Where could a man like Jillet of Forebridge get so much money?
Where else?
Congratulating himself on his clarity of wit, Jillet went to the usurers.
He had had no dealings with usurers heretofore. But he had heard rumors. Some such “lenders” were said to be more forgiving than others, less stringent in their demands. Well, Jillet had no need of anyone’s forgiveness; but he felt a natural preference for men with amiable reputations. From the honest alchemist, he went in search of an amiable usurer.
Unfortunately, amiable, forgiving usurers had so much kindness in their natures because they could afford it; and they could afford it because their investments were scantly at risk: they demanded collateral before hazarding coin. This baffled Jillet more than a little. The concept of collateral he could understand—just—but he could not understand why the widow Huchette did not constitute collateral. He would use the money to pay the alchemist; the alchemist would give him a love-potion; the potion would win the widow; and from the widow’s holdings the usurer would be paid. Where was the fallacy in all this?
The usurer himself had no difficulty detecting the fallacy. More in sorrow than in scorn, he sent Jillet away.
Other “lenders” were similarly inclined. Only their pity varied, not their rejection.
Well, thought Jillet, I will never gain the widow without assistance. I must have the potion.
So he abandoned his search for an amiable usurer and committed himself, like a lost fish, to swim in murkier waters. He went to do business with the kind of moneylender who despised the world because he feared it. This moneylender feared the world because his substance was always at risk; and his substance was always at risk because he required no collateral. All he required was a fatal return on his investment.
“One fifth!” Jillet protested. The interest sounded high, even to him. “No other lender in Forebridge asks so much.”
“No other lender in Forebridge,” wheezed the individual whose coin was endangered, “risks so much.”
True, thought Jillet, giving the man his due. And after all one fifth was only a number. It would not amount to much, if the widow were won swiftly. “Very well,” he replied calmly. “As you say, you ask no collateral. And my prospects cannot fail. One fifth in a year is not too much to pay for what I will gain, especially”—he cleared his throat in a dignified fashion, for emphasis—“since I will only need the use of your money for a fortnight at most.”
“A year?” The usurer nearly burst a vessel. “You will return me one fifth a week on my risk, or you can beg coin of fools like yourself, for you will get none from me!”
One fifth in a week. Perhaps for a moment Jillet was indeed stunned. Perhaps he went so far as to reconsider the course he had chosen. One fifth in a week, each and every week—And what if the potion failed? Or if it was merely slow? He would never be able to pay that first one fifth, not to mention the second or the third—and certainly not the original sum itself. Why, it was ruinous.
But then it occurred to him that one fifth, or two fifths, or twenty would make no difference to the wealth of the widow Huchette. And he would be happy besides, basking in the knowledge of a passion virtuously satisfied.
On that comfortable assumption, he agreed to the usurer’s terms.
The next day, laden with a purse containing more gold than he had ever seen in his life, Jillet of Forebridge returned to the alchemist.
By this time, the alchemist was ready for him. The essence of charlatanism was cunning, and the alchemist was nothing if not an essential charlatan. He had taken the measure of his man—as well as of his own circumstances—and had determined his response. First, of course, he counted out Jillet’s gold, testing the coins with spurious powders and honest teeth. He produced a few small fires and explosions, purely for effect: like most of his ilk, he could be impressive when he wished. Then he spoke.
“Young man, you are not the first to approach me for a potion in this matter. You are merely the first”—he hefted the purse—“to place such value on your object. Therefore I must give you a magick able to supersede all others—a magick not only capable of attaining its end, but in fact of doing so against the opposition of a—number—of intervening magicks. This is a rare and dangerous enterprise. For it to succeed, you must not only trust it entirely, but also be bold in support of it.
“Behold!”
The alchemist flourished his arms to induce more fires and explosions. When an especially noxious fume had cleared, he held in his palm a leather pouch on a thong.
“I will be plain,” said the alchemist, “for it will displease me gravely if magick of such cost and purity fails because you do not do your part. This periapt must be worn about your neck, concealed under your”—he was about to say “linen,” but Jillet’s skin clearly had no acquaintance with finery of that kind—“jerkin. As needed, it must be invoked in the following secret yet efficacious fashion.” He glared at Jillet through his eyebrows. “You must make reference to ‘my kinsman, Reave the Just.’ And you must be as unscrupulous as Reave the Just in pursuing your aim. You must falter at nothing.”
This was the alchemist’s inspiration, his cunning at work. Naturally, the pouch contained only a malodorous dirt. The magick lay in the words, “my kinsman, Reave the Just.” Any man willing to make that astonishing claim could be sure of one thing: he would receive opportunities which would otherwise be impossible for him. Doors would be opened, audiences granted, attention paid anywhere in the North Counties, regardless of Jillet’s apparent lineage, or his lack of linen. In that sense, the magick the alchemist offered was truer than any of his previous potions. It would open the doors of houses. And conceivably, if the widow Huchette was impressionable enough, it would open the door of her heart; for what innocent and moony young female could resist the enchantment of Reave’s reputation?
So, of course, Jillet protested. Precisely because he lacked the wit to understand the alchemist’s chicanery, he failed to understand its use. Staring at his benefactor, he objected, “But Reave the Just is no kinsman of mine. My family is known in Forebridge. No one will believe me.”
Simpleton, thought the alchemist. Idiot. “They will,” he replied with a barely concealed exasperation born of fear that Jillet would demand the return of his gold, “if you are bold enough, confident enough in your actions. The words do not need to be true. They are simply a private incantation, a way of invoking the periapt without betraying what you do. The magick will succeed if you but trust it.”
Still Jillet hesitated. Despite the strength which the mere idea of the widow Huchette exercised in his thinking, he had no comprehension of the power of ideas: he could not grasp what he might gain from the idea that he was related to Reave. “How can that be?” he asked the air more than the alchemist. No doubt deliberately, the alchemist had challenged his understanding of the world; and it was the world which should have answered him. Striving to articulate his doubt, he continued, “I want a love potion to change the way she looks at me. What will I gain by saying or acting a thing that is untrue?”
Perhaps this innocence explained some part of the affection Forebridge felt for him; but it did not endear him to the alchemist. “Now hear me,” clod, buffoon, half-wit, said the alchemist. “This magick is precious, and if you do not value it I will offer it elsewhere. The object of your desire does not desire you. You wish her to desire you. Therefore something must be altered. Either she must be made to”—stifle her natural revulsion for a clod like you—“feel a desire she lacks. Or you must be made more desirable to her. I offer both. Properly invoked, the periapt will instill desire in her. And bold action and a reputation as Reave the Just’s kinsman will make you desirable.