by Lyndon Hardy
"My life now has purpose," Alodar replied with determination, "as it has never had before. I thank you for the knowledge you have given me and hope my service has been ample payment in return. And I will journey with you to Ambrosia, yes, but then I follow this scrap wherever it leads me."
Periac looked at Alodar for a long moment, then raised his hands and dropped them to his sides. "Very well, my insatiable one," he said. "Explore what Honeysuckle Street has to offer."
He paused and then continued with deliberate slowness. "And when you decide instead to be a true craftsman, seek out my door. For a while it may remain open for you."
Alodar's eyes narrowed, but he did not speak. With a sigh he settled to the ground to await the dawn.
PART TWO
The Alchemist
CHAPTER FIVE
Honeysuckle Street
A stream of muddy liquid spilled from the lip of the overhead vat and into the first crucible in the row. Alodar stepped back against the rough timber wall to avoid the spatter and forced open his eyes, tearing from the caustic haze. The man in front of him tugged on a chain that looped a ring in the bottom of the oaken container; with a low-pitched squeak, the vat rumbled forward along wooden rails. The workman shuffled alongside and then yanked the chain over his shoulder. The high bucket pivoted on pins near its rim and delivered a dose of its contents to the next crucible in line.
Alodar watched in silence as the workman proceeded down the row, chin on his chest and shoulders slumped, like an old horse pacing the same rut around a grindstone. He squinted past the worker, down the line of crucibles riding above small blue-white flames, and saw that they spanned the breadth of the building, some three hundred feet, wall to wall. To his right, six more rows with overhead tracks ran parallel to the first, each one fitted with hundreds of identical stations, lines of graduated beakers, and funnel-mouthed flasks, all filled with dancing liquids or incandescent powders.
Beyond these, the majority of the area was partitioned by a maze of tiny cubicles barely chest high. In the ones nearest, he could see caped figures hunched over cluttered workbenches of dirty glassware and leather bound books. On a raised platform jutting from the rear wall, he saw piles of dull white stone, applelike fruits, cattails and rushes, and other materials he could not identify. Beside each, a worker pounded and strained the substances into powder, pulp, or liquid, and thrust the products into the tracked vats stationed nearby. The thud of the hammers and groan of the presses bounced off the ceilings and walls, producing mushy echoes that masked all but the sharpest of sound.
Alodar followed the track around the entire periphery of the building, down the windowless rear wall, across the row of silos that formed the western facade, back along the front with its many doors, and finally overhead as it merged into a complex of switches which fed the seven rows of waiting containers. As the first worker reached the end, Alodar saw a second pull his vat onto the same track and begin to drop measured doses of a coarse gray powder into the simmering crucibles. One row over, a third lifted a beaker from its tripod and held it up to the light cascading from the high windows in the east. He shook his head and poured the milky contents into a trough running the length of the bench, then moved on to the next,
"That last one was clouded only the slightest," a voice behind Alodar suddenly yelled out as the inspection continued. "How can I show a profit if you dump every flask just because it isn't crystal clear?"
The man replaced an empty beaker on its tripod and looked in Alodar's direction. "I fear I am too liberal as it is, Basil," he called back. "With only the merest trace, the chance of skunkwater is most high. We are lucky you have not contaminated half of the work cubicles from what we have processed already this morning."
"I have given it only to the old ones," Basil shot back. "The way they dawdle, it would be a small loss in any event. Now see that the yield is greater; if the light shines through, however faint, then it is worth the risk. We must have one of three if any volume is to result when we are done."
Alodar turned to face the speaker and looked into large eyes, wide-set on a smooth round face. Heavy cheeks sagged on either side of a slash of a mouth; thick lips pulled down at the corners into a perpetual look of disapproval. Shoulder-length hair, held stiffly in place by an aromatic pomade, brushed against a flared silk collar of deep purple. The rest of the tunic shimmered golden-yellow, embroidered with intricate designs and hanging free on a stocky form. Alodar looked down to see stumpy calves dropping into fur-lined boots trimmed with silver.
"Are you the proprietor?" he asked. "I have come in from the street and wish to discuss a proposition to our mutual benefit."
Basil quickly ran his eyes up and down Alodar's roughly clothed form. "Another one with a formula, are you?" he said. "It seems a grimoire lay hidden under every rock in the countryside, just awaiting yesterday's dawn for discovery. Ever since the rumor of the royal shop tooling up for a new run hit the street, there has been no end of it. But no matter, I will watch your demonstration for the usual fees."
Basil turned back towards the cubicles and motioned for Alodar to follow. "What will you need?" he continued. "Anthanors and the rest go by the time, the ingredients by what is consumed."
Alodar matched the short man's stride and tightened his grip on the parchment scrap in the pocket of his new cape. The lack of his thaumaturgical gear made it feel strangely light, and he was continually glancing down at its brown plainness to see that his shoulders were still covered.
"Tell me more of these fees," he said as they reached the cubicles and began to wind their way into their midst. "I am from the outlands to the west and unfamiliar with the practices of alchemy in Ambrosia."
"From the west!" Basil said in mock surprise. "It makes the story so much more plausible. If the queen found her fortune in the fall of Iron Fist, why not a common craftsman as well? But to your question, I am a merchant and it is only fair that I receive just payment for use of what is mine. You wish to show me some alchemy. Very well, do so as your formula directs. But be prepared to render in double proportion for what is consumed in the process."
"Double proportion," Alodar said. "Why should there be any cost at all? I propose to share with you whatever my formula might bring. That will be your compensation, not a few pieces of copper for a single execution."
