The Alchemist by Paolo Bacigalupi Page A

palm.
    “Put this in your balanthast chamber,” Scacz said. “It should burn well.”
    The whiff of bluebell honey magic clung to the paper.
    I didn’t want to. Didn’t know what he was up to. But the Mayor was nodding, and I was surrounded by the assembled people, all those great names and powerful houses watching, and the Mayor motioned me to continue.
    “Go on, alchemist. Show us your genius. The crowd loves you. Let us see this thing fire free.”
    And to my everlasting regret, I did.
    I braced the delivery nozzles so they poked into the air, and lit my match. The spelled parchment and the neem and all the assembled ingredients disappeared into the belly of the balanthast, and it roared.
    Blue flame erupted from the nozzles, a long streak of sparkling fire. Thick yellow smoke issued with it. And something else: the sticky breath of the magic-laced parchment Scacz had given me. Flower brightness, volatilized in the belly chamber of the balanthast, and now released as smoke.
    Beside me, Scacz’s body began to glow an unearthly aura of blue, sharp and defined. But not just him. The Mayor as well. His steward also. I stared at my hands. Myself, even.
    The fumes of the expended balanthast billowed through the room and others began to glow as well. The general. The fat diamond merchant. His wife. More women in their skirts. Men in their fine embroidered vests. But Scacz’s blue-limned features were brightest of all.
    “You were right,” the Mayor murmured. “Look at us all.”
    Everyone was staring at the many people who now glowed with spirit fire, gasping at the wonder of their unearthly beauty.
    Scacz smiled at me. “You were right, alchemist. Neem loves magic. It clings to its memory like a child to her mother’s skirts.”
    “What have you done?” I asked.
    “Done?” Scacz looked around, amused. “Why, just added a bit of illumination to your neem essence. Your fine alchemy and my simple spellcraft, combined. A lovely effect, don’t you think?”
    Boots thudded and steel rang around the hall. Guards appeared from behind white columns and beneath the arches. Men in scaly armor, and the tramp of more boots behind them.
    “Seize them!” Scacz shouted. “All the ones who burn with magic’s use. Every one! If they are not of the Mayor’s office, they are traitors.”
    A babble of protest rose. Already the people who did not glow were shrinking from those that did.
    The general drew his sword. “Treachery?” he asked. “This is why you bring us here?” A few others drew steel with him.
    The Mayor said, “Sadly, war lord, even you are not immune to law. You have used magic, when it is expressly forbidden. If you have some excuse, the magistrate will hear you…” He paused. “Oh dear, it appears the magistrate is also guilty.”
    He waved to his guards. “Take them all, then.”
    The general roared. He raised his sword and charged for the Mayor. Guards piled atop him like wolves. Steel clashed. A man fell back. The general stumbled from within the tangle of steel. Blood streamed from half a dozen sword thrusts. For a moment, I thought he would reach us, but then he fell, sprawling on the marble. And yet still he tried to reach the Mayor. Scrabbling like a beetle, leaving a maroon streak behind him.
    The Mayor watched the general’s struggle with distaste.
    “On second thought, kill them all now. We know what they’ve been up to.”
    The guards howled and the blue-glowing nobility shrank before them. Too few were armed. They scattered, running like sheep, scrambling about the gallery as the guards hunted them down and silenced their begging. At last, there were no more screams.
    I stood in the midst of a massacre, clutching my balanthast.
    The Mayor waved to the guards. “Drag the bodies out. Then go and seize their properties.” In a louder voice he announced, “For those of you still standing, the holdings of the traitors will be sold at auction, as is custom. Your trustworthiness is proven,