Barrington Bayley - Star Winds

The duke bowed respectfully. “Master Amschel, I bring what was promised—the missing sections of the book. In addition, may I introduce its bearer, Master Rachad Caban, also an aspirant in the Great Work.”

Rachad felt Amschel inspecting him without visible change of expression. “Master Caban has named a price for his donation of the text,” the duke continued. “He wishes to join you in the preparation of the stone. I find,” he added, in a sterner tone which showed he expected no opposition, “the request to be a reasonable one.”

“Indeed,” the artifex replied in a mild voice. He reached out and accepted the tome. Opening its lead covers, he spent what seemed like a long time poring over the pages.

Then he looked up at Rachad. “And what stage have you reached in the preparation of the stone?”

Rachad faltered, and swallowed. “No stage at all,” he admitted timidly, intimidated by the alchemist’s air of self-assurance. “I am here on behalf of my own teacher, Master Gebeth of the planet Earth, who has spent a life-time striving for success.”

The brown eyes lingered on him.

“Are the chapters all they should be, Master Alchemist?” asked the duke eagerly.

“They appear to be authentic. The book is complete. We may resume work.”

“And how long before the stone is ours?”

Amschel rose to his feet. He barely reached up to Rachad’s shoulder.

“If we use the lightning method, the operation itself is almost instantaneous. But the preparation of the primus agens may take a good deal of time, as will the construction of the necessary apparatus.”

“Then I will bid you good day, and I wish you success,” the duke said distantly. Without another word he strolled off the way he had come, leaving Rachad alone with Amschel.

The alchemist beckoned to him. Together they walked through the silent wood, between gnarled, twisted trees, until an adamant wall loomed up ahead of them.

A square portal slid open. Amschel led Rachad through it. Behind his back the door closed with a loud, decisive clang.

“This,” said Amschel, “is my laboratory.”

The air was charged with pungent, penetrating smells. Rachad recognized the bite of acids, the stink of heated metals, and the acerbic odor of the energy known as infusoration.

He could not immediately see how extensive the laboratory was. It resembled a crypt, consisting of vault-ceilinged chambers connected by arched openings, and these seemed to go on and on. But already the variety and scope of the apparatus bewildered him, used as he was to Gebeth’s back room. He could see not only the usual array of furnaces, descensories, sublimatories, crucibles and flasks, but also devices whose purpose he could not remotely guess at, tended by up to a dozen white-smocked workers.

Amschel, however, directed Rachad to a chair, and sat opposite him, knee to knee, The Root of Transformations on his lap.

“So, let’s find out about you. Ask me a question.”

“What?”

“It’s to discover your level of knowledge. Ask me something you, or your master, would like to know but haven’t been able to find out. Something specific.”

Rachad thought for a moment or two, then nodded. “There is something,” he said. “What is the correct sulphur-mercury ratio for gold? We know that all metals are composed of sulphur and mercury, and can be converted into one another by altering the ratio between the two. But Gebeth could never discover what the various ratios are.”

“Well, that tells me roughly your level of competence,” Amschel said wryly. “The sulphur-mercury theory of metals is wrong, and any efforts made in that direction are a waste of time. Never mind. Tell me more about your master.”

Nonplussed to learn that his ignorance was even deeper than he had believed, Rachad began, haltingly at first, to speak of Gebeth, describing what he could of his methods. But he dissembled when it came to relating how he had left Earth, implying that Gebeth himself had given him his part of the book, and making no mention of Baron Matello. Amschel, however, gave no sign that he suspected duplicity and only asked where Gebeth had obtained the book. Rachad said that it had come from the last surviving priest of an ancient temple, at which he seemed satisfied.

Finally Amschel leaned back with a sigh, eyeing Rachad. “It strikes me you are a rash and impulsive young man,” he said. “Such qualities can be useful, even in the Work, in which caution is a handicap. Of greater use, however, are patience and the capacity for long, careful thought—these I believe you lack. Nevertheless you may join my staff and I will teach you what I can. Does that suit you?”

Rachad nodded. “I have one further question, Master Amschel,” he said.

“What is that?”

Rachad hesitated. “On Earth, where I come from, gold is precious. But here in Maralia it is common. Why, then, do men such as yourself still wish to manufacture it? It seems to me that the aim of the art is redundant.”

Amschel smiled. He, too, hesitated. Then he seemed to make up his mind to speak.

“We are in a secret place,” he said. “The Aegis is secret, and this, the center of the inner maze, is a secret within a secret. So now I will tell you a secret within a secret within a secret—the making of gold is not the object of the Hermetic Art. That was a screen, erected for the gullible in the distant past—though to be sure, it has often happened that men who in the beginning were motivated by greed for gold have found in the end that the Art has worked an inner alchemy upon them, and their greed is transmuted into desire for knowledge, for its own sake.”

“I don’t understand, Master Amschel,” Rachad said, bewildered. “If not gold—then what?”

“The goal is the creation of the Philosopher’s Stone, also known as the Tincture, or the Elixir, an ultimate state of matter which can accomplish much more than the mere transmuting of lead into gold—though if need be, it can achieve that too. For that reason the making of gold is a symbol, or by-product, of the alchemical goal. But we will speak of the Stone later.”

Amschel rose. “For today I will show you some of our simpler apparatus. The more difficult equipment can wait until you have a better appreciation of our work.”

Laying aside the book, he stepped through the nearest opening. In the adjoining chamber Rachad saw a huge brick structure that reached almost from floor to ceiling.

“This furnace can deliver three hundred and eighty different temperatures at one and the same time,” Amschel said. “I designed it myself. It greatly reduces the time that need be spent on routine operations.”

In another chamber stood ten smaller furnaces. These were cylindrical and high-necked, and smoked slightly. “These sublimatories supply a variety of unusual substances,” Amschel explained. “They are in constant use.”

“What happens to the fumes?” Rachad asked.

“They are carried out of the Aegis by a system of flues. We can also admit starlight by opening other small shafts. The light of certain stars can exert a subtle influence on some specially delicate operations, as can planetary configurations.”

They moved on. “I have taken a particular interest in etheric compounds,” the artifex said. “Prominent among these, as you may know, is light. Here is something intriguing.”

They had come to a bench neatly laid out with labeled bottles and sample boxes. From a felt-lined tray Amschel picked up a stony blue pellet, or possibly a semiprecious gemstone. “These are found on the planet Aggryxa. Watch.”

Fixing the stone in a nearby bracket, he gestured to the assistant who had been following them, and who took from a cupboard a peculiar-looking lamp which was backed by a concave mirror, presumably to focus its light in one direction.