Council of Fire

by Eric Flint

  “What exactly do you mean by . . . ‘make available’?”

  “I thought perhaps in the form of a quiet loan,” De Lancey said, absently pulling at another leaf in the topiary. “As you noted, it is important that we all work together.”

  “A loan. From His Majesty’s Government to the Colony of New York.”

  “Properly signed and approved,” De Lancey answered. “With terms for payback. New York is—at least on paper—a wealthy colony, My Lord. We are just in a rather uncomfortable passage.”

  The rapidity with which the New Yorker had come around to the subject took Boscawen aback, but he wasn’t about to show it. A moment’s thought suggested that this encounter—this conversation—might have been the proximate reason for De Lancey to have invited him out to the estate: not a matter of courtesy, but a matter of pounds sterling.

  If De Lancey had any sort of leverage—and since Boscawen’s naval forces certainly needed to be supplied, he might arguably have it in this situation—this might even be viewed as a species of extortion.

  A less experienced or less diplomatic officer might have reacted with anger, with revulsion, or with icy hauteur. But Edward Boscawen had sat in Parliament, and he knew as well as anyone how accurate William Hogarth’s engravings truly were. The world was full of James De Lanceys—even this world, even as it was now.

  This was about money. Not banding together against the unknown perils created by the cometary transit; not the prosperity or well-being of His Majesty’s plantations in America.

  “I shall have to consider the matter,” Boscawen said. He could see De Lancey’s eyes light up, but fortunately the New Yorker made no response, other than to offer him a polite bow. It saved Boscawen from the temptation, however slight, to administer a good beating.

  On the carriage ride back to the city, Colonel Washington was again silent, sitting upright and looking straight ahead.

  “Did you enjoy your afternoon, Colonel?”

  “Very much, My Lord,” Washington answered. “Governor De Lancey’s estate is extremely handsome, and he showed gentlemanly hospitality.”

  “Tell me what you heard.”

  “Heard, Admiral?”

  “What did people talk about? How are they feeling?”

  “People seemed . . . nervous, sir. They are concerned about the future—about the French and particularly about the Indians. No one knows what is to come.”

  “Are they concerned about finances?”

  “Of course, sir. I am concerned about finances; every merchant, every farmer, every shipowner worries about such things every day.” He turned to look directly at Boscawen with an expression that seemed to say, this is the way of the world, my Lord, for just about everyone. Perhaps you did not know that.

  “I understand.”

  Washington’s expression did not change, but he said, “Certainly, my Lord.”

  Chapter 36

  Burn bright in the air

  New York

  The idea had seemed absurd at first: it came to Boscawen as he lay upon his bed in Admiralty House, trying to sort out all of the things that burdened him. He had always accounted himself a rational man—but perhaps the changes he saw in the world were now being reflected upon him personally, stripping away that rationality that had been a source of pride and confidence. Otherwise he never would have considered the concept that bore in on him in the quiet, cloying darkness.

  Perhaps gold can be created. By alchemy.

  No one needed to know that such gold, “lent” to James De Lancey by the Admiralty, was not guineas from His Majesty’s mint—except that making any such alchemetical substance would have to be somehow made to look like them. And did “created” gold retain its form and identity, or did it dissipate or disappear?

  He would have discarded the idea right then, on the spot, except that it nagged at him. In a world of irrational, impossible wonders, why not transmutation? There were no Crown officers ready to pounce and put him in irons for falsely creating currency. There were no rules, and there was no guide to the country he was now in.

  In the morning he sent a messenger to the house where Dr. Messier and Mademoiselle LaGèndiere were staying, asking them to call upon him at their convenience. He turned his attention to reports and logistical matters, dismissing all alchemy from his mind. Just after the clock struck eleven, an aide interrupted to inform him that the two civilians had presented themselves.

  He pulled on his uniform coat, adjusted his cravat and descended to the ground floor, where the townhouse’s modest morning-room had been converted for the purpose of receiving guests. He found them there, standing nervously, as if expecting a reproof.

  “Good morning,” he said, entering the room. “Thank you for responding so quickly to my invitation.”

  “We took it as a summons, Monsieur Admiral,” Messier said. “Is there something wrong?”

  “No, nothing at all.” He gestured to a divan and armchairs. “Won’t you sit? I need to consult with you on a matter well beyond my expertise, but well within yours.”

  The young lady took her seat, perching on one of the armchairs; Messier and Boscawen followed.

  “We are pleased to offer whatever help we can,” she said.

  “I had an interesting conversation yesterday with a Mr. Alexander, the head of a group that titles itself the ‘American Philosophical Society.’ He seemed extremely excited to hear that you two were in New York—and that you possessed an alchemetical compass. He would very much like to examine the device.”

  “Of course,” Messier said, exchanging a glance with the young woman. “We would be happy to show it to him.”

  “Capital,” Boscawen said. “Now . . . I wish to discuss something with you that must remain in complete confidence. I had a conversation with Governor De Lancey regarding the financial condition of the colony. He asked me for a loan.”

  “Monsieur Admiral . . . ?”

