The Poison Master

by Liz Williams

  “What is it?”

  “I was hoping you could tell me,” Ghairen said.

  Together, they drew the blinds down across the windows, but the substance still continued to spark and gleam. There was no need to use a lamp. The substance provided an illumination of its own, like a heap of garnets in firelight. Alivet took a spatula and scraped some of it up from the workbench. It was hard and brittle, a kind of crystalline grit.

  “I've never seen anything like this before,” she said.

  “Neither have I. But you see how it behaves, Alivet? You see how it holds the light?”

  Alivet nodded. “I think we may have found your carrier.”

  “But what caused it? Was it the antimony? What exactly was in that mixture?”

  “The residue of the tabernanthe, and antimony. It's true that I was working toward a phase of crystallization, but I don't see how it could have produced something like this.” But even as she spoke, Alivet was seeing the alembic shatter and Celana's blood running over the polished surface of the workbench.

  “The blood,” she said, aloud.

  “What?”

  “Celana cut herself when the alembic broke. Her hand was bleeding. It was her blood that reacted with the mixture, not anything I put in it. A drop of human blood, a sacrifice to the spirit of the plant.”

  “Have you heard of such a process taking place before?”

  “No—the use of blood is forbidden in alchemy. It's one of the first principles. It's viewed as black science.”

  “It will need to be tested,” Ghairen said. His face was a study in abstracted calculation, and Alivet, to her dismay, realized what was going through his mind. Would a small quantity of this unusual substance be enough to defeat the Lords, or would they need more? And if they needed more, who would be the one to supply the blood? Alivet feared for Celana and herself. She said quickly, “I'll test it.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “I'm the one who has the experience with hallucinogens. Isn't that why you brought me here?”

  Ghairen gave her a dubious look. “You're not in the best of health right now.”

  He seemed genuinely concerned for her welfare, but doubtless it was just that he wanted the best results from the test. Once again she pushed away the memory of that evening in Ghairen's bedroom, of his voice murmuring in her ear. He did not care about her, she told herself, but was simply trying to lull any suspicions that she might have; seduce her into complicity, or friendship, or more.

  “I'll be fine,” she said, quickly.

  Ghairen was obliged to agree. He fetched the shiffrey servitor to clean the alchematorium while Alivet set about carefully removing the substance from the workbench. It would have to be in a suitable form for ingestion. Given its antimonic antecedents, Alivet thought that burning a very small amount in a brazier and inhaling the smoke might be the best method. But she did not want to do the test in the alchematorium, with its current atmosphere of acrid fumes. She said as much to Ghairen.

  “You can undertake the test in your own room, or in mine, if you wish. It's quiet; you'll be undisturbed.”

  She made the mistake of looking into his face. His expression was carefully bland, but she knew she was not the only one with memories. It would be too tempting to forget about all this hallucinogenic scheming and just sink back down onto Ghairen's divan to lose herself in his arms. For some reason, however, the image made her think of Madimi Garland: a salutary shock.

  “I'll use my room,” Alivet said.

  The coals of the brazier glowed in the darkness, almost as brightly as the substance that Alivet now carried inside an alembic: the powder formed of antimony, tabernanthe, blood, and pain. Ghairen was right, the substance absorbed light into itself and then released it, dispelling the shadows that clustered about the room. Now he sat beside her, watching anxiously.

  It seemed that Celana had not yet woken from the sedative. Alivet had asked to visit the sleeping girl to check for herself that Celana was not badly hurt, but Ghairen had refused.

  Alivet, however, had been insistent and at last the Poison Master, for the sake of peace, had allowed her through into Celana's room. It was similar to her own, rich and somber. A scatter of bronze leaves chased across the walls. Celana lay on the bed, dressed in her shift, with one arm bandaged. She breathed peacefully and Alivet did not have the heart to disturb her.

  “You see?” Ghairen had said, with a touch of impatience. “Just as I told you.”

