fundamental order that we stand for. Along with necromancy, it’s the worst possible thing a human being can do, and I’m not entirely sure we understand it ourselves. I can’t believe I just said that. But I suspect it’s true. If someone changes the rules, who knows what the rules are?
But when I made my silly outburst I hadn’t thought it through properly. If he destroyed me, what would he have achieved? Nothing, except deprive himself of his helper and slave, the only means by which he could access the power he’d signed his soul away for. Made no sense. He’d have the rest of his seventeen years, but that was all; no infinite power, nothing. He needed me. He wouldn’t do anything to hurt me. Surely.
But then, what would I know about the workings of a mind like that?
We still don’t know what became of our friend and colleague who fell into the hands of Fortunatus of Perimadeia. We carry on searching for him but with little hope. As far as we are able to ascertain, he’s fallen into a place beyond anything that we created or that we control—beyond good and evil, to coin a phrase—and the only man who could possibly tell us how to get there would have been Fortunatus of Perimadeia, who died centuries ago. Anyway, that’s why even the thought of alchemy makes me shudder. It’s a wicked, wicked thing to do.
As you can imagine, I kept a very sharp eye on him after that.
But to little avail. Think about it. How can you tell if a man’s succeeded in turning base metal into gold in a place where there’s gold everywhere you look? Literally. We were running short of storage space. All the dungeons and cellars were full; all the cupboards and wardrobes, every last toolshed and outhouse, anything you could put a padlock and hasp on, was bursting with ingots or earthenware pots of dust. Precisely because the supply was so plentiful and so easy to extract, the miners didn’t seem inclined to retire or quit. No, they carried on producing, while the going was good, before the dream ended and they woke up. They couldn’t be bothered or spare the time to cart their gold to the frontiers and sell it (and besides, they might get robbed on the way and lose it all). In any case, what were they going to sell it for? Food and drink were provided free of charge, likewise clothing and tools. This wasn’t one of those gold rushes where the only people who really get rich are the sutlers and the boardinghouse keepers.
In such an environment, trying to keep track of the appearances and disappearances of small quantities of gold, as might be produced by alchemical processes, was out of the question. I tried standing behind him and watching every move he made very carefully, but he protested (quite reasonably) that I was getting in his way and ruining his concentration, and if I insisted on looming about like an architectural feature, would I please do it somewhere else? He was, it goes without saying, entirely within his rights to throw me out while he was working. As for making good my idiotic threat to report him—well. A sinner suspected of conspiring to commit sin. The only official response I could expect to that would be
So
I should bloody well hope.
* * *
My first experiment was entirely successful. I turned a mountain into gold.
At least, that was what I told him. Go and look for yourself, I said, pointing to an unremarkable hillock on the skyline. Take a spade, chip away the turf, and look beneath the surface. It’ll be gold. Me, I’m so confident I can’t be bothered to look, but feel free.
He gazed at me with that horrified, stupid look that people tend to wear when you start talking about alchemy. “You haven’t,” he said.
“I have.”
“But that’s—”
“Yes.”
He hesitated, just for a moment; then there was a blur, he was gone, he was back again. “Why?” he said.
“Excuse me?”
“Why?” he repeated. “There’s already more gold in these mountains than anyone could possibly hope
But when I made my silly outburst I hadn’t thought it through properly. If he destroyed me, what would he have achieved? Nothing, except deprive himself of his helper and slave, the only means by which he could access the power he’d signed his soul away for. Made no sense. He’d have the rest of his seventeen years, but that was all; no infinite power, nothing. He needed me. He wouldn’t do anything to hurt me. Surely.
But then, what would I know about the workings of a mind like that?
We still don’t know what became of our friend and colleague who fell into the hands of Fortunatus of Perimadeia. We carry on searching for him but with little hope. As far as we are able to ascertain, he’s fallen into a place beyond anything that we created or that we control—beyond good and evil, to coin a phrase—and the only man who could possibly tell us how to get there would have been Fortunatus of Perimadeia, who died centuries ago. Anyway, that’s why even the thought of alchemy makes me shudder. It’s a wicked, wicked thing to do.
As you can imagine, I kept a very sharp eye on him after that.
But to little avail. Think about it. How can you tell if a man’s succeeded in turning base metal into gold in a place where there’s gold everywhere you look? Literally. We were running short of storage space. All the dungeons and cellars were full; all the cupboards and wardrobes, every last toolshed and outhouse, anything you could put a padlock and hasp on, was bursting with ingots or earthenware pots of dust. Precisely because the supply was so plentiful and so easy to extract, the miners didn’t seem inclined to retire or quit. No, they carried on producing, while the going was good, before the dream ended and they woke up. They couldn’t be bothered or spare the time to cart their gold to the frontiers and sell it (and besides, they might get robbed on the way and lose it all). In any case, what were they going to sell it for? Food and drink were provided free of charge, likewise clothing and tools. This wasn’t one of those gold rushes where the only people who really get rich are the sutlers and the boardinghouse keepers.
In such an environment, trying to keep track of the appearances and disappearances of small quantities of gold, as might be produced by alchemical processes, was out of the question. I tried standing behind him and watching every move he made very carefully, but he protested (quite reasonably) that I was getting in his way and ruining his concentration, and if I insisted on looming about like an architectural feature, would I please do it somewhere else? He was, it goes without saying, entirely within his rights to throw me out while he was working. As for making good my idiotic threat to report him—well. A sinner suspected of conspiring to commit sin. The only official response I could expect to that would be
So
I should bloody well hope.
* * *
My first experiment was entirely successful. I turned a mountain into gold.
At least, that was what I told him. Go and look for yourself, I said, pointing to an unremarkable hillock on the skyline. Take a spade, chip away the turf, and look beneath the surface. It’ll be gold. Me, I’m so confident I can’t be bothered to look, but feel free.
He gazed at me with that horrified, stupid look that people tend to wear when you start talking about alchemy. “You haven’t,” he said.
“I have.”
“But that’s—”
“Yes.”
He hesitated, just for a moment; then there was a blur, he was gone, he was back again. “Why?” he said.
“Excuse me?”
“Why?” he repeated. “There’s already more gold in these mountains than anyone could possibly hope
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