The heavy Waterford crystal hit the floor but did not crack. The wine spilled out. And it was not the target's mouth that was open in confusion, but Francisco Braun's.
He stepped back from the developing sink. It was impossible. It had to be an accident. He forced himself back to the sink.
There, looking up at him, was a man's face perfectly focused on the camera. And the mouth was not the least bit open in terror. It was thin and rising; in fact, there was a smile on the face looking at the camera, as though Francisco Braun's threat to his life was some kind of joke. Francisco examined all three full-face pictures. In all three there were smiles.
Quickly he ran the entire twenty pictures through the print drum. He had to see everything.
He tapped his feet, waiting. He turned off the damned Bach. He told the drum to hurry. He reminded himself not to speak to inanimate objects. He told himself that Francisco Braun did not lose his discipline that easily. He reminded himself how many men he had killed. And then he kicked the crystal glass into the wall.
When the pictures appeared, they were even more forbidding, but Francisco Braun was ready for that. The first frame captured the two as they came out of the house. In the second frame it was clear that the pair had been instantly aware of him. The old man, surprisingly, moved as well as, if not better than, the younger. In fact, the older man's gaze into the camera was the more interesting of the two. It was as though he were checking the weather. Absolutely no care whatsoever. Then he turned to the younger to make sure he had seen what was on the ridge, and seeing that the young one was already staring at the camera, he turned back into the house. And then, of course, came those three pictures, those featuring the amusement on the face and in the dark eyes focused perfectly, no panic at all.
Good. Francisco Braun had done wisely not to attack at once. He took two identifiable images, with height apparent and weight probable, and brought them with him for his appointment with Mr. Caldwell.
Mr. Caldwell's office now sprawled across an entire floor in a downtown New York City building. Two uniformed men with a crest of an apothecary jar and a sword emblazoned in red on their trim dark jackets stood at the doorway.
"I have an appointment with Mr. Caldwell," said Braun. He held the two pictures under his arm in a small leather envelope.
"Please, if you will?" said the guard.
"If I will, what?" said Braun.
"Wait for your audience."
"I am unaware that I am going to perform for anyone."
"Wait," said the guard.
There was that term "audience" again.
As soon as the doors opened, Francisco Braun began to suspect what the guard and the secretary had been talking about.
There were no separate offices anymore. Rather, the secretaries and lesser employees sat at desks on either side of the room, leaving a vast open expanse in the middle. There, on a raised platform, was a high-backed chair. The chair glimmered with colored stones, possibly jewels. Above the chair hung the strange embossed seal, red on dark velvet. And in the chair, one hand resting on an arm, the other in his lap, was Mr. Harrison Caldwell. "We will see you now," said Mr. Caldwell.
Francisco Braun looked around. He looked for the others. But Mr. Caldwell was alone. There wasn't anyone within twenty-five yards of him. A jeweled finger beckoned Braun up to the high-placed chair.
Braun heard his own footsteps click on the polished marble leading to the platform. Not one of the lesser employees looked up. The hand with the jeweled finger extended to Braun. He would have shaken it, except the palm was turned down. There was no doubt anymore. This was an audience, not a meeting.
"Your Majesty," said Francisco Braun, kissing the hand.
"Francisco Braun, my sword," said Harrison Caldwell. "Have you come to tell us that you have disposed of our problem?"
Braun stepped back with a bow. So Mr. Caldwell thought he was a king for some reason. True, the money was good, and Mr. Caldwell had yet to do anything foolish. But this new dimension forced Braun to consider more carefully before he spoke each word. Caldwell could be insane. Yet if he were mad, he was still awesomely rich. Even the major corporations of America, Braun knew, did not have money to waste on vast space in the financial district. This one room, this throne room, filled an entire floor.
"Your Majesty faces a more formidable enemy than I first realized."
"Enemy?"
"Yes, your Majesty," said Braun.
