pun
intended, of alchemy. There have been more epoch-making discoveries in the last
fifteen years than in the preceding two centuries. And as for geniuses, truly
exceptional minds; two dozen, at the most conservative reckoning. But here’s a
curious thing. Of that two dozen, none of them survived past the age of
thirty-three.
At that time I was
thirty-two. Thirty-two and eleven months.
*
There was a craze a while ago for
copies of famous paintings—you know the sort of thing; Judgement of Timaeus,
The Battle of Sineo, Girl with a White Dove; exact copies, except for one
thing left out; the jug in the Judgement, or the king’s shield in the
battle-scene, or the Girl’s left earring. The idea was, you hung the painting
directly over where you’d be sitting at your dinner party, and you got your fun
watching the expressions on your guests’ faces as they tried to figure out what
was wrong.
Well; the missing
article in Workshop of Saloninus the Alchemist was one corpse, female. I
had no trouble at all spotting it. There might as well have been a hole in the
world, through which you could see the stars beneath us.
“Thanks, gents,” I
said to the guards, as they ushered me in. “I can find my own way from here.”
It’s a bad sign
when you’re reduced to bouncing bon mots off the military. As the door closed,
I sank down onto the floor and started to shake. Not the sort of thing I
usually do. I think it must’ve been sharing an enclosed space with the thing
that wasn’t there.
After a while, I
pulled myself together, somehow or other; stood up, managed to get the fire
going. I’d lost track of when I’d last eaten, but I simply wasn’t hungry. While
the fire caught, I went to the ingredients cabinet and fished out a bottle of
acquavit. The pure colourless stuff. I only had it for fuel for the spirit
burner. I swallowed three mouthfuls.
Made me feel
worse, if anything.
Well, I thought,
what the hell do I do now?
The irony was, any
alchemist who knew what he was doing would kill for a bench like mine. Every
piece of equipment you could possibly think of, all the very best quality; a
row of bottles and jars like soldiers on parade, every rare and obscure
material—some of them a hundred angels an ounce, more on the black market
(except they’re so rare, everybody in the trade would know in an instant where
they’d come from). If there was a specialised item I wanted made up, all I had
to do was bang on the door and give the guard a detailed specification, he’d
take it off to the toolmakers or the glassblowers, and I’d have it in my hand
the next day. Expense no object. Unlimited research funding. If there’s a hell,
I truly believe, it’s getting exactly what you’ve always wanted.
I had six weeks to
find the secret of transmuting base material into gold. This is impossible. I
reached up to the top shelf of the bookcase and pulled down Polycrates’ Diverse
Arts. Chapter six, page nineteen, paragraph four. To turn base metal into
gold.
Ah well, I
thought.
First, take common
salt (got that) and vitriol (plenty of that); mix well with a glass rod. Done
that. Next, take aqua fortis (buckets of that). Combine the aqua fortis with
the salt and vitriol to form aqua regia. The trouble with Polycrates, unlike
me, is not so much what he includes, which is often true, but what he leaves
out; trifles like incredibly volatile or will produce large volumes
of toxic gas or for crying out loud, do this on a block of ice. Fortunately, Onesander of Phylae went through this procedure with me shortly
after I left Elpis the second time, so I knew more or less what to do. A great
man, Onesander, and it was a crime against science when he was hung for issuing
fake six-angel bits. His coins were actually three points purer than the
government issue, would you believe. I understand they’re eagerly sought after
these days, by jewellers.
Three or four
steps into the procedure, you have to dip the corner of a linen
intended, of alchemy. There have been more epoch-making discoveries in the last
fifteen years than in the preceding two centuries. And as for geniuses, truly
exceptional minds; two dozen, at the most conservative reckoning. But here’s a
curious thing. Of that two dozen, none of them survived past the age of
thirty-three.
At that time I was
thirty-two. Thirty-two and eleven months.
*
There was a craze a while ago for
copies of famous paintings—you know the sort of thing; Judgement of Timaeus,
The Battle of Sineo, Girl with a White Dove; exact copies, except for one
thing left out; the jug in the Judgement, or the king’s shield in the
battle-scene, or the Girl’s left earring. The idea was, you hung the painting
directly over where you’d be sitting at your dinner party, and you got your fun
watching the expressions on your guests’ faces as they tried to figure out what
was wrong.
Well; the missing
article in Workshop of Saloninus the Alchemist was one corpse, female. I
had no trouble at all spotting it. There might as well have been a hole in the
world, through which you could see the stars beneath us.
“Thanks, gents,” I
said to the guards, as they ushered me in. “I can find my own way from here.”
It’s a bad sign
when you’re reduced to bouncing bon mots off the military. As the door closed,
I sank down onto the floor and started to shake. Not the sort of thing I
usually do. I think it must’ve been sharing an enclosed space with the thing
that wasn’t there.
After a while, I
pulled myself together, somehow or other; stood up, managed to get the fire
going. I’d lost track of when I’d last eaten, but I simply wasn’t hungry. While
the fire caught, I went to the ingredients cabinet and fished out a bottle of
acquavit. The pure colourless stuff. I only had it for fuel for the spirit
burner. I swallowed three mouthfuls.
Made me feel
worse, if anything.
Well, I thought,
what the hell do I do now?
The irony was, any
alchemist who knew what he was doing would kill for a bench like mine. Every
piece of equipment you could possibly think of, all the very best quality; a
row of bottles and jars like soldiers on parade, every rare and obscure
material—some of them a hundred angels an ounce, more on the black market
(except they’re so rare, everybody in the trade would know in an instant where
they’d come from). If there was a specialised item I wanted made up, all I had
to do was bang on the door and give the guard a detailed specification, he’d
take it off to the toolmakers or the glassblowers, and I’d have it in my hand
the next day. Expense no object. Unlimited research funding. If there’s a hell,
I truly believe, it’s getting exactly what you’ve always wanted.
I had six weeks to
find the secret of transmuting base material into gold. This is impossible. I
reached up to the top shelf of the bookcase and pulled down Polycrates’ Diverse
Arts. Chapter six, page nineteen, paragraph four. To turn base metal into
gold.
Ah well, I
thought.
First, take common
salt (got that) and vitriol (plenty of that); mix well with a glass rod. Done
that. Next, take aqua fortis (buckets of that). Combine the aqua fortis with
the salt and vitriol to form aqua regia. The trouble with Polycrates, unlike
me, is not so much what he includes, which is often true, but what he leaves
out; trifles like incredibly volatile or will produce large volumes
of toxic gas or for crying out loud, do this on a block of ice. Fortunately, Onesander of Phylae went through this procedure with me shortly
after I left Elpis the second time, so I knew more or less what to do. A great
man, Onesander, and it was a crime against science when he was hung for issuing
fake six-angel bits. His coins were actually three points purer than the
government issue, would you believe. I understand they’re eagerly sought after
these days, by jewellers.
Three or four
steps into the procedure, you have to dip the corner of a linen
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