Brimstone

by Skinner, Alan

  Chapter 8

  The Price of a Book

  Chapter 8: The Price of a Book

  ‘You poor thing!’ said Annie for what seemed to be the hundredth time. ‘What wicked men, to try to harm a poor young girl like yerself. You poor thing!’

  Jenny sat in the front room at Fenwick Square, sipping a small cup of brandy. Annie fussed and tsked, doing all she could to soothe the young apprentice. Jenny had stopped trembling a while before, but she needed comfort and reassurance that no one within the walls of Vale could provide – the protection of her father’s strong arms and the absolution of her mother’s kisses. She knew she had not been responsible for Nate’s death. He had brought it upon himself, literally; she also knew that she would be lying dead in the workshop if he had fulfilled his intentions. Yet she couldn’t help but feel that she was somehow responsible. And deeply shaken by the terrible manner of his death.

  Antrobus sat in the chair opposite her. The late-afternoon sun coming in through the grey-tinged windows lit his profile. The contrast of shadow and light emphasised the creases of concentration on his face. He was very disturbed by what had happened. He was prepared for the fact that his life was in danger but it had never occurred to him that he might be putting Jenny at risk. What had happened was his fault. He should have taken her previous attack more seriously. His misjudgement, and his selfish preoccupation with his work, had nearly cost the girl her life.

  She had been discovered sitting on the stone floor of the workroom by a palace porter who had seen Kurt run in panic, and had heard the awful screams of Nate’s agony. The man had been unsure what he would face in the workroom, so he had enlisted several others of the palace staff to help. They had entered the room and started in horror at the disfigured corpse and then stared at the young woman sitting mute, her eyes closed and streaming tears.

  Some of her rescuers wanted to have Jenny arrested. She was a stranger and, worse, she looked strange. The first porter, more astute than his companions, had convinced them to wait and hear her story. He had helped Jenny to her feet and had tried to calm her, though it took some time for her to stop weeping, then she had related what had happened. When they had realised that she was Antrobus’s apprentice, all thoughts of having her arrested had been banished. At her bidding, one had run to the chancellor. He had listened to what had transpired, then had sent one of his staff back with the porter, with the strict instructions to take Jenny straight to Antrobus’s place. The workroom was to be closed, and no one allowed to enter.

  ‘They didn’t say it is what they were looking for,’ Antrobus mused. ‘But what else could it be? How did they know?’

  Jenny knew it wasn’t really a question and she didn’t answer. In any case, she didn’t have an answer, especially since she had no idea what Antrobus was referring to. She watched the alchemist. He seemed to be debating something in his head, then he rose from his chair.

  ‘Come with me, Jenny. I have something to show you,’ Antrobus said.

  Jenny followed him to his study. He lit a lantern, then moved to the fireplace. He reached towards a carved wooden post Jenny hadn’t noticed when she had explored the house. She had seen similar posts in some of the cottages in the villages within Queerwood. It was a witch post, and formed part of the chimney support where the hearth met the fireplace. The design was a pattern of X-shaped crosses, around which were carved hearts, holly leaves and crescents. They were supposed, Jenny knew, not to protect the home from witches but to bring good fortune to the home. She thought it an odd thing to find in the home of her master. Nonetheless, there was, and that master now pressed his index finger and thumb simultaneously on a heart and a holly leaf.

  A hidden door in the alcove to the left of the chimney breast swung open and Antrobus stepped into a small room, barely high enough for him to stand. The room was empty except for a small table against the wall opposite the door. On the table was a thick sheaf of papers, roughly bound into a book, and a roll of parchment tied with a thin leather cord. Antrobus touched – caressed – the book briefly with his fingertips, then picked it up and came back into the study, pushing the door closed.

  He placed the manuscript on the desk. ‘Light those candles and bring that chair over next to mine,’ he said, pointing to the candelabra and a plain wood-backed chair against the wall. Jenny did as he asked. Then he said, ‘May I have the astrolabe?’

