“What. . . ?” Samona half-gasped.
“Your scapula,” Amer breathed. “It articulates with your clavicle by ligament! And I thought it was connected by cartilage . . . .”
For a moment, Samona sat very, very still.
Then she was out of the chair and over against the wall with a wildcat’s scream. “Take your hands off me and get away from me, you tin-bellied machine!” She clasped at the wall behind her with fingers hooked into claws, glaring at him and hissing, “I wish you were in Hell!” And, for a moment, Amer could have sworn he saw hellfire in her eyes.
Then a cloud of green smoke exploded. When it cleared, she had vanished.
“Thank Heaven!” Willow sighed. “Master, she’s gone!”
But Amer only stared at the place where she had been, murmuring, “Strange. . .strange, very strange. . . .”
“What, Master?”
“My emotions, Willow.”
“Why, Master?” the will-o’-the-wisp cried in alarm. “What’s wrong?”
“I must write this down,” Amer hurried to his writing desk and snatched up a quill. “It’s priceless information. . . I’ll probably never have the same experience again.”
“I’ll say!” Willow said fervently. “But what’s the matter?”
“Well, Willow. . .”
“Now, now, Master, you’ve had a nasty shock. Just lie down and relax. You’ve had a hard day. I’ll write it down for you.” Willow prepared to make alterations in the electrical potentials within her.
Amer took her at her word, going over to the narrow cot against the wall and lying back, head pillowed on a horsehair cushion. “It started when she told me that she’d come to declare a truce. . . .”
“Just let it flow, Master,” the will-o’-the-wisp said, oozing sympathy.
“She looked up at me, and her eyes looked so innocent, and she seemed so submissive. . . .”
“Mm-hmmm.”
“. . . and she said she’d come to surrender. . . .”
“Yes, Master . . .”
“And, well, Willow, for just a moment there, I felt panic”
“RealIy!”
“And, Willow—that worries me. . . .”
* * *
The wind swept around the cottage, infuriated at being balked. But it was gaining strength, because other winds were coming, ushered by the towering black clouds that drifted from the west, obscuring the moon. The wind welcomed its kin, and together they tore at the cabin, howling and tearing. Then a great black cloud arrived and broke open a drum of rain, with a huge crack of thunder. Torrents gushed down, lashing the little cabin, and the winds howled in glee.
Inside, Amer slept on in blissful but disturbing dreams, unheeding of the winds. Enraged, they redoubled their force. Still Amer slept—until Willow came to attention, startled. She listened, was sure she’d heard right, and called, “Master! Wake up!”
It came again, from the door—a knocking.
“Master! Wake up! There’s someone here!”
“What? Here? Where?” Amer lifted his head, dull with sleep.
“At the door!”
“Here?” Amer stared at the portal.
It shook as the knocking sounded again, louder and. quicker.
“Oh, my heavens! And at this hour of the night!” Amer shoved himself out of bed, shuddering as his feet touched the cold boards, shoved them into slippers, and stood. He shuffled over to the door as the pounding came gain, insistent, impatient. “Patience, please! Patience! I’m coming!” Finally, he pulled out the bar.
The door slammed open, and the wind howled in triumph, whirling toward the doorway—and swooping away as something blocked it from entering. It howled in frustration, but a flash of lightning drowned it out with a huge clap of thunder—and showed Amer the robed and hooded silhouette standing in his doorway.
The alchemist froze. Then he turned to catch up his dressing gown and don it. Knotting the sash, he turned back to the doorway.
“Please excuse my appearance,” he said, “but I must admit that I was not expecting you.”
“That’s perfectly all right,” the figure said. “Very few ever do.”
Amer frowned. “I hope I’m not being too presumptuous,” he said, “but would it be too much trouble for you to tell me who you are, and what you’ve come here for?”
“Not at all,” the figure said, and, in sepulchral tones, “My name is Death, and I’ve come for you.”
Amer raised his eyebrows.
