by J M Bannon
Ultimately, the guild became competent in prophecy through its research of the Oraculum and other works of antiquity. It was during a séance that the guild seers traced a thread of the future where Napoleon took Moscow but lost his army, not through conflict with the Russian Empire but by the savagery of the weather and desolate land conditions. The Grand Army never left Poland, held back by Bonaparte’s obeying the warning of his spiritual advisor and confirmation by his own divination from the Oraculum. From that point, the fates of the necronists, France and Napoleon Bonaparte were inextricably linked.
Gerard was snapped out of his daydreaming by the appearance of Emperor Napoleon’s entourage arriving at the necronist guild house. He was still depleted from Angelica’s assault, but his presence was required when the dictator came to visit. The special detail of imperial guardsman rode on horseback, entering the courtyard then taking position to protect the area. The rest of the guard deployed around the perimeter of the necronist campus. Two steam carriages entered the gates of the campus. The first carried Dr. Phila, Gold Seer, Napoleon’s personal surgeon.
The second car, an imperial carriage, pulled up in front of the large double-doored entrance to the guild house. An imperial guard stood waiting at the ready and opened the door for the Emperor of France, who in the next year would celebrate his ninetieth birthday.
Dr. Phila made haste to reach the entrance before the Emperor exited his car to speak to his brethren. “Master Crocus, why wasn’t I given more notice? I appear a fool to his majesty as I have no reason to insist he receive another treatment so soon.”
High Guild Master Crocus was in the courtyard along with his assistants to meet the Emperor.
“Saint-Yves has made an impressive acquisition, and we decided it would please his Highness to receive this new medium directly,” Crocus instructed under his breath.
Napoleon stepped up to the wyrding of necronists.
“How well you look, Your Majesty,” crooned Crocus.
“Sebastian,” acknowledged the Emperor. The two men looked at each other with genuine affection and exchanged a handshake that was almost a hug. No one else had this relationship with the sovereign of France. A cursory observer would guess that Sebastian was twenty years the senior to the Emperor, yet he was ten years younger. Crocus was prudent in his use of revitalization. He did not fear death like his monarch did.
The assembly made their way through the verdant garden. The blossoms were in full bloom. A placid summer day, it was a serene yet contrasting scene: the pleasant trickling of the fountain maintained by necronist novices dressed in black cloaks appeared to be in mourning of a loved one, not gardening. The inner forum served as a transition from the outside to the interior of the administration building among remnants from the medieval hospital built by the Church. Savants and followers of the most powerful guild in France lingered at the entrance. The huge doors were open, letting the warm summer air mix with the cool interior atmosphere of the stone building. The large cast iron doors were covered in vignettes of the cult’s history. The party’s pace was deliberate, traveling through the solemn gothic hallways to the verticulator that led to the sub-levels.
Few were admitted beyond the entrance to the Cenaculum Mortale Rejuvination, the chamber of mortal rejuvenation. It was the crowning achievement of the necronists, where life could be extended and living tissue regenerated. The elite savants of necronist arts, known as the white wyrding under the leadership of Guild Master Hume, conducted research into the world of metaphysics and improved techniques to tap into and control spiritual energy.
Gerard was toward the rear of the retinue as they entered the ante-chamber. The guild had gone to considerable effort to represent the space as Egyptian to remind the Emperor of the expedition to Egypt that cemented the alliance between Napoleon and Crocus. Gerard knew better than anyone it was what Hume, and he and what they had studied in Haiti; that had provided the breakthroughs in divine energy transmission, not Egyptian tablets. What his dead paramour could manage with sticks and her incantations, the guild had industrialized to make the process reproducible by those that had limited spiritual talent, like Crocus and others.
Here the King’s personal bodyguards took a position as sentries on either side of the double metal doors within the ante-chamber. They followed every movement of their liege with exception to his study and sleeping quarters and beyond this point at the guild house.
Inscribed above a small narrow archway that was the entrance to the most sacred space of the necronist guild was:
Through Death, I am Humiliated
Through Death, I am Exalted
The enclave moved through a narrow passage that compelled the company to move through in single file. Great effort had been made to leave an entrant with the claustrophobic quality of delving into an ancient mausoleum. This was another place where French imperial protocols were ignored. Crocus led the group into the chamber rather than everyone walking behind the Emperor. The inner chamber was simply constructed, a large pyramid-shaped vault of stone, with walls covered with carved inscriptions. Centered in the room on a raised dais were the Conoptic vessel, the tub where a subject was treated, and an ornate cantilevered armature that upheld the lid of the tub. Both the tub and its cap were sculpted out of alabaster.
Purposely hidden beneath the vessel were the piping, tubes and conduits that connected the tub to the complex process one level below. There beneath the tub was the machinery that powered the chamber. The necronists brought a scientific and industrial approach to the manipulation of supernatural forces but went to great lengths to hide the appliances to create mystery and to leave the Emperor with the illusion it was the guild masters themselves that imbued him with life-force.
Saint-Yves and the other guild masters took their positions around the tub. Only these few Masters and Dr. Philas understood the extent of the treatments and how dependent the Emperor had become on this secret process to his lively state at such an advanced age.