  “That's a relief,” Alivet had replied. Indeed, it was nothing more than the truth; she would have been unable to concentrate on the test with the worry of Celana twinging at the back of her mind like a toothache.

  The brazier was beginning to smolder, sending a thread of smoke up into the room and making Alivet's throat sore all over again. Perhaps it wasn't such a good idea to inhale the stuff, but it was too gritty to be soluble into a tincture and she did not like the idea of injecting the substance. She had seen too many fellow citizens succumb to the allure of the swamp poppy; the tiny needles with their intricate wooden handles littered the shores after festivals, but the opium brought little that was new to the Search, though it was true that it was a useful sedative.

  So the brazier it was. Alivet stirred the coals with a metal rod, sending a shower of sparks fluttering up the sides. She made sure that the four feet of the brazier were firmly planted on the stone base that Ghairen had provided for the purpose. The last thing she wanted was to leap up in the grip of a trance and knock the thing over. One fire was already too many. A straight-backed chair stood next to the brazier. Settling herself upon it, Alivet took a pinch of the glittering red powder from the alembic with the tongs and scattered it over the coals.

  Given the brightness of the powder, she was careful not to look at it directly and this proved wise. From the corner of her eye, she saw the coals flare up, catching the light. Ghairen gave her an encouraging smile. The room was suddenly as bright as day. Her own cowering shadow marched across the paneled walls. The flare died down to a more muted glow, and when Alivet glanced cautiously at the brazier she saw that the coals themselves were red and sparkling. Alivet took the water-jug and let a few drops fall into the heat. The brazier hissed like a serpent and a column of smoke reared up. Alivet leaned into it and breathed deeply. She repeated the procedure twice more, then sat back.

  Her head was filled with fumes: she detected the iron scent of blood, but also a deep, bright sweetness. It was as though light had been transmuted into smell. Alivet closed her eyes.

  Gradually, by degrees, her body became detached from her consciousness. Alivet left it and slipped sideways into the air. It was very easy to leave herself behind in this way, a far simpler matter than the endless unbuttoning required by her clothes. She looked back and saw her body still seated by the brazier: prim in the restrictive garments, eyes serenely closed, hands folded in her lap. Ghairen was leaning forward, studying her face, but making no move to touch her. Alivet turned away from her body and found that the room had disappeared.

  Where the wall of the Poisoners' Tower had been, and the city of Ukesh beyond, she was now gazing out across a field of stars. It was the most beautiful sight she had ever seen: suns strung like rubies across the sea of night, great spinning clouds that were the webs in which those suns were born. A planet burned like fire behind her, but she had no time to look. Great presences swept by, their tails flickering between a thousand points of light. She was falling in the wake of an immense being, its gaze fixed on some impossible horizon. Comets blazed in its path and spun about its head like tendrils of fiery hair.

  Alivet, her mouth open, knew that she was screaming, but there was no sound at all in this teeming vastness. A green world loomed below her, marbled with seas and mountains and plains, veiled in cloud. I know that place! She fell toward it—and then something hissed inside her head. Alivet turned and found she was looking into an immense double countenance: male on one side, female on the other. Its mouths w
ere open, it was spitting with hatred. Alivet, after the first shock, recognized the mayjen: the spirit of the plant from which—or so the shiffrey alchemist had told her— Ghairen's poison had come.

  “But you're gone!” cried Alivet, and the mayjen said with ringing triumph, “No, I was given to you.”

  It reached out a clawed hand and touched a finger to Alivet's shoulder. She was spun away with great force, turning and turning in the roaring field of stars…

  … and was spat out into an unfamiliar room at a pair of striped feet.

  SEPARATION

  At the far end of the earth is Bohemia A fair and exotic dominion Full of deep and mysterious rivers.

