Alchemy

You could tell he was an alchemist by the lack of eyebrows and a slightly scarred look around the temples. You could tell he was an unusual alchemist by the fact that he didn’t scream or hide under the table when the door crashed open and Alric rushed in. Of course, a steady hand while pouring volatile liquids is also a common trait amongst alchemists, or rather amongst those who have remained alchemists (as opposed to, say, a loud noise, a fireworks display, or a rather interesting stain upon the ceiling), but a tendency to dive for cover when the nitroglycerin begins to pop is just as much of a survival trait. Viktor’s lack of reaction was therefore, if not unheard of, certainly unexpected. Most alchemists in his position would look like an exercise in strictly controlled terror; Viktor looked like a man who simply hadn’t noticed.

Viktor was an alchemist at the Guild for Transformative and Material Science. Or, to be accurate, a student alchemist, having not yet completed the final exam that would grant him full guild membership. Alric was his friend, in as much as Viktor had friends, having assumed that the purpose of attending the guild was, in fact, to study, rather than, as Alric put it, ‘party till you puke, and then hope you can scrape a Richard at the end of it. They couldn’t have been more different. For a start, given the lack of eyebrows, Viktor was surprisingly good looking. Somehow, the lack of sunlight and outdoor exercise that treated other alchemists so badly had left Viktor with a pale complexion and slender frame more akin to a Byronic poet than a scientist. Alric, on the other hand, looked like a scarecrow in a lightning storm. His hair stood out at odd angles to his head, while his mismatched clothes betrayed an obvious attempt at fashion without any underlying knowledge of what fashion was. It was as though he had been dressed by an insane magpie … in the dark … at a jumble sale. In fact, this was not so different to the actual sequence of events, since his desire for the latest fashions, and therefore frequent shopping trips, was severely tempered by his lack of funds, his inability to distinguish flamboyant from gaudy, and his tendency to get up after a heavy night, stagger to the wardrobe and throw on whatever first came to hand. At present, he was wearing a scarlet waistcoat, green trousers, a checkered shirt and a pair of shoes made from dark, crushed, blue velvet. He surveyed the crowded workshop where Viktor was plying his trade and came to a conclusion.

“You’re still working aren’t you. What the hell do you think you’re doing? The exam finished hours ago.”

Viktor looked up. Around him lay a sea of glass and flames, a great shining edifice to an unknown god, with spiral towers and swooping condensers and quietly suffering round bottomed flasks, whose posteriors were glowing orange in the sacrificial Bunsen fires. Viktor was impassive in the middle, giving polite attention to Alric, but clearly more interested in the darkly bubbling liquids around him. Occasionally something went gloop.

“I got distracted,” he said finally. “I wanted to finish the question.” Alric raised an eyebrow, which was probably showing off in the circumstances.

“You do realise you can’t get extra credit. When they take your paper off you, that’s it,” he pointed out, with the fervour of a man who’d been sprinting for the door at the instant he heard the words ‘quills down’.

“I’m not interested in extra credit,” said Viktor. “It’s just I was nearly there with that last one, and I figured that it’d be nice to get to the end.”

“The last one?” said Alric, who had got about halfway through the paper and then spent the last ten minutes thumbing through the remaining questions and writing down random answers in the hope that the way to distill an alembic bezoar was, in fact, to ‘crack an egg in it and stir till thickened’. He thought for a moment and then light dawned. “Oh my god, you don’t mean the philosopher’s stone question?”

Viktor nodded.

“But that’s in every paper, even the mocks. It’s a joke. An impossibility. It’s supposed to represent acceptance of humility or something. One question with no answer, so that no one can ever complete the question with 100%.”

“No one told me,” said Viktor simply and pointed to a small stone bowl. In it nestled several shining objects. They appeared to be pure gold.

Alric stared at the bowl. Several thoughts were running through his head, uppermost of which was how many of the items in the bowl it would take to pay off his bar tab. Although the items appeared to be a random collection of household objects, they all shared a dull, yellow lustre and a metallic sheen.

“I haven’t got it quite right yet,” said Viktor, barely audible through the Alric’s astonishment. “The book says that it’s only supposed to turn lead into gold, but I haven’t managed to make it selective yet.”

“You mean…”

“Anything it touches turns to gold. You can imagine I didn’t want to leave it lying around until I worked out how to get rid of it.”

“Get rid of it? Are you mad?”

“I’m furious,” replied Viktor. “I finally manage to get it to work, and I think I’m going to have to throw it all away.”