No one spoke until the Emperor started conversation. It was important to leave the King with an impression that the guild masters were subordinate and humbled in his presence.
“What happened to you guild master? An experiment gone awry?” questioned Napoleon, grinning at Gerard.
“My Emperor, this scourge was inflicted upon me while in service to you, my liege, and to the guild. It is a small price to pay to secure the medium we will use for today’s therapy,” replied Saint-Yves.
Crocus interceded. “My Emperor and dear friend, Guild Master Saint-Yves has made extensive sacrifices and was in mortal danger to secure this special spiritual medium to infuse into the healing bath, and your interceding on our behalf with the British government helped to secure his safety and assure we have the full complement of masters to conduct the infusion.” Crocus was more carnival huckster now that a metaphysical savant prepared to say just about anything to build illusion in the monarch’s mind.
“Your service to the empire has always been exemplary, Guild Master, and I hope that your brethren will provide you a similar treatment to reverse your unfortunate state. As to the English, you can be assured that your personal protection is a priority of the empire,” stated Bonaparte as he removed his sash and sword.
“Thank you, Your Majesty, for my safe passage back from London, and soon, I too will have this mortal damage repaired,” replied Gerard, wondering if the Corsican even could remember Gerard’s name. Crocus and the other masters had gone to great extent to leave Napoleon with the impression that his treatments required a full complement of guild masters. He might just think of us as important tools to extend his life.
“Excellent. All will be right for you and I soon enough,” said Napoleon. “I was wondering why you called for a treatment outside of the usual schedule.” The Emperor’s traditional treatments took place every three months.
Dr. Philas helped Napoleon out of his uniform, placing the items on a portable suit valet. The physician, a high-level necron
ist, was reduced to the duties of valet as he unbuttoned the Emperor’s shirt.
“Saint-Yves, I appreciate all you have done for the empire. You sure you shouldn’t take some time in the chamber first?” recommended Napoleon. Gerard was pleasantly surprised that the King remembered his name and offered to wait.
He had a different plan for his treatment. He touched the ampule in his coat. “Thank you, Your Grace, but the rejuvenation of a guild master is a different process and takes preparation,” replied Gerard.
Crocus shot Gerrard a sly smile of approval for his comment. I too can be a huckster, and the ringmaster approves.
The self-coronated Emperor of France used the wooden steps near the conoptic tub to reach the edge of the huge stone vessel and lower himself into the ichor. “Can one of you discover a less foul and cold substance to be immersed in?” The King made a face of disgust as he limped into the viscous pool.
“We are constantly researching improvements, Your Majesty,” replied Dr. Philas.
The High Guild Master used the cantilevered arm to lower the massive lid of the tub into place. The other guild masters secured the seal of the tub. “All is in place” relayed Guild Master Hume, the Chamber Master. The entourage left the interior chamber once they were sure Napoleon was sequestered. Dr. Philas rolled out the Emperor’s clothes, and Hume removed the steps, leaving the chamber empty but for the diminutive man in the tub. All the masters exited through a secret passage that led to stairs to the mechanical level. At the end of the treatment, the guild masters would approach the chamber through the antechamber, leaving the bodyguards wondering how the seers exited.
Hume signaled for the treatment to begin as the other guild masters left to fulfill other duties In the case of Gerrard, he had an interest in seeing how Hume had adapted the process to transfer the contents of Angelica’s orb.
He followed Hume through the walkways that passed between the large pieces of equipment and had a seat by the main control station. He was easily tired in his current state.
The mechanical level was a hive of activity, looking more like the boiler room of a steamship than a spiritual sanctum. Lower order necronists of the White Wyrding monitored the equipment, worked the valves, adjusted the gas levels, read gauges and scurried to double check the various subsystems that made up the rejuvenation process.
“So, Hume, how did you deal with the material not coming in an ampule?” asked Gerard.
“I must agree with the man in the tub. You should get treated immediately,” said Hume.
“After him, you can treat me.”
“How bad is it?” asked Hume.
“Do you remember when Lafayette had poisoned us all with the soul worm and how bad you felt just before Huey returned and we were given the antidote?”
“Oh yes, all my bones hurt, and I was filled with such a fear because I felt my spirit waste away…”
“Well, it’s like that again, but worse because I’m older with less constitution. I never thought I would live this long to feel this bad again.” Gerard laughed at himself.
“Why didn’t you have me go? I didn’t have the same emotional connection the two of you had. It had to be horrible to see,” said Gerard’s friend.
“It was a complete, fucking failure, Arno, tragic. Just as I thought I was getting through to her, or at least felt we could keep talking, that nitwit Englishman comes through a wall like he is Merlin the Magnificent. Oh, the look on his face when she cast this illusion, and he realized he had lost concentration. I will never forget it. You should have seen her, Arno. She was ten times the Hougan Lafayette was. No entourage to augment her power, just her. Hell, she even summoned the old witch doctor to scourge my life force. I have spent my whole life with a hole in my heart because we were apart but always had the hope of seeing her again to offset it. Now that is gone.”
