by Unknown
At this point alchemical theory moved back to poetic metaphor and the conventions of the theater: The White Queen and the Red King combined, singing a particularly passionate duet, then merged into the Divine Hermaphrodite and gave birth to their magical child, the Golden Heir. For the masque’s finale, all the wedding guests reappeared, ascending the mount of the alchemists to attend the christening, singing the praises of the heir who was one and the same with the philosopher’s stone, and also praising the proud parents, the King and Queen, not only separate once again but both now blessed with the glory of eternal youth for achieving the alchemist’s quest, and even the birds in the tree of knowledge at the summit joined in the song.
That was the theory, at least. In reality, Duke Arjan died of old age and his bride ended up fleeing a revolution.
Of course, very few lives go according to plan. Norret paged back through the book to the part where Aballon, the Horse, fastest of the planets and symbolic of quicksilver, sends the youngest filly from his herd as both herald and wedding gift, there to act as page and messenger in the happy couple’s hall. Rather than being played by the child of some nobleman or other powerful friend, this part was given to the daughter of the duke’s stable master, a remarkably pretty child with her hair braided with ribbons, a happy smile on her face, a hobby horse in one hand, and dreams of one day being a great bard or entertainer.
It had taken Norret almost a minute of staring at the hand-tinted etching to realize he was looking at Rhodel, ten years before the Revolution. Ten years before she had slept with the revolutionaries who came for her former mistress and every soldier since, taking up a rather different form of entertainment than she had originally planned, successfully saving her neck, if not her dignity.
Norret closed the book. Rhodel had taken that dignity back at the end. Say what you would about the old slattern, but despite madness, drunkenness, disease, and desperation, she had not chosen a coward’s fate and would face the Lady of Graves with her head held high.
That said, the credits and thank-you notes of Darl Jubannich’s masque explained a great deal more. Formerly, all Norret had known about the Liberty Hostel’s design was that Duke Arjan Devore had bankrupted the village creating ostentatious expansions to his ancestral manse and redecorating to please his vain young bride. The text of masque did not dispute that, but explained that the entire chateau was not only rigged up like an immense steam-driven musical waterclock, the baths and fountains forming the mechanism, but was also an alchemical allegory on a grand scale, each and every chamber symbolizing a different stage of the great work, like interconnected vessels in an alchemist’s laboratory.
Tintinetto, the famous halfling muralist, had painted frescoes. A wizard had then placed magic upon the figures’ mouths, creating as he called them “philosophic eggs”—a pun on the actual egg of the philosophers, an ovoid glass vessel—such that they would speak when certain actions were taken or certain words said, but it was up to the wedding guests to divine what triggered each, and there would be a prize for the one who discovered the most!
This amusing party game explained why the chateau was now haunted by indistinct mumblings, since when the Revolution came to Dabril, the priestess of Shelyn, faced with the displeasure of her goddess if she allowed the destruction of priceless works of art and the even greater displeasure of the Red Council if she did not, was inspired to a divine solution. Specifically, a solution of slake lime and water, commonly known as whitewash.
Of course, Norret had his own solution: concentrated champagne vinegar mixed with his last drops of the universal solvent. He got out of the bed and got his clothes back on, now mostly dry. The Liberty Hostel was abandoned by every resident save himself, and if he wanted to hear what the frescoes were muttering about beneath the whitewash, the Night of the Pale was the safest night for it, ironic as that might be.
Norret moved the changing maiden’s mirror so that his lantern illuminated the blank wall of the boudoir, then picked up one of the duchess’s perfume atomizers that had somehow survived the years. He squeezed the bulb.
The slake lime hissed and bubbled away, revealing Anais dressed as a royal bride facing a regal young man. In her right hand she bore a spiraled ivory horn, but was using it like a fencing foil, spearing the youth through the back of his left hand and causing a gout of blood to well up like a jewel on the white glove he wore. To be fair, he had already unlaced the front of her gown, but instead of grabbing a bit of flesh like any normal groom, he was instead holding up a large toad to nurse. Either milk or poison flew from the suckling toad, spattering the back of the green glove his bride wore on her left hand, glittering like a crazed diamond.
