Riddle of the Seven Realms m-3

by Lyndon Hardy

  "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 master 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 icosohedrons 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."

  "The countess and I will gladly follow," Kestrel said quickly. "But consultant Astron's time is perhaps better spent in evaluating more of what takes place here. Pair him with someone who talks well and fast. He is the best of listeners."

  Astron opened his mouth to speak, but Kestrel grabbed him by the arm, "There, the man with the pen and quill-perhaps you will be amused by learning more of these calculations. Or even the sculpturing-see, look at that scaffolding going up on which they are hanging those foils of lead. Surely those will be of more interest than standing around listening to the countess and the master exchanging pleasantries."

  "The calculations and the structures, why yes," Astron said. "The sculpturing is akin to what I call weaving and, for one who cannot do that, it would be interesting indeed. I need feel no guilt. While I wait I can no better serve my-"

  Kestrel squeezed Astron's arm tighter and the demon stopped. He nodded and slowly started to move in the direction Kestrel had indicated. Kestrel whirled to catch up with Celibor and Phoebe as they walked to the hut. The alchemist had his arm around her waist while he pointed out other aspects of his foundry. Curse it, Kestrel thought. She permitted it just as he had instructed her to.

  Kestrel watched Phoebe try to shield from her eyes the afternoon sun streaking into the hut through a low window. He shifted uncomfortably on his stool, kicked at cracked and discarded parchments that cluttered the floor, and looked out the doorway into the foundry yard. He saw Astron with some sort of sextant sighting the top of the huge lead spheres and then the pylons at their side. Throughout the yard the bustle of the activity continued as if the border blockade did not exist. The bellows whooshed. A blistering heat radiated from the openings of the anthanar.

  Kestrel frowned at the lengthening shadows. Despite Celibor's other interests, his first concern turned out to be for his profits. For most of the day they had argued, and no agreement was yet in sight. Soon the sun would be setting, and they would have to come back the next day, something that Kestrel definitely did not want to do. He would have to play through the last part of his plan, whether the alchemist gave him an opening or not.

  "But do you not see?" Celibor waved his hands around the confines of his hut. "This is no palace with rich furnishings paid for by the profits of my trade. Iliac across the way has seen to that with his low prices and inferior products. I need the coin to pay the workers as the effort is done. I cannot afford to await until the order is complete no matter how alluring is the bounty I would receive."

  The alchemist looked at Phoebe slyly. "Besides, I cannot really believe that a few moments aloft is the primary reason you are so anxious to do business with me. Why the concern, my lady, about pretending you are a bird?"

  Kestrel became immediately alert. Celibor's statement was what he had been waiting for. "You drive a hard bargain." He laughed. "And this day grows long." He looked at Phoebe. "With your permission, my lady," he said.

  Phoebe nodded slightly. Kestrel watched Celibor lean forward from where he sat.

  "There is the matter of the new mine," Kestrel continued smoothly. "One not in the mountains of Procolon to the north, but in the very hills of Ethidor itself."

  "There are no such mines," Celibor scoffed. "Our own hills have been scoured many times over."

  "But not from a height, not from a vantage point no other has taken." Kestrel lowered his voice to a whisper. "And not with a sketch of what to look for drawn by a sorcerer while under a far-seeking trance." Kestrel pulled a tightly rolled parchment from his belt and waved it quickly in front of Celibor's face.

  The alchemist reached for it but Kestrel pulled it away with a nod. "You understand how critical it is that word of this reach no one else. Your craft can ill-afford a repetition of what has caused the impulse to the north to occur."

  Kestrel waited for Celibor to withdraw his hand and then continued. "Of course, our original plan was to find the location and then keep it from all, offering our ores to the highest bidder." His smile broadened. "But you deal with such skill that a direct share might be more in order. Enough perhaps so that you see the raising of the balloon as much in your interest as in ours."

  Celibor glanced at Phoebe and then back to Kestrel. "How do I know that these are not more words, perhaps as empty as the rest?"

  "You do not." Kestrel shrugged and rose. "There is a risk here that must be taken-a single balloon ride for half share in wha
t may be the only source of ore while the blockade continues. Perhaps those across the street would indeed be more receptive."

  "No, wait," Celibor said. "In good faith, I have made investments as well. Come outside and see what I have instructed the workmen to do while we talked. If we can agree on a fair price, then even today the deed can be done."

  Kestrel looked over to Phoebe and she tilted her head slightly a second time. He shrugged and turns his palms upward to Celibor. "Evidently, she likes you," he said. "A few hours more she has graciously granted."

  Celibor grunted and scurried past where they sat into the afternoon sun. He squinted his eyes against the harshness and motioned for them to follow over into the testing area.

  Kestrel and Phoebe left the hut with regal slowness and stepped out into the daylight. They walked past the cooling lead ingots, lattices, and polyhedra and through the shadows cast by the great spheres and pylons. Astron looked up from what he was studying and motioned but Kestrel waved him away. The hook was nearly set and he could not afford to be distracted.

  Kestrel noted the contents of other huts as he passed. One on the left was piled high with cured animal hides and beyond it were seamstresses lashing them together into a growing pile of balloons not yet used. On the right, knot makers tied lengths of braided hair into canopies that would fit over the balloons when they were inflated and tether them to the ground.

  When they caught up with Celibor, he was pointing at a long row of bottles all connected to a hose of some rubbery fiber. Like a giant centipede the construction wandered through the open area where the tests were performed.