  Jenny reached into the bag at her hip and withdrew the instrument. She handed it to Antrobus and he placed it on the desk, then sat in his chair. She settled herself on her chair and looked at her master. He was staring at the astrolabe and Jenny’s gaze joined his.

  Candlelight is different from other light. It breathes and moves, searching for hidden places to illuminate, seeking contours and crevices, adding a weave of light to the patterns it finds. Now, it played with the engraved pattern made by a Moorish scholar hundreds of years ago. The astrolabe, with its curves and circles, its suns and moon and planets, and its precise, tiny markings, was a perfect canvas for the candlelight. Jenny had thought it beautiful before, but in that glow the astrolabe became magically and wondrously breathtaking. The brass was transformed into warm gold; the shapes moved as if the orbs of the sky truly danced in sun-bronzed heavens. For the first time, Jenny saw it not as an instrument of science, but as a mirror; a mirror that reflected not the viewer, but the heart of a greater world, too big, too bright, to be seen with mere eyes. She felt spellbound by the object on the desk.

  Perhaps Antrobus was under the same spell, for when he spoke it was in a voice softer, more subdued than she had heard before.

  ‘I didn’t mean for you to become caught up in this, Jenny. This, I’m sure, is what those men were after. When you showed it to me last night, I could scarcely believe it. I wanted to throw both you and John out so that I could study it and be sure it was what I thought it to be. What I wanted it to be.’ His voice became even softer, yet more intense. ‘What it is.’

  He looked at Jenny and she tore her eyes from the astrolabe to meet his gaze. She could see the amber reflection of the instrument in the black of his eyes. He was exhilarated but he was also ... sad. Behind the golden glow, she could see loss, or perhaps regret.

  ‘It was hard to give it back to you, but I wanted you to come to know it. For nigh on eight years I have sought this,’ he said. ‘I despaired of finding it. Then, when you said that Robert had given it to you, I dared let myself believe that it had been found.’

  ‘So that’s why the trader gave it to me. He knew I’d show it to you and you’d know what it is! But why didn’t he just come here and give it to you himself?’

  ‘That would have alerted too many people. What business would a travelling trader have that would bring him to a place like Fenwick Square? Maybe he planned to send one of the street urchins to me and I would have found myself at the Gates, looking for something for the sky room and just happening to find myself at his stall. Something must have alarmed him; perhaps he thought he was being watched. When he learned who you were, he took his chance.’

  ‘Who would bother to watch a market trader – and a poor one, at that?’ Jenny said. ‘He looked as if he sold very little.’

  Antrobus smiled. ‘Robert is no ordinary trader. His real wares are not those in his cart. He trades in information, and he also find things that others cannot. He’s been of service to Vale on several occasions.’

  ‘Why is this so valuable? It’s very beautiful, but it isn’t gold, or decorated with gems.’

  Antrobus took up the astrolabe. ‘It is beautiful. I would desire this for its beauty and the skill that fashioned it alone. But you’re right; it doesn’t follow that its beauty alone makes it valuable. Yet, I shall hold few things more precious, for this instrument is the key to the most priceless secret of Nature. This, Jenny, will lead us to the philosopher’s stone.’

  Jenny was lost for words. There is little one can say when told earnestly, by someone who is not given to practical jokes, that the
y will soon have solved the greatest mystery of life. There should be more to be said than a rather prosaic ‘How?’ but that one word was the best Jenny could manage right at that moment.

  Antrobus turned the astrolabe so that Jenny could see the back. It was covered in the flowing lines of Arabic writing she had seen in his books, along with neat tables of numbers.

  ‘Makers of astrolabes put these tables on the back to help with calculations, such as determining the position of the sun, or moon or stars,’ Antrobus explained. ‘But these are different. These also contain a code; Morien’s code to the manuscript he left, explaining how he completed his great work and found the alchemist’s holy grail – the philosopher’s stone.’

  ‘Why did he put it in code? Why not simply write it down?’ Jenny asked.