"We have neither permanent enemies nor permanent friends."
"Your Majesty. I did not choose these men to kill. They are not my enemies."
"As long as you serve me, Francisco, they are."
"Yes, your Majesty. They escaped the first assault," said Braun. "I have come because you have mentioned that with your power you have greater access to information than ever before."
"Greater every day," said Caldwell.
"I want to know more about these two so that I may better dispose of them for you."
"Enemies are not always enemies, you know." Braun hesitated. He did not know if he dared correct Caldwell now. But he had to. If he were going to eliminate those two, he had to have help. If not, better to leave with one's life.
"Your Majesty, you yourself wanted them eliminated because they were interfering with something, according to your reports. Have they stopped interfering?"
"Not to our knowledge."
"Then I need help. If they are more formidable, then to hang their heads on your walls, so to speak, would give you greater respect in the eyes of men who respect only force."
"Force is not only blood, Francisco. But a good sword would think that way. So be it. We will give you what you need."
"I need, your Majesty, to identify two men," said Francisco. He unsnapped the leather folder and presented the pictures to Mr. Caldwell, or His Highness Mr. Caldwell. Braun was not sure which.
Caldwell did not take the pictures, but made Braun hold them up before him.
"I see. What contempt in that face," said Caldwell. "What an arrogant smile. He must have thought very little of the photographer. I would have, too. They are not good pictures."
"What I need to know is where they have learned what they have learned. They have special skills." Braun held the pictures before His Majesty Mr. Caldwell. The extension of the arm pressured the nerves so that the pictures began to tremble. His Majesty Mr. Caldwell took no notice. He stared at the ceiling. Braun glanced there. It was a plain ceiling. His Majesty Mr. Caldwell must be off in his own mind, thought Braun. He lowered the pictures.
Caldwell snapped his fingers. Braun raised the pictures. Caldwell chuckled.
"An amusing idea has occurred to us," said Caldwell, who knew that his idea would not amuse Braun in the least. He lowered his eyes to meet his sword's. "Our good Francisco, do not let what I am about to say trouble you excessively. But in the days of the true monarchs, there was a person who fought the king's battles. He was called the king's champion. He was the best in the land. Our idea, the idea that amuses us, is that these two may wield powers that are greater than yours."
A bolt of anger shot through Francisco Braun. He felt like tearing the pictures away from Caldwell, this imitation king, His Highness of a court that had not existed for centuries, the old Spanish monarchy. But His Majesty Mr. Caldwell was also the richest man he had ever worked for. And up to now he had not been a fool at all.
Francisco Braun replied, with great control in an icy tone:
"All I have told your Highness is that the two men are not yet dead. But they are in the process of dying. Your sword begged his crown only to assist that process, to help establish your power in the eyes of those who would destroy you."
"Well spoken, good Francisco," said Caldwell. "We will arrange everything." With a slight beckoning motion he moved a single finger. A secretary clippety-clipped along the polished marble floors. Braun felt her come up behind him. She kissed Caldwell's feet and took the pictures.
"We will speak to y
ou about those later," said Caldwell. The young woman nodded. Apparently she wasn't even allowed to speak to Caldwell. Braun had been given that honor.
Then Caldwell's hand came forward. Braun knew exactly what his liege wanted. He took a deep breath, kissed the ring, and backed toward the door. Before he left, an aide handed him a heavy briefcase and an address a few blocks away from Wall Street.
It was the gold exchange. He was carrying at least forty pounds of gold. Was he a delivery boy now? Was Caldwell demoting him to that? He delivered the gold to the exchange, and inside, with suppressed anger, he took bar after bar of gold out of the briefcase and slammed it on the counter.
A bespectacled old man in a vest weighed each bar, chuckling.
"Caldwell gold. A good family. Always liked dealing with the Caldwells. Real bullionists, if you know what I mean."
"Of course I don't," said Francisco. "What is a real bullionist?"
