by Lyndon Hardy
“Then it is true,” Phoebe said. “I was indeed dominated by the demon. If it is skill in wizardry that you desire, elsewhere is where you should look.”
“No, no, if wizardry is called for along the way, you are the one to whom we will turn,” Kestrel said. “It is just that there are other requirements as well.”
“You need me?” Phoebe questioned again.
Kestrel just nodded, trying to fathom the motivations behind the pretty smile. He was having difficulty reading the wizard, just as he did with the demon, but for a different reason. The emotions were on her face well enough; but when he looked at her, distracting thoughts warped the logical cadence of his thought.
“And it will help you with the council,” he repeated weakly.
“The council.” Phoebe shook her head. “I have little doubt that they have found some way to give me censure.” She smoothed the folds of her robe and shrugged. “It has not been such an easy struggle. Without the largess of my father, I would never have been able to pay the triple fees the masters charged to initiate me into their art. The stocking of my larder comes less from the few payments I receive for my craft than the continued openness of his purse.
“Far better for all concerned, it has been made quite clear more than once, if Phoebe behaved more like her cousins and sisters, lounging in the dresses of brocade and attending the balls of the prince.”
“What do you mean?” Astron said. “I cannot yet follow when men speak in such abstraction.”
“Men, indeed,” Phoebe said. “I suspect the realm of daemon is much like what you see about you here.” She narrowed her eyes and looked piercingly at Astron. “Tell me how it is that only the males answer the summons through the flame and grapple with the wizard’s will. Why no females? What have you done with them?”
“Why, that is not the purpose of the broodmothers,” Astron said. “They serve one function and no more. It is unthinkable for it to be any other way.”
“And you, Kestrel, how many wizards of my sex have you encountered in your peddling of woods?”
“Ah, you are the only one.”
“Yes, the only female wizard in Brythia, perhaps in all the kingdoms that border the great sea. Despite all the regulations thrown in the way, the unapproving stares, the whispers behind my back, I became a master—an equally accredited master in a local council, whether they liked it or not.”
“Then, if your council does not look with favor on you at the moment—” Kestrel began.
“It can only be an intensification of what already was felt. I am an embarrassment to them because I am so different and do not assume their stately airs. But no matter, I have won the robe and they cannot take it away.”
Phoebe paused and looked at Kestrel. “What is important to me now is not their thoughts, woodcutter, but yours. What do you think of a master who happens not to be a male? Would you use me when you could elect to choose a man instead?” She glanced over at Astron and her voice softened to a whisper. “Use one who has already proven that a demon such as that is her better in a battle of wills?”
Kestrel blinked again. “I have considered you a master, no different from the rest,” he said. The question went deeper than that, but his answer was a truthful one. She had been chosen for the anvilwood because of her greater wealth, not anything else. As for the rest, he felt the old barriers sliding strongly into place. No good could come from raising the innermost feelings and trying to strip away the scarred layers of pain.
“Well said.” Phoebe smiled faintly. “Perhaps my instincts in the matter were correct from the first. Stand in the light so I can see you better. No, not you, demon, only the man.”
Kestrel climbed back down from the wagon and into the brightness of the street.
“Yes, it is all coming back now.” Phoebe’s smile broadened. “I remember why I invited you in. And as for now, wizardry or something else of equal value, it does not really matter. Just so I am a full partner, and not a tool to be manipulated like a sorcerer’s slave.”
“You will not try to continue our struggle for dominance?” Astron asked.
“No, why should I?” The smile vanished from Phoebe’s face. “If you still desired to control my will, I do not see how I could resist a second time, knowing I had lost the first.” She turned her eyes away from Astron and lowered her head. “I have already proven myself worthy to wear the logo of the master. Perhaps in the end, that will be sufficient.”
“There is no more to it!” Astron exclaimed. “Kestrel, you are most remarkable. I apologize for my doubt. When there is more time, you must explain how you achieved such an agreement of wills.”
