Blue And Gold Part 4

"So that's what you'll do, then, is it?" I asked. "When you're the prince."

He laughed. "Not going to be the prince."

"Really?"

"Impossible," he said. "Can't happen."

When I got back to my laboratory, the gold ingot was almost, but not quite, where I'd left it. Ah, I thought.

"Four guards," the guard said.

"Excuse me?"

"Four guards," he repeated. "Outside your door, at all times, from now on."

"I'm flattered," I said.

He gave me a look. "And private Syriscus is in the hospital. You cracked his skull."

From time to time, I really hate myself. It doesn't last long and then it goes away, and then it comes back. "I'm sorry," I said.

"Sure," he said, and left the room. I heard the lock. So what? I thought. He was a scuttlehat. They get paid to stand in harm's way. He was there to keep me from getting out, and I'm a free man, a citizen of the universe, not a chicken in a coop. I never set out to hurt anybody, not ever. Well, not often. And when I do, it's never the primary purpose, just an unfortunate inevitable consequence. Mostly.

I sat down and read a book; Arcadius on functions, which is fundamentally flawed but still makes a kind of sense. They brought me something to eat; fresh bread, strong white cheese, five slices of farm sausage, an apple. "How's Syriscus getting on?" I asked. They just looked at me. I ate the food, then put my feet up on the bench and closed my eyes, but all I could see was her face just below the surface of the honey. Not guilt; more like the first stirring of an idea. I got up, found some paper and a pen and some ink, and started to write. (And if you happen to be a student in your second year at any decent Vesani university, you'd recognise what I wrote. h.e.l.l, you can probably recite the opening paragraph by heart, which is more than I can. There's a really basic flaw on page three, by the way. A small prize if you can spot it.) I must've fallen asleep, because when they woke me, I was face down on the paper, with the ink forming a small lake on the bench-top. I looked up. Scuttlehats.

"Come with us," they said.

"Do I have to?" I said, with a yawn. "It's been a really long day."

"On your feet," they explained. I got up, and they shunted me out of the door. I wasn't happy about being manhandled, but then I thought about the man whose skull I'd broken and decided not to make an issue of it. Memo to self, I thought; must make special effort not to hurt people.

Phocas was waiting for me in the South Library. Disconcerting. I'd been in there twice before, once as a friend and honoured guest, once when I was burgling the palace (long story) and took a wrong turning. It's a h.e.l.l of a room; on the small side, by palace standardsa"you could just about squeeze a cavalry squadron in there, but they'd have to leave their horses outside in the corridora" half-panelled in rich golden oak with late Idealist carvings of harvest and pastoral subjects, with a moulded-plaster roof gilded and painted in trompe l'oeil to represent a canopy of vines and mulberries (traditionally there's a two-angel prize for new visitors if they can spot the life-size moulded wren hidden among the vine-tendrils; I didn't find it until my second visit); five free-standing bookcases, unchained, one of which houses the current prince's own personal collection of books. I was touched to note that three shelves of this bookcase were taken up with the collected works of Saloninus.

"You're impossible," he said.

"Strictly speaking, no. Highly improbable, yes, buta""

"You put a guard in the hospital." Phocas not in mood for jokes. "The other one lost two jaw teeth." He paused, and looked at me. "Where did you learn to punch like that?" he said. "Not at the university."

"I sort of picked it up as I went along," I said truthfully. "Look, I'm really sorry about the guards. It wasn'ta""

"Deliberate?" He shook his head. "Well, they're the least of our problems." He picked up a sheet of paper and waved it at me. "You know what this is?"

"Enlighten me."

"It's a warrant of friendly rendition," he said, and I saw that his face was milk-white. "Sworn and sealed by the Mezentine charge d'affaires, relating to charges of forgery, sedition and false coining. You know what that means?"

In other words, extradition. I just about managed to keep a straight face. "You won't let them take me," I said.

He closed his eyes for a moment. "I really don't see that I have a choice," he said. "It's a properly-drawn warrant, there's a valid treaty, they know you're here, and they went to the Senate instead of me personally. If I try and bury this, the Tendency'll have my head on a pike."