"Yes, double proportion," Basil said with a wave of his arm. "I manage a profit only because, like the rest, I perform my formulas on the largest of scales. A hundred times I boil the murky muds of mangrove swamps with the gray clays from the barbaric north, so that I may get fifty crucibles filled with syrup of extraction. And to those fifty I add the fleshy skin of the cactus, so the sweetness may be pulled away in seventeen, leaving clear liquid to be decanted here."
Alodar followed Basil's arm to the nearest workbench and saw a figure huddling under a cape studded with the inverted triangle logo of the alchemist. A bony hand reached out from the folds and carefully poured the liquid from a beaker into a funnel filled with what looked like coral-red flower petals. With a scratchy pen, the alchemist slowly copied strange glyphs from an open grimoire on a clean sheet of paper and then crumpled and cast it into a flame when he was done. For a moment the liquid seemed lost in the crevasses between the petals, but then a drop of light pink formed at the bottom of the funnel's stem and fell into a flask below. Several more drops followed the first, and then a small stream of color trickled free. Almost as quickly, a smell of stifling sweetness filled Alodar's lungs, and he coughed violently in surprise.
"It is always that way when it is fresh," Basil said. "Diluted and aged, you do not notice. But I am lucky at that. Out of seventeen, I expect maybe three flasks of honeysuckle oil. Three flasks out of a hundred for spices, perfumes, and as ingredient for a dozen formulas more. Can you not imagine the waste and expense if I tried the steps one at a time all the way through? No, the only way is to perform all the identical operations at once with a minimum of effort. A demonstration is th
e epitome of extravagance. Double the cost for disrupting the production line is only fair; be thankful triple is not the rate instead."
"But why a charge at all?" Alodar persisted. "As I have said, I am prepared to share in whatever gain might accrue."
"So say they all," Basil responded. "And after the formula fails four times running, what have I then? Only pleading for one more try for which the random factors will surely align. And if not, then for the next. No, I insist that the demonstration pay for itself."
"And if one does not have the payment," Alodar asked, "how then do you ever find new formulas of merit?"
Basil's eyes widened and his lips curved upwards into a toothy smile, "Why you agree as did the last two yesterday," he said, "the ones now pulping up on the platform to the right. All they had to offer was their labor, which I accepted. In six months they will have paid in full for their little fantasy and be able to leave free men. Is not that right, Eldan?" Basil turned and pounded the back of the alchemist watching the last of the pink liquid fall from the petals, now bleached white.
The craftsman slowly removed the funnel from the neck of the flask and dropped its contents into a bin at his side. Without saying a word he pivoted and held the flask out for Basil's inspection. As his cape fell away, Alodar saw wrists cuffed in iron and held rigidly apart by a two-foot length of dark black bar. The alchemist's eyes stared straight ahead, unblinking. The left side of his face was splotched a deep green, and the flesh of his nose hung limp like a deflated balloon on the plane of his cheeks.
"Now, Eldan here," Basil continued as he accepted the flask, "could have fared better. I offered him a regular wage. But he preferred to be independent, tinkering in his own shop down the street, taking risks beyond the call of prudence. There are others like him still out there, obtaining loans from me to purchase ingredients for wilder and more unproven schemes. And finally when they can borrow no more on their names, they offer their labor instead as payment.
"For Eldan," Basil said as he pounded the alchemist a second time, "it is ten years served and only ten more to go. Of course, the splash of dye and the cartilage rot are to be expected. And we have had to add a few restraints to ensure he keeps to his work cubicle."
Basil passed his hand in front of Eldan's eyes and then snapped his fingers. A long moment passed and then the alchemist jerked his head and blinked. "Finally the honeysuckle does slow one down," Basil said. "In a year or so more he will be good enough only to pull the vats around the circle."
Basil paused and his smile was smug. "I own this factory outright, have part interest in two more, and even mine one of the richest veins left in the Fumus Mountains. It is not bad progress for a humble apothecary who once carried blocks of peat from the bogs for a few coppers. I used to jump to the alchemists' beck and call; now they jump to mine."
Basil snapped his fingers again and Alodar waited for the delayed reaction. "Well," Basil said, "let us see what you need and strike a bargain. There is no point in trying any of the others. The rates the length of the street are all the same."
"I have no gold," Alodar said.
"Then your labor," Basil replied. "Fear not that you may later reconsider. I have the means to ensure that I receive payment in full."
Alodar gripped the formula tighter as he saw Eldan's face finally twitch. He coughed again from the lingering smell of the oil of honeysuckle and wiped another tear from his eye. He looked at the manacles on Eldan's wrists and a cold chill ran down his spine.
"I will have to think about it," he said finally and turned for the door to the street. Even outside, he could hear Basil's deep laugh echoing after.
The air suddenly crackled, and Alodar leaped up onto the counter as a glowing blue globe bounced through the doorway. With a swiftness the eye could hardly follow, it darted to and fro, careening off the walls, floor, and ceiling. It sped by his face and, as he pulled back, he felt the hair rise from his head and stand on end, tracking the passage.
"By the laws," a high voice sounded from the room beyond, "you would think not an amulet in this place worked. What rotten luck. Nine batches in a row, and every one of them producing ball lightning instead of the elixir. Well, this is the last of the baneberry. It had better work, Saxton, old boy, or it's a diet of caraway for quite a spell."
Alodar watched the dancing ball slowly shrink in size and activity, and then finally expire among the dusty glassware of the alembic in the far corner. He swung down on the other side of the counter, advanced to the doorway, and peered into the workroom behind.
Light from the setting sun cascaded through highset windows down upon a massive disarray. The wall on the left was shelved floor to ceiling, and all available space was crammed with row upon row of bottles and vials of many shapes. Most were empty and uncorked, long cobwebs linking them together and filling their interiors with ladders of dust. But here and there, neat little collections sparkled with deeply colored liquids or glowing powders.
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, dice
d 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.
