Avram Davidson - The Phoenix and the Mirror

“Copper is our second problem,” Vergil said. “First is tin.”

Tin came, of course, from Tinland, a mysterious peninsular or — likelier — island realm, in this respect if in no other like Cyprus. But whereas Cyprus had once been and still was officially part of the Economium, Tinland had never been. It was located somewhere to the west and north in the Great Dark Sea, far beyond Tartis. Nothing more was known about Tinland (though legends thereof were not lacking); almost nothing about Tartis. No man of the Empire had ever seen it — at least, none had ever left any account. A rumor persisted that Tartis itself had long ago been conquered and destroyed. It might have been — but throughout the Empire there were small colonies of Tartismen, living under a sort of autonomy by ancient treaty right. Each ward, as their colonies were called, was ruled by its own captain-lord. They were reported to own immense wealth. But they continued to trade.

“Tin is our first concern,” Vergil said, “because access to the suppliers is near at hand. However — leave the obtaining of the virgin ores to me. In the meantime, start the work of preparation. I do not know how long even the preliminaries will take — but begin to begin, now. I will have fair copies made of what is available in my books. Read them carefully, and read them again and again. Start laying in the supplies — the clay for the mold, the wax for the model, the crucibles, the fuel, the cutting and the grinding tools — even the rouge for the polishing. Check every item with the utmost care, and do not hesitate to discard anything which is not the best.

“Let the best vellum, pens, and ink for drawing up the plans be procured. And beware lest strife or impurity enter in upon you while this work is in progress.”

He paused. “We will not be alone in this work,” he said. “Dr. Clemens has agreed to assist us.”

The men received this news with mixed thoughts. On the one hand, Clemens’ hold on both the philosophical and practical aspects of alchemy had the men’s absolute respect. On the other hand, his many eccentricities and outspoken ways of exercising them (“Onions!” he would snort. “What in blazes do you mean by eating onions at a time when you’re working with gold? Do you want to turn it into dross? Nox and Numa! Onions! ”), as well as his short way with dissenters, prevented the news from being heard with utter joy. But they would soon adjust to the situation. The very prickliness of Vergil’s friend would become a source of rueful pride among his men, and they would boast of it to their fellows.

After a few more words — the nature of the project was for the time being to remain confidential; the sponsor of it was paying well and they would share in the sum even if the scheme should fail — he left them to their work of preparation.

Tartis ward in Naples consisted chiefly of Tartis Port, a rather small harbor, and Tartis Castle, a hugh Cyclopean mass of stone. It was not in the least like any other castle in the whole dogedom. Passing from the Great Harbor into Tartis Port, Vergil was struck immediately by the difference in tempo. Everything was slower, quieter. Everything was… yes… poorer. A hulk lay careened, but no one worked on it. Another one lay half sunken into the mud, and had lain there long enough for a good-sized young tree to have taken root on the quarter-deck. A pair of calkers worked at no great pace on the bulkhead of a small carrack. And a short caffle of slaves loaded supplies aboard a galley.

And that was all.

An old crone, her dirty skull naked save for an even dirtier rag pulled askew over her few witch locks, sat plucking a thin fowl on the doorstep of a cookshop. She muttered at her task, but did not look up as Virgil’s thin shadow fell across her.

It was said that the Captain-lord was inaccessible, that he did not appear in public even at the coronation of a new doge, that he received the Imperial Legate on one day a year fixed for the purpose, and — after the brief ritual of passing a coin of gold over a tray bearing earth and water, corn and wine and oil — retired from the audience room and left the rest of the interview to a deputy.

There were no guards posted at the foot of the castle steps, which might indeed have been built by the gigantic four-armed Cyclopes in the Age of Dreams, so wide and deep and tall (and so irregular) was each vast shelf of stones. Vergil toiled his way upward, pausing from time to time to rest — and to examine the view. He had never before seen it from this particular angle or series of angles: Vesuvio and its almost invisible fume of smoke, Mount Somma hard by, the Deer Park beyond, the blue waters of the Bay, the Great Harbor (its clamor now barely a distant hum), parts of the city and its near and distant suburbs. Now and then as the steps curved and turned — its blocks and those of the walls to either side so irregular and often protruding that it seemed only the weight of the others piled on top kept them from slipping out of place and hurtling down like so many thunderstones — now and then the view was cut off as the steps sank or the walls rose; then, when he had for a moment forgotten everything but the task of mounting the stairs and placing his feet so that they did not slip in the deep hollows worn by endless ages of use and passage, an entire new panorama would flash open before his eyes again.

There was no guard at the top of the step, either; indeed, he had not at first realized that he was at the top, so gradually did the steps become shallower, so irregular did the footing yet remain. He did not at first notice the man in the scarlet cloak, either.

It was the legs he noticed first.

They stood upon a block of stone set by itself in the middle of a courtyard, by their look strong and healthy legs; and yet they trembled. Planted firmly on the stone, feet unmoving, tremors of nerve and muscle ran through them without ceasing. Vergil raised his eyes.

The man was dressed in the embroidered and pleated linen garment that was the traditional habit of the Tartismen, and over it he wore a short cloak, dyed in scarlet. All this Vergil saw in a second, and in another second he had said, “Sir, I seek the Captain-lord”; but before he had finished saying it his voice had almost faltered, having seen the man’s face.

This man is blind, this man is deaf, he is looking out to sea for a ship that will never come — so ran his rapid, startled, and successive thoughts. Then: He has taken a vow to stand here, thus, for a certain length of time, and will stand here thus though the Heavens may fall … and the man turned his gaze on Vergil.… This man is mad. He would kill me, if he could. The eyes were like dark green stones lain long under water, full of something duller than rage and sicker than pain. The lips were tremulous with a voiceless mutter and a drop of sweat — though the day was not at all hot — ran down his brow from his hairline to his nose.

In a low voice, Vergil said, “Sir, my pardon for disturbing you.” And he passed on. Rounding a corner, he came upon two other men — both wearing Tartis clothes, but neither in a scarlet cloak — emerging from a door into the interior of the castle; and to them he repeated that he was looking for the Captain-lord.

Both showed surprise, as much at his presence as at his request. One of them nodded, the other looked over his shoulder as they continued on their way, and he followed them. They spoke together in what he assumed was their own language. Down a ramp the three of them went, into a roofless chamber, turned at a right angle and went down another ramp, crossed through a balcony overlooking a hall as high as his house in which other voices echoed thinly, came by and by to what appeared to be an office or an antechamber. The Tartismen gestured to Vergil to sit — and vanished through a narrow door that closed behind them. Vergil sat.