“Indeed?” he said, and then, a little taken aback, “Well, I’m quite honored.”
But then, recovering himself, he saw that Death still stood outside the door.
“Oh, my heavens!” he cried, “you must think me terribly rude. Come in out of the rain, won’t you?”
Somewhat puzzled, Death stepped into the cabin, and Amer pushed the door shut behind him. The wind screamed as the door shut on it, then howled and battered against the door in rage. But Amer dropped the oaken bar into its brackets, then turned and went over to the fireplace to throw on another log. “Come stand by the hearth and dry yourself. May I get you a drink?”
“Why, yes,” Death said, pleasantly surprised. “Wormwood, if you have it.”
“Of course,” said Amer, taking another decanter from the mantel. He filled a glass and handed it to Death, then poured one for himself. Reaching up, he took a vial from the mantelpiece, shook a little of the fine, chicory-scented powder it contained over the stool, and muttered a short, unintelligible phrase. The outline of the stool blurred, then began to stretch and bulge as though it were alive. Within thirty seconds, it had assumed the shape of a high-backed wing chair. It sprouted cushions, which grew and blossomed into a luxuriant golden velvet. The outlines hardened again, and a soft, comfortably padded armchair stood by the hearth.
“Sit down, won’t you?” Amer said.
Death didn’t answer. He stood staring at the armchair. At last he cleared his throat and said, in a businesslike tone, “Yes. This brings me to the matter about which I came, Master Amer.”
“Please sit down,” Amer said. “It pains me to see a guest standing.”
“No, thank you,” Death said. “My cloak isn’t quite dry yet. But about this—ah—strange gift of yours, Master Amer.”
“How rude of me!” Amer said. “Please forgive me. Being freshly wakened, I’m afraid I’m not thinking very clearly.” He turned to a closet in the wall near the workbench and drew out a leather laboratory coat. “Please put this on and let your wet cloak hang by the fire.”
“No, thank you,” Death said, a little hastily. “However, it is getting rather warm, and I must admit that I’m beginning to feel like a steamed chestnut.” He opened his hood and the front of his cloak, and Amer stared, fascinated. For Death’s head was a skull, and his body was a complete, articulated skeleton.
“Excuse me,” Amer said, “but would you mind holding your arm straight out to the side?”
Death frowned. “Like this?”
“Yes, exactly.” Amer picked up a notebook and pen and began drawing. “Now, would you move your arm in a circle? Yes, that’s fine. You see, I’m in the midst of an investigation of the relationship between the scapula and the bones of the upper arm, and. . . .”
“Please!” Death drew his cloak tightly about himself and turned away, and the white skull became suffused with a touch of pink.
“Oh, curse me!” Amer cried, and his face turned bright magenta. “When I become absorbed in an investigation, sir, I’m apt to forget everything else, including my manners. I beg your forgiveness.”
“That’s quite all right,” Death said, turning back to him. “We all have our faults. But if you’re really sorry, Master Amer, you may prove it at the price of a little more wormwood.”
“Certainly, certainly,” Amer said, filling De
ath’s glass again. “Are you sure you won’t sit down?”
“No, thank you,” Death said. “But perhaps you should. I’m afraid I have some rather unpleasant news for you.”
“Oh!” Amer sank into the armchair Samona had occupied earlier in the day. “Unpleasant news? What would it be?”
“Well,” Death cleared his throat and began to pace to and fro in front of the fireplace, skeletal hands clasped behind his back. “Well,” he said, “I’m afraid this may seem rather ungrateful in view of your excellent hospitality, but—well, duty is duty, and. . . Certainly you’re aware, Master Amer, that none of us can live forever.”
“Yes,” said Amer, smiling blithely but blankly.
“Well. . .that’s how it is,” Death said, with a note of exasperation in his voice. “We must all die sometime, and. . .well. . . Confound it, Amer, now’s your time.”
Amer sat in a stunned silence for a minute, and then, in a hollow voice, he said, “I see. . .”