It was an allegorical illustration of the exchange of the Carbuncle for the Crapaudine, but Norret was certain the priestess of Shelyn had understood none of that, only that it appeared monstrous, perhaps related to Lamashtu. As such, she would have had no qualms about covering any of it up.
A few more spritzes revealed an old king pointing at the younger man’s back, his left hand wearing a white glove fringed with unicorn mane, the back adorned with a ruby cabochon—clearly the Carbuncle again. Norret was certain he was looking at Duke Arjan Devore.
Norret took the perfume atomizer and set it deliberately on the maiden’s tray. The figure then spoke:
Though I seem age and he seems youth
Both he and I are one in truth.
A nice reminder from an old duke to his young bride, but as Norret knew from reading the masque, it possessed a great deal more significance.
Norret recorded the rhyme and confirmation of its trigger in his formulary, then picked up the atomizer and hung his lantern from its belt clip. A soldier was nothing without gear fasteners, and an alchemist doubly so. Being lame made the necessity triple.
He opened the door of his room and glanced out. The hall was deserted save for a magical light drifting lazily along to the tune of the phantom minstrels. So far, the Night of the Pale was turning out somewhat less than horrifying. While a ball of blue witchfire might frighten some, Norret had read Jubannich’s masque and so knew that a long-forgotten illusionist had placed dancing lights in the gallery—lights which would be less frightening if there were actual dancers—and occasionally one spun off and went drifting down the corridors, presumably to illuminate portraits that no longer hung there.
Norret, however, had only so much solution, so it would be best to start with the most promising chambers first. Lame as he was, he decided to go with Powdermaster Davin’s advice: Begin at the bottom.
Norret avoided the various wine cellars for the moment, as they were a sea of broken bottles and smashed casks, their noble vintages long since drunk by reveling revolutionaries. The pump room he would save for last. Yet soon the open drawers of the Devore family crypt gaped before him like empty sockets in a toothless skull, the coffins removed long ago to fuel pyres or resurrections, and even the coins from the corpses’ eyes were now likely in some soldier’s pocket or harlot’s purse.
He turned to the whitewashed wall opposite the shattered sepulchers and, as the strains of the spectral armonica drifted down the stairs, applied his solution, watching as streaks of charcoal and drops of blood began to appear. The bard who had enchanted the chateau with the phantom minstrels had cued them to play various songs at different intervals so as to not become tiresome, but Norret was already quite tired of the Litranaise, the familiar lyrics clear in his head: O royal guards on your patrols Each of your crimes we will repay We whippoorwills will catch your souls / We are the Gardeners in Gray….
The familiar masks of Galt’s executioners appeared on the wall, the Gray Gardeners holding the duchess’s mysterious red-and-white rose to their lips with skeletal hands like angels of silence or hooded wraiths. Of course, having read the masque’s libretto, Norret knew the Gardeners’ leitmotif properly belonged to the shades of the frost, allegorical figures of putrefaction, come for the rose of mystery, another symbol of the great wo
rk given form by a literal-minded druid: We come to blight the blooming rose We shades of frost, we fateful fey We mourning doves, we hoodie crows / We are the gardeners in gray….
Doves and crows were common alchemical symbols, the colors of their feathers corresponding to the hues seen within the philosophic egg, but whippoorwills were little mottled brown soul-stealing nightjars favored by necromancers who liked cute familiars, and the colors of their plumage would only indicate that the alchemist had screwed up.
Screw, however, was the operative phrase. When Norret had asked about the Liberty Hostel for phrases the inhabitants had heard from the ghosts in the walls or actions that might disturb the spirits, Flauric had cautioned him to never drink in the crypt, for doing so incurred the horrible, disapproving whispers of teetotaling spinster ghosts!
Norret was a soldier, however, and knew that libations for the dead were an ancient sacrifice. He uncorked a bottle of claret he had requisitioned from the Transfixed Chanticleer and compounded his sins against the Accidental God by pouring the first taste on the floor.