  Antrobus smiled wryly. ‘John was right. Alchemists do like secrets. But it’s more than that. There are those who covet this secret, and would pervert it for their own ends rather than the good of all.’

  ‘That’s what John said,’ Jenny replied absently, wondering what it must be like to hold such a great secret.

  ‘John?’ said Antrobus, looking at her out of the corner of his sharp eyes. ‘When?’

  Jenny hadn’t meant to mention her conversation with John. She didn’t intend to lie to her master, either.

  ‘Last night, when he walked me home,’ she admitted. She told him what his son had asked of her. ‘He’s afraid you might be in danger,’ she added, excusing John.

  Antrobus didn’t respond. After a few seconds he whispered, more to himself, ‘He might be right.’

  Jenny waited a moment, then asked hesitantly, ‘If this ancient alchemist, Morien, discovered the philosopher’s stone, why didn’t he use it?’

  Antrobus placed the astrolabe on the desk and said, ‘The stone isn’t a thing, Jenny. It isn’t a magical rock or jewel. I’m not exactly sure what it is, but I believe it to be a method, not a substance. It’s the unknown process by which we recreate the essence of life, that invisible force that makes the difference between all things, yet also connects them. Water, air, earth and fire; all things spring from those four elements. Each on its own is lifeless, so it stands to reason that there must be a fifth something we cannot see, or a process which creates the essence of everything.’

  ‘But why didn’t Morien use what he discovered?’ persisted Jenny. ‘He could have –’

  Antrobus held up his hand to stop her. ‘I was coming to that. He couldn’t. He died. Right after he had written down what he’d found. He was murdered, and the manuscript stolen.’

  Jenny realised she had been stupid. She was missing something very obvious.

  ‘But the astrolabe is only a key! All it does is unlock the code to the manuscript. Without the manuscript, it’s useless,’ she exclaimed.

  ‘Very true,’ Antrobus agreed. ‘Fortunately, we have the manuscript.’ He lifted the rough book from the desk. ‘At least, a translation, which I’m quite sure is accurate.’

  He opened the book and looked through the pages. It comprised about a hundred sheets of ordinary writing paper, kept between two covers of very thick leather by a looped rawhide cord. The writing was thin, though elegant, and it flowed from page to page as if it had been inspired by the original Arabic script. Jenny looked up at Antrobus and saw he was looking at the book with sadness. She expected him to be excited, exhilarated, but he wasn’t. If she had been older, she might have thought that perhaps his sadness was due to seeing the end of his life’s work before him, the final answer to the great question that drove him. But she didn’t think that. In fact, she didn’t know what could cause his melancholy. So, she wondered, and Antrobus, as if sensing her thoughts, told her.

  ‘Once I would have said I’d pay anything for this. I was wrong. The price for getting this was higher than I could have imagined and more than I was willing to pay. The price was William’s life.’

  ‘Your brother?’

  He nodded. ‘The man whose life you saved but who had it taken from him a month later.’ He sighed. ‘You deserve to hear the story.

  ‘William was born two years after me and by the time we were of an age when we could wander the fields and woods without the care of our parents, we were very close. Both of us were curious about everything and it became obvious that we would both seek to become apprenticed to an alchemist. We thought ourselves fortunate when that did happen. I finished my apprenticeship and, through good luck, by the time William finished his, I was already independent and prospering.

  ‘I asked William to join me. I had clients in Vale and other cities; builders wanting stronger mortar, mine owners wanting cheaper ways of smelting and extracting ore; palace advisers wanting astrological readings; artists wanting new or better paints and dyes. William, though, declined. In the final months of his apprenticeship, he had come to believe that he lacked the inspiration for enquiry that a great alchemist needs. He had determination and he was very methodical. Once the idea came to him to collect all the knowledge from all the alchemists he could, he would not be swayed. He believed he could build a library and a centre of learning for alchemists from across the world.