“Master!” Willow wailed. “What’re we gonna do?”
“Well, Willow,” Amer said slowly, “it would seem as though you’re finally going to have your freedom.”
“Oh, I don’t want it, I don’t want it! Not at that price!”
“Well . . . I’m sorry, old man,” Death said gruffly, “but what must be, must be.”
“Oh, that’s all right, that’s all right,” Amer said, staring at the fire with an unwavering gaze. “But . . . isn’t that strange?”
“What?”
“Samona. For some reason, all I can think is that I should have kissed Samona—just once, without my protection drug. I never did, you know.” He turned and looked, frowning, at Death. “Now, why should I be thinking of that?”
A tear formed at the edge of the skull’s hollow eye and rolled down the hard white cheekbone. “Come, come, let’s have done with it quickly! Give me your hand.”
Amer ignored the outstretched, bony fingers, and his eyes began to wander aimlessly around the room, “But I’ve so much left to do. . . .”
“So said Caesar when I came for him, and so said Peter and so said Charlemagne. Come, cease torturing yourself!”
Amer’s wandering gaze fell on the miniature bones he had carved earlier in the day. The look of intelligence returned slowly to his eyes as, very carefully, he lifted the model bone-pile into his lap. He took a roll of fine wire from the table and began to string the little skeleton together.
“Just let me finish this,” he said. “Just one more work completed—then I’ll go.”
“All right, but be quick,” Death said, drawing back his hand. There was a note of relief in his voice.
He began to pace the floor again. “If you’d just had sense enough to keep your fingers out of magic, none of this would be necessary.”
“Why, what’s wrong with magic?” Amer fixed the collarbone in place.
“It’s not the magic, it’s the way you go about getting it that ruffles the boys upstairs.”
Amer looked up. Death spun toward him and pointed an accusing finger. “You could at least have had the good sense to guard your door! Your master would have given you as many spells as you wanted for the express purpose of keeping me out!”
Amer smiled sadly and shook his head. “But I don’t have a master.”
“It’s complete and utter carelessness! If you—What did you say?”
“I don’t have a master.”
“Indeed! And I suppose you’re not a sorcerer?”
“Quite right—I’m not.” Amer threaded the pelvis onto the spine.
“Oh?” said Death. “Then how did you come by your magic?”
“I was born with it, I think. In fact, I’m growing increasingly certain that every magic-user is conceived with the talent for it. You either have it, or you don’t—but if you do, the raw ability isn’t enough; you have to learn how to use it.” He warmed to his subject. “That’s all the witches and warlocks in the neighborhood gain by their pact with the Devil—instruction. Of course, there are many who have no power whatsoever; Satan and the older witches merely delude them into believing they’re able to work magic.” He frowned, gazing off into space. “I’ve learned, in the last few years, that there are holy men in the East who know how to work wonders, though that’s not the main purpose of their study—and they do teach those who truly wish to cultivate the life of the spirit. So their magic is gained by spiritual advancement, without condemning their souls to eternal agony in the afterlife. But I knew nothing of them, when I wished to learn.”
“Then where did you find your teacher?” Death demanded.
“I taught myself,” Amer said, stringing up a femur. “I learned by investigation and hard thought. I experimented until I found the rules by which the world operates. I win my own knowledge, sir. I don’t beg.”
“Rules” Death snapped. “What sort of rules?”
“Oh, there are many of them—the principle of equivalence, for example: for every effect you work, you will always have to pay in one way or another. Or the principle of similarity, which makes it possible for me to do something to someone—say, removing a wart—just by doing the same thing to a model of that person, once I’ve learned how to focus my thoughts properly. That’s really just an application of a larger principle, actually—a sort of rule of symbolism: ‘The symbol is the thing it represents,’ in some metaphysical way I haven’t discovered yet. I’ve reason to believe there are other worlds, other universes, in which the rules of magic don’t apply—in which the symbol is not the thing, for example.”
