Lyndon Hardy - Master of the five Magics

Alodar watched Aeriel fade from view like the others. When she was gone, he stood motionless, continuing to look down the empty hillside. After several minutes, Periac approached Alodar and threw his arm about him.

"Come, my journeyman," he said. "Never mind the twisted thoughts of the nobility. You have done credit to your craft tonight, and we have been amply rewarded. We can call ourselves thaumaturges to the queen; Vendora herself has given us leave. No more mending pots or keeping the frost from winter fruit for a single night's meal in the backward outlands. Let us also travel to Ambrosia and ply out craft where the coin is gold, not copper."

Alodar blinked as he remembered his master's presence, but then shook him off and looked down at his feet. Not by thaumaturgy could he accomplish his quest! With his face pulled into a tight grimace, he kicked in frustration at the grimoire's outer wrappings, lying where Feston had tossed them. They leaped high into the air; catching a breeze, they began to float gently down to earth some ten feet away. Alodar absently watched them settle while he tried to calm his thoughts, and then suddenly focused his attention. A sparkle in the moonlight caught his eye.

He ran to the parchment scraps as they touched the ground and hastily scavenged them. "Look here, master Periac," he exclaimed. "More deception still. The grimoire alone does not contain all of the formulas we have found tonight. Another is scrawled on the inside of the coverings. See it glow in the feeble light."

"Waste not your thoughts on such distractions," Periac said with a wave of one hand while he began stroking his goatee with the other. "Find yourself a spot of comfort and I will give you some instruction. We will pass the time constructively until dawn to see if there are any survivors and Morwin among them. And then to Ambrosia to better our fortune."

Alodar looked down at the scraps in his hand and clinched his teeth. It was only one formula against a whole book's worth, but he had started with less two months ago. His pulse calmed as he settled his mind to it.

"No, master," he said firmly. "I have had a brief taste of my destiny. I cannot rest until I savor it full swallow. If it is with sword and formula that one wins the fair lady, then on that road I will travel."

With a flourish, be loosened the tie at his neck and dropped his cape to his feet "I am a thaumaturge no more."

Periac's mouth opened in disbelief, but Alodar stood before him in silence, jaws set and fists clenched until the knuckles showed white.

"To cast aside the time you have spent with me is folly," Periac said at last. "And to dabble with the likes of alchemy is greater folly still. Come, study with me so that you learn enough of one art to become a master."

"My life now has purpose," Alodar replied with determination, "as it has never had before. I thank you for the knowledge you have given me and hope my service has been ample payment in return. And I will journey with you to Ambrosia, yes, but then I follow this scrap wherever it leads me."

Periac looked at Alodar for a long moment, then raised his hands and dropped them to his sides. "Very well, my insatiable one," he said. "Explore what Honeysuckle Street has to offer."

He paused and then continued with deliberate slowness. "And when you decide instead to be a true craftsman, seek out my door. For a while it may remain open for you."

Alodar's eyes narrowed, but he did not speak. With a sigh he settled to the ground to await the dawn.

Honeysuckle Street

A stream of muddy liquid spilled from the lip of the overhead vat and into the first crucible in the row. Alodar stepped back against the rough timber wall to avoid the spatter and forced open his eyes, tearing from the caustic haze. The man in front of him tugged on a chain that looped a ring in the bottom of the oaken container; with a low-pitched squeak, the vat rumbled forward along wooden rails. The workman shuffled alongside and then yanked the chain over his shoulder. The high bucket pivoted on pins near its rim and delivered a dose of its contents to the next crucible in line.

Alodar watched in silence as the workman proceeded down the row, chin on his chest and shoulders slumped, like an old horse pacing the same rut around a grindstone. He squinted past the worker, down the line of crucibles riding above small blue-white flames, and saw that they spanned the breadth of the building, some three hundred feet, wall to wall. To his right, six more rows with overhead tracks ran parallel to the first, each one fitted with hundreds of identical stations, lines of graduated beakers, and funnel-mouthed flasks, all filled with dancing liquids or incandescent powders.

Beyond these, the majority of the area was partitioned by a maze of tiny cubicles barely chest high. In the ones nearest, he could see caped figures hunched over cluttered workbenches of dirty glassware and leather bound books. On a raised platform jutting from the rear wall, he saw piles of dull white stone, applelike fruits, cattails and rushes, and other materials he could not identify. Beside each, a worker pounded and strained the substances into powder, pulp, or liquid, and thrust the products into the tracked vats stationed nearby. The thud of the hammers and groan of the presses bounced off the ceilings and walls, producing mushy echoes that masked all but the sharpest of sound.

Alodar followed the track around the entire periphery of the building, down the windowless rear wall, across the row of silos that formed the western facade, back along the front with its many doors, and finally overhead as it merged into a complex of switches which fed the seven rows of waiting containers. As the first worker reached the end, Alodar saw a second pull his vat onto the same track and begin to drop measured doses of a coarse gray powder into the simmering crucibles. One row over, a third lifted a beaker from its tripod and held it up to the light cascading from the high windows in the east. He shook his head and poured the milky contents into a trough running the length of the bench, then moved on to the next,

"That last one was clouded only the slightest," a voice behind Alodar suddenly yelled out as the inspection continued. "How can I show a profit if you dump every flask just because it isn't crystal clear?"

The man replaced an empty beaker on its tripod and looked in Alodar's direction. "I fear I am too liberal as it is, Basil," he called back. "With only the merest trace, the chance of skunkwater is most high. We are lucky you have not contaminated half of the work cubicles from what we have processed already this morning."

"I have given it only to the old ones," Basil shot back. "The way they dawdle, it would be a small loss in any event. Now see that the yield is greater; if the light shines through, however faint, then it is worth the risk. We must have one of three if any volume is to result when we are done."

Alodar turned to face the speaker and looked into large eyes, wide-set on a smooth round face. Heavy cheeks sagged on either side of a slash of a mouth; thick lips pulled down at the corners into a perpetual look of disapproval. Shoulder-length hair, held stiffly in place by an aromatic pomade, brushed against a flared silk collar of deep purple. The rest of the tunic shimmered golden-yellow, embroidered with intricate designs and hanging free on a stocky form. Alodar looked down to see stumpy calves dropping into fur-lined boots trimmed with silver.

"Are you the proprietor?" he asked. "I have come in from the street and wish to discuss a proposition to our mutual benefit."

Basil quickly ran his eyes up and down Alodar's roughly clothed form. "Another one with a formula, are you?" he said. "It seems a grimoire lay hidden under every rock in the countryside, just awaiting yesterday's dawn for discovery. Ever since the rumor of the royal shop tooling up for a new run hit the street, there has been no end of it. But no matter, I will watch your demonstration for the usual fees."