Master of the five Magics m-1

by Lyndon Hardy

  "As before," Alodar croaked, struggling to rise on quivering legs. "Let us go at it again."

  Cedric dropped his staff and stood a long time in silence. At last he said, "You are either addlepated or burn with desire, my lad. What indeed pushes you so?"

  Alodar managed to pull himself erect and return the older man's stare. "I wish to prove myself worthy," he said. "Lord Feston spoke highly of the value of your teaching and his reputation at arms is great."

  "Sweetbalm for reputations. More come from circumstances than from merit. Ambrosia is babbling even now about how this Feston, one of my former lordlings, bettered fifteen men on the walls of Iron Fist. Fifteen men surely all like yourself. Yanked from some town or field, dressed in leather and told that they were now warriors. Why, with any training at all, one could hack away among the likes until his arm grew tired, with no threat upon his own person. But true skill in arms is not measured by such petty reputation. It is by trial in which yours is not the only sword that bites deep. And such skill is achieved at no little cost. Can what you seek be worth the agony of this morning and the days to follow?"

  "Yes," Alodar answered simply, holding fists tight against his sides, determined not to collapse until the interview was over.

  "Valdo, tend his wounds with sweetbalm." Cedric turned suddenly and beckoned to the servant still at the gate. "And fit him sparring gear for the morrow."

  "Sparring gear?" Alodar asked. "For tomorrow?"

  "Yes," Cedric said. "My pupils need practice against the lesser skilled order to build confidence and polish their technique. They would never dream of testing themselves against one another, and you can serve their needs admirably. And if you watch while I instruct, you may learn enough to fend against them. Can your determination take day after full day of that?"

  "It can," Alodar said. "It will have to."

  Cedric gave Alodar one last look. "A hero and a fool," he muttered and walked out of the courtyard.

  CHAPTER SIX

  Luck of the Potionmakers

  ALODAR pushed the cork into the last flask and sat down on the small stool beside the workbench. He shook his head to clear the numbness and looked through fatigued eyes at the two rows of transparent liquid that barely covered the bottoms of their containers. Only sixty-three, he thought, sixty-three small flasks to represent the results of over five months of labor.

  Saxton placed a fleshy palm on Alodar's shoulder and rose on his tiptoes in a back arching stretch. "Well done, my lad," he yawned. "You have been an apt pupil and we have accomplished much. Four steps completed and six more to try. If all the rest go right half of the time, then we have about three chances in four of producing the ointment. And with fewer repetitions to run at each stage, we will progress all the more swiftly."

  "From such speed we can well benefit," Alodar said. "The monotony of repetition bothers me less than the time remaining before we must make good the loan from Basil."

  "There is an additional matter for concern," Saxton said. "I have traded what useful stock I could for ingredients to get this far but can continue in the same manner no longer. The sixth step requires peat tar dug in darkness and Basil virtually monopolizes the entire supply. Either we deal with him or attempt instead to use a substitute."

  "I would rather not give him further claim upon our futures when we have come this far on our own," Alodar said.

  "Nor would I," Saxton replied. "I have escaped the snare in which he has entrapped others by bartering but modestly and then only when I had no other choice."

  He stopped and ran his hand over his head, his eyes frowning in thought. "And by the laws," he said, "we may as well try. There is more danger if we substitute in a formula this potent, but if we do not, we increase our risk as well. Let us look in the almanac and see what signatures must be provided."

  Saxton reached up on the shelf and pulled down one of a matched set of volumes placed in a neat line amid his jumble of assorted grimoires.

  "Yes, peat tar, here it is," he said. " 'Thick, sticky black liquid with pungent odor.' Well, the thickness and stickiness are well enough understood. Almost all of the more complex formulas that have many diverse ingredients need some substance to bind them together. The other properties are a little more ambiguous, depending upon the final objective. For transfigurations, black provides the animal's coat, for invisibility, the quenching of light, and so on. Ah, this is the entry. For heat-shielding, black gives the dissipativeness of empty space. Let us see, for the pungent odor there are likewise many interpretations but they all seem to deal with repulsion. In our case, yes, here it is. For shielding ointments, the odor repels heat."