By this stage, Alric was almost in tears. The thought of all that money – the thought of all that fame – the thought of all those young women suddenly anxious to buy him beer.

“You see,” continued Viktor, “I’ve only found a few things it doesn’t react with: glass, air, water…oh and lead,” he added as a disappointed aside.

“But, that’s great,” said Alric. “We’re going to be rich. We’re going to be…”

“Dead if I can’t work out a way to get rid of it,” pointed out Viktor. “You see, it’s quite volatile. At the moment it’s held in place by this lever. If I were to lift the lever once, it would vaporize into this chamber. If I were to then release the lever, it would, in turn, release the gas which, well…” He pointed into the bowl. Several objects lay within, including a metallic cork, some golden tubing, and a rather surprised looking fly. To his horror, Alric realised that one of the objects was quite clearly a finger. Viktor self consciously covered his hand which, Alric now realised, was horribly light on digits.

“Fortunately, the gas is consumed by relatively small transformations,” continued Viktor, “although I can confirm that the process is really quite painful. However, I feel I was fortunate only to lose a finger. I do not believe accidental inhalation is to be recommended. I really am at a loss as to how to dispose of the substance without exposing myself to quite significant hazards. And you of course,” he add as an afterthought.

“Have you tried collecting it under water,” suggested Alric, unused areas of alchemical knowledge suddenly coming to the fore at the thought of mortal peril.

“It floats,” said Viktor.

“With a condenser?”

“It leaks.”

“Into a stoppered vial?”

“It explodes.”

“Well, have you tried just collecting it in an open flask and then just sticking a bung in really quickly?” said Alric, giving up. Viktor smiled wryly.

“How do you think I lost my finger.”

They were still considering options when the door slammed open a second time. This time, Viktor permitted himself a shudder. Alric emerged from under the nearest bench just in time to see Threpplewood, the night porter, striding into the room.

Few students had survived even their first year without encountering Albert Threpplewood. If you were sluggish in your bed after a long night of study, he was there behind the bedding maids, grinning and tapping his watch; if you dropped a bottle in the kitchen (dreadful enough in a college where dropped bottles often left holes in the scenery), he would be at the door before the last fragment had settled, mop in hand and a superior smile on his face; and if you were coming back late after a night in a local ale house, clambering over the secret entrance on the backs known only to you, your drinking squad and a few of the more attractive barmaids from the local taverns, he was there by the last loose brick, a stout cudgel smacking into his palm and an expression of happy anticipation in the darkness. After three years he induced such Pavlovian dread that both Viktor and Alric were already frozen with terror by the time he had reached the first bench. Their attempts to stand non-chalantly in front of the gold drew attention to it more fluently than a neon sign, six foot high and braided in, well, gold. Albert smiled like a shark and stepped forward.

“What have we here then?” he asked, the obligatory question being equivalent to an ‘en garde’ in fencing, a ‘weapons ready’ in shooting, or a ‘keep your eyes on his bloody feet’ in street fighting and bare-knuckle boxing. Albert was not a tall man, but he made up for that with good solid width, a face like a boiled egg and a bowler hat you could have dropped cannon balls on. Beneath all this seethed a permanent anger that flushed his cheeks red, gnarled his knuckles and hid behind his smile like a razor. Perhaps it was having to deal with students all day long. Possibly it was some deep seated resentment against the world for having been called Albert. Either way, he was a powder keg of violence held only in check by his desire to be respected by the gentlemen, such being his manner of referring to the faculty of the college.

Albert tried another salvo. “You chaps shouldn’t still be in here. Students ain’t allowed in the laboratories outside of teaching hours.”

“We’re not students any more,” pointed out Viktor. “We’ve done our finals.”

“Yer’s students till you takes your little bit of paper or gets thrown out on the street,” said Albert with a mixture of street vowels and society consonants. “Until you pass or fail you is mine to take care of.”

Viktor didn’t argue. Like most petty minded wielders of power, Threpplewood knew the rules of the university better than those who had written them. It was said slept with the rulebook under his pillow.

Albert eyed the gleaming pile partly, but not well, hidden behind them.

“Well what is this?” he said, his grin widening, and thereby showing more teeth. “Have you been messing with the equipment?”

“Viktor’s been finishing his exam,” said Alric quickly. “If we could just gather up our things, I’m sure we’ll be out of your way. You know us students, never happy far from a taphouse.”

