The Alchemists

by Geary Gravel

  Although the bain-sense was a closed world, and its occupant impervious to outside stimulation, Jack felt uneasy about resuming the bodyhug in the Music Nook which adjoined the Library, vaguely guilty about restarting the chaotic music that had lulled him to sleep, frankly uncomfortable about sleeping that close to a tenanted bain-sense. So he sauntered down the blue corridor after the others, not from any desire to visit the Hearth Room, but because they had a place to go and he did not.

  Nearing the central spiral of stairs he passed beyond the influence of the calm blue walls. A few paces ahead, Jefany and Emrys conversed in hushed and earnest voices, looking every inch the dedicated Scholars. Idly, Jack sketched them in his mind: red hair almost touching brown, the swift strong lines to frame their faces, the mobile features, the eloquent gestures.

  March and Marysu had already reached the stairwell. The soldier's boots rang sharply on each step as he descended.

  Choss had lingered for some time at the entrance to the Library, staring brow-furrowed at the luxurious coffin as if trying to penetrate the velvet and silver with his eyes. Jack turned to look for him but instead saw Cil, hurrying to close the few paces between them. She fell into step with him, and he noticed for the first time that she too was barefoot. He smiled to himself, watching her toes appear and vanish at the hem of the moth-green robe.

  She followed his eyes curiously, looked up with a smile. "I don't like shoes."

  "Me either. Never wear 'em."

  They listened as March attained the lowest level; heard him stride off toward the Hearth Room with the hollow, heavy sound of boots on marble. Up ahead, the Scholarly discourse continued, the tones growing progressively more hushed, the smiles

  more frequent. Cil was watching them, and Jack used the time to study her face. If he wished, he might recall her features in perfect detail an hour or a century from this moment and they would reappear, flawless and obedient.

  "You know," she said softly, "we'll see snow before dawn."

  He laughed. "Yes?"

  "Yes." Her slight nod was serious.

  "How d'you know a thing like that, then? From the Hut?" He found himself intrigued, delighted by her words, or by her face, or by something he had glimpsed in both.

  She guided a wisp of golden hair back from her forehead.

  "I know it from the glow of the sky, from the movement of the wind. A look out the door when they brought in the woman made it certain. A small storm only, I'd judge, and still a few hours off."

  "But I was looking out, too, and it didn't seem any different to me. Just lots of green and some silver. And quiet. So where's the trick?"

  "The trick is the planalyst's knack," she said. "The way of looking at things quickly, all at once, as if they were all one thing. As they are: the connections show themselves before long on any world. I confess it's as much hunch as training— and definitely not as certain as long-term tests and study. But for now...

  She looked up at him quickly, and the sentence faded as her cheeks colored under his attentive gaze.

  They had stopped walking, and he was examining her face with solemn interest, as if he planned to paint it, fusing the thought behind the words with those in his own mind.

  The small blue flower near her mouth looked like a permanent decoration, and he approved of the choice, for it blended beautifully with the rest of her. He filled an imaginary palette with her colors: white-gold, cream, ivory, rose, the focal point of pale blue.

  He cocked an eyebrow and grinned, saying her last words back to her: "But for now..."

  Raille rose, felt herself rising, resisted for a moment, acquiesced.

  Just beneath the surface she floated, face up. The sky was dark, blurred. Refracted through the water, the stars had lost their brilliance: they shone dully, like rows of tiny knobs. She moved her arms restlessly and found a soft obstruction on each side, a cushioned wall a few centimeters from her body. There was no water. She raised her hands in wonder and touched the sky. The rows of stars were buttons, gleaming.

  She had been in a bain-sense before, times without number as she was growing up. The panic of finding herself shut up in a casket lasted only a few seconds.

  What have I done this time? she wondered with the hovering clarity of near-wakefulness. Fainting when Grandfather hit his thumb instead of the nail... screaming at the bird's broken wing... asleep with open eyes while watching the bees. Oh bad girl, sad girl...

  Sleep welled up around her like black water, hiding the buttons, blotting out the stars. She let it flow over her unresisting, seeking the depths.

  "She came awake."

