The Archimage's Fourth Daughter

by Lyndon Hardy

  “There was one more step,” Ziggy said as he emerged back into the room. “Turns out, the messing around had to happen in a tattoo parlor as well.” He waved his arm around the walls. “As I was gently heating the mixture and waiting for it to show some sort of reaction, I grabbed some blank paper and started doodling some designs.”

  “What do tattoos have to do with anything?”

  “Not tattoos. The drawing of the designs. The crazy arcane symbols. Over the last decade, I must have come up with ten thousand of them. But, that’s the key. The right ones somehow are an activation formula. Write the symbols near the proper reagents and then as they dry, some chemistry takes place that I can’t begin to figure out.”

  “Why are you telling me all of this? Why wouldn’t I run off to the police or something?”

  “It’s happened a time or two. The cops come by, take samples, but no meth is ever found.”

  Ashley’s analytical training began to shift back into gear. “Then commercialize what you do. You could make millions.”

  “Ah, well, that would require investors, credit ratings, background checks — that sort of thing,” Ziggy said as he reappeared. “It’s better this way. Only happy customers returning for their refills. I get enough from them to get by.” He snorted. “I even have a few couples, if you would believe it. Too scared the bloom of new love would fade that they enchant each other like clockwork once a month.”

  He held up a small vial filled with colorless liquid exactly like the one she had seen before.

  “This one is specifically tuned to me, right?” she asked.

  Ziggy nodded. As he had done before, he used the eyedropper to place three drops on his tongue. Then he stood in the doorway to the rear and grabbed two handles attached to either side of the jamb.

  “And?” Ashley said after a moment.

  “Nope, a dud,” Ziggy said. “Didn’t think so. Only works about one time out of ten. Put out your arm and I’ll try again.”

  “I really do not need the show,” Ashley insisted.

  “No show involved,” Ziggy said as he took the second sample from her into the back room. Again, he returned and stood in the doorway. Again, he grabbed the handles. Again, nothing happened. He motioned for her to extend her arm once more, and the entire sequence repeated.

  On the third try, Ashley heard Ziggy burp. When he returned, a serene smile like that of a Madonna spread across his face. His muscles tensed and his fingers grew white from their grip on the handles. Drops of sweat formed on his forehead and began coursing down his cheeks. With a gasp, he released his handholds and slammed his stomach into the hinged panel. Like a madman trying to break into a coffin, he strained to tear the barrier between them out of its restraints.

  Ashley looked into Ziggy’s eyes and saw the will propelling him forward. He wanted her, wanted her desperately. She took a step backwards and then another.

  Then, as suddenly as it had consumed him, the effect began to vanish. The longing on Ziggy’s face relaxed into boredom.

  “Your pheromones are strong ones,” he croaked as he held out the vial. “Yes, this bottle has captured them. Come back in thirty days, and I’ll give you a refill good for another month — same price as what you paid now.”

  “Can you make something not quite so powerful?” Ashley asked. “I want to make a man an obedient love-slave, not a snorting bull.”

  “Hold it over low heat for a while. The potion will gradually denature. Do it long enough and it becomes harmless.”

  “How long for what I want?”

  “Heat it for a little while. Take a sip and then look in a mirror. If you see yourself as a ravenous beauty, heat it a little more.”

  Ashley nodded, stuffed the tiny bottle in her purse, and turned to leave.

  “One more thing,” Ziggy said. “Button back up your blouse.”