  KONSTANTIN BIEBL, Protinozci

  Chapter I

  OUTSIDE PRAGUE 1584

  On one side of the cart sat Hendrick Niclaes, leader of the Family of Love, fidgeting nervously with the reins. On the other sat Count Nicholas Laski, clad in his customary scarlet garments and peering from the depths of his magnificent beard. In the back of the cart sat Edward Kelley, talking to himself. They were hardly the most inconspicuous coterie of alchemists ever to grace the Moravian countryside, Dee reflected sourly, but there was nothing for it.

  For the hundredth time, he wished that he were back in the quiet solitude of the house at Mortlake, with Jane and the children playing in the garden and the waters of the Thames sending ripples across the ceiling. But was the house even there any longer? His brother-in-law's letter, received a day ago, had not been encouraging. What precisely had Fromonds meant by “ransacked”? It was the kind of alarming word that could signal any amount of chaos. Had Niclaes' Family members managed to rescue the most precious things: the globes and maps, the measuring instruments and alchemical vessels, or did they lie broken across the floor? Or were they even now gracing the rooms of one of Dee's rivals? At least Jane and the children were safe in Krakow. The scrying mirror was secure in the otherwise unreliable hands of Kelley, and the language of the universe resided firmly within Dee's own skull; at least they could not ransack that, not even if his enemies placed him upon the rack.

  Do not fret, Dee told himself. Niclaes and the Family are prepared for the journey; they will not turn back. He remembered the conversation of the previous evening.

  “We will go to this place, this Meta Incognita of yours,” Niclaes had said, mouth set in resolve. “We are reaching the point where we have no choice. Mark my word upon it, Dee—persecution will grow. We have already been chased from the Low Countries, and London itself grows restless as a hound with fleas.”

  “There is always the New World,” Dee had said, with a smile.

  “Yes, America—but who is to say that the new world will prove more tolerant over time than the old? Besides, I have seen the world in your glass, shown by angels, and it is fair enough.” He fell silent for a moment, doubtless recollecting the little image of the watery place with the great gate, guarded by Anubis.

  “It is damp,” said Dee, playing devil's advocate.

  “So is Flanders, and in London the moistness of the days reaches my bones.”

  “And it is dangerous. When Kelley first began to study the Meta Incognita through the black glass, his eyes began to bleed. It seems that looking between worlds is hazardous. It is only through much diligent work in placing himself in trance that he is not now blinded. And what of the jackal-headed creatures that seem to haunt the fens of Meta Incognita? Do you not fear them as demons?”

  “I feared so at first, but I prayed much on the matter. Also, I have spoken to Brother Edward, and your scryer has talked with the angels and informs me that they are as the beasts before the Fall, gentle and innocent. Besides, if they possess intelligence, who is to say that they shall not join our sect before God? We have welcomed Turks, after all.”

  Sometimes, Dee reflected, Niclaes was almost alarmingly open-minded. After that, the conversation had turned to practical details: how many folk, what materials, what seeds and animals they should take with them. And Dee had learned that Niclaes had made great roads already into the project, encouraging members of the Family to learn new and different skills. It was no longer a dream; it was an expedition. And the north-west passage across the universe itself did exist and would be traveled. Despite his worries about his house and books, Dee felt the now-familiar pang of excitement. In a few years, perhaps less, the journey would be made. The task they must now work upon involved the summoning: the opening of a gap between the world and the ship promised to them by the angels.

  For the moment, they had the assistance of the flamboyant Count Laski. Dee was not entirely sure what he thought of the Count's trustworthiness, but he was becoming used to being uneasy when in the presence of his associates. He told himself that Laski was a friend of Niclaes', a fellow member of the Family of Love, and a committed alchemist. Had he not sponsored the first edition of Paracelsus' writings on the subject, and been welcomed to England as a prince should be? Moreover Laski had money—or said that he did—and would be able to provide Dee with all the alchemical equipment he needed to make the summoning. For that, however, they must travel to Prague.

