputation of an honest man. Nevertheless, my first efforts at bargaining have filled my thoughts with caution. Permit me to reveal only the first part of the formula for my own protection.”
“Oh, a powder for the street talk. Here, let me see it,” Saxton said, ripping the scrap from Alodar’s grasp. “Know that I could have been as the rest. Only the safe formulas, high yield potions of low potency. The long lines of pipes and valves and the endless belts of the pretty bottles that the ladies like so much. But what does that get you? A steady and frugal return and a chain to your workbench for all of your days. Ah, I could have been that but I am not. A fetish for all such bookwork. I have more daring and will stake my whole stock on the one chance for a truly remarkable philtre. If it goes awry and burns me to a crisp, what of it? If it produces only skinrot, I can start again. But my lad, oh ho, suppose I succeed. What then of those who stand in their neat stalls, performing the same step as each identical vial comes down the line? Why, with the right potion, one could be rich for life, selling drops here and there for a baron’s ransom when the need struck.”
Saxton stopped as the glyphs on Alodar’s scrap finally penetrated his consciousness. “Great amulets, my lad, where came you upon this?”
“From the fall of Iron Fist, alchemist, from the same trove that produced Vendora’s new grimoire. Can I assume that you are interested?”
“An elixir of boils on the royal shops.” Saxton waved him off. “They push polluted swill through their pipes no less than do the likes of Basil the apothecary. But enough of that. The formula interests me indeed. What is your proposition?”
“What is yours?” Alodar replied warily.
Saxton ran his hand over his head. “Well, you could proceed as you originally stated,” he said. “I will accept you as a novice. In the course of time, you will learn enough to activate the formula with no assistance. The craft is broad and the knowledge diverse, however. Much more than what is specifically needed would be thrust your way, and you would have to wait patiently until you understood the signatures of the final ingredient before attempting the mixing. I estimate that in perhaps seven years you would know enough to try.”
“I seek not mastery of all of alchemy,” Alodar said. “Just the meaning of these scraps in my hand.”
“Wait,” Saxton said as he raised his open palm. “I have not finished with my proposal
. You could study as a novice and have all in seven years. Or we can work together on this specific formula, sharing equally in the labor for perhaps six months and then equally in the rewards as well.”
“I put forth nothing but the formula and the effort for its preparation?” Alodar asked.
“And I nothing but my knowledge and equal toil as well,” Saxton replied.
“I sought no better arrangement when I saw Basil this morning,” Alodar said, breaking into a smile and showing Saxton the rest of his scraps. “See then all. It is with you I would rather strike a bargain.”
“And in truth, we are not totally clear of the apothecary’s grasp,” Saxton said as he quickly shuffled through the pieces of parchment. “From time to time I have had to borrow from him when my luck ran sour. Even now I owe him a sack of brandels a half year hence or my services for a full twelve months thereafter. And as I scan the formula here I see that the ingredients go quite beyond what one can expect to find in my little shop. Pennyroyal, gold thread, dried salamander, camphor, and sandalwood are the stock in trade of any alchemist on the street. But the others, a dead man’s candle, root of shrieking mandrake, midnight dew collected under a moon eclipsed. Not standard items and it will take much to procure them. Yes, we may have to deal with Basil before we are finished, I fear.”
“Is it a risk you are willing to take?” Alodar asked.
“It is your risk too,” Saxton said. “You would take it, even if we did not have to barter with him again. My present agreement binds any novices I may have as well. If we fail to earn enough to make payment on time, then you also will pull vats and carry beakers from mixing line to workbench cubicle. The juices that stain your skin and the vapors that rot it away will surround you for a year. Even for such a short time you will not escape unscathed.”
Alodar frowned and stood a moment in silence. Eldan’s image was still too fresh and he shuddered at the thought. “What product does the formula produce?” he asked. “For what magnitude of reward do I take the risk of this bondage?”
“Oh the rewards are great enough,” Saxton said with a smile. “This formula is for an ointment, no less than a caloric shield, allowing one to endure great temperature that would otherwise be fatal.”
Alodar’s frown deepened. “I can fathom no use for that,” he said. “I was hoping for something more dramatic and powerful.”
“It is powerful enough,” Saxton said. “Powerful enough for the Fumus Mountains.”
“How can such an ointment aid in the mineshafts which everyone declares to be delivering their last?”
“Those tunnels are not the working of man,” Saxton replied, “but natural fumaroles and fissures in ancient volcanoes which have smouldered since before the first sagas. And in their walls we have found hundreds of perfect crystals of emerald, aquamarine, beryl and other fine gems. With a few chips of the chisel, they fall free into the pouch, more like collecting wild mushrooms than wrenching soft metals from their tightly clutching ores. And the deeper we have gone, the larger have become the stones. Last year a topaz the size of a robin’s egg came from Basil’s mine next to the queen’s.”
“Then they are hardly playing out,” Alodar said. “Great treasures might be at lower levels still.”
“But it is the heat,” Saxton explained, “that is bringing collection to an end. Near the surface, where the cool air mixes with the humid blast from below, one can stay as he will, although with discomfort. At depths where gem quality stones were first found, a miner worked his full day, if properly attired. But all such levels have been discovered and searched many times over until there is no more treasure. Now all that remains are mad dashes by the daring into passageways which burn to the touch, to retrieve one stone and then hastily return.