I didn't dare look him in the eye, so I concentrated on the tiny plaster wren, directly above his head. It seemed as though it was singing to me. Extradition; I get formally handed over at the Northgate into the custody of three or four armed couriers. I go quietly. Sooner or later we stop at an inn or a post-house or a road station. A walnut-sized gob of pulveus fulminans goes in the fire, I go out through the window; free and clear. Of course, most of the major governments know me quite well by now, there'd be searches, including body cavities. But if it came down to a choice between my dignity and comfort and my life, no contest. You can easily hide enough pulveus fulminans to take out a wall where the sun doesn't s.h.i.+ne.

"Please," I said. "Don't let them do this. It's the gibbet for coining in Mezentia."

"Should've thought of that before you did it." He paused. "You did do it."

I nodded. I make it a rule to tell the truth when there's nothing much riding on it. "I was starving," I said. "I met some men in a bar. They said it was for jewellery, not counterfeiting."

"Nino, you idiot." There was something in his voice, something so close to genuine feeling, that for a moment I felt physically ill. "What can I do? Come on, you're the genius. Suggest something."

"I'm not a lawyer," I said. "Ask the professionals, it's what you pay them for."

"I already did," he snapped, turning his head a little so he wasn't meeting my eye. "They couldn't think of a d.a.m.ned thing. Best they could come up with was a plea of benefit of clergy. But that won't wash unless it's made when you're on Mezentine soil."

Benefit of clergy, I thought, now that's smart. I liked it. Never been a priest before. "Will it work?"

He scowled, a sure sign of deep concentration. "They believe so," he said. "The treaty's four hundred years old, it was meant to protect our missionaries when they made trouble for themselves preaching the overthrow of the Guilds, but it's still in force and it specifically covers sedition and related offences. So, yes, probably."

"So you can get me out."

"Only if we let them take you in first." He rubbed his eyes, as though he'd been awake for three days. "It's those b.a.s.t.a.r.ds in the Tendency," he said, "using you to get at me. Bet you anything you like they put the Mezentines up to it."

"Let's think about this," I said, in my best serious voice. "If you try and bury it, like you said, you'll play into their hands and you'll have a const.i.tutional crisis. If we go along with it, due procedure, all straight and above board, you can get me out and stick it to the Tendency at the same time." I shrugged. "Looks pretty straightforward to me," I said. "I'll go."

He sat still and quiet for a while, during which time I had to make an effort to remember to breathe. Then he seemed to come to a decision, then pull back from it. "Talk about timing," he said. "When you're so closea""

He looked up as he said that. There's a card game we used to play in the prison hulk at Phrontis Tropaea. I forget the name of it, but there's a point in the game where you've got the option of deliberately letting the other players see your cards. Never played it against Phocas, but I bet he'd have been good at it.

(When I'd gone back to the laboratory after my last outing, I'd picked up the gold ingot, once I'd noticed that it had been moved, and checked the underside. Sure enough, there was a thin line scribed on it, deep enough to cut through the layer of gold plating formed over the silvered copper by the Polycrates process. What I think I neglected to mention was the other ingot, which I'd cast some time earlier from the same mould, out of pure gold, which I'd put next to it. Archestratus in the Materials conjectures that the trans.m.u.tation process starts with the outside and works slowly inwards, like the thawing of frozen meat.) I managed to make myself look offended. "I said six weeks," I said. "I don't make promises I can't keep."

The enormity of that lie filled the room for a moment, then dissipated like gas in a breeze. "You're following Archestratus?"

I pulled a disdainful face. "Hardly," I said. "But it looks like he may have been right about something, for a change. But it's not ready," I went on. "If you'd cut into that bar with a chisel, you'd have found it's still copper half-way through."

(Which was true. h.e.l.l of a job, casting gold round a copper core. I had to support the copper bar inside the mould with four copper nails, so the molten gold would flow round and under it. Attention to detail, you see. It's everything.) "If I let them take youa""

"Don't worry," I said bravely. "I'll be fine. And when I get back, I can finish the job."

It's been on my conscience for some time now that I haven't been exactly straight with you. What really happened was this.

