And with that, she was gone.
Scorio smiled at the twin treasures that sat upon the sill.
Progress.
Settling himself, clearing his mind, he closed his eyes once more.
Time to resume his training.
1
Scorio was up and pacing when First Clay dawned. He paused to lean out his window and watch as the great filament heated up, its deep burn growing brighter till the vast interior of Bastion was bathed in its bloody hues, the dark banished once more to the deepest corners and cervices.
He’d tried to sleep and failed. Too many thoughts. An endless ability to consider and reconsider his plans. To revise and doubt himself until all that was left to do was pace, wall to wall, resisting the siren call of the ruined streets and the desire to use his treasures to navigate them with newfound assurance.
When Naomi finally showed, climbing into view to fill the window, he felt his nerves steady and picked up a pouch. “Morning, Naomi. All well?”
She didn’t hop down from the sill. “Marginally. You look eager.”
“That’s because I am.” He allowed her a rakish smile. “I live for apothecary visits. Shall we?”
“I thought we might do some meditation practice first,” she said, expression dour, but she wasn’t able to hold it. A smile cracked her facade, and she held up a hand to silence his protest. “I jest. See? I, too, know how to do humor.”
“It’s… not… I mean, one doesn’t ‘do’ humor…”
Naomi arched an eyebrow.
“I mean, you’re doing it perfectly,” said Scorio. “Ha! See? That was a laugh. Now, shall we?”
“Very well. Let’s.” She swiveled on the ball of her foot and dropped back out into the street. Scorio scrambled after her, leaped down from rock to rock till they reached the street.
Naomi glanced at the pouch he held.
“A sample,” Scorio said, bouncing it in his palm. “Just to be safe.”
“Wise. We’re headed to Ward 9. It’s not far. But we’ve a long day ahead of us, so let’s hurry.”
“This coming from the lady who wanted to meditate.” He broke into a jog by her side. “But no objections here.”
They slowed so as to not attract attention as they entered Bastion’s civilized edges, and wound their way through side streets till they reached a quiet avenue within a stone’s throw of Ward 7.
“Here we go,” said Naomi, tugging her hood a little lower and leading him along a smooth sidewalk to an unassuming doorway over which hung a banner with a mortar and pestle inked neatly on its beige fabric.
A bell tinkled overhead as the door swung open, and they stepped into a shop so small and irregularly shaped it appeared more an overlooked interstice that someone had taken advantage of than an established commercial spot.
A skylight overhead allowed First Bronze’s brazen light to filter in and set the floating motes of dust aflame where they gyred in the air as if caught in honey. The upper half of the walls were honeycombed with pigeonholes, while the lower half was an endless series of drawers, broad and shallow, the knobs made from a wide array of different materials.
A small counter only three steps from the doorway served a variety of purposes: a third was dedicated to bookkeeping, complete with a pile of neatly tied-off scrolls and a ledger; a third held a number of glass containers with seamlessly fitting lids, each holding a different kind of flower or substance, each but vaguely visible through the dim glass; while the far side appeared a small but efficient space for the actual practice of alchemy, complete with esoteric equipment, a small cutting board, mortar and pestle, and neat bundles of dried herbs.
A young man, with an expression so sober he appeared fatigued, gazed at them with violent disinterest; he was dressed in immaculate robes of dove gray with a golden flower embroidered over his breast, and his dark face appeared to be all shaved upper lip and protruding ears, his hair lacquered and combed back severely.
“What rhymes with ‘dangerous’?” he asked, tone emotionless and mildly annoyed.
Scorio stopped, uncertain, and glanced at Naomi.
“‘Dangerous’?” She frowned. “I… nothing is coming to mind. Scorio?”
He blinked, nonplussed, then slowly shook his head.
The man took up the parchment on which he’d been writing and recited in a dull voice, “‘For even by the light of day your beauty is most dangerous, but I, being true in phases all doth’—something something, then whatever rhymes with dangerous.”
“Hmm, yes,” said Naomi. “It has… promise.”
The young man lowered the sheet and stared balefully down at the words. “Romance when distilled by a passionate heart precipitates into poetry. I didn’t think it would be this… demanding.”
“I’m sure your persistence will pay off.”
He inhaled powerfully, lips pursed in distaste, then set the parchment quickly in an open drawer and slid it shut.
“Anyway. Welcome to the Sincere Refinery, your first and only resource for all matters alchemical, apothecarial, and alembic. Can I be of assistance?”
“Master Jelan,” said Naomi, stepping forward and pushing her hood back. “I trust that I am not late for my appointment?”
“Ah, Mistress Esoka,” said Jelan, inclining his head. “I didn’t recognize you, though your punctuality is appreciated. And this is the associate of whom you spoke?”
Scorio pushed back his hood and gave the apothecary a respectful bow. “Thank you for your time.”
“It is always a pleasure to be of service to House Kraken.” His tone was stilted, artificial; Scorio had no idea if he was being sarcastic. “You had some questions about distilling Black Star pills?”
“I do, thank you. I am in the process of gathering some fifty plants.” At this Scorio took his sample from his pouch and laid it on the counter. “I wished to understand the process to create the pills myself.”
“Fascinating,” said Jelan, not sounding remotely interested. “A wonder that House Kraken would outsource the creation of such low-level pills to an amateur.”
“Hell is passingly strange,” agreed Naomi.
“Thank you for sharing your expertise,” said Scorio, keeping his tone equally neutral.
Jelan shot the cuffs of his robes then placidly folded his hands on the counter. “The process is slow but dangerous. The easiest way to extract mana from the plant is to simmer it over low heat for some twelve hours, and then add alum to clarify the tincture to remove the solids.”
Scorio nodded. “What equipment is necessary? I am of course willing to pay.”
“You have the octs?” Jelan’s smile betrayed his skepticism.
“I can pay in Black Star plants.”
“Shocking. But yes, we can negotiate something. I would rather word not spread that my clients are poisoning themselves in pursuit of potency.”
Scorio raised a hand. “Wait, if it remains poisonous, it’s more potent?”
Jelan’s eyes narrowed. “That’s both not what I said and not what I would advise.”
Scorio inched closer. “But you didn’t say I was wrong. Am I understanding correctly? Neutralizing the poison reduces the potency?”
“It feels like a dereliction of my public obligations to explain this to you.”
“Does the alum neutralize the poison?”
“No,” he said reluctantly. “It clarifies the tincture, causing flocculation. Solids form, which are removed and turned into the pill. But the liquid that remains behind contains most of the Black Star’s potency.”
“But that’s the poisonous part.”
“Exactly. So, let’s move on to the nature of the equipment you will need—”
“Poisonous how?”
“Poisonous, young man, as in deleterious to your health.”
“Lethal?”
“If you drink enough.”
“And if I don’t?”
“Then you’ll just be violently ill for a few days, retch till you’re out of bile, and hallucinate visions that will make your nightmares appear paltry.”