“It called for fine judgment,” said I. “Though the same events may have occurred in any case, without your lifting a finger.”
“But then how could I rejoice in my victory?” She smiled. “Rejoice in the knowledge that it was I who brought you to this pass, and not mere chance?”
I regarded her smile, and nodded. “You may rejoice, as well, that you have taught me a valuable lesson. That my successes, whatever they may be, will be mine. My failures will be your doing, and will reflect not on me.”
Her smile faded.
“For you see,” I continued, “people are often troubled by their failures, and spend many long, anxious hours scrutinizing their errors, and examining their consciences, and wondering how they might have prevented unhappiness. You have spared me all that—I need concentrate all my efforts only on achieving success.”
“Perhaps I will raise you up,” she said, “so that your fall will be all the greater.”
“You may sport with me, sure,” said I, “as a wanton boy with a fly, but it hardly seems worthy of you.”
Her eyes narrowed. “What do you know of worthy?” she demanded. “Was your conduct toward me worthy?”
“Ay,” said I, “take me for your teacher, then, and behave as badly as I. Worse, if you like.”
“Faithless!” she hissed. Though to my ear the word seemed to lack somewhat of its former conviction.
“I have had time to consider my situation in the last weeks,” said I. “And your own as well. And I would like to know, Where are the rest of you?” I reached out an arm to encompass the island, the sailors, the ships, the hawkers trundling by with their carts. “According to the old epics, the world was full of nymphs, and naiads, and dryads, and mighty gods, all interfering in the business of mortals. Where did they all go? Are they off on the Comet Periodical, as the follower of the Pilgrim allege?”
“I know nothing of this comet,” said Orlanda. “And that Pilgrim, he was naught but a gaunt, bitter cenobite full of slanders.”
I looked at her. “Are you the only one left? No wonder you take rejection so to heart.”
She laughed. “Perhaps we grew tired of mortals so persistent in their foolishness.”
“But yet you are not tired of me, and I am foolish as the rest.”
Green fire blazed in her eyes. “You woke me!” she said. “I was content till you came.”
“Has bedeviling me then made you more content?” I asked. “Are you more content now than you were a week ago?”
“Are you?” Orlanda responded. “That is more to the point.” Her lips parted in a thin, angry smile. “I have centuries to find contentment. Have you?”
I blinked, and she was gone, and where I stared was a waterfront lane full of busy chandlers and tipsy sailors going about their day. Perhaps she had made her point; perhaps she was finding a dispute with me harder work than she supposed.
As I pondered this matter, I joined the Roundsilvers in one of the foundry’s buildings, where wine and dinner had been provided, and some dull entertainment in the form of Ransome discoursing on his alchemical experiments. He was very much involved, he said, in removing superfluity from his Stone through Calcining, Loosening, Distillation, and Congealing. I asked him what Stone was to be so congealed.
“Any Stone you wisheth,” said he. “The process of purification is the same. For look you—” He lifted a piece of honey-cake. “When I eat of this cake, it goeth to my stomach, where my stomach’s great heat concocts it, just as it might be concocted in my study by an alembic. The cake is then transformed into chyle, which then passeth to the liver, where it is concocted a second time to become blood. From the liver the blood goeth to the right-hand chamber of the heart, where it receiveth an admixture of vital spirits, and only is then fit to be taken up by the body as nourishment.
“So it is with the Stone. For a Stone must pass through stages until it reacheth perfection, and of course the most useful element for refining is known as the Ravenous Gray Wolf.”
I had just had a disturbing interview with a divine being, and that made Ransome’s pronouncements about his Stone, and his guts, all the more fatuous. I wished the actor Blackwell present, that I might enjoy his sardonic observations on Ransome and his art, but it appeared that I would have to provide any such entertainment for myself.
“What is this Wolf?” asked I. “Has it another name, or must I believe that purification can only be achieved through the employment of a wild beast?”
Ransome feigned amusement, but he ate his honey-cake before he answered. “We who are adepts in the Art can translate these names esoterical. The Ravenous Gray Wolf, depending on its usage and the occult school to which the philosopher belongs, is known also as the Green Dragon, or—begging your pardon, your grace—the Menstrual Blood of the Whore.”
The duchess showed more fascination than embarrassment, so I felt free to continue.
“I fear that I am only more confused,” said I, “for I see nothing to connect public women with dragons, or with ravenous wolves, except perhaps the fanciful mind of a dreamer. Perhaps the element has also an exoteric name?”
“Those whose knowledge of the Art is imperfect—an apothecary, perhaps—do call it antimony.”
“Terrible stuff,” said the gunner Lipton. “A doctor prescribed an antimony purge for me once, and it cleaned me both up and down. I barely survived.”
I looked at him. “Did you feel more perfect afterward?”
He cackled. “Nay. But I had lost my superfluity, sure.”
I turned back to Ransome. “Why do you need these esoteric names at all? Why not print up your recipes in plain language, like my mother and her recipe for red hippocras?” I turned to the duchess. “Which, by the way, I recommend, for she uses spikenard and ginger, which in winter produce a pleasing warmth in the blood.” I looked at Ransome. “Or perhaps in chyle, I forget which it might be.”
Ransome’s answer was a little short, which indicated perhaps that his patience was growing thin. “With all due honor to your mother,” he said, “Practitioners of the Noble Art can scarcely be compared to hostesses and brewsters. Many years of study and experimentation are necessary to perfect our understanding.”
“The years would be less if you hadn’t had to sort out your Purple of Cassius from your Powder of Algaroth, your Orpiment from your Phlogisticated Air. Why, if you merely wrote the recipes down in plain language, everyone could perfect their own Stones.” Lipton gave another cackle. I affected sudden illumination. “Well,” said I, “if that were the case, they would not need to pay alchemists, would they?”
“Your examples sort not together,” said Ransome, “which demonstrates to the illuminated mind the dangers of an untutored experimenter. For much of what we do is dangerous, and if we hide our Art behind metaphor, it is as much to protect the public as to shield our mysteries.” At which point he excused himself, to drop more of his powders into the crucible.
After some hours, the time came for the second pour, which progressed much as the first, with the sparks flying and the pure-hearted monks praying till the roof-beams rang. I joined the Roundsilver party in their galley for the return to the capital, and there returned to my room, empty and cold, and where no message from Amalie waited. I had nothing to do but contemplate my failures, and my longings, and my losses, and wish my mother present with the rest of our family, and hippocras warming on the hearth.
* * *
For lack of any other occupation, I returned to the foundry next morning, to see the clay molds knocked off the guns. Revealed were shining red-gold pillars brilliant as a blazing fire, all wreathed with ornament perfectly cast and gleaming in the light. The tubes were marred somewhat by the bronze that had filled the sprues and channels that allowed air to escape the mold, and the metal to reach every part of the matrix. These would be sawn off, and the remainder polished.