  The journey was already taking its toll on Dee. The road was little more than a rough track, mile upon mile, through pinewoods steaming with mist and cloud. August had brought drenching rains. What must it be like in the winter? Dee wondered. The Vistula River thundered beside the road, an alternating mass of foam and deep dark pools. Dampness filled the air and crept into Dee's bones. If I live to see this new world, he thought in despair, I shall not live long upon it.

  Wistfully, he remembered his dreams of the flying machine, and to raise his spirits, he began to imagine everything that the Family of Love would be able to accomplish in the new world. There would be an alchemical college, free from persecution and academic sneering; flying craft would fill the skies; men would converse freely with angels and speak to one another across great distances. And others had gone before them, those ancient peoples of the East, to nearby worlds. What manner of people would they be? The angel had told Kelley that they were greatly learned. It will all be well, Dee told himself. It must be well.

  After what seemed to Dee to be a veritable eternity, the cart rolled over a ridge and Prague lay below.

  “A charming city,” Laski proclaimed from the depths of his beard, as though bestowing some personal seal of approval upon the place.

  “Gracious indeed,” Dee concurred, and indeed, there was much to please him. He liked the narrow streets, the high turrets and fanciful plasterwork, which made it seem as though a multitude of fabulous beasts stalked the lanes, accompanied by skeletons and rams. The cart took them past inns with curious names: the Spider, the Vulture, the Blue Star.

  For a moment, Dee could almost believe that they had already come to Meta Incognita, that it was years in the future with the city of the Family of Love already built and flourishing. Idly, he toyed with names for the new city. New Prague sounded a little prosaic. Celestia, perhaps? He must speak to Niclaes of the matter; naming a thing, Dee knew, brought it closer to reality, just as the crystallization phase of alchemy could be assisted by incantation.

  The cart trundled into a wide square and rolled to a halt. Laski leaped down and helped Dee clamber from the high seat. The moistness of the air was doing nothing for his joints; it was just as well that they would be staying at the house of a physician. As they made their way across the square, Dee noted a plethora of characters, clad in costumes as fantastical as Laski's bloodred garments. Laski nudged him.

  “See over there? Old Geronimo Scotta, especially known for his diabolical legerdemain. Arrived in town one day with three red carriages and forty horses. Now he flogs vitriol of Mars and stag-horn jelly from a market stall.”

  “And but for the grace of God and his angels,” said Dee dryly, “there go I—a marketplace quack.”

  Laski snorted. “Nonsense. The very air is a salve to your labors. Wait until you see where we are staying.”

  Indeed,
Dee was to find the physician's house most reassuring. The physician himself, a contact of Laski's, had inherited the property from his father, of whom Dee had heard.

  “Simon Bakalar? A known alchemist in his day. And this was his house?” He gazed with admiration at the golden letters, the flowers and fruit and birds that decorated the walls. And inside, Laski and the physician took him to see the words that Bakalar had inscribed about his rooms:

  This learning is precious, transient, delicate and rare. Our learning is a boy's game, and the toil of women. All you sons of this art, understand that none may reap the fruits of our elixir except by the introduction of the elemental stone, and if he seeks another path he will never enter or embrace it.

  “Stern words,” said Laski.

  “But we do seek another path,” Dee murmured.

  Laski clapped him on the shoulder, making Dee wince.

  “And we shall achieve it.”

  At first, all went well. Dee's welcome at Rudolf's court was all that he could have hoped for, and the visionary work with Kelley was encouraging. The maps of the new world, attained by means of the black mirror, were progressing. In agreement with Kelley, Dee had decided that it would be too dangerous to commit details of Meta Incognita directly to paper, and so they had devised a code, using the alchemical language which Dee used with as much fluency as he did English. Kelley's first scrying session in Prague yielded a strange landscape, with great trees along an estuary; their roots rising up from the still, black water in a tangled mass. Between these roots flickered odd spirals of light, like diaphanous veils, from which Kelley recoiled in horror, saying that they were trying to draw his soul out through his mouth.