The shades whispered in chorus:
Divine the figures of death’s dance.
Unlock the secrets of our manse.
Norret wrote the rhyme in his formulary, considering, then recorked the bottle and made his way back upstairs.
The ceiling of the grand ballroom rose three and a half stories with two galleries. Two ormolu chandeliers still hung in the vault while the third had crashed through the parquet floor. All had been stripped of their ensorcelled flambeaux and most of their crystals, but Norret still had his lantern. There were also magical lights in the uppermost gallery, currently moving through the figures of a sprightly gavotte. He quirked a smile as he recognized the tune: “The Caged Phoenix,” the aria sung by Pharadae, ambassador of the salamanders, as she presents her nuptial gift.
Norret was not a phoenix, but he was not going to climb two flights of stairs with a crutch when the original phoenix’s cage was still there, its ormolu bars cast in the form of a nest of Osirian palm fronds and flames. And moreover, he had repaired the mechanism.
The elevator door clanged shut, cables and counterweights engaged, the whole powered by the ancient hydraulic technology sometimes called the Azlanti Screw. Norret ascended, feeling not so much like a phoenix arising from his pyre as a crippled alchemist about to make a crucial discovery.
A walkway bridged the vault, opposite the largest, whitest wall in the chateau—and likely the greatest mural—but what Norret was interested in at the moment was the dancing lights. They moved like lanterns carried by capering ghosts, in and out the patterns of a figure, multiplied by the mirrors of the gallery into a sea of constellations.
Norret shuttered his own lantern so he could observe them more clearly. Thankfully, he was tall and so could look down on them slightly, seeing the shapes they traced in the darkness repeated to infinity in the mirrors, slightly angled, like bones landing in a spiral. The patterns were not just choreography, but mathematical figures, combinations spun clockwise and widdershins.
The wheels of the valves in the pump room formed a similar line, and Norret realized that, just as the dances of the masque ran in sequence, so could the valves be turned in the same pattern.
There was one troublesome light, however. One that moved through the constellations like a wandering star or bobbed at the corner of the set like a wallflower at a dance. Norret looked at it in the darkness a long while, pondering its meaning, before at last speaking aloud. “What are you doing here?”
“I could ask the same,” said the light. It was an inhuman voice, like the voice of the armonica, its tone too pure, too clear, too cold. “Why is there no terror?”
Norret recognized it. A will-o’-wisp, one of the death-fires that followed armies, feeding on the fear of dying soldiers.
“Everyone I loved is dead. I’ve no time for terror.”
“How tragic,” the corpse light said, and vanished, swallowed up by the darkness. “Perhaps now? I can see you but you cannot see me….”
There was a virtue to being blind in one eye: Despite being half deaf as well, Norret had learned to use his hearing that much more, and could sense vaguely where the voice had drifted, near one of the dead chandeliers. He reached to his bandolier, retrieving a small metal tube like a child’s tin whistle. He raised it to his lips and blew a blast, but instead of sound, what issued from the end was shimmering glitter.
Twinkling, it dusted down, a preparation of powdered mica, luminescent phosphorus, and crushed moon moth wings.
The will-o’-wisp reappeared, now glowing a ghastly greenish-white rather than witchy blue like the rest of the lights. The chandelier’s remaining crystals winked and glittered with the illumination and a faint odor of garlic filled the air, a curious property of phosphorus.
The corpse light screamed, an unearthly howl like all of an armonica’s crystal bowls touched at once, and launched itself at Norret.
Norret held up a hand to ward it off, his numb hand, still clutching the duchess’s perfume atomizer. A bolt of pure voltaic energy sparked from the will-o’-wisp, but glass was an insulator, proof against any and all galvanic power. Unfortunately, brass and silver were not, and the fittings drew the electricity inside, bottling the lightning and volatilizing the mixture of acids.
The atomizer atomized.