  Saxton slammed the book shut and replaced it on the shelf. He closed his eyes, folded his arms across his chest and rocked back and forth on his heels.

  "Sap from the maple tree," he said at last. "I have some here. And if somehow we could use the powder of distaste with it, the signature should be close enough to work."

  "You have the powder as well," Alodar said. "I came across it while looking for more of the syrup of narcissus."

  "But as you said, we can ill afford the labor," Saxton replied. "The powder binds but poorly with any other substance. It would float on the surface of the maple sap like oil on water. We would have to force each gram into the liquid one at a time and hold it there until it was soaked through and would stay. And for each of our flasks we need hundreds of grains. Your task with the spider eyes was a small effort by comparison."

  "Does the soaking require an activation," Alodar said, "or merely the effort to bring it about?"

  "There would be no alchemy in the preparation," Saxton said. "That would follow when we had the peat tar substitute ready for use."

  "Then I have the solution," Alodar said excitedly. "What you describe is but a perfect application of thaumaturgy. We can hold one grain in a bead of sap and, with a simple spellbinding, the others will follow."

  Saxton wrinkled his nose and frowned. "I have no need for another craft," he said, "and certainly not for another craftsman. Besides no thaumaturge would accept an invitation to my shop even if I were to extend one."

  "I can do what has to be done," Alodar said. "Let us pour out the sap and I will show you."

  Saxton looked at Alodar a long time, then shrugged his shoulders and pointed to one of the shelves. Alodar slid off the stool and retrieved a glazed jug with a stopper crusted with mold and hardened streams of sap running down the sides like candlewax about a bottle. He decanted a generous amount into a large shallow pan and, sucking on a glass tube, extracted a droplet to place in a vial nearby. He found the powder of distaste and grabbed a pinch between thumb and forefinger. Like a cook spicing a stew, he sprinked the dark black powder over the open dish. Then, with a pair of tongs, he extracted a final grain from the small square tin.

  He looked at the anthanor flame burning nearby and spoke the words he had not used for the long months he had labored at his new craft. Then, with a sudden motion, he plunged the tongs into the vial and turned to watch the surface of the pan. The powder disappeared from view, sinking into the darkness of the sap and leaving sluggish ripples in its wake.

  Saxton crept closer, his squinting frown replaced by eyes wide with curiosity. He looked at the uncluttered surface of the liquid in the pan and then to the tongs in the vial. "The quarter part of an hour should be enough," he said quietly as he studied the mixture.

  Some time later, Alodar released the connection and pulled the empty forceps from the small vial. The grains of powder remained where they were, floating in suspension. "We are ready with the substitute peat tar," ha said with a smile.

  Saxton grunted at Alodar's success and motioned him aside. He picked up the first of the stoppered flasks and carried it across the room to a ring above a small smoking flame. The soot immediately began to blacken the bottom of the glassware and send wisps of carbon up the sides. Saxton removed the cork and added to the clear solution some of the impregnated sap, using a large bul
bed pipette. Then as he watched the liquid simmer, he began to copy a parchment scrap onto clean paper.

  "By the signatures, why must the good formulas all be such a bother?" he wondered. "Ten steps in this one, each with no more than an even chance of proceeding correctly. Ten steps, by the laws. One thousand setups for the first, so we get about five hundred successes. Five hundred successes so we can have step two go right in about two hundred and fifty. Here we are at the fifth and must try it no less than the full sixty-three times just so we have two chances of having the final activation succeed. Were the stakes not so high, I would be tempted to make one lot and be done with it. Would that these formulas could be multiplied as are those of a cook without a corresponding decrease in their potency."

  Before Alodar could reply, Saxton had completed all but the final symbol and raised his pen-hand high. All was ready, and Alodar tensed as the quill descended to the paper.

  The room suddenly exploded in light, and Alodar's eyes pulsed with pain. He blinked once and then twice more. All was strangely dark except for a dull glow in the direction of the flask, which remained even when his lids were closed. Saxton lurched against him, and both fell to the floor in a crash of splintering boxes and the tinkle of broken glass.

