by Lyndon Hardy
“In a moment, Alodar,” he panted. “It may be easy enough for you to climb to the roof of the shop a dozen times, but for one of my dignity, it is a different matter.”
“The moon is almost to its zenith,” Alodar said. “If we do not begin soon, there will be no time for the mountains before the sun follows it into the sky.”
“As I already have taught,” Saxton replied, “the purity of the ingredients materially affects the chance of success. The more the moon rises, the less the air pollutes the passage of its cool light. We must make haste, but not so much that what chances we have are thereby compromised.”
He stopped and looked upward. “But a few degrees more should be satisfactory,” he said. “Make ready the lens and the filter.”
Alodar turned back to the apparatus at his feet and lifted the large lens from its case. He placed it in the semicircular base for the support stand and snapped the confining ring shut. He sighted through the thick glass at the two closely set panes placed some two feet behind and rotated the optical axis into line. Stepping over the gear they had hurriedly brought up from the workroom, he found the bulbous flask and pulled the cork. The odor of baneberry tickled his nose, and he carefully decanted the deep blue liquid into the narrow space between the two vertical sheets of glass.
Alodar walked back behind the lens and dragged the huge mirror into place. He sighted into the sky where the moon would be in the next few minutes and tilted the reflector to catch the light and bounce it horizontally. A parallel beam, he thought, converged by the lens, filtered by the baneberry and finally focused on the flask at the end of the line. How much more complex than the simple spells of thaumaturgy.
He pushed the gear into final adjustment and stood back to watch Saxton finish his preparations. “I am ready,” he said as the alchemist pulled a long flexible hose from an earthen jar and inserted it into the mouth of the flask.
“As am I,” Saxton replied. “When the moon’s light strikes the mirror squarely, I will invert the jar and the limestone will fall into the oil of vitriol. The gas from the reaction, the blue moonlight and the granules we have placed in solution will interact and if we are lucky form the ointment.”
Alodar nodded and stooped to sight the moon through a small hole in the back of the mirror. The bright edge crept into view and then the whole disk dazzled his eye with brightness.
“It aligns perfectly now,” he shouted suddenly as he turned to watch the light streak through the apparatus and hit the flask with a dull blue glow.
Saxton inverted the jar and the first cautious bubbles burbled to the surface of the solution. The alchemist snatched a pad of parchment, activated the ingredients and scratched out the formula. As the final glyph formed. Alodar caught his breath, awaiting the reaction. He looked at the flask, hoping to see the clear liquid instantly haze into a translucent gel.
Several minutes passed but nothing happened. Saxton rocked nervously back and forth on his heels and ran his hand over his head. Alodar squinted at the glassware trying to see some change in the solution, a slowing of the bubbles’ rush to the surface indicating a transformation.
“Have you placed the flask at the precise focus?” Saxton asked. “With the moon not full we need all of the intensity we can muster.”
“It is the lens, Saxton,” Alodar replied. “With such a size you cannot expect it to bend the rays that strike the edge with the same precision as those near the axis. I have placed the flask so that the circle of confusion is smallest. Any better is beyond the grinder’s art.”
“Then it is the brew which is bad,” Saxton said. “Toss it aside and we will try another. Three chances will be as good as four since I have only enough salamander skin left for the two success we expect. The rest I already have used in barter.”
He looked at the solution bubbling as if no formula had been activated. “Yes, let us dispose of it,” he said. “Who can say what perversion of the desired result will occur if we let it interact any longer. Or if nothing is to happen, then it will surely spoil.”
Alodar stared down the line from the mirror which first caught the moonlight to the flask which finally received its filtered rays. He passed his hand in front of the solution and saw the pale blue spot on his palm the size of a brandel. He frowned and thought of his training as a journeyman.
“Yes, that will work,” he exclaimed as the idea struck him. “Saxton, do not yet disturb the brew. There is more that can be done. Quickly now, help me find the small glass we used to aid in removing the eyes of the spiders.”