  "What's that?" Emrys tilted his head slightly to the side, one eyebrow lifting in polite inquiry.

  "Awake," March repeated. "Saw it when I took her out of the dream-box. Machine made a note, I read the numbers to check—past hour she came awake, then back out in a minute."

  "That isn't possible. It couldn't happen." The eyebrow remained poised, awaiting enlightenment.

  "Truth told," March said softly. His posture near the door was casual, but his hands were becoming fists, the golden fingers closing with a measured slowness like the traps of a carnivorous plant. His eyes were locked on Emrys' face, and a careless brutality had crept into his stance.

  Emrys seemed lost in thought.

  Jefany stared at March by looking into his false eye. This man has killed and killed again, she thought. She touched Emrys' arm.

  "A malfunction?" she prompted softly.

  Emrys stirred. "Well—is the bain-sense functioning properly, Hut?"

  "It's in perfect order," came the immediate reply from above. "I am investigating March's observations, however, and a probe of the sensebath confirms his report. Our new arrival was awake somewhat less than an hour ago. She remained conscious seventy-three point three seconds."

  "Extraordinary," Emrys said. "Some quirk of Weldonese physiology, would you think?"

  "No such oddity has been registered with my sources," the Hut said officiously. "Naturally, I would have mentioned it."

  March had left the doorway. He stood near the wall, toying with a fragile glass wind sculpture.

  "Sleeping when I took her to her room. Sleeping now," he said, as if that finished the matter.

  Raille Weldon slept on. The Group stayed in the Hearth Room, almost as if something were drawing them together, discouraging them from going off to separate rooms.

  Emrys had beckoned to Cil after dinner from a cul-de-sac of softly glowing water tables. There they sat on flexible chairbubbles, watching the fish and conversing in low tones. From time to time, Emrys gestured to the stack of recording chips he had brought down from his room. Then he would fall silent and gingerly place one or two of the recordings into Cil's cupped hands.

  "Looks like he's handing over his firstborn," Marysu told Jack in a dry voice. They were sitting together at the big table, Marysu's pile of data sheets and phonetic beads overlapping the square of white upon which Jack was sketching her profile in charcoal. "Mm hm," he said, his tongue pushing past his teeth as he straightened the neck, darkened the high cheekbones. Marysu clicked her tongue and returned to her own task, the isolation of a class of elusive palatals from an all but lost language of the back-before.

  On the other side of the table, Choss leaned forward on his elbows, hands cradling his cheeks, eyes lost in the polished oke. He raised his head abruptly. "Of course—the Willful Poppy!" he blurted, and found himself staring into three pairs of curious eyes.

  Marysu exchanged a glance with Jack; Jefany watched with raised eyebrows from the side of the small scent scuplture she had been sampling. March had not bothered to turn from his crouching inspection of the golden dragon beneath his feet.

  Choss swallowed and lowered his eyes. His face and ears were scarlet. "The Weldonese girl," he said with difficulty. "She reminded me of someone."

  Marysu snorted and went back to her charts. Jack looked at or through Choss for a moment, then attacked his drawing with rene
wed vigor.

  "Oh," Jefany said from across the room. "The Personality. I guess there could be some resemblance." She favored him with a brief smile.

  Flute note and whisper: "Emrys?"

  Choss looked gratefully to the ceiling.

  "Yes?" Emrys removed a recording chip from his cheek and slumped back in his chair with a beleaguered sigh. "We're a little busy just now, Hut."

  "I am receiving a linkup request." The Hut managed to convey a martyred dignity. "It would seem to be rather important."

  Emrys looked blank. "Is Raille Weldon's ship still in orbit?"

  "It is not a Darkjumper calling. World to world, via the Net."

  There were startled sounds from around the room. "The expense," Choss murmured.

  "From which world?" Emrys moved quickly to the opaqued Screen.

  "From Maribon, Emrys. Shall I connect you?"

  "Maribon!" He flung them a wondering look. "Yes—permit the link."

  The Screen began to flicker at his last word.

  The face that appeared on the wall could have been one of Jack's charcoal sketches, so flat and white was the skin, so black the eyes and hair. It was blank with the intensity of death. Even the eyes were without expression, flat, with the thrusting emptiness of a corpse.