"Well, you have people who get into gold just for profit, and then you have the real old houses."
"Really. How old are the Caldwells?"
"Before the founding of America," said the old man. He took another bar to the assayer's scale. Braun looked around the room with a mild contempt. The building was heavily buttressed with steel that no one had bothered to polish for decades and a mustiness had settled on the whole place. The scale itself was old and battered, and the pans that hung from the balance bar were warped and bent. Yet if one put an exact weight on one side, one could be as sure as gravity that when the other side balanced, the weights were precisely equal.
That removed the remotest possibility of cheating. "It's a pleasure to deal with the Caldwells," said the old man. "They know their gold. You see the Caldwell crest, you know you are not dealing with someone trying to skim a few ounces on a ton. The crest means a lot. It's an old crest, an old forge that one is."
Braun looked at his watch. He made this obvious, so the old coot would not babble on. But the man stopped only until Braun looked at him.
"See this crest," said the old man, pointing to an apothecary jar and a sword stamped into the gold itself. "At least twenty times today," said Braun.
"That apothecary jar is the symbol for pharmacists now, but it used to be for alchemists. Do you know what an alchemist is, young man?"
"No," said Braun. He looked at the remaining bars in the bag. There were three more to be weighed. He sighed. So the money was good. So Caldwell had been extremely shrewd. Did this make up for kissing rings and delivering parcels?
"The word 'alchemist' is the root of our modern word 'chemist,' " said the old man. "It comes from the Egyptian, 'al hemist.' "
"Fantastic. I wonder if you might be able to tell me all these wonderful things about alchemists while you continue weighing the gold?"
The old man chuckled, but he did move. "Alchemists could do everything. And did everything. Cures, potions, everything. They were so valuable that every court in Europe had one. But they got ruined. You know why?"
"Yes," said Braun. "Weigh the damned gold."
"Right. Gold. They claimed they could make gold from lead. Got them the reputation of being phonies. Soon people wouldn't hire them because they were leery of the hoodoo. You know, hocus-pocus."
"Weigh the gold," said Braun.
"And the alchemists just died off like an extinct species. But here is the strange part, and it has something to do with this crest here. Ain't a forge mark. I know forge marks."
If it is getting this bad to work for Caldwell, thought Braun, maybe it will get worse. Maybe Caldwell has a disease of the brain.
"There's those in gold today who think maybe the old alchemists really did turn lead to gold, although there's no scientific proof for it."
"Did they do it while they weighed the gold?"
"Oh, yeah, okay," said the old man, hoisting a gold bar to the empty side of the balance. The weight used as a counterbalance was made of chrome, its surface polished to perfection. If any scratches had been added to take off weight, they would show immediately.
"Well, there was this legend about the philosopher's stone. The legend was that that one stone was the secret to turning lead into gold, and it was passed along as a sort of formula. Mix lead, the stone, and some other hocus-pocus and you've got it. Presto. But, of course modern chemists proved that no stone would ever cause that kind of chemical change. Can't be done by adding any kind of a single stone."
Braun watched the bar measure the perfect troy pound.
"But you know what some people now believe that stone was? Not a secret ingredient you added to the lead, but the keeper of the secret ingredient necessary to make gold. The alchemists wouldn't put their formula to paper because paper is something that's easy to carry off. They'd only inscribe it on something so heavy that it couldn't be stolen. Like a stone-the philosopher's stone. And for all we know, that formula could have been twenty-four-karat real. I guess I am just a boring old man, eh?"
"To know thyself," said Braun, "is a virtue."
"That's why this Caldwell crest is interesting, because it has got the mark of the sword. Do you know what the sword means? It means that for some reason they were cut off from alchemy. They could have cut the ties themselves or some king might have done it for them. Who knows?"
"I know," said Braun. "I know that I do not care. Send the receipt to Mr. Caldwell. Thank you, good-bye."