Kestrel lightly touched Phoebe’s arm again. Despite the inner warnings, it felt good to do so. “Things are not always what they seem, demon,” he said slowly. “I have already told you that.”
Astron wrinkled his nose and his membranes slid into place. For a moment he stared off into the distance and did not speak.
He suddenly burst out of his contemplation after a moment. “Then let us get on with your plan. The flickers of light that I now see at the end of this alley—I do not believe that they are the simple fireflies of your realm.”
CHAPTER NINE
The Alchemy of Air
KESTREL hit the tapper against the brass door with authority. The gong seemed to reverberate all along the high metal-plated fencing that ran around the foundry. Even though it was barely dawn, smoke was already spilling out of the stack on the other side of the enclosing barrier. The wheeze of the bellows was quite loud, like the moan of a great djinn with nothing to destroy.
Astron had not been sure how much longer it would be before the wizards became certain of their location, but they had little time for additional delay. They had to get over the border and to the archimage soon, or it would all be too late.
Kestrel cupped his hands to his mouth and spoke directly at the demon, the noises within the foundry masking his words more than a few feet away. “Now remember, Astron,” he said. “You are the consulting alchemist for the countess. You will observe the process and say nothing. Occasionally shake your head slightly in disapproval after an explanation. Under no circumstances ask any of your questions. Just be on the lookout for more of your kind.”
“But an alchemist I am not,” Astron said. “I cannot speak that which does not reflect reality.”
“That is just the point,” Kestrel said. “Do not say a thing. Let those inside draw whatever conclusions they will. For what they think, you are not responsible.”
“To stand and shake my head is not very interesting, Kestrel. At least I should be able to find out something to add to my catalogues.”
“I will see to it that you are suitably amused,” Kestrel said. “Just keep quiet while you are about it.”
Kestrel turned his attention to Phoebe. The gown they had purchased the previous evening with eight of the dozen brandels suited her well; she carried herself as one would expect of the nobility. She returned his approving look with a smile, but he pulled his eyes away. She had enthusiastically taken on the role he had outlined to her and did not even bother to ask any more about what had happened at her cabin or even the reason he was originally there.
So long as she did not ask, Kestrel decided, there was no reason for him to explain more. He darted one more furtive glance in her direction. And yet his logic did not quite ring true. For the first time in a long while, he was somehow uncomfortable about what he was hiding from someone else.
The door suddenly opened and Kestrel turned to meet the gateman. “The grand countess of Brythia, second cousin to the king, is here to discuss terms for the shipment,” he said. “Show us to the head alchemist without delay.”
The gateman puckered his prunelike face into a mass of wrinkles. With studied disapproval, he looked up and down Kestrel’s own plain clothing and Astron, hooded by his side. “I have received no instructions about a visitor,” he said. “You will have to wait until I check with m
aster Celibor.”
“Surely we can wait inside, rather than here on the street,” Kestrel said. “Perhaps even a chair so that my lady can sit. The purse she carries is most heavy. And from what I hear of master Celibor, he will be most anxious to meet her.”
The gateman glanced at Phoebe, hesitated a moment, then snatched at the brandel that Kestrel waved in front of him. “You may use my stool.” He waved as he headed off across the interior of the foundry yard.
Kestrel and the others stepped inside. Quickly, he surveyed the enclosure from one end to the other. The fencing formed a huge square, each side the length of a sprinter’s race. In the rear corner of the left stood dumps of ore, huge boulders ripped from deep running mines, glinting with crystals of gray in the morning sun. A dozen laborers swung hammers at the larger ones, reducing them to smaller chunks and dust that were shoveled onto a belt squeaking over a long row of wooden rollers. Spinning flywheels and convoluted belts moved the rock into massive grinders and then through acrid chemicals dripping from glazed retorts. At the terminus of the conveyor, a fine powder fell into a chute leading to a huge brick-lined anthanar in the center of the square. On the backside of the furnace, barely visible from where Kestrel stood, two three-man bellows alternately expanded and shot air into the burning firepit.
