by K. J. Parker
Running away; the story of my life. I ran away from philosophy and set about doing stupid things. Stealing is stupid, because sooner or later you get caught. Getting caught is also the story of my life. I always get away but I always get caught. I used to think I just stumbled into alchemy by accident, but now I’m old enough to know better, I understand that there’s no such thing as a coincidence. The two predominent factors that make me up, philosophy and criminality, when combined together on the block of ice hat serves me for a personality go to make up alchemy. We were, to coin a phrase, made for each other.
The stupid thing is, I probably am the greatest alchemist who ever lived. Not because I may or may not have found out how to turn base metal into gold, but because—well, we’ll come to that later. I’m also a pretty competent philosopher, but only as long as someone’s prepared to pay me to do it. The longer you think about truth and wisdom, the more clearly you come to understand that they’re figments of the imagination; and what does that leave? Well, there’s the sheer pleasure of fencing with logic, which wears a bit thin after a while, and there’s the reasonable living that can be made from lecturing and writing and teaching. I’d have settled for that, if only I’d been left alone, but no such luck.
Phocas and Eudoxia shaped my life. When I wasn’t running away from them, I was lying to them, to keep from getting killed. I murdered Eudoxia because I had to; too old and tired to run any more, too weary to keep pulling knobs of pulveus fulminans out of my arse and jumping through windows. As for Phocas; I guess he meant well, but that’s no excuse. I’ve meant well at various stages in my life, and there’s no excuse whatsoever for me.
Curiously enough, one of my greatest talents, before I lost it, was making friends. People instinctively liked me, once upon a time. Theodosia loved me. You’d need to be ten times the scientist I’ll ever be to figure out the chemistry behind that.
Well. I’m sorry by the way, that I lied to you earlier. Couldn’t resist. I guess that above all, I’m a showman, a performer, a liar. And you can take that to the bank.
*
“FOR GOD’S SAKE,” Pescennius said, scowling at me. “Did you really have to trash the entire palace?”
He was exaggerating, needless to say. But, “Yes,” I replied. “Omelettes and eggs,” I explained. “Also, if a thing’s worth doing—”
He poured me a cup of that pale green tea that’s so fashionable these days. Myself, I’d as soon drink rainwater from the gutter. “How did you do it, exactly?” he said.
Pescennius, formerly head of the Popularist Tendency and now First Citizen of the Republic, is, of course, an old college chum of mine. We go way back. “This stuff tastes like piss,” I said.
“Yes. How did you—?”
“All right,” I said wearily. “But it goes no further, right?”
“You have my word.”
I knew him too well for that. Still, it didn’t matter. He and I had a murder in common. That sort of mutual bond is something you can trust.
“Argens fulminans,” I told him, stretching back into his really quite comfortable chair. “Otherwise known as fulminate of silver.”
“Never heard of—”
“You wouldn’t have,” I said. “I discovered it. Fulminate of gold’s been around for centuries, it’s in all the books. I wondered if you could get the same effect with silver. They’re both completely useless, of course.”
He scowled at me. “Slow down,” he said.
I grinned. “Fulminate of silver,” I said, “is an explosive, a really powerful one. Trouble is, it’s incredibly unstable. Other fulminates blow up when you bang them or drop them. Silver fulminate tends to go off under its own weight. No, I’m serious. The weight of one layer of crystals forming on top of another is enough pressure to detonate it. That’s why it’s so useless. You can’t make more than a tiny quantity before it self-destructs, unless you slow it right down with ice. And when the ice melts—”
He was thinking really hard, trying to keep up with me. “Go on,” he said.
“I brewed up a large quantity of silver fulminate,” I said. “On a big block of ice. I left it on the bench in the laboratory along with another experiment I knew Phocas was interested in. That was just to get him in the same room as the fulminate and keep him there till it blew itself up. And him with it, of course.”
“And the whole of the east wing.”
I shrugged. “It’s not like I had reliable data to work from,” I said. “So I had to guess. You’ve got to admit, I erred on the safe side.”
“You could put it like that.”
“Anyhow,” I went on, “it worked. And, thanks to you arranging the extradition for me, I was twelve miles from the city in the company of irreproachable witnesses when Phocas died, putting both you and me in the clear. Then, all I had to do was escape from the Mezentines—”
“How did you—?”
I mock-scowled at him. “Trade secret,” I said. “Which I intend to keep to myself, for when I need it to escape from your scuttlehats, when the time comes.”
He was too smart to be drawn by that. “It worked out all right,” he said, “just about. When you suggested this whole thing, I—”
“You thought I was crazy, I know. But you trusted me. Thanks.”
“I have this feeling I’ll live to regret it,” Pescennius said.
“Then you’ll be luckier than Phocas,” I replied. “Anyway, the hell with it. You got what you wanted; Phocas dead, the government in chaos, all the ingredients for a successful coup.”
“Don’t call it that,” Pescennius said irritably. “It was a popular revolution.”
“Of course it was.” I stood up. “Thanks for the tea,” I said. “I’ll be going now.”
He looked at me. “Where?”
I smiled. “I’ve never lied to you,” I said. “So don’t ask me that, or I’ll have to spoil a perfect score.”
He nodded. “Take care,” he said. “For what it’s worth, you’re a hero of the people.”
“And a priest, too,” I said. “Is there no end to my talents?”
*
I WENT TO Choris Seautou, where I had money and a place to work, and it was there that I successfully concluded my life’s work, the achievement with which my name will for ever be linked, my great contribution to humanity, the source of my considerable wealth. It was about time, and I’d earned it.
And here I am. After a lifetime of wandering and running away, I now live in a big house, with two hundred acres of parkland and seventy-odd servants. I spend most of my time reading, now that I can afford to buy all the books I could possibly want. I don’t write any more. Don’t need the money.
I did make some notes of my various experiments in alchemy; but last year I had a huge bonfire out in the meadow and burned the lot. So, for example, the only directions for making silver fulminate anywhere in the world are the ones you’ve just read. The idea is that anyone disturbed enough to want the stuff will follow said instructions and, since there’s a deliberate mistake in them, won’t survive the attempt. The recipe for gold-out-of-garbage will die with me; arguably no great loss, since I never did find out if it works or not. The only data from my alchemical researches which will survive me is the formula for my great invention, which I sold, along with the business, to a Vesani consortium for more money than anybody could possibly spend in a lifetime. Needless to say, they intend to guard it with the utmost ferocity. It was a term of the contract that I didn’t keep a copy of the formula myself. No problem, I told them.
I’m an honest man now, a pillar of the community. I even pay taxes. In fact, last year alone I paid enough to keep a regiment in the field for a year (now, there’s something a man can be proud of, don’t you think?) Every Solstice I get a basket of white plums and a case of Faventine red wine from First Citizen Pescennius, who never did get around to holding free and fair elections, and is now practically indistinguishable from my other college chum Phocas, except he doesn’t kil
l alchemists. I eat the plums and give the wine to my gardeners.
Oh, and last autumn I got married. She’s a nice girl; not much to look at but sharp as a knife, and she makes me laugh. She married me for my money and my library. I think I married her because I like someone who gets their priorities right. I still think about Theodosia, of course. After giving it a great deal of thought, I’ve reached the conclusion that I probably didn’t kill Phocas because he had Theodosia executed. I’ve tried to blame him for that, but I can’t. My fault.
My invention, by which I turned base materials into negotiable gold and assured myself of the only true immortality—Sorry, I haven’t been entirely straight with you. My name really is Saloninus, but I changed it when I came to Choris. You’ll know me as Longinus Agricola, the inventor of synthetic blue paint.