  Then a veil of darkness appeared in the air around Emrys and the Screen, blotting them from the room as if a web of shadows had been spun on the wall to conceal them.

  "Private," the Hut said apologetically. "Hush and shadow. I'm sure you'll excuse him."

  "What was that—creature?" Marysu asked, her face ashen.

  "Empath," Choss whispered.

  "God! A face like the belly of a fish," she said. "And those eyes..."

  The silent, hidden conversation lasted no more than a minute. The pall thinned into nothingness and a pale Ernrys turned away from the empty Screen.

  "We're to have a visitor," he said. "Someone is coming here from Maribon. They wouldn't say why."

  "An empath—here!" Choss said, fright in his eyes.

  "It's illegal, though, isn't it?" Cil asked. "They're not supposed to travel."

  "UnLawful," Marysu said. "The Moselle rulings—"

  "Jon. You could stop him. You could call someone, couldn't you?"

  "No, Jefany. No." He stared past her, brow knit with concern. "It's probably all right. I won't call anyone unless I have to. We'd best wait and see what happens."

  CHAPTER 3

  By the rivers there is vossomy, peshel, murebud

  (good for harvest ache), diamano, siss (brewed as a

  tea for uncontrollable trembling), and kettlehage. In

  the meadow I found stonecrust and feverwort.

  Dewcup beneath the trees, also nipstalk which is

  poisonous. Windbuds move up from the South usually

  by Whitemonth, linger till Midmonth. Suppleweed and

  shell are fine as greens, dodore and last-lament grow

  on the undersides of leaning rocks, are bitter but

  healthful...

  FROM AN ANONYMOUS WELOONESE HERBAL. WALKING SEDDON VALLEY

  The feeling was not so much surprise as emptiness. There were things missing, gaps, Wurrecf areas.

  It was disorientation, spatial and temporal: falling, floating, drifting.

  It was waking up in the middle of the night in a strange bed in a strange room, with no idea where you are or how you came to be there, until it all begins to come back to you: slowly

  54

  at first, piece by piece, and then in a rush as everything drops into place and you feel foolish and relieved at the same time. Except—

  Except it wasn't coming back. There were no pieces to assemble. There was only darkness and disorientation and emptiness.

  Raille Weldon, late of Weldon, awoke in an empty room which was completely dark when she opened her eyes, grew progressively lighter as she rose to her knees and then to her feet, and began to darken again as she stumbled out the door.

  She was in a long sloping hallway, a curving tunnel sided with blue walls that flowed and swirled in undefinable patterns when she tried to focus her eyes on them. It was as if she stood in the curve of a giant spiral seashell, she thought at once, her mind reaching easily toward fantasy. But then these walls must be transparent instead of nacreous, and the lambent blues that surged against her eyes were those of a vast ocean above and all around her.

  She took a step forward, then another, bringing her foot down hard to steady the rippling corridor. The walls receded for a moment, then lapped closer as she made her unsteady way.

  At first she was afraid to touch the swirling blue, fearing that it might really be some sort of suspended liquid, and that her hand would instantly plunge through into whirlpool depths. But the undulating patterns made her brain dance in a haze of blue veils, and finally she was forced to lean against the right-hand wall to keep from falling.

  The nightmare waking, the mutable walls, this whole silent undersea exploration had the flavor and texture of a drugwine fantasy for Raille, who had never experienced one, and for a while there was no purpose but the blending of colors and no urgency beyond the changing of shapes.

  She moved on slowly, enchanted by the sound her body made as it slid along the smooth surface of the wall. Soon she found that by closing her eyes she could drift down the hypnotic corridor in a senseless, dreaming glide, her weight resting against the wall and her legs taking the slow-motion steps rhythmically, one, two, one, two, one...

  Her shoulder touched a strip of raised material, and she blinked open her eyes, frowning, sleepy.

  A door. An open door.

  Had she been moving in a circle? She peered around the edge.

  The room was not the same, though it was of the same dimensions and nearly as empty, containing only a small pallet identical to the one on which she had awakened and a collection of shiny recording chips that caught her eye with their bright colors. Moving into the room, she glimpsed a second doorway near the far end, and opposite it a large desk or table. The room was compact, but with a sense of space in its lines and layout.