She came in. She saw the stuff on the bench. "What's that?" she said. "Nothing."

She gave me that look. "What?" I told her what was in it, leaving out one key ingredient. Took her about five seconds to put the pieces together. "Will it work?"

"How should I know?"

She bent over the beaker and sniffed it, pulled back and made a face. "It went volatile."

"Yes, but I put in some sweet spirits of colocynth to calm it down."

She inspected it, then nodded briskly. "So?" I shrugged. "What's the hurry?" I said. "If it works, I'll have forever. If it doesn'ta""

"You'll make some more," she said quickly, as if she hadn't intended to say anything. "For me."

I didn't reply. She scowled at me. "No," I said. "What?"

"No," I repeated. "You want to try it, you know the recipe."

"What the h.e.l.la""

"All due respect," I said, "but immortality is one thing. Being married to you for ever and ever, on the other hand-a""

"You b.a.s.t.a.r.d."

"That's unfair," I said. "I'm not divorcing you. We'll live out the rest of your natural life together, and then I'll be free. That's the deal you signed up for."

"You'd let me die."

"Everybody dies," I said. "Mortality is the constant that defines our existence."

"f.u.c.k you."

"Besides," I said, "it probably doesn't work. And it could be poisonous."

"If it is," she said pleasantly, "you'll die, and I'll know not to drink it."

"Could be it takes hours to work. Or days. Weeks, even. It'd be criminally irresponsible of me to let you drink it."

"You going to give Phocas some?"

I smiled. "If it works," I said, "I may eventually publish. But not till I've given it a really thorough trial. Say, two hundred years. Earlier than that, it'd be bad science."

"Are you going to give my brother some or aren't you?"

"No," I replied. "He's funding me to turn lead into gold, which we all know is impossible. This is just a sideline of my own. He doesn't own the research. This," I went on, smiling beautifully, "is just for me. Because I'm worth it."

I saw her slide her hand round the base of the beaker. With a really rather graceful movement, she lifted it to her mouth. I sat back in my chair to watch the show. When it was over (and it wasn't long; I chose sal draconis because it's quick) I got up and stood over her, turned her face with my foot so I could see her eyes. Not a flicker.

One down, I thought. I'd known, ever since college when she came up to visit Phocas and met me for the first time, that she was trouble. When Phocas more or less kidnapped me and brought me to Paraprosdocia, in the ludicrous but utterly sincere belief that I could figure out how to turn base metal into gold one day, she didn't object. Far from it. Don't you ever let him go, I heard her say to him once; it was the third, no, sorry, make that the fourth time I tried to escape. I was wandering aimlessly through the palace trying to find a door that led to the street, and I happened to stray into the small cloister garden, where they were drinking wine beside the fountain. He a.s.sured her that the only journey I'd be making from the palace was the short distance from the back door to the middena"technically outside the palace grounds, because it's on the other side of the curtain wall. Soon as he's cracked trans.m.u.tation, I get rid of him, Phocas said. Don't you dare, she replied, not till he's made me the elixir. He grinned at her. Oh, go on, then, he said. But thena"

Didn't come as a surprise, not one bit. I'd always known, ever since that drunken episode back at Elpis. The last thing Phocas wanted was for there to be a way to turn garbage into gold. After all, the prince owns more gold than anybody else this side of the Eastern Sea, so he's got the most to lose. Hardly a coincidence that the half-dozen or so incredibly eminent alchemists who'd worked for him before I came, men whose gla.s.sware I wouldn't be worthy to wash out, had died in the palace. Irony; trans.m.u.tation really and truly isn't possible. But I can easily picture what happened. Phocas keeps putting pressure on them to achieve results. They can't do the impossible, so they cheat. Cheating's easy. There are a dozen reliable recipes for instant gold plating, as many again for fool's gold that's practically indistinguishable from the real thing, and let's not get into the murky realm of rigged experiments, sleight of hand, false-bottomed cupolas, and the third and fourth books of Xenocrates' Experiments (I lost my copy years ago, but not before I committed the whole of those books to memory). So; they cheated, plausibly enough to convince Phocas that they'd finally done the trick, and that the trick was possible after all. And then he killed them.