Alodar ran to the ladder and descended into the workroom below. He began rummaging through the tools of the trade, tossing the gear aside like an excited dog digging after a small rodent.
Saxton shuffled to the opening and peered inside. “Not more thaumaturgy,” he said. “Remember what happened the last time you mixed the two crafts together.”
“Here it is,” Alodar said, ignoring the command. “Now with another small mirror and a sample from the flask, it will be done.” He quickly scooped up an armful of stands and clamps, and staggered back up the ladder to the bubbling flask. Pinching the gas tube with his fingers he decanted some of the fluid into a vial and then fastened it to the stand he positioned nearby. He ran back to the first mirror, adjusted it slightly and then inserted the edge of the second into the path of the light. A slender beam separated from the rest and darted across the rooftop to engulf the vial in brilliance.
“We risk enough, Alodar,” Saxton said. “Let us try the next batch instead and take our chances within the confines of the art.”
“But a moment,” Alodar said. “I do not mix the crafts so much as use them in complement to one another. You need intensity and by no skill of alchemy can you make lenses perform better than the grinder has designed them. But the key is the light, not the glass which bends it.”
Alodar did not wait for a reply but performed his spellbinding and then thrust the hand lens into the second beam’s path. He slid it rapidly back and forth and brought the rays into a precise focus on the vial.
“The small glass converges with far more perfection,” he explained, “and by thaumaturgy we can force the larger to do so as well. Look now to the flask and observe how we fare.”
“A sparkling brilliance,” Saxton gasped, and Alodar turned to see the large tube of light converge into a tight point deep in the center of the solution.
Several moments passed in silence, then suddenly the liquid wavered before their eyes. The next bubble out of the tube dimmed from view and the one just leaving the surface left a small crater in its wake.
“It gels,” Saxton shouted. “My lad, we have ointment on the first try. Yes, of course, we must have sufficient intensity or the ingredients will not interact. But no matter how you did it, let us set up for the second while the luck still points our way.”
Alodar caught Saxton’s excitement and hurriedly adjusted the equipment. He fixed the small glass in a clamp and then stood by the first mirror, keeping the moon directly in line as it crested in the sky. In a few moments Saxton had disengaged the first container filled with the glowing ointment and replaced it with a second. He tossed the spent gas generator aside and thrust the tube from another while casting anxious glances at the shimmering brew.
He finished the final glyph and almost instantly the clear solution thickened into the translucent cream. Saxton’s eyes widened in wonder. He ran his hand over his head and then gently stroked the side of the flask.
“Two in a row,” he exclaimed. “The random factors align, Alodar, I can feel it.” He cast the second gas generator aside. Holding the flask high, he dance around the rooftop in exultation. Alodar smiled and started to break the thaumaturgical connection.
Saxton looked at the container he had set aside and then the two standing ready still filled with clear solution. He stopped his celebration, frowned at the knot of brightness where the last flask had been and stared back at the battered chest with small labeled drawers st
anding nearby.
“Powdered skin of salamander, less than three brandels more,” he muttered and then his face recovered its smile.
“No, Alodar, leave the gear as it is,” he said. “Run quickly instead into the city and get from Cedric the gold he offered as loan.”
“Back to Ambrosia,” Alodar said puzzled. “But, Saxton, whatever for? I am as happy as you that the first two produced the ointment, for we can dearly use the time. In less than four hours the moon will set, and sunrise will be but little after. Let us perform the last step twice as you planned and proceed on to the Fumus Mountains.”
“But do you not see,” Saxton ran on excitedly. “The random factors align. The transition was so dramatic, so emphatic. We are not dealing with chance. All of our trails will succeed tonight, I can feel it. We need not settle for two vials of the ointment when four are ours for the taking. If we double the supply of the skin of the salamander, there will be enough to perform the final step on all four. For a few brandels more we can secure what we need from the royal shop at the head of the Street. Go to Cedric’s and maximize our good fortune.”