Hume looked at Gerard for a few moments as if he was going to say something then he patted Gerard on his shoulder. “I can’t fix that broken heart of yours, but I will prepare a nice bath for you later, guaranteed to take five years off your life. Or in your case, twenty. Look here. This is our traditional transfer chamber.” He pointed at a metal chamber with a glass door. It looked sturdy and industrial.
Gerard was familiar with the design.
“Our ampules have metal contactors to allow a current to pass through the ampule and conduct the spiritual essence into the machine. The contacts slip into the four electrodes you see there. Of course, the orb does not have contacts, so we need to crack it open then conduct current through it without allowing the spirit to escape. Now look over here,” said Hume as he pointed at a heavy bronze sphere with a large glass portal. It looked like a deep sea diver’s helmet. “I crafted a special chamber with a holder for the orb. See how it holds the orb?”
Gerard looked and observed through the portal inside the bronze sphere. The glass orb was held in a set of prongs suspending it in the center. Within the glass, the swirling smoke could be seen.
“I throw this switch, and we now bypass the conductor through this chamber.” Hume patted the bronze sphere. “To get the spirit essence into et viventem perpetua, the machine of everlasting life, we need to approximate what is going on inside the ampule’s soul serum. To do this, I will now pump a gaseous coagulation agent. This gives the immaterial spirit something to cling to in the material world." He turned a faucet handle and pressed a button, and a pump reciprocated, pushing a pinkish fume into the chamber. “Gerard, go lie down. You look like you might keel over from the boredom of this technical session."
“No, please continue. This is a once in a lifetime treatment. I want to see how you are doing it," replied Gerard. He was not bored, just tired.
Hume pushed a button, causing green lights around the floor to signal the others to man their stations. “I begin now.” Hume smiled. “This reminds me of the early days when we first began experimenting,” said Hume.
The hall filled with the thrum of dynamos and the calls of men as they read off the variables from gauges and levels. Pumps started to recirculate the ichor.
“The electrodes will be pressed into the orb, causing it to crack and mixing the aether gas and spirit. After an initial reaction, the electrodes will have current applied and conduct the medium into the chamber.” Hume watched the pinkish mist of the aether gas through the thick glass portal. He hand-operated a micrometer that slowly pressed the electrode prongs against the orb surface. Then he peered in to see when cracks appeared in the glass. With a sudden pop, the orb shattered instantly, starting the reaction. Hume lunged to the initiation button as fast as he could. His palm slammed down on the button. Current coursed through the viewing chamber, and the spirit form coagulated then caught on the current running from bottom to top.
“See how the essence caught on the current then was pulled up and out of the chamber?” Hume asked.
“I didn’t. You blocked the view to the window. Hume, what do you think the punishment is for conducting untried experiments on the Emperor?” asked Gerard.
“I am not sure, but I would beg for leniency on Crocus’ behalf,” said Hume as he isolated the gas to the chamber and waited for it to clear. The spirit energy was induced into the ichor recirculation loop that flowed through the tub and would be absorbed by the Emperor. The guild master signaled to shut down the current and the dynamo system. He opened his pocket watch and squinted to make out the numbers on the watch face in the dim gaslight. “Gerard, he will need to soak for an hour then figure an hour to prepare your treatment. Why don’t you have a rest in your office until then?”
Saint-Yves couldn’t argue with the advice from his friend.
* * *
1:00 PM, Chilton House, City of London
“What’s this, I hear? Strathmore is designated the trustee on the Moya trust?” barked Oscar Owens as he stormed into Lester Chilton’s office unannounced, without even a cursory knock at the door.
Lester looked up from the documents he was reviewing,
“Yes, Oscar. The wills of both Emilio and Hernando Moya were explicit that all the bequests and their estates were to be entrusted to Mr. Strathmore and managed in the New York office.”
“There must be something awry with the documents. Have you advised our solicitors to review them?” huffed Owens.
“Why are you so upset about this?” asked Chilton.
“The Moya family have been long-standing clients and managed by this office for decades. Lester, they were your father’s client, for God’s sake. Why are we losing them?” Owens fired on his younger partner.
Lester stood up and leaned over his desk. “Owens, we’re not losing them. They are transferring to our office in America. It’s natural they be managed from that part of the world. Most of the holdings are over there.” Owens was surprised by the heat in the tone of Chilton’s voice. “Oscar, I want this whole affair with the Moyas behind us. If we were to take issue with the currently drawn documents, the trust could be put into question by half the people in Portugal looking to grab a share of the fortune. We would watch the estate dwindle and spend our days in court with every frivolous claim. Let it go quietly to New York.”
“This is how it starts, Lester. They take our clients then one day London is reporting to America.”
“And your name will still be on the door, collecting a partner share of the profits, including the fees charged to the Moya estate under Strathmore’s supervision.”
“Lester, I am not done with this matter.” Owens had no argument. Chilton was correct. It was best to not stir the pot. “I have a client waiting, but I would like you to think about what I have said.” He closed the door on his way out of Lester’s office.