  Make War Not Love

  DINTON STOOD up abruptly, stunned. He retreated from the native female’s mind. The experiment had failed. The intent was to get the formula for making war potions spread throughout the native world above. Something added to their daily lives so that when the first hints of conflict between the haves and have-nots became apparent, there would be immediate uncontrollable reactions… reactions inevitably leading to world conflict and the destruction of all of humankind — all attempts at cooperation abandoned, crop failures everywhere, nuclear winters…

  Love instead of war? An interesting exercise in alchemy. There was no denying that. But it did not fit with Dinton’s vision for how things should proceed. Was it possible other elements of his foresight also were flawed? Again, he would have to use more powerful sorcery. The gentle suggestions to random minds might not suffice. Implant into, what did he call himself… into Ziggy’s brain the formula for a potion of rage. Take no chances that this time the alchemist would err. Increase his desire for wealth so he would tell others what to do. Have him covet the curious invention of what the natives called royalties on what his clients sold.

  That of course also increased the risk. The Faithful might detect what he was doing. Perhaps they already had. Angus’ words could not be trusted. He protested that the alchemy he performed was always underground; here in their claustrophobic prison where blank and confining walls made surviving each day’s passage a small victory. But suppose his brother had done more? Exercised his craft on the surface, performed what the natives would consider to be miracles, lighting beacons the Faithful could not help but see.

  Dinton began pacing. For the very first time after their father had surrendered his ring, he felt alone, abandoned. The baton of leadership, even if he did not wear it all the time, felt as heavy as lead. It pulled him off balance, making even the simple pleasure of a scramble in the twisty passageways a challenge.

  He needed help. Someone else to bear the burden with him, someone else to reason with, to determine with clear thought the best steps to take, something that had never occurred whenever he and his brothers met.

  Angus was soon to be gone. Thaling most always seemed to be conciliatory enough. Maybe he should be approached. Confess the sorceries he had performed. Form a stronger bond together…

  Dinton stopped his pacing. Confess to Thaling? No, he could not do that. Too humbling. Too much a loss of face. All that really had transpired with the natives was a mild surprise. This Ziggy had made a potion for love rather than war. That was all.

  And could not causing undeniable love be as disrupting as uncontrollable rage? Both probably could satisfy the original intent equally well. Dinton’s passion cooled. Besides, he now had easy entrance into the mind of one of the natives. She suspected nothing. There might be other things he could cause her to do.

  The Tryst

  ASHLEY LOOKED at Douglas across the table-for-two tucked into a discreet corner of the posh restaurant. The booth curving around them was deeply padded in leather dyed blood-red and studded with shiny brass buttons like the vest of an overweight official. Except for the exit signs required by the fire marshal, the only lighting came from the flickering trio of candles artfully adorning each tabletop.

  The bill was going to be horrific, Ashley thought, more than she should be spending now with the bleak future ahead, but the bait had to be irresistible.

  “You know,” Duncan said as he swirled the wine in his glass, “in all my years at USX, no subordinate has ever treated me to a dinner — especially one for whom the parting might not be a cause for celebration.”

  Ashley put on her game face. “I have learned a lot from you, Douglas,” she said. “This is my way of saying thanks.” She gave him her best smile.

  “Sometimes a body needs something like this.” Douglas smiled back. “No agenda, no decisions to be made. Just two friends hanging out.”

  This was not going to be easy. After Ashley had decided to go through with this wild scheme, and then got Douglas to accept the invitation, she discovered she did not have the time to plan all of the steps in detail. Things
had been so rushed — documenting the current status of the projects she was responsible for, squashing untrue rumors about the reorg, reassuring her troops everything would work out well… Now, far too late, she was racking her brain about how to slip the love potion to her boss.

  In the romance novels she used to read decades ago, it happened without any problem again and again. A head turned for an instant, a deftly emptied vial and the deed was done. But his glass was clear across the table. She almost would have to stand in order to reach it.

  Douglas abruptly put down his tumbler and rose. “Hold that thought,” he said, and then in a whisper, “Little boy’s room.”

  Did she now have her chance? He will be gone for at least a few minutes. His wine glass was sitting within an arm’s length, even if she did have to crane over the table. Take the vial out of her purse, unscrew the cap, and empty the contents. Ziggy had said the potion was clear, tasteless, and odorless for a reason. No way would it be detected. It was half of what Ziggy had given her. She had held back some in case. But if she emptied the bottle she had with her completely, and Douglas drunk it all, he would be her thrall for at least half a month. Enough time to get everything changed to the way she wanted. What was she waiting for?