“Fantasy,” Death snapped.
“For us, yes. But we are no doubt fantasies for them. In this world in which an alchemist can talk to Death, the laws of magic work well enough.”
Death eyed him warily. “You haven’t sold your soul, then?”
“Not in the least,” Amer said. “Invictus.”
Death paced the hearth for a long time, wrapped in thought. Amer was twisting the last toe into place when the skull spoke again.
“It may be,” he said. “But I’ve heard the story before, and it’s almost always a lie. I’m afraid you’ll have to come with me, after all.”
Amer smiled sadly. “Perhaps I shouldn’t have been so hospitable,” he said. “Then you might have been willing to give me the benefit of the doubt.” He twisted a loop of wire around the little skeleton’s leg and laid it on the table.
“Perhaps,” Death said, “though I’m not worried about bribery—I’m immune to it. But come, you’ve finished your plaything. The time’s come.”
“Not quite,” Amer said, twisting the other end of the wire around the table leg. He took the vial of powder from his dressing-gown pocket arid sprinkled it over the model.
“Milyochim sloh Yachim,” he said.
“What?”
“Milyochim sloh Yachim,” Amer said again (repeated obligingly).
“What does that mean?” Death said.
“Well, for all practical purposes,” Amer said, “it means you can’t move from that spot.”
* * *
“I don’t know how you expect to convince me that you’re not a sorcerer,” Death said, “if you keep on materializing liqueurs that way.”
“Oh, I’m not really materializing them.” The alchemist snapped his fingers, and a flask of absinthe appeared on the table. “I’m transporting them. There’s a spirits merchant in Boston, you see, who keeps finding bottles missing from his stock.”
“Thief!” Death accused.
“Not at all; he finds gold wherever there’s a bottle missing. You’ve noticed that I always place a nugget on the table before I transport the bottle?”
“And it disappears.” Death gave him a severe stare. “I was wondering about that.”
“The mass of the bottle must be replaced with an equivalent mass,” Amer exp
lained. “I suppose I could use stone, but it’s much more honest to use gold. I believe he makes quite a profit on the transaction.”
“I should think so. But where do you find the gold?”
“I dig it up—after I’ve dowsed for it, of course.”
“Where did you learn dowsing?” Death demanded.
“It came naturally,” Amer explained. “I was very young when I began to notice that hazel twigs twitched when I held them—perhaps three years old.”
“And you will still have me believe your powers have nothing of the supernatural about them?”
“For that matter,” Amer countered, “how do you expect me to believe that you’re supernatural when you continue to consume such vast quantities?”
“Bah,” Death said. “We’ve only had a couple of drinks.”
“Uh-uh!” the will-o’-the-wisp slurred. “I been keepin’ track!”
“And partaking, too.” Death turned to Amer. “So that was why you poured the brandy into that beaker.”
“Even a will-o’ -the-wisp needs fuel. . . .”
“Your fifth glass of cointreau was emptied three hours ago,” Willow said brightly if blearily. “Since then you’ve downed six glasses of chartreuse, four of cognac, and four of absinthe—right now, you’re starting your fifth.”
“Willow,” said Death, “you have missed your calling. You would have made an excellent conscience.”
“And to top it all,” the alchemist said, “you’re not the slightest bit tipsy.”
“Naturally not,” Death said.
“Don’t you mean ‘supernaturally not’?”
“I meant what I said.” Death set down his glass. “Would it be natural for Death to become intoxicated?”
“Is it natural for Death to be a connoisseur of fine liqueurs ?”
“Certainly, as long as I’m not affected by them. In fact, I’ve quite an affinity for spirits. But come, Master Amer,” Death said, “pour me another absinthe, for we stand in great danger of becoming philosophical just now.”
“My heavens! We must prevent that at all costs!” Amer filled Death’s glass again. The Pale Horseman sipped the liqueur and settled back in his chair with a satisfied sigh.
The Crafters Book One Page 3