  "Hellfire," Saxton coughed. "We have to get out."

  Alodar opened his mouth to reply but quickly shut it again, gagging on a thick, stinging vapor which burned the linings of his throat. He raised one hand to cover his nose and felt a trickle of fresh blood on his palm. He stood upright, crunching glass, and flailed blindly with his free hand until he found Saxton's arm. The doorway should be behind them. As he pulled the alchemist to his feet, he began to grope towards the exit.

  More glass clattered as they staggered together, stumbling against the gear scattered about the floor. Alodar banged his shins against a heavy iron bar across their path and fell to his knees. He rose and limped forward, free hand in front reaching for a familiar object. He took three more steps and then stopped, feeling the blank wall that separated the workroom from the front of the shop. He reached back, placed Saxton's hand on his shoulder, and began inching to the doorway on the right. His lips started to quiver behind his guarding hand and be fought to hold back the growing demand for air.

  Each cautious blind step seemed to be his last, but he pushed on for another until be felt the jamb of the door. He could hold breath no longer and bolted into the front room, ricocheting into the walkway beside the counter. Saxton scurried behind, and together they crashed forward, ripping the latch from its guide, and out into the street,

  Alodar stumbled for the last time and sprawled on the sidewalk planking. He took a tentative breath; although it was tainted with the smell from the workroom, it filled his lungs with air. He rolled over and looked at the sky. The dull glow was still there, but fainter now, and the dim outline of the moon began to form beside it. He turned to his side and deduced that the mass beside him must be Saxton, painting rapidly, but alive as well.

  "Cut short your stay at Cedric's tomorrow," the alchemist rasped. "We will journey to the apothecary and barter for what we need. So Basil has all the supply of peat tar. It is well worth whatever price."

  Alodar ducked behind his shield and the padded club whizzed over his head. Unarmed grappling, staves, broadsword and shield, and now the mace, he thought. The months of monotonous execution of the first steps of the formula had given him time to observe Cedric well. Well enough that Alodar was beginning to be a true match for Dartilon and the others like him.

  His opponent staggered as he halted the rush of his missed blow, and Alodar seized the opportunity to strike. He thrust his shield diagonally across his body, blocking Dartilon's arm at the top of its backswing. Reaching out with his own mace, he swung it in a wide arc, catching the young lord squarely on the back of his unprotected head. Dartilon sagged to the ground, momentarily dazed by the blow.

  "Enough," he said weakly. "I am tired from the festivities at my father's manor last night. Enough for today. When I am fully awake and fresh, we shall see who can better handle the club."

  Alodar said nothing as Dartilon rose and retired to the dressing quarters. His left arm ached from holding the heavy shield through three successive combats, but he did not mind the discomfort,

  "Well enough, Alodar," Cedric's voice rasped behind him. "Rest a bit in the shade of the courtyard wall. You will find progress faster if you do not try to master it all in a single day."

  "I think I can make it worthwhile for another match," Alodar said as he turned and saw Cedric heading for the shadow. "And I do not rest easy so long as there is more to learn."

  Cedric sat down on a small bench pushed against the vine-covered wall. "And when you have learned all that I have to teach you, what then do you expect?"

  "As I have said, warmaster," Alodar replied, "the respect which is my due."

  Cedric pulled his lips into a tight line and slowly shook his head. "Come," he said, "there is no one else to instruct for the next hour. But there is more that I can teach you than the crash of the mace."

  Alodar dropped the shield and joined Cedric on the bench. He looked the older man in the face and raised an eyebrow expectantly.

  "I was lowly born," Cedric said, "and sought the glory of the sagas with my sword. Long hours and numbing pain I endured perfecting my craft. Fatigue and aching soreness were my only companions. I have seen few in my lifetime whose dedication matched that of my youth."

  Cedric stopped and his lips curved into a slight smile as he looked at Alodar setting beside him. "But no matter for dedication and training," he said at last. "The border wars of Vendora's father provided many opportunities for me to show my mettle, and by luck, skill, and reckless abandon I made my name known throughout Procolon and the neighboring kingdoms. From warrior, sergeant, captain, to commander I increased my glory fighting thirty years for the king, and when I thought I had enough to compel the respect from any man, be he lord or no, I came finally to the royal courts of Ambrosia."