“Why do you think I risk neck and limb to make elixir to calm one’s nerves, to keep cool-headed in time of peril? No less than three lords have announced that they will venture beyond where any have dared and bring back jewels to fill the treasure chests of the queen. Yes, ever since she returned from the west with that rough Feston in tow, Ambrosia has been seized with a fever for noble deeds to attract her attention. Every lordling seems convinced that a brave quest that returns much fortune will turn Vendora’s head before she settles on the red surcoat by default. And the jewels of the Fumus Mountains would top any feat in bravery and reward by far. We will be amply paid for an ointment which makes possible such a success.”
Alodar’s frown turned to a broad grin, and he pounded the older man on the shoulder. “I knew I was on the right track,” he exclaimed. “Yes, yes, of course, the jewels of the Fumus Mountains. But why settle for a stack of gold coin when the greater reward is ours for the taking? Do not plan to sell the ointment when it is finished but smooth it on my limbs instead. I will brave the heat and darkness and bring back the jewels for us to share. Gems enough for you to dole out a few at a time to keep you in expensive pleasure, and yet enough for me to overflow Vendora’s royal coffers. With wealth from your alchemy and the lays of the bards for what I will have done, how could any other have better chance for the hand of the fair lady?”
Saxton blinked at Alodar’s outburst and looked cautiously into his gleaming eyes. “It is not certain,” he said, “and risks are still present. The ingredients are so dear that we can not afford great quantities. Only a modest chance will we have of success; one cannot guarantee certainty in this craft. And even if we do succeed, know that the ointment will reduce the heatflow to your body but not completely stop it. There may be no gems worth the taking except at depths for which even the protection is insufficient.”
“You stated you are willing to risk all on one chance,” Alodar said. “For my quest, so am I.”
“And finally if you do stagger to the surface laden with wealth,” Saxton persisted, “do you think that others will stand by and let you remove it? How well can you wield your sword to protect the fruits of our labor?”
“I received modest training as a small boy,” Alodar said. “But I am willing to undertake more, if that is what is needed.”
“Oh, by the laws, you have my interest and know it,” Saxton said as he looked again at the scraps in his hand. “The parchment smells old, the script looks ancient. If any formula is to make my fortune, then why not this? But the effort will be a great one, and many hours must we toil before it is done. Even to get one vial at the end, it looks as if we must start with no less than a thousand of the first step; and as you see, I am ill-equipped to perform repetition with much efficiency. But yes, I think you must become a warrior as well. I have a distant cousin who instructs sons of the nobles somewhere across the expanse of Ambrosia. Cedric is his name, and perhaps he would teach a novice alchemist as well.”
“I have heard of him,” Alodar said. “His skill was praised in the bailey of Iron Fist.”
“Very well then,” Saxton said, “we will proceed as follows. You spend your days with the soldier’s toys while I continue my usual routine with mine. After all we must still earn the coin that keeps our minds alert and heart’s blood pumping. During the hours of darkness, we will work to produce the caloric shield. Hopefully, by the time the ointment is ready, you will have sufficient skill to protect whatever treasure is found as well.”
Saxton stopped and looked out through the high windows. “Tomorrow you can seek out Cedric,” he said. “But by the looks of the shadows we may as well begin now the first evening’s labor. Let me see, I said we must prepare to activate the first step a thousand times. That would mean we need no less than twice that number of spider eyes all neatly cut free and dipped in honey. You begin with them while I start to set up the rest.”
“Spider eyes,” Alodar groaned, “and two thousand. But that could take months all by itself.”
“Persistence,” Saxton said, raising his index finger. “Persistence is the primary attribute of the alchemist.”
Alodar looked up at the sun high overhead and yawned. He had wielded the tiny scalpel for th
e better part of the night and getting proper directions had taken most of the morning. But at last he was headed out of the winding alleys of the craftsmen and into the heart of Ambrosia.
The street ahead widened, and well worn cobbles replaced the mud underfoot. Painted storefronts mixed with rough clapboard. In the distance Alodar saw inns, taverns, and liveries rising above the smaller structures.
As he continued, the street crowded with beggars and merchants with pushcarts, badgering the patrons who ventured forth for business before noon. Hawkers standing on balconies added their voices to the melodious background clop of horse-drawn coaches. The aroma of freshly baked meat pies on storefront shelves blended with the smells of human exertion as he pushed his way through the thickening swarm.
Alodar pressed on, and the shops gave way to private dwellings and finally to expansive mansions, high-walled with gates closed to the street. He no longer blended in with the traffic but stood out against the glint of mail and sheen of silk that passed him by. Near the river which split the city, Alodar stopped and banged a heavy knocker against a door of iron.
“I wish an audience with warmaster Cedric,” he said to the anonymous eyes which peered through a small slit in the door.
“Have you an appointment?” the voice behind the eyes asked. “Warmaster Cedric is presently giving private drill and has two more pupils after noon today.”
“I wish to engage him in like manner,” Alodar said, “and am here to arrange terms and times. Perhaps he can see me for but a moment.”
The impersonal voice exploded in a hearty laugh. “And I see by your attire that you must be the scion of some lord in Vendora’s court itself. By all means enter. My master needs a diversion this morning and I think he will be most amused by the value you place upon his craft.”
