Paolo Bacigalupi - The Alchemist

But now I had the solution, and I had Pila’s love, and I would have Jiala forever, or for at least as long any parent can hope for a child.

Not cursed at all. Blessed.

Out on the Sulong River, work was proceeding on the floating bridge. I couldn’t help imagining what it would be like to have not just the one, but perhaps even three floating bridges. We could heat our homes in the winter with green magic flames. We could speed across the land. We could reclaim Jhandpara. I laughed in the sharp spring air. Anything was possible.

As I entered the Mayor’s house, the steward greeted me with quick recognition, which put me more at ease. My fears of the night before had been erased by sleep and Pila’s influence and the warming spring sunshine.

The steward ushered me into the audience gallery. I was surprised to find a number of notables also there, assembled in gold and finery: magistrates of the courts, clove merchants and diamond traders, generals and old nobility who traced their lineages back to Jhandpara. Even the three ancient Majisters of fallen Alacan. More people peered out from under the columned arches surrounding the gallery’s marble and basalt flagstones. Much of Khaim’s high and influential society, all gathered together.

I stopped, surprised.

“What’s this?”

Majister Scacz strode toward me, smiling greeting. “We thought there should be a demonstration.” He guided me over to a draped object in the center of the hall. From its shape, I guessed it was my balanthast.

“Is that my instrument?” I asked, concerned.

The Mayor joined us. “Of course it is. Don’t be nervous, alchemist.”

“It’s a delicate device.”

The Mayor nodded seriously. “And we have treated it with utmost respect.” Scacz patted me on the back, trying to reassure me. “These people all around us are the ones whose support we need, if we are to effect your new balanthast workshop. We must raise taxes for the initial construction, and,” he paused, delicately, “some of the old nobility may be interested in patronage, in return for ancient bramble lands reclaimed. I assure you, this is a very good thing. It’s easier to gain support when people whiff profit than if they simply feel they are being taxed to no purpose.” He motioned me to the balanthast. “Please, do not be nervous. All will be well. This is an opportunity for us all.”

A servant brought in a huge pot, containing a cutting of bramble over seven feet tall. The thing seemed to fairly quiver in its pot, hunting malevolently for a new place to stretch its roots. They must have planted it the night before, immediately after I left, for it to have grown so large. Multiple branches sprouted from it, like great hairy tentacles.

The assembled dignitaries sucked in their breath at the sight of humanity’s greatest enemy, sitting in the center of the gallery. In the light of day, with its hairy tendrils and milkweed-like pods dangling, it spoke of eldritch menace. Even the pot was frightening, carved with the faces of Takaz, the Demon Prince, his serpent heads making offers of escape that would never be honored.

The Mayor held up his hands to the assembled. “Fear not! This is but a demonstration. Necessary for you to grasp the significance of the alchemist’s achievement.” He waved a hand at the servants and they lifted the drapery from my instrument.

“Behold!” the Mayor said to the throng. “The balanthast!”

The man had the gift of showmanship, I had to grant him that. The instrument had been polished, and now with sunlight pouring down from the upper galleries, it fairly blazed. Its glass chambers refracted the light, sending off rainbows. The copper bell mouths of its vents and the belly of its combustion chamber reflected the people in strange and distorted glory.

The crowd gasped in amazement.

“Has it been tampered with?” I asked.

“Of course not,” Scacz said. “Just polished. That’s all. I examined the workings of the thing, but took nothing apart.” He paused, concerned. “Is it damaged?”

“No.” But still I studied it. “And did it satisfy you? That it does not use magic? That it is not some device of the majisters pressed into new form?”

Scacz almost grinned at that. “I apologize most profusely for my suspicions, alchemist. It seems to function entirely according to natural properties. A feat, truly. History can only bow to your singular genius.” He nodded at the assembled people. “And now, will you demonstrate for our esteemed visitors?”

As I began assembling the ingredients, a general in the audience asked, “What is this instrument of yours, Scacz?”

“Salvation, war lord.”

A fat merchant, out of the diamond quarter with thick mustaches from his many children called, “And what is the use of it?”

The Mayor smiled. “If we told you, it would spoil the astonishing surprise. You must see it as the Majister and I first did. Without preface or preamble.”

I armed the balanthast, but then had to have the servants help me drag it over until it stood beside the huge bramble pot. Under the assembled gaze, it seemed to take forever to scrape the tripod over the flagstones. Despite my faith in my device, my heart was pounding. I pulled on a leather glove and pinched out a bit of the potted soil. Added it to the firing chamber. Plunged the delivery nozzles into the dirt. At last, I lit the match.

For a moment, we all watched, silent. The collected ingredients burned, and then were sucked into the combustion chamber. A pause. I held my breath, thinking that Scacz and the Mayor had somehow broken the balanthast in their ignorance. Then the balanthast shook and the snake faces of the Demon Prince burst wide, spilling soil as the pot shattered. The bramble toppled and hit the marble. The crowd gasped.

Yellow smoke issued from the bramble’s limbs. It writhed, smoking, twisting, boiling. Sap squealed and frothed as it effervesced, a dying howl from our ancient menace.

People covered their ears as the bramble thrashed. More smoke issued from its vines. Within a minute, the bramble lay still, leaving ash and tiny blackened threads floating in the sunlight. Yellow smoke billowed slowly over the assemblage, sending people coughing and wheezing, but as the clouds dispersed, a great murmuring rose at the sight of the scorched bramble corpse.

“Inspect it!” Scacz cried. “Come and see. You must see this to believe!”

Not many cared to come close, but the general did. Unafraid, he approached and knelt. He stared, thunderstruck. “There are no seeds.” His wide-eyed gaze fell upon me. “There should be seeds.”

His words carried through the crowds. No seeds. No seeds. The lightning strike of miracle.

The Mayor laughed, and servants arrived with goblets of wine for celebration. Scacz clapped me on the back and the men and women of the great merchant houses came to stare at the cleansed soil before them. And then Scacz called out again, “One further demonstration?”

The crowd clapped and stamped their feet. Again I primed the balanthast, eager to show off the wonder of our salvation. I looked around for another pot of bramble, but none was in evidence.

“How will I demonstrate?” I asked.

“It doesn’t matter,” Scacz said. “Let it ignite free.”

I hesitated.

The Mayor said, “Don’t be shy of a bit of showmanship. Let them see the glory.”

“But it can’t simply be fired. It must have something to attach to. Some bit of earth at least.”

“Here.” Scacz took something from his sleeve. “I have something else you might try this on.” He said something under his breath and suddenly, I smelled magic. The scent was different from the healing magic I had cast upon Jiala the night before. This was something special. Bright as bluebells in the summer sun, sticky as honey. He pressed a folded bit of parchment into my palm.