“All materials and equipment to be left behind after the exam,” said Threpplewood quickly. “Rule 43 section 1a part iii.” He paused. “Put in after some young idiot thought it best to take some still hydrated potassium nitrate with him to show his friends what happens when it dries out.”

“What happens when it dries out?” asked Alric, whose passmark was far from assured.

“In this case, it took out two storeys and disintegrated the radiator he’d placed it on thinking it was a bookshelf,” replied Albert, looking altogether too pleased about it. “Now, why don’t you trot along down to the pub, and I’ll clear up your doings for you shall I.”

“But…” began Alric. Albert Threpplewood gleamed at his obvious discomfort.

“Mr Threpplewood,” interrupted Viktor. “Could you lend me your hat?”

Albert stopped mid gloat.

“My ‘at?”

Viktor nodded.

“Yes, if you’ll just lend me your hat for a moment, then we’ll clear out of your way immediately. It is rather important,” he added”

“But, I wouldn’t be a gentleman without my ‘at,” protested Albert. “Why, it’s worth its weight in gold.”

“Could be, could be,” conceded Viktor. “Did I mention that it was very important.”

Albert paused. Then his swagger returned. “Not as important as my ‘at,” he concluded. “And I don’t take lightly to the likes of yous telling their elders and betters what to do. Now be off with you before I thumps you alongside the earhole. I’ve brought my stick you know.”

Viktor eyed the stout cudgel hanging from Albert’s belt, known to all and sundry as the whippling stick. He appeared to come to a decision.”

“You’re right, of course. We’ll be off forthwith.”

Alric was surprised. I mean, he was as happy to get to the tap house as anyone else, but he was sure there was something Viktor was forgetting.

“Um, Viktor,” he ventured, “what about our little problem?”

“You’re right,” said Viktor, and it occurred to Alric who knew Viktor pretty well that he had never heard Viktor tell a lie before. “I really should explain to Mr Threpplewood here exactly what the problem is and why we should stay here to deal with it instead of him…”

He barely had a chance to finish. Albert Threpplewood was turning the colour of a beetroot and it seemed his hat was fit to shoot right off his head.

“Now let’s get one thing straight,” he said angrily. “You two are leaving, and I’m taking whatever it is you two have on the bench and putting it where I think it goes best. And if you aren’t out of here in two seconds I think I’m going to find a use for my whippling stick.”

“Right you are,” Mr Threpplewood, “said Viktor cheerfully, and headed towards the door. Alric stood in indecision then, as he felt Albert’s gaze upon him, found his feet had a life of their own propelling him towards the doorway.

Still, it didn’t hang right with him.

“What do you think you’re playing at?” he rounded on Viktor once they were outside. “I mean, Threpplewood’s no saint, but it isn’t right what you just left him with. He’s no idea what he’s dealing with. What if he peers inside and get a a lungful of the old golden mist straight between the eyes?”

“Oh, don’t worry,” said Viktor absently. “I left him a note.”

A sudden yell alerted them to the fact that the note had been found.

“Oh well, that tears it then,” said Alric. “He’ll be straight out here won’t he. He’ll have taken the gold and we’ll still have to sort out your little mess.”

“I think not,” said Viktor. “You see I weighed down the note with a bit of a paperweight. The release mechanism for the gas in fact.”

“You didn’t…” began Alric, but Viktor’s normally dry eyes were gleaming with amusement.

“Oh don’t be silly,” said Viktor. “I don’t dislike him that much. You only lift it up to turn the ratchet – you have to put it down to release the gas. I explained all of this in the note. The note that he will have lifted the mechanism to read. I hope he has a steady grip.”

“But if his arms get tired…” persisted Alric.

“Oh I’m sure he’ll have found the other note by then. You see, I worked out how to contain the gas. It occurred to me that if it was used up by the transformation, then you merely need to trap it long enough for it to react. Preferably in something that won’t let it escape round the sides, maybe a bowl like receptacle, about the size of a porter’s head.”

Alric considered it and a wry smile played across his lips. Albert was about to find himself in a bit of a dilemma. Admittedly, a dilemma that would be made more tolerable by suddenly finding himself in possession of a large amount of gold, but you couldn’t have everything. Alric sighed.

“Come on,” he said, the thought of his unpaid bar bill looming high in his mind. “Let’s get a drink.”

“I don’t mind if I do,” agreed Viktor, opening his palm to reveal a solid gold finger, nestling comfortably next to its pinker brethren, “and do you know what. The first one’s on me.”