  “He believes that I am able to provide him with money originally intended for my Mediterranean command. If I had it, I might be inclined to make the loan—but I don’t have it.”

  “We don’t have it either,” Messier said.

  “No,” Boscawen answered. “But is it possible that you might be able to . . . create it.”

  “Create?” Messier said. “Do you mean—”

  “He means transmutation,” Catherine LaGèndiere said. “He is suggesting that we convert some base metal into gold.” She looked at Boscawen. “Alchemy.”

  “Yes,” the admiral said. “I don’t know anything about how it works—or even if it can be done at all. But if it can, it is a way for the colony to survive, and possibly for my fleet to be supplied and equipped. So I must ask: is it possible?”

  Messier looked thoughtful. “Prior to the 1682 transit, alchemy was no more than speculation; there are numerous texts, mostly unreliable of course—Paracelsus, Trismegistus. After the comet passed, things that had been fantastic were made rational.”

  “And possible.”

  “And possible,” Messier agreed. “And with the alchemetical compass, we could more easily measure and control the process.” He exchanged a glance with Catherine, then looked back at Boscawen. “We would need some equipment, of course.”

  “I think there is someone to whom you should be introduced.”

  The headquarters of the American Philosophical Society was located at the corner of Broad Way and King Street, in a pair of stout brick buildings connected by a second-story bridge. Though Messier would have preferred a carriage—if only for Catherine’s sake—there were none to be found, leaving them to walk the distance from their lodgings.

  Presently they were admitted into a sitting-room filled with a collection of mismatched furniture and unusual objects—things of glass and metal, some clearly from a laboratory or workshop, others with no apparent purpose, like projects half-finished left on a shelf to catch the light. Catherine was examining one of them—a collection of glass tubes connected to an i
rregularly-shaped wooden box—when James Alexander entered the room.

  Messier had long relied on his assistant’s intuition and perceptions and took note of her immediate and focused attention on the new arrival. She seemed . . . if not afraid, then at least on edge. She clutched the bag with the alchemetical compass more tightly.

  Whatever it was about the New Yorker that troubled her, Messier felt it too—there was something different about the man, a sort of heightened, feverish air, like eyes opened too wide. Still, this was the man they had come to see, and this was the place for them to be—it was obvious, at least from the objects they could identify, that the Society took an interest in the arts and sciences.

  “The famous Dr. Messier,” Alexander said, his New York accent wrapped in a Scotch lilt. “And this must be Mademoiselle LaGèndiere, of whom I have heard.” He made a leg. “An honor and pleasure to have you here with us.”

  “Thank you for receiving us,” Messier answered. “Admiral Boscawen said that he spoke with you at Governor De Lancey’s reception. He thought perhaps that we might have some commonality of interest.”

  “Indeed.” Alexander’s glance went from Messier to Catherine—or, more particularly, the bag she carried. “I understand . . . that you possess a remarkable device.”

  “The compass.”

  “Yes,” Alexander said. Messier’s senses were even more affected by the man as he said it. “Perhaps we could retire to one of the workshops and I could examine it.”

  Messier looked at Catherine, who had done her best to compose herself. She nodded and offered a smile.

  “Of course.”

  Alexander led them onto a short hallway that led to a narrow stair, at the top of which they turned and walked along the bridge they had seen from outside. There was a long, thick window that gave a view of Trinity Church and the river beyond; someone had made notations on the glass, tracing the outline of the church-spire and marking a series of lines with a column of figures beside it.

  At the end of the bridge they went down two steps and then turned left into a wide workroom that smelled of sawdust and carbolic acid. A large, sturdy table held a large array of glass and metal objects; this was clearly a laboratory in active use, though there was no one present to use it. At the far end of the room was a conical furnace, its fire carefully banked but open to the room and hot enough that its radiance could be felt even from the doorway, even in the summer heat.

  “You are well-equipped,” Catherine said, casting her eyes across the array of devices.

  “This is one of the finest alchemetical laboratories in the New World,” Alexander said. “I’m quite proud of it, actually.”

  “You are an alchemist?”

  “I am both a practitioner and a beneficiary,” he answered. “Indeed, I am pleased to say that alchemy saved my life. Considering that the practical art was hardly even possible a century ago, that is saying something.”

  “In what way are you a beneficiary, sir?” Messier asked.

  “Three years ago,” he said, “I had traveled to our colony’s capital, Albany, to confer with colleagues regarding a political matter. Like many of my colleagues, I suffer—suffered—from the gout.” He lifted one foot and waved it slightly, indicating the afflicted member. “When I returned to New York, my health was a shambles. I believe I might have died, but for this.” He stepped to a cabinet, used a key on his watch-chain to open it, and drew out one of several small glass vials containing a red liquid.

  Messier’s face registered surprise. “Is that—”

  “Aurum potabile,” Alexander said, nodding. “The drinkable gold. The Red Lion.”

  Messier did not answer, but Catherine responded by placing her bag on the table. She reached in and withdrew the wooden box containing the alchemetical compass.

  Alexander walked slowly toward her, but Messier took a step forward and held up his hand. For a moment, Messier thought that the other man might try to push past, but instead he simply extended his hand with the vial. Messier took it and held it up to the light streaming through the windows, casting a strange shadow on the table below. Inside the bottle, the liquid seemed to move of its own volition, like an aquatic creature trying to work its way out.