Eudoxia was, of course, much smarter than her brother, and she'd taught herself alchemy to a remarkably high level. She knew trans.m.u.tation couldn't be done. I guess she thought, if it gives my brother pleasure to kill a bunch of charlatans, let him. She certainly knew better than to argue with him once he'd got an idea stuck in his head. But she'd read that universally-acclaimed early work of mine, On the Properties of Organic Materials, in which I proved conclusively that an elixir of eternal youth was not only theoretically possible but almost within our grasp.

Properties was another of my little grey lies. There's a fault in its logic that's so huge, I didn't feel guilty about publis.h.i.+ng, on the grounds that anybody who couldn't spot it deserved to be made a monkey of. But n.o.body spotted it, not even brilliant Eudoxia. Now, she knew me well enough to know that bullying just doesn't work. More flies with honey than vinegar has always been the core of her philosophy. She figured that if I was deeply, hopelessly in love with her, I'd make her the elixir to preserve forever the beauty to which I was devoted. To be fair, I don't think she planned to have me killed after I'd come across with the stuff. She'd just leave me to Phocas. At any rate, she sold the idea of marrying me to him by arguing that a man with my propensity to running away couldn't be restrained by force. Instead, make me want to stay; and afterwards, when she was a widow, she could marry again. Phocas agreed; not because he was convinced by her arguments, but because he knew she'd very nearly married Opia.n.u.s, leader of the Popular Tendency and Phocas' deadliest enemy in politics; her reason being, she'd done the sums and figured out that it was only a matter of time before the Tendency prevailed and Phocas' head found its way onto a spike on Northgate. If she married Opia.n.u.s, she could hurry along the inevitable, secure her own position and effectively rule through him, if she could be bothered. I don't suppose she could, actually. My belief is, she wanted to make sure her head didn't end up next to her brother's when the end finally came. In any event, the deal fell through when Opia.n.u.s was supplanted in a particularly nasty bout of Tendency in-fighting; his successor as Tendency leader, Pescennius, was widely known not to like girls, so she gave up. It was therefore in Phocas' interests to have his sister safely married to a political nonent.i.ty; the collateral benefit of keeping me on a leash, if it actually worked out that way, was just icing on the cake.

I'd made up my mind to kill her quite some time ago; then I changed it. I'm deeply ashamed of this, but I'm helpless around beautiful women. That's how I allowed myself to fall in love with Theodosia, and after Phocas killed her, Eudoxia was still there, just as lovely, just as desperate to keep me hooked so I'd brew her stupid elixir for her. Just run away, I told myself, there's no need for another lovely woman to die. The trans.m.u.tation of flesh to putrefaction, of warm to cold, is established fact, it doesn't need proving again. Just run away, and leave them both behind.

On that occasion I got as far as Lachrima, on the sh.o.r.es of the Great White Lake.

Extradition. So much to do, so little time.

The worst part, of course, was knowing I'd have to rely on other people. I have a thing about that. Mostly, I guess, because other people have always let me down, when it mattered; but it's also this deep-rooted hangup I've got about trusting people. Never really been able to do it. I guess it's because we always instinctively use ourselves as paradigms of humanity when calculating the likely behaviour of others. I wouldn't trust me further than I can spit, so why would I trust anybody else?

Also, there's some procedures you just can't rush. It takes time for Element A to react with Essence B and produce Compound C; sometimes you can bustle it along with a little judicious heat, but not always, and if you get it wrong, you screw up Compound C or blow a hole in the roof. Furthermore, it's never ever a good idea to hurry when you're using strong acids. Think about it.

Add fine silver to aqua fortis, then add wood alcohol, as pure as you can make it. I spent years figuring out how to do this reaction so as to produce a stable product. Now I was faced with the tricky problem of making it so it'd be unstable. That too is the story of my life.

I started with twenty silver dollars; not the c.r.a.ppy government issue, which is ninety parts silver to ten parts copper, but some home-made (I prefer the term hand-made) of my own manufacture, ninety-nine point six pure, which I'd collected from a safe place after I went to see Astyages. One of the reasons I've never made any money out of counterfeiting is, I make better coins than the State. Can't seem to help it. Always the quiet voice in my head telling me; if a thing's worth doing, it's worth doing properly.