  Cedric threw back his head and closed his eyes. "I remember it well," he said. "A courteous audience, a gold medallion, a flush of balls and parties, and then, when the novelty of my presence faded, the postern gate. Retired with honor so the proclamation said, but not so much that I could pound a lord on the back or join him in a cup of wine. The craftsmen of the street might sing my praises, but so long as I was not a part of the faction with the ear of the king, then it did not matter.

  "I became a bodyguard of a minor noble and observed from his retinue the workings of the court. I saw the whispered conversations, the hints of special knowledge, the alliances, the coercions, the allegiances that shifted with each interpretation of the actions of the king. It took me some while to understand the rules of the games at court, and once I learned I did not care to play. Better they pay me soft gold for their son's instruction than I pay them for an occasional bow or polite greeting.

  "You speak of respect, and I tell you it is not for deeds but for influence. Have the favor of the ruler or the conviction of others that you do, and respect will follow. And no feat of arms, regardless how closely it resembles a tale from the sagas, will have the value of a simple bribe to an appointment herald of some high placed noble."

  "It is not only by arms that I plan my assault," Alodar said. "I intend to use the result of Saxton's alchemy as well."

  Cedric pushed Alodar's words aside with a wave of his arm. "How can that serve any better?" he said. "Practice at arms at least returns with increased skill the investment of time you give to it. Random dabbling on the Street might yield nothing at all."

  "Of the five arts, alchemy is indeed unique in its uncertainty," Alodar admitted. "Using exactly the same ingredients in the same formulas does not necessarily produce identical results. The next to final step for nerve elixir, for example, produces ball lightning instead four times out often."

  "Unpredictable outcomes that make useless such experimentation," Cedric rasped.

/>   "No, they are indeed related," Alodar replied. "With nerve elixir, we stabilize our erratic impulses to fly and jerk uncontrollably in just the same way the crackling forces of the ball lightning are aligned and held in check. And although the chance outcome inhibits methodical investigation, the fundamental doctrine of alchemy does give some indication on how to proceed."

  "And what is that?" Cedric asked.

  "The doctrine of signatures," Alodar said, warming to the task of displaying his new-found knowledge. "Or as it is simply stated: 'the attributes without mirror the powers within.' Beeswax is an obvious choice for use in a formula that transmutes lead to gold. Its ability to polish helps to create the metallic sheen of the final product. Vulture feathers play a role in the production of rugs of levitation and so on."

  "If it is so clear then," Cedric persisted, "why all of this talk of trade secrets, new formulas, and profit margins?"

  "It is true that if cost and time were not factors, an alchemist could devise a formula to produce almost any product desired, a powder of immobilization, an amulet of unbounded luck, or an ointment of true invisibility. Indeed the alchemist's logo is a triangle impossibly balanced on a single point to show how the laws which govern thaumaturgy are easily transcended. To work his craft, he would consult his almanacs of the properties and brew together the right combination of powers to achieve the effect. But, alas, nature works in perverse ways. The more potent the product, the longer the progress must be, and the smaller is the chance of a successful outcome. The experimentation of alchemy is that of finding the shortcut, the formula with fewer steps, cheaper ingredients and a higher chance of producing the result. A grimoire with formulas of high yield is a treasure indeed."

  "Then perhaps I do waste my time toiling with sword and shield," Cedric said. "I would be better off on Honeysuckle Street tearing apart their shops and acquiring these formulas for my own use."

  "I think that a grimoire by itself would do you no great good, warmaster," Alodar replied. "Knowledge of three things is needed to activate a formula successfully, and the grimoire will contain only two: the ingredients, and how to prepare and mix them. It will even describe the complex string of symbols for each step of the formula to be copied fresh for the reaction actually to take place. But what is missing are the additional symbols which must be drawn to activate the ingredients to release their power into the brew. And the symbols of activation are closely guarded by the master alchemist. Though I work closely with Saxton on a product of mutual benefit, he reveals to me only a few of the signs which form the heritage of his craft."