“But sunrise,” Alodar protested. “There will not be time enough for it all.”
“We quest, do we not?” Saxton chortled, waving his index finger at Alodar’s scowl. “And with the factors aligned, how can there be failure? I will complete the formula for the two flasks we have prepared while you are gone; when you return two more will be ready to process as well. Away. You may as well secure the powder as stand idly by while I exercise my craft.”
Alodar looked down into the silent street and then toward the heart of the city. “Very well,” he said, “I will go. But if the moon gets close to the horizon and I have not returned, follow me with whatever you have of value. We will meet and save time in taking the road north to the mountains.”
“The random factors,” Saxton said as if he did not hear. “They align and, by the laws, with a formula of great importance. Yes, hurry along, lad. Tonight, we can do no wrong.”
Cedric wrapped his cape tighter and cursed at the bite of the cool breeze. “Alchemy,” he snorted. “Only for such a craft would one have cause to tramp about the streets in the middle of the night.”
“As I have explained, warmaster,” Alodar said as he hurried to match the longer stride, “you need not accompany me to the dwelling of this seneschal. I can rouse him as I did you. Even if his irritation makes all ten brandels the price for the powdered skin, I will not begrudge it.” He looked at the moon already uncomfortably low in the western sky. “Haste is far more important.”
“If I did not come,” Cedric rasped, “dawn would find you pounding at his gate.”
Cedric stopped and turned off the street at the next open gateway. Buzzing voices and loud laughter from a dozen sources floated over the wall, and a caped figure staggered against Alodar and lurched into the night. He blinked at the torchlight when he entered the courtyard and stumbled past two more sprawling forms snoring in his way. The area was scattered with small clumps of richly dressed men nodding dutifully at each other’s words and waving empty cups at the wine stewards wandering by. In a corner, a dark-haired girl tossed her veils to the rhythm of her small finger cymbals, but no one noticed.
“You come late to lord Dartilac’s festivity,” a man in servant’s livery said into Cedric’s ear, “And it is not so light that I can recognize you as one of his peers from the court. I do not mean to offend, but have you brought the invitation affixed with his seal?”
“This is my invitation,” Cedric said. He slowly tumbled the ten brandels from their small pouch. “I must speak with his lordship on a matter which I am sure he will find to his interest. Can you not arrange for such a moment?”
The servant scurried to retrieve the coins and stood up with his face in a smile. He beckoned them to follow and started to weave his way across the courtyard. Against the wall to which they headed, Alodar saw a blond-headed man of middle age holding a goblet in one hand and poking the chest of his listener with the other. The lines of the face twisted in frustration and the blank expression on the recipient of the argument forced each jab to be harder than the last. As Alodar and Cedric approached, the servant coughed and the conversation abruptly halted.
“Lord Dartilac,” Cedric said without waiting. “I am the one who teaches your son, Dartilon, the use of arms.”
Dartilac set his glass on a bench nearby and frowned. “I pay you well and on time,” he said. “I see no reason to call upon me here and at such a time.”
“What you say is most proper,” Cedric said, “but, as you know, I instruct the sons of many of the lords and learn much that might not otherwise be common knowledge. Lord Cartilon, for example. His son I taught this very day.”
Dartilac picked up his glass and took a cautious sip. “And what news do you have about the house of Cartilon?” he asked slowly.
“As you know,” Cedric said, “the queen is most appreciative of the loan of your seneschal to aid in the activations of her formulas from Iron Fist. And Cartilon has in the past always aligned his house with yours, careful to say to all how you aid the flow of coin so necessary in these times of increased peril.”
“And now,” Dartilac repeated, “what news do you bring?”
Cedric smiled back into the lord’s knitting brows. “Nothing other than what your own speculations might give you,” he said. “But first a small boon, my lord, as a token of the good faith in which we deal. Your seal on a writ against the royal stores for powder of salamander skin, a few drams, no more. I am sure your steward would honor it, since he knows who ultimately decides his welfare and keep.”