"Wait a minute. It isn't his receipt," said the old man, who had worked at the gold exchange more years than anyone wanted to count. "This isn't Caldwell's gold. It's only minted by the Caldwells. It belongs to you. Mr. Caldwell has set up an account for you here at the gold exchange."
"You mean all of that is mine?"
"Absolutely. As good as gold."
"Ah," said Braun, who suddenly was most interested in the Caldwells, a fine old house among many fine old houses. The Caldwells had been dealing in gold in New York since it was called New Amsterdam, said the old man, and Francisco Braun told him to take his time and not leave out any of the details about these wonderful people.
Harrison Caldwell left his throne and allowed his new manservant to dress him in a dark business suit. He put on a neat striped tie and removed the large ring. Polished black shoes replaced the slippers that had been kissed repeatedly that day.
He could have assigned this task coming upon him now to an underling. But he knew that there were some things one assigned and some one did not. One never allowed someone else to be one's alchemist, nor did one allow someone else to be one's foreign minister. Of course, he was not a country yet, but what was Saudi Arabia but a family? A very rich one.
All he needed was some land. That would be easy. Because he was who he was, Harrison Caldwell knew what money could buy. Also because he was who he was, Caldwell understood clearly why no minister or alchemist could be trusted to help him fulfill his destiny. The Spanish throne had trusted, and the story of that transgression was much more than just history to Harrison Caldwell. It was his history.
It had almost worked. The minister had been the sword of the king. The alchemist could make gold. Unfortunately, the alchemist's feat was so expensive that it defeated its own purpose-getting the substance known as owl's teeth was so costly that to make one gold coin would cost three.
"Does the king know you can do that?" the minister asked.
"No. Not the king. I only showed it to you because you saved my daughter."
"Why not the king? He is our lord," said the minister. "Because when the kings know you can make some gold, they always want more. And that has gotten many alchemists killed. You see, kings think they can find owl's teeth. But they can't. And then they insist you use something else, and then, of course, you die."
"What if I told you that if you will make a few coins for our king, I can make sure you will never be harmed?"
"In our lore you can find many accounts of kings who have promised that, but none who has kept it. Kings just do not know their own limits."
"What if I t
old you I would set those limits? If you make me a few coins for the king, I will make you rich and assure you no king will ever ask you to do what you cannot do."
"How can you assure me that?"
"I will be king," said the king's minister. "I will use his greed to take his throne."
"No. Don't you see? My life is in danger already. Lords are forgiven by other lords, but alchemists are killed like useless dogs when they've fulfilled their purpose."
"I will marry your daughter. Is that enough proof? She will be my queen. Would a king kill his father-in-law? You will be noble too."
"It is a great risk."
"Life is risk," said the minister. "But your daughter could be queen."
"Marry her first," said the alchemist.
"Done," said the minister.
What happened then would be passed throughout the ages from each Caldwell family elder to each Caldwell son.
Harrison Caldwell remembered his father telling him the story in their bullionist's shop late one night on his thirteenth birthday when everyone else was gone. His father had been teaching him gold, and he was old enough, his father said, to understand where the family came from.
The minister married the alchemist's daughter and they produced a son. Upon the birth of that child, the alchemist made a purchase, investing in the very expensive ingredient that was so rare it took three years to find and five times the amount of gold it could make to buy. But buy it they did, from a place deep within the land where the Negro lived, the land now known as Africa.
And before the king's eyes, Harrison Caldwell's ancestor made the gold from lead. The king was so impressed he wanted to see more. And this time, the special alchemist's ingredient cost only four times what the gold was worth. And the alchemist found the source within one year.
The king was sure he saw a pattern. The secret alchemist's ingredient cost five times gold at first and took three years to get. The second batch cost four times as much and took only one year to get. Eventually, like all commodities that start out expensive in their acquisition, the more one bought, the less it would cost. So thought the king who looked forward to the day that the price of owl's teeth became much less than that of gold itself.
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