  ‘William was a young man when he left, the same age as John is now. He travelled widely, gathering what he could from every alchemist who would talk to him. He sought out writings and tales of alchemists long dead. From time to time, I would receive things from him: books, manuscripts, notes, maps, crystals, even minerals. In all those years he returned only three times, the second only two years before you found him. On that visit he was very excited. He had come across some notes written by a student of a wise and revered Moorish master alchemist. Some of the student’s comments puzzled him, for they hinted that the master had completed his great work, and had written an account of his discovery. That master was, of course, Morien. Though every alchemist knows of Morien, this was the first William had heard that the Moor had found the secret of the stone. He began to search for more evidence. Slowly – piece by piece – he became convinced that it was true, so that by the time of that last visit, he was almost obsessed with Morien.’

  Antrobus stared at the candlelight, remembering.

  ‘He could not rest. He stayed for only three days, then left to resume his search. I didn’t hear from him again until that day nine years ago. He was still weak from the poison, although you had done more than anyone else could have. William told me that it hadn’t been the first attempt on his life, for there were those for whom any life was a small consideration in return for what he had found.

  ‘He had found, secreted in a cellar in an old Iberian castle, Morien’s manuscript.

  ‘William was a thorough, careful man, and the first thing he did was copy and translate the manuscript. But, his efforts to find it had roused the interest of others. Several times, attempts were made to rob him, but by good fortune – and the help of his sword – they were foiled. One night, though, he was set upon in his rooms. It was clear his attackers were after the manuscript and they wouldn’t stop until they had it. During the struggle, he was severely wounded. Rather than surrender the manuscript, he threw it into the fire. His assailants managed to pull it from the fire, but not before some of the pages were destroyed. They fled, leaving him for dead and not knowing that he had made a copy.

  ‘Whoever was behind the attacks must have decided not to take the chance that William had memorised any of the manuscript, or would find the key to deciphering it before they did, for more attempts were made on his life. At last, they succeeded. William died in my house, twenty-seven years after he had set out to gather what he needed to build his academy for alchemists.

  ‘Before he died, he gave me his copy of Morien’s manuscript. By then I had also become convinced that the Moor had indeed solved the puzzle of the stone. During his final days, we pored over the manuscript; we read everything we had from Morien and any references William had found, trying to identify the key. It was a surprise to learn that there were really two: a maj
or key and a minor key. We found the minor key soon enough. It’s an old zodiac chart Morien had made, which is now in the secret room. And eventually we identified the major key as an astrolabe he’d made. But where that was, we couldn’t tell.

  ‘The following day, William collapsed while walking back from my workroom. The doctor did his best, but my brother had not fully recovered from the poison a month before, and he died that night. Later, when we prepared his body for burial, the doctor discovered a small wound, like a pinprick, behind William’s left ear. Someone had stabbed him with a needle coated with poison.’

  His eyes focused on nothing as he looked into the past and said, ‘I often think I could have saved him if I’d been a better healer. But I wasn’t. I had never given that part of our art as much attention as I should have. Perhaps that’s one of the reasons I was so quick to notice you. You make up for a lack in me that might have saved my brother.’

  Antrobus’s head drooped, then he looked up and stared once again into the flame of the candle. He seemed tired and dispirited. Jenny had an urge to reach out and take his hand, but she didn’t. Instead, she spoke.

  ‘How did you find the astrolabe?’

  Antrobus shook his head. ‘For more than a year after William’s death, I wanted nothing to do with Morien. I was more concerned with bringing justice to my brother’s assassins, but there was no clue as to who they were. William had his suspicions, but he wouldn’t tell me who. He thought it wrong to blight the name of someone who might be innocent. He wanted proof before he said anything. After a year, I was none the wiser and I grew resigned to the fact that I would never know who had killed him, or who had ordered it. From time to time it occurred to me that if I’d had the same courage and determination as William, I would have given all this up and devoted my life to finding his killers. By then, I had a many great patrons – including the Duke – and a reputation, and, cravenly, I would not give all that up.