“Salamander skin,” Dartilac said. “Do you jest? What you know is of little value if such is the price you place on it.”
“I need it before dawn and that makes it more dear,” Cedric replied. “With your seal I can obtain it from your man as I could no other way.”
Dartilac rubbed his chin while he studied Cedric’s unblinking face. After a moment he grunted and snapped his fingers overhead. The servant reappeared and dipped his head in a small bow. “My seal on a writ to the royal factory of alchemy,” Dartilac said, “to be drawn immediately but to a maximum of three brandels and no more.”
The servant frowned questioningly but Dartilac waved him away. “And now what of Cartilon?” he said.
“The army returns from the south,” Cedric said. “What will be Vendora’s first concern, to pay them their due or to see that they are properly led?”
“Leadership, of course,” Dartilac said. “It is true that her vassals have already provided their yearly aid to the crown to which they are shown and further provision must come from her own purse. But with a strong man at the head, they will rally to her needs and point to the west; their pay can come later.”
“And between the lords who aid with ready coin and those who assist with sword, for whom would she show more favor?”
“But both are needed as she knows full well,” Dartilac said. “Leadership may be her first concern but she would not turn her thoughts from those who support the crown in so generous a manner.”
“In a situation such as this,” Cedric repeated, “who would she favor?”
“Arms,” Dartilac growled. “Under the present conditions she would tend to arms.” His frown deepened and he stopped in thought.
“But surely Cartilon would not shift into Feston’s camp without much reflection and consultation,” he said at last. “He has been steadfast in our course to resist the influence of the rough outlanders. Old Festil may have been a favorite of Vendora’s father, but Cartilon sees as well as any that Feston dangles on a string. Why even now my staunch friend labors to influence lady Aeriel to add her voice to ours. And he is here tonight somewhere across the yard, partaking of my hospitality as do others of the same persuasion.”
“Thought and consideration,” Cedric said. “I would judge that all of the intimates of the court spend a good part of their t
ime in such profitable fashion. To be a member of a faction swinging into ascendency is a temptation. And even if one were himself steadfast, it would behoove him to reassess critically the loyalties of every man that he thought stood behind him.”
“But Cartilon,” Dartilac said.
“I instructed his son this very day,” Cedric said.
Dartilac grabbed his chin and gazed past Alodar’s shoulder. “It is a matter to look into,” the lord muttered behind his hand.
Cedric stood silent, and Alodar saw the pensiveness grow on Dartilac’s face. While he pondered, the servant returned and thrust a folded parchment in Cedric’s direction. The warmaster nodded and motioned Alodar to accept it.
“Value given and just value received,” Cedric said. Without waiting for a reply, he turned and started for the exit.
“You train many of the scions, did you say?” Dartilac shouted after him. “Perhaps there is more in your future than a few drams of salamander.”
Cedric continued to the gate and nodded once over his shoulder. He ducked through the opening and Alodar followed. In the street, the warrior walked in silence, his lips pulled into a grim line.
“I see that your way is far more effective than my pounding,” Alodar said. “It is fortunate that you learned something of Cartilon’s leanings in time to be of such advantage.”
“Think over carefully what I said,” Cedric replied. “Cartilon’s son said no more than that Dartilac was having yet another festivity.” He stopped and grabbed Alodar by the shoulders. “I learned the rules but did not choose to play,” he rasped. “And I do not care to begin even now. Finish this foolishness with Saxton and be done with alchemy. I expect you back in my sparring yard on the morrow.”
Alodar started to speak, but stopped when he saw the bottom edge of the moon’s disk shorn away by the line of Dartilac’s roof. He tore free of Cedric’s grasp and spun around to look to the east, squinting into the lights of the city and trying to detect the glow that preceded dawn.