  This is a pleasant place.

  That was her first reaction. There was something about the room that Raille responded to instinctively: an aura of safety, perhaps, as if it were a place used to surround and protect its inhabitant. Lured on by this promise of haven, Raille approached the desk. A luggage pack lay on its side, one end open to reveal portions of some complicated machinery. Beside the pack was a neat pile of what looked to be dead animals: small, varicolored waterdwellers wrapped in thin transparent envelopes. Like the recording chips next to the pallet, they had been carefully stacked. Raille touched the topmost one lightly; it was cool and dry, and she was able to feel the creature's scaled surface through the membrane.

  To the right of the pile of specimens someone had left an open notebook, the visible pages filled with oddly ornate Anglic characters written in a painstaking script. The words were in a language unknown to Raille; she read some of them aloud, taking pleasure in the pompous, rolling sounds:

  Astronatus ocellatus Delta splendens

  Helostoma temmincki Gnathonemus petersi

  Cichlasoma severum Pterophyllum scalare

  Symphysodon discus Trichogaster leeri

  Raille heard a uoise and looked up, the flesh crawling at the base of her scalp.

  A man stood in the doorway across from the desk. He was watching her curiously, head cocked to one side.

  There was no sound. The tableau was not quite real to her

  , without speech or motion. She studied the man: dark hair, dark beard, rather an exotic costume for—

  Weldon?

  "How do you feel?" he asked in gentle Inter.

  "Very well, thank you," she replied haltingly. "And you?"

  "Quite well. I didn't hear you come in. I was cleansing my hands in the habitual."

  "Oh." She nodded vaguely.

  "Is there something wrong?" His calm smile was becomi
ng a trifle disconcerted. "Are you all right?"

  "No—fine." Raille tried to smile at him. "I thought it was a dream. I thought I was home." She leaned heavily against the desk, a rushing and sparking in her mind like a cloud of bright bees, stinging her awake.

  The man's face showed concern. "D'you know where you are now?" His arms moved restlessly at his sides, as if he would like to put them to some use, but dared not.

  "The Autumnworld. Belthannis," she said slowly. "May I sit down somewhere?" She eyed the bare floor doubtfully.

  "Ah! I have no manners." He brushed his fingers against the nearest wall and said very clearly, "Chair for her." Raille watched as the floor between them swelled, and a solid-looking hump of green grew quickly upward. She seated herself gingerly, finding that the chairbubble gave in some places and supported in others, holding her almost as comfortably as a boayhug. Perched on a green bubble in the middle of a stranger's sleeproom, on an alien world she was only beginning to remember, Raille Weldon could think of nothing to say.

  The pile of preserved animals caught her eye. "Are these your food?"

  He looked perplexed, then suddenly amused.

  "You mean the Earth fish! No, these are my pets, my hobby. Here." He leaned past her and began hoisting pieces of machinery from the luggage pack on his desk. He assembled the devices as he spoke, clicking and snapping them together with practiced speed.

  "They're from the hatcheries on Rondivoo, actually," he said. "Authenticated descendants of stock brought out during the Expansion. I have a guarantee."

  He replaced the device on his desk. Completed, it was a

  fragile metal grid the size of a dinner plate, bristling with strange attachments.

  He thumbed something at the base of the device and stepped back.

  "Which one would you like to see first? My name is Choss, by the way. World Hinderlond. Historian."

  "I'm very glad to meet you." Raille stared blankly at the machine.

  "Mm. Perhaps the diskfish." He spoke with a heartiness that seemed forced. Raille felt his eyes on her constantly; he was watching her as if afraid of what she might do.

  Choss took the largest packet from the pile: the creature was dark and saucer shaped, streaked with lines of red and electric blue. Holding it horizontally over the device, he pressed a curved protrusion with his other hand, and a low-pitched hum rose and fell in the machine. He released the fish in midair, and Raille stared as it hung on its side above the grid without support, swaying delicately. The transparent envelope had begun to dissolve, as small bright dots danced upward from the grid like motes of dust in a sunbeam.