  As he examined the bottle, he looked sidelong at Alexander, whose face held a vaguely hungry look that disturbed him.

  Catherine had opened the box and placed the alchemetical compass on the table. It was already detecting Alexander’s presence, the fluid inside climbing the side of the internal glass in the direction of the New Yorker.

  “Extraordinary,” Alexander said softly. He took a step, and after a moment Messier stepped aside to let him pass, though he remained close. Catherine watched warily as the two men approached.

  “A question,” Catherine said. “Monsieur Alexander, how long have you been drinking the Red Lion?”

  He smiled. “Almost three years, Mademoiselle. I have never felt better.”

  The liquid in the compass had climbed almost to the top of the glass; if it had not been sealed, it might have spilled out of the container on to the table. Alexander reached out to touch it, but Catherine interposed her hand, then drew it back as if it had been burned. Alexander stepped back, colliding with Messier just behind.

  “Are you hurt?” Messier asked in French, and the young woman shook her head, rubbing the hand Alexander had touched on the cloth of her bodice.

  “I think it is wise,” Messier said in English to Alexander, “that you not touch the instrument.”

  “Very well,” Alexander said. He reached for the bottle with the alchemetical mixture; Messier handed it to him. He placed it back on its position on the shelf and locked the cabinet. He turned to face his visitors again; for just a moment Messier saw a flash of reddish light in Alexander’s eyes, which made him want to cross himself—but he refrained, not wishing to alarm Catherine LaGèndiere.

  She seemed already alarmed and said, “Monsieur Alexander, the potable gold is consuming you from within.”

  “Possibly,” Alexander agreed. “But it has saved my life. I would prefer to burn bright in the air than decompose in the cold ground.”

  The words hung in the air for several moments. At last Messier said, “I would not wish to tell a man how to spend his days; the number of them is after all for God to decide.”

  “Aye,” Alexander said. “Now what can I do for you?”

  “Did Admiral Boscawen explain the reason for our visit?”

  “He indicated that you wanted to pursue an alchemetical experiment, and in my note to him I responded that we were well equipped. We have whatever you might need.”

  “Including a spagyric matrix, Monsieur?”

  “Why do you need a philosopher’s stone? You have the ultimate measuring device there,” Alexander said, gesturing toward the compass. “It will tell you when to begin coagulation, or dealbation, or calcination.”

  “So you do not have one?”

  “I didn’t say that,” Alexander answered, smiling. “It just seems superfluous.”

  “It might be,” Catherine said. “Nonetheless, it might be helpful for our purposes.”

  “Which are?”

  Catherine rubbed her hands again, as if there was still some discomfort left over from the brief interaction with Alexander. “We wish to attempt a transmutation.”

  “What sort?”

  “Base metal to noble metal,” she said. “Preferably gold.”

  “You want to make gold.”

  “Can it be done?” Messier asked. “Or is there some objection—”

  “No, no,” Alexander said, holding up his hands. “No objection at all. I see no reason to invoke some sort of Puritan morality in this case, Monsieur Messier. You are in New York, not Boston.”

  “So?”

  “So. Such a process is by no means easy, and it is time-consuming. Fortunately, we are not merely equipped to carry it out, we have been undertaking it since the comet’s passage—when it became much easier.
”

  “That was an interesting response,” Boscawen said. “What did you tell him, sir?”

  “Only that I was pleased to hear that we might not need to start, as you might say, from scratch,” Messier answered. They were walking along the parapet of Fort George, overlooking the bay south of Manhattan Island. The sun had gone behind the clouds, but the day remained sultry, scarcely affected by what little breeze came off the water.

  Admiral Boscawen, as always, looked completely at ease, despite his full uniform. Messier wondered how he managed it.

  “I must admit that I am surprised,” the admiral said. “Even though I began this line of inquiry, I wasn’t sure if it was a completely absurd notion. But tell me more of your impression of Alexander. You say that Mademoiselle LaGèndiere was troubled by him?”

  “She scarcely spoke of it after we departed, but yes, I could see that he disturbed her. He is being consumed, she repeated to me, as if the man’s life was somehow unnatural.”

  “As it might be—and what is this substance that he showed you?”

  “It is an alchemetical decoction commonly called Red Lion, or the ‘potable gold.’ It is said to be the essence of fire distilled in air, a true aqua vitae. It is made—well, it is a long and arduous process, described by the ancient practitioners. I have never heard of anyone who consumed it in any quantity.”

  “How much has he consumed?”

  “I do not know how regularly he drinks it, Monsieur Admiral. But over the course of three years he must have ingested quite a bit.”

  Boscawen stopped walking and turned to face Messier, tilting his head sideways slightly, his face stern.

  “What does Mademoiselle LaGèndiere believe will happen when this—substance—overwhelms him?”

  “The Red Lion is derived from elemental fire,” Messier answered. “I would imagine . . . there would be some combustion. If it happened in a place full of volatile, or even merely flammable, materials . . . ”