  Ashley looked hastily in the direction in which her boss had vanished, and then around the room to check that no waiters were watching. She retrieved the phial and got it ready to pour. She thrust her hand over Douglas’ glass and tipped the little bottle to the side, the first drop hanging tantalizingly from the lip.

  Yes, what was she waiting for? In a few seconds, it would be over. The vial emptied. She hid it away into the bottom of her purse.

  Now, the few minutes expanded into what felt like hours. What was taking so long? She had heard the whispers about what happened when men aged but had never thought much of it. Would he take a sip as soon as he sat down or want to keep the forced chitchat going for a while?

  While she waited, more thoughts bubbled up in her mind. After the potion worked, then what? Get more vials to keep Douglas seduced in his new role as Operations Manager? Get him to step aside willingly so she could ascend to that level, too? If she did this once, could she resist doing it repeatedly? Like an escalator rising into the clouds, the future extended before her. After the ops, target the division manager the same way? , Then the CEO? Run for office perhaps. Representative, Senator, even President!

  With a jolt, the stairway came to a halt. Where would it all stop? If it were only as easy as that, then what would any of it prove?

  This is not right, Ashley girl. The thought she had been ignoring all along in the rush had popped into prominence, front and center. Life was a ladder with widely spaced rungs, not a gliding stairway. Every step she had climbed had been because of merit and merit alone. No sleeping with the boss, no come-on smiles and flirtations, no gimmicks like forcing one to fall in love.

  The morality of what she was doing hit home with a hammer blow. These potions were evil, pure evil. Ziggy said his clientele was discrete, concerned about their own petty trysts and nothing more. But suppose one was like herself, ambitious, and not concerned about the means. What would happen to society if there use became widespread? Could any sophisticated civilization even survive?

  “Why the long face,” Douglas said as he sat down again. “It looks like you are trying to solve all the problems of the world.”

  He reached for his wine. Ashley suddenly rose and swatted his hand to the side. The glass broke free and with a crash fell to the floor spewing its contents.

  “What the hell!” Douglas exclaimed, his eyes wide with astonishment.

  “This was a bad idea from the start.” Ashley reached for her purse and started to leave. “Go ahead, Douglas. Reorganize your operation as you see fit.”

  Only one option now remained. She called back over her shoulder, “I quit!”

  As she walked away, a wave of regret began to overwhelm her, a door had closed that could never be opened again.

  A Final Shot

  ASHLEY PUT the pile of performance appraisals in the out box. It was the least she could do for her engineers before Dave and Robert swallowed them up. Her resignation papers were working their way through the review process like a rabbit being digested by a python. A week from Friday would be her last day. She could spend her time until then not even bothering to come in to work. Only the exit interview with HR remained.

  There was frustration, sadness, regret, yes, but also something more. It irritated her that there was such a small reaction when she tossed her badge on Douglas’ desk when she saw him again the day after the restaurant meeting. No plea for her to reconsider, that the company needed her, or how valuable she was. Good luck and a weak handshake. That was all.

  Around the division, there were the usual perfunctory condolences and polite questions about her plans, but no more. Standard steps in the ritual, hollow with no real content. Dead woman walking. Better to pretend she was not even there.

  Her resumé was on the street, but it would take weeks or even months before there was an invitation for an interview by one of USX’s competitors. No matter. She would use her cash savings for a little while, and then, if she had to, withdraw some more from her IRA. She had made of her mind. New adventures awaited her, whatever they might be.

  Yet, the lack of reaction did stick in her craw, she admitted when the irritation did not completely dissolve. She was taking the brunt of this and USX was getting off scot-free. The higher-ups should at least feel some regret, a little of the pain.

