A knock at the door. A voice from the hallway. “My lord Septach Melayn! My lord, is everything all right with you in there?”
Damn. It was doddering old Nilgir Sumanand, Prestimion’s aide-de-camp and major-domo. “Of course everything’s all right!” Septach Melayn told him. “What do you think?” Hastily he returned to the desk and tucked his sword out of sight by his feet. He brushed a vagrant lock of his hair back into place. Reaching for Resolution No. 1279, he made a devout pretense at studying it intently.
Nilgir Sumanand peered in. “I thought I heard you speaking to someone, though I knew no one was there,” he said. “And there were some outcries, or so it seemed to me; and other sounds. Footsteps, as if someone was moving quickly about the room. A scuffle, perhaps?—But there’s no one here except yourself, I see. The grace of the Divine be on you, my lord Septach Melayn! I must have been imagining things.”
No: I was, thought Septach Melayn wryly, glancing about the empty room. He could still see the bloody heaps of dead assailants, although he knew the other man could not.
“What you heard,” he said, “was the regent of the realm at his exercise. I’m not used to such a sedentary kind of life. I get up from this desk every hour or so and indulge in some calisthenics, do you follow? To keep myself from rusting away. A quick bit of feint and slash, a little tuning-up of wrist and arm and eye.—What is it you want, Nilgir Sumanand?”
“Your noontime appointment is at hand.”
“And what appointment is that?”
Nilgir Sumanand looked a little taken aback. “Why, the transmuter of metals, my lord. You sent word three days past that you would meet with him here today at noon.”
“Ah. So I did. I do recall it now.”
Damn. Damn damn damn.
It was the alchemist, the man who claimed to be able to manufacture iron from charcoal. Another bit of infernal bother, Septach Melayn thought, scowling. This was Abrigant’s project, not Prestimion’s. It wasn’t sufficient to be doing the Coronal’s job; they wanted him to handle Abrigant’s business as well. Abrigant too was off in the east with Prestimion, though. Since no one knew when they were going to return, all manner of strange things were falling to Septach Melayn in their absence. And this one seemed the wildest fantasy, this conjuring of valuable metal out of useless charcoal. But he had promised to give the man a little of his time.
“Let him come in, Nilgir Sumanand.”
The major-domo stepped aside to allow someone to enter. “I hail the great lord Septach Melayn,” his visitor said obsequiously, and executed a profound, if clumsy, bow.
Septach Melayn felt a wince of distaste. The man who stood before him was a Hjort! That was something he hadn’t anticipated: a big-bellied stubby-legged Hjort with gleaming bulgy eyes like those of some unpleasant fish and dull gray skin that was erupting everywhere with smooth rounded protrusions as big as good-sized pebbles. Septach Melayn did not care for Hjorts. He knew that was wrong of him, that Hjorts were citizens too, and usually decent ones, and could not help it that they looked so hideous. There had to be a whole world full of Hjorts somewhere in the universe and its people would surely think he was hideous. But he was uncomfortable in their company, all the same. They irritated him. This one, who was dressed with particular resplendence in tight red trousers, a dark-green doublet with scarlet trim, and a short cloak of purple velveteen, seemed to glory in his own ugliness. He showed no special awe at finding himself in the private office of the Coronal Lord, or in the presence of the High Counsellor Septach Melayn.
As a private citizen of aristocratic background, Septach Melayn could feel any way about outworlders that he pleased. But as regent for the Coronal of Majipoor he knew he must show respect for citizens of every sort, be they Hjorts or Skandars or Vroons or Liimen, Su-Suheris or Ghayrogs or anything else. He bade the Hjort welcome—Taihjorklin was his name—and asked him to fill him in on the details of his researches, since the absent Abrigant had not provided him with much to go on.
The Hjort clapped his pudgy hands and two assistants appeared, both of them Hjorts as well, rolling a large four-wheeled tray on which was stacked a great assemblage of implements, charts, scrolls, and other impedimenta. He seemed prepared for an extensive demonstration.
“You must understand, my lord, that all things are interwoven and become separate again, and that if one can fathom the rhythm of the separation, one may replicate the interweaving. For the sky gives and the land receives; the stars give and the flowers receive; the ocean gives and the flesh receives. The mingling and combining are aspects of the great chain of existence; the harmony of the stars and the harmony of—”
“Yes,” Septach Melayn cut in. “Prince Abrigant has explained all these philosophical matters to me already. Be kind enough to show me how you go about making metal out of charcoal.”
The Hjort seemed only slightly disconcerted by Septach Melayn’s brusqueness. “We have, my lord, approached our task through the use of various scientific techniques, to wit, calcinations, sublimations, dissolutions, combustions, and the joining of elixirs. I am prepared to elaborate upon the specific efficacy of each of these techniques, if it should please you, my lord.” Hearing no such request, he went on, choosing relevant exhibits from his tray as he spoke: “All substances, you must realize, are made up of metal and non-metal in varying proportions. Our task is to increase the proportion of the one by reducing the proportion of the other. In our processes we employ both waters corrosive and waters ardent as our catalysts. Our chief reagents are green vitriol, sulfur, orpiment, and a large group of active salts, primary among them sal hepatica and sal ammoniac, though there are many others. The first step, my lord, is calcination, the reduction of the matters used to a basic condition, This is followed by solution, the action of the liquor distilled from our reactive substances upon the dry substances, after which we induce separation and then conjunction, by which I mean—”
“Show me the metal that your process produces, if you will,” said Septach Melayn, not in an unkindly way.
“Ah.” Taihjorklin’s balloon-like throat membranes expanded in an unsettling fashion. “Of course. The metal, my lord.”
The Hjort turned and took from the tray a delicate strand of bright wire, no thicker than a hair and no longer than a finger, which he presented to Septach Melayn with a grand flourish.
Septach Melayn scrutinized it coolly. “I would have expected an ingot, at the least.”
“There will be ingots aplenty in good time, my lord.”
“But at present, this is what you have?”
“What you see represents no small achievement, your lordship. But the process is only rudimentary at this point. We have established general principles; now we are ready to move on. Much equipment remains to be purchased before we can proceed to the stage of large-scale production. We require, for instance, proper furnaces, stills, sublimatories, scorifying pans, crucibles, beakers, lamps, refluxatory extractors—”