A tall shed spanned the opposite side of the square, covering loads of sand that fell from hoppers into a red-hot cauldron. There a dozen glassblowers dipped long hollow tubings into a transparent slag. With bursting cheeks, they blew huge flat-bottomed bottles with tiny necks. These too were conveyed to the furnace and entered on the side opposite from the processed ore.
Near the front of the anthanar stood two alchemists, each furiously writing on parchment, giving life to the formulas that formed the basis of their craft. They stood on either side of a third conveyor, this one discharging a sequence of lead-capped bottles that were collected and arrayed in designated squares throughout the yard. Behind the back of the second master, in a cast-iron trough, a river of molten metal ran into an array of molds, presses, and rollers.
A bright lead foil extruded from the last of the rotating cylinders. Intricate objects that Kestrel did not recognize dropped from the presses into a hopper. Some of the molds were simple ingots, conveniently shaped for resale elsewhere. The rest formed struts and geometric figures, evidently destined for a vast array of dull gray structures beyond the cooling area.
Among the distant sprawl were skeletons of icosahedrons in three different sizes. Nestled with solid-sided cubes, small spheres clustered like grapes on long cylindrical stems. Beyond the smaller structures, giant pylons soared twice the height of a man. Hollow balls of lead fully ten arm-lengths in diameter shone dully in the morning sun. To the left of the completed spheres stood one in midconstruction, the bottom of a mesh-covered skeleton sheathed in a foil of lead, while laborers heated and fused additional sheets above its bulging equator.
“Somehow, in the final step of the formula that the alchemists guard in their grimoires, the smelting of the metal produces the vacuum,” Kestrel explained to the others. “The lead is used as a seal only because it is conveniently there. As you can see the bulk of it goes into the molds and presses for resale elsewhere as a byproduct. I think the geometric shapes are used in magician’s rituals, although some of the foundries make small statuary to sell to the nobility as works of art as well.
“But beyond that is where our interest lies, where the vacuum is tested to verify its quality. As you may know, not a single formula of alchemy can be guaranteed to succeed each and every time. Indeed, the more powerful have the least chance of all. Each product must be verified to ensure that the process has produced what was desired.”
Astron and Phoebe turned to look where Kestrel pointed. They saw two workmen drag one of the larger bottles from a square and place it adjacent to what looked like a stitchery of cured hides lying on the ground. One connected a bellows to the collection of hides and began pumping. In a few moments it inflated into a perfect sphere. Then the second workman thrust the neck of the vacuum bottle into the bellows opening and broke the seal.
With a powerful hiss that the three could hear even from where they stood, the sphere buckled and warped, although not back to the flattened shape it had before. Like a lumpy pillow, it sagged on the ground at the workmen’s feet. The first bound off the opening at the bottom and the other set it apart from the rest of the gear so that it received the full glare of the rising sun.
“Yes, what is it?” A master wearing the logo of the inverted triangle had emerged from a hut near the glassworks and followed the gatekeeper back across the foundry yard. He was short and swarthy with small quick eyes that squinted in distrust. His jaws hung heavy like a bulldog’s. Kestrel wondered whether, if he got his grip on something, he would ever let go.
“If it is a large order, you had better place it quickly.” The alchemist waved toward the pile of rock waiting to be crushed. “When that is gone, there will be no more for vacuum for a goodly while, at least until the border to the north is once again open.”
“Master Celibor, I presume,” Kestrel said. “This is Countess Phoebe and she indeed is most anxious to buy.” Kestrel paused and forced a smile. “Her mind as yet is not totally made up, however, between dealing with you or the establishment across the street.”