Norret felt the pressure rather than pain as the explosion drove splinters of glass through his gauntlet into his hand and slammed him back into the railing. The garlic scent of phosphorus was replaced by that of vinegar—searing, eye-watering, and caustic. Vinegar was said to be the sign of Cayden Cailean’s displeasure, but the god of Accidents and Ale was either sending mixed messages or else equally displeased at everyone, for the expanding force of the acid gas also flung the death-fire back into the elevator car.
Norret held his breath. If the will-o’-wisp had wanted fear, it had done the wrong thing, for he was a soldier, and beyond panic lay the battle calm. He took stock of the angles, the placement, the lines of railings and chandelier, then lobbed a bomb, a soft underhanded toss with a short fuse.
The concussive grenade exploded, loud and deafening, but this time Norret was prepared for it. He grabbed the ormolu railing with both hands, the brass strong beneath the gold as the blast knocked his cap and crutch flying. Like frames in a zoetrope, crystals shattered in slow motion, and he saw rather than heard the glittering golden door of the elevator slam shut, the latch close.
With all his might, he hurled a tanglefoot bag directly at that latch, falling to the walkway and taking deep ragged lungfuls of the clean winter air that had replaced the vaporized vinegar and solvent.
A surge of electrical energy flew from the wisp but arced back from the bars, bouncing about inside the cage with a brilliant blue-white light. Again the creature launched lightning and again the bars caged it. Then again.
Norret was intrigued. An alchemical property of ormolu? Some elemental abjuration on the phoenix’s cage? Outright divine intervention?
It made no matter. The tanglefoot glue was smoking. Norret hauled himself up by the railing, using it to limp along.
“You wanted terror.” He pulled a flask from his bandolier. “Have some!”
Norret hurled it over the railing, his aim precise. The flask burst, the goose-and-eel-liver salve coating the cables and over-greasing the gears. The next moment, they slipped, the elevator plummeting to the floor with the will-o’-wisp inside.
One fall was not sufficient to kill the monster, but five were. Once Norret hobbled down the stairs and collected his crutch, he jiggered the mechanism and smashed Pharadae’s cage up and down until at last luminous ichor of the sort wizards use to pen secret missives leaked between the gilded bars.
With the will-o’-wisp’s death, a last crackle of galvanism crept up the cables, arcing back and forth between them in the phenomenon known as Sarenrae’s Ladder. Between that and the alchemical lubricant, another mechanism activated.
>
Norret heard a beautiful sound outside, like a siren singing, which was not surprising given that such was exactly what was rising from the dolphin fountain. Astride another fearsome dolphin, green with verdigris, sat the shining ormolu figure of the siren of the philosophers, diadem of stars upon her brow, milk or possibly coffee spurting from her breasts.
The fountain had not been cleaned since All Kings Day.
As soon as Norret approached, the statue paused her wordless song for spoken rhyme:
If you would solve my mystery
The silver maiden holds the key.
Norret knew exactly the maiden of which she spoke.
Chapter Four: The Silver Maiden’s Key
The wheel of the year had begun again and with it the month of Abadius. Abadar, Master of the First Vault, did as he had always done, and politely but firmly informed the spirits of the dead the Night of the Pale was over.
In other lands and other times, New Year’s Day was an occasion for market fairs and festivals, but in Galt forty years after the Red Revolution, the holiday was more often a time for cleaning, putting things in order, and general tidying.
Norret Gantier kept this custom better than he ever had, bandaging his injured hand, decanting the will-o’-wisp’s luminous ichor into pre-revolutionary champagne magnums, preserving the strange sponge-like body for future study, writing notes about the curious behavior of the lightning in the elevator cage, and telling the other inhabitants of the Liberty Hostel repeatedly that he was as mystified as they were at the miraculous restoration of the unicorn-and-cockatrice statue in the reflecting pool, the sudden appearance of the siren in the dolphin fountain, the reappearance of all the frescoes about the Liberty Hostel, and whatever that glowing mess was in the elevator.
Flauric called a mandatory household meeting for all the guests to discuss these issues—which is to say, when he served up the New Year’s luncheon of Liberty Cabbage, the goose confit and sauerkraut he had left simmering since the night before, he sprang it on everyone.