  Oh, one more thing, a final task popped into her head as she looked over her now almost clean desktop. The paragraph for Figaro Newton’s rejection letter. She should dash it off now.

  Wait a minute. What would Tom do if an unannounced new hire did show up the Monday after she was gone? The new laboratory manager was competent, sure, but he knew less than she did about how to run a lab. He was already up to his ears learning the standard procedures and protocols. No time to get in front of things. No option but to react.

  And then, on top of it all, suppose Fig shows up in the lobby. As a courtesy, he would be escorted in, brimming with questions. Where was the RFP needing the response, who was he reporting to, where was his desk?

  USX would never admit it was a big mistake. Say ‘Go back home, little boy. We have the defense of the country to worry about here.’ No, that could explode into a PR disaster — another example of management incompetence.

  Fig would not be turned away. Instead, like an Easter egg hunt, there would be a job number scramble. Some hasty rebudgeting and he would get something out of this for a few months even if it were busy work. And he had said he was out of cash. Who knew? It might make a big difference for him as he figured out what to do next.

  Ashley felt a sudden sense of relief. Malicious relief to be sure, but relief. She picked up Fig’s resumé and found his phone number. She was not going to reject him. No, she was going to make him an offer — one to write a response to the cold RFP starting a week from next Monday — exactly as she had explained to him a week ago.

  She hesitated dialing for a moment. Yes, the organization would be embarrassed. She did want that. But she had not considered how Fig might feel. No planned welcome, no real task, no one caring about how he felt. He would be a mere pawn in all of this and did not deserve everything that might happen.

  An idea struck. Go ahead with the offer. Have him show up the Friday before he officially was to start. On her own last day. She could introduce him to some of the younger engineers, and ask them to take him under their wings. Give him a heads up that Monday might not go as smoothly as he might expect. That should be okay. Smiling about her petty attempt of spite, she made the call.

  CERN

  FIGARO NEWTON took one last look at the audience. He could hardly keep his breakfast down. This was much more intimidating than watching a seminar on Skype. He was physically at the European Organization for Nuclear Research
(CERN). Up in the last row — was that Glasberg and Weinhow sitting next to each other and whispering? Did they fly in for this? How many Nobel laureates were watching anyway?

  And the others. Most of the others were full of gravitas, so full of dignity, seriousness, a firm sense of belonging. Fig was one of the shortest in the room and felt he had none. He was merely a graduate student from a minor university, one unaccredited at that.

  The sports coat felt uncomfortable. He had bought it in a thrift shop years before in the hopes of getting a date to his high school prom. It was just as well he did not. The sleeves were too long, and he felt tiny within the draping shoulders.

  None of the graduate students in the audience had their glasses held together by tape over the nose. Even his scraggly beard looked out of place.

  It had been such a whirlwind. An email from his doctorial advisor to hop on the first plane for Geneva he could get. Professor Chalice had finally got a seminar slotted to talk about his work, but it was a little too soon. He had to focus on data collection because the year-end shutdown of the Large Hadron Collider was almost here. There was hardly any time to spare. Since Fig was Chalice’s only graduate student, he would have to give the talk instead.

  And then the phone call from Ashley Anderfield with the job offer from USX. Five for five — five interviews and five acceptances! He had not expected one from USX. The word buzzing around was that they were in trouble. But no matter which one he accepted, if he were frugal, he could save enough to keep working on his dissertation for another semester. Chalice’s email changed everything. Maybe if he did well in Geneva, a fellowship might follow, and he could turn all of them down.

  He remembered talking with Anderfield and finally signing off with a ‘I’ll think about it.’ No sense in blowing off any of the fallbacks if he didn’t have to.

  And it was a good thing he kept his options open. The preparation for the talk had not gone as expected. Professor Chalice had not even met him at the airport. Instead, his advisor had left a message about a hotel, the lecture time and room number, the PowerPoint file name, and not to disturb him until summoned to do so.