“What—Iliac!” Celibor exploded. “He is no less than responsible for the blockade in the first place. You should be blaming him for the rise in prices, not giving him aid by favoring him with trade. If he had not persisted in trying to divert ore wagons rightly meant for me, then none of this confrontation at the border would have happened. Even the archimage would be visiting our fair kingdoms rather than wasting his good time entertaining the ones who call themselves skyskirr from some forsaken place or another far away.”
“Nevertheless, he has the reputation for a splendid product,” Kestrel said.
“Lies of the market place,” Celibor spat. “He turns out great volume of glassware and at less cost, it is true. But how many prove to be nothing more than jars of clear air rather than vacuum of prime hardness, answer me that? Why, look you at the pains we take to ensure that each batch has indeed run its course, rather than randomly failed as is sometimes the case.”
Celibor paused to catch his breath. The ruddiness of his cheeks began to fade. He waved in the direction of the hide sphere. The crushing indentations had vanished; the sun had warmed the air that remained until the skin was again tight and firm. As everyone watched it began gently to rise from the ground and tug at the single fetter that held it in place.
“Elsewhere along the street,” Celibor said, “they merely let the balloons rise to their maximum heights and do no more. Those batches that produce the highest they label as premium grade vacuum, no matter that they might be half as good as the ones produced the day before.
“Here we do more than that. We actually calculate the degree to which the jars are empty from measuring the balloon’s ascent. Nowhere else are such quantitative tests made, not in a single foundry along the street. We know the volume of our balloons; the hides have been cured so that they no longer stretch. From the height to which they rise and equilibrate with the lesser density of air outside, we can compute the mass that rides within. From these numbers we then determine precisely how well the test bottle extracted some of the original contents and thence from that how good was the vacuum it originally contained.”
“That is most interesting,” Astron said. “A quantitative calculation aimed at showing nothing as the result.”
Celibor looked at the hooded figure and frowned. “Not every batch produces a balloon which rises so well,” he explained. “Some bottles extract only half the air because only half was removed from them by the random perturbations of the creation process. Some draw no air at all: total failures the likes of which you are much more likely to find across the way.”
“How high do these balloons rise?” Phoebe asked.
> Celibor looked at Phoebe as if he were noticing her for the first time. With a deliberate coolness he ran his eyes over her body. “A most interesting question, my lady,” he said. “We usually test only a single bottle in a batch; so, like the one you see there, they rise only perhaps as far as the top of the anthanar’s stack or a little higher.”
Kestrel noticed Celibor’s reaction to Phoebe, but surprisingly the satisfaction of a plan going well did not come. Rather than being pleased that she had excited the alchemist’s interest, he felt irritated by the degrading way in which he showed it. It would indeed be soon enough when they were well away.
“And no gondola attached for one to observe?” Phoebe asked as Kestrel tried to draw back Celibor’s attention.
“Why no, not every time, my countess, it would be a great waste.” Celibor did not take his eyes from Phoebe. “Although we have baskets and the necessary riggings obtained from the thaumaturges up the street, the purpose is to test, not to lift a considerable weight. And with the onshore breeze, there is risk as well. A parted tether would mean the occupants would sail right over the encamped armies and deep into Procolon itself.”
“But then think also of the thrill of it,” Phoebe said in a bored tone. “If only for a part of an hour, floating like a cloud and looking down on the coastline as far as one could see. So much more exciting that all those dreary teas and receptions. Yes, Kestrel, see to it. Do business with the one who will offer a balloon ride as part of the bargain.”
“You are talking a considerable expense,” Celibor said. He finally looked from Phoebe back to Kestrel and Astron. “And although I have been most free to point out details of my trade, I know nothing of you other than what you profess.” He motioned back the way he had come. “Visit me in my chambers, my lady; I will ask more of you there.” Celibor again looked up and down the length of Phoebe’s gown. “Never mind the clutter along the way. It is quite safe, since we keep it well away from the flames. Just lift your hems a trifle and they will not be soiled as we walk.”