Put the dollars in the bottom of a big gla.s.s beaker. Slosh in a whole pint of the very best aqua fortis; made it myself, because you can't get good stuff commercially. Stand well back, because the foul-smelling white steam will kill you if you breathe it in. Watch those little smiling bubbles as the acid eats the silver. Enough to break your heart.

The guards turned up with the ice I'd asked for. They treated me like a cross between a leper and an active volcano. I smiled, and gave the sergeant the twenty-first dollar.

"No, really," I said, as he stared at it. "And thanks."

You could see the battle going on in his mind. On the one hand, I was the unbelievably devious master of escapes, who thought nothing of maiming honest soldiers if they got in my way. On the other hand, a silver dollar is a silver dollar is a month's pay. Of course, it wasn't a silver dollar, because it was in fact illegally better, but he wasn't to know that. Eventually his fist closed round it, and he got out of the room really fast.

I get my wood alcohol from Sirmis. It's the best money can buy. I put the beaker on the ice, glugged in the wood alcohol, stoppered the bottle and stood well back. So far, so good. As soon as it stopped gus.h.i.+ng out killer fumes, I trickled in cold water, to start the crystals growing. Tricky part over; now all I had left to do was the relatively trivial ch.o.r.e of turning base metal into gold.

I don't actually knowa"I'm being totally honest with you nowa"whether it's possible or not. Truth is, I've never had the enthusiasm to run the experiment to its conclusion. If I'd happened to stumble across the secret before Phocas got hold of me, maybe I'd have been a bit more motivated. As it was, discovering how to do it would've been my death warrant, so it stayed entirely theoretical. I didn't even dare write it down and work it out on paper, in case Eudoxia saw it. It's been in my head for years, and I never tried it out.

It's a six part procedurea"you'll pardon me, I'm sure, if I don't tell you about it, just in case you're tempted to give it a go yourself, which (trust me) would lead to all manner of horrible consequences for you as and when your king, prince, duke or city council finds out what you're up to. The most I can bring myself to do is give you a hint. You add stuff to stuff, do stuff to the resulting stuff, and you get stuff out at the end, which may or may not be gold, depending on whether or not it works. It's all quite straightforward and doesn't need ice; you could do it at home, on the kitchen table, but don't, please.

So I did that. Then I ran up three walnut-sized k.n.o.bs of pulveus fulminans, wrapped them in incredibly thin gold leaf and put them where they wouldn't be found. I won't dwell on that stage of the operation. All done, and just in time.

"I need to see the prince," I said.

The sergeanta"not the same one as last timea"nodded. I got the impression he'd been expecting me to say that, so presumably Phocas intended to say good-bye, as I'd hoped he would. Say what you like about Phocas, he's always been predictable; a fine quality in an ingredient, essential to a well-controlled experiment.

(It'd have been so nice if my life had been a well-controlled experiment. You know; start off with your basic ingredients, add education, experiences, events, stirring with a gla.s.s rod, when appropriate r.e.t.a.r.ding the reaction with a block of ice. Predictable consequences, intended results, and something worth having at the end. Hasn't quite worked out like that. As for the result, the product, we'll have to wait and see. I may yet surprise myself.) "The lawyers say it ought to be all right," Phocas said. He looked grey with worry. "They've drawn up the heads of defence and I've sent the papers on ahead by express courier, so they'll be there before you arrive. With any lucka""

"I'll be fine," I said. "Really." I smiled at him. "You know, I always thought I was smart, but benefit of clergya""

"d.a.m.n it," he said, "I almost forgot." He scrabbled among the papers on his desk, found what he was looking for. "Lucustus Saloninus, do you solemnly swear to perform and uphold the office of deacon in the most holy and sacred convocation of the Company of the Invincible Sun? Say yes."

"Yes," I said, and waited. "Is that it?"

"That's it. You're a priest. Now get out of my sight."

"Really a priest?"