The elixir of inheritanc.., p.1
The Elixir of Inheritance, page 1
THE ELIXIR OF INHERITANCE
The Alchemist’s Agent No. 2
E. M. BURNHAM
Copyright © 2022 by E. M. Burnham
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
Created with Vellum
To my family, who encourage me, and my friends, who enable me
CONTENTS
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Author’s Note
About the Author
Also by E. M. Burnham
1
Ibram fidgeted outside Lady Azadiya Hobon’s closed—closed—office door in complete darkness, utterly unimpressed with his life. The sound of Ladyship’s pacing suddenly ceased; he imagined he could hear the whoomph of her throwing herself down onto one of her cushioned chairs. He squinted at the diamond pattern carved into the wood before him, and raised one cautious fist.
“I can see that!” Lady Azadiya roared from within, and Ibram dropped his hand back to his side like it had been yanked. He stepped back.
“She can see that!” Attendant Zorion whispered excitedly to himself, somewhere to Ibram’s right. “Ask her if her sight has been lengthened or if she’s standing by the door!”
Several other folk Ibram couldn’t quite see shushed him immediately. The Fourth Mentor of Yseult had been sent the last parcel of Attendants from Afsoun for evaluation just that morning, and already they had caused trouble. Inside her office, Ladyship groaned. Ibram pictured her, possibly draped over one of the overstuffed chairs, clasping her dark head in her hands and rubbing her temples. He could empathize with that image.
Every spring, the first day of the Festival of Sangrin kicked off that heady combination of learning and merrymaking that drew so many folk to live near the Sect of Seven Fires. The festival celebrated the creation of the Preceptory of Bedris and its devotion to education, and heralded the beginning of a twelve-day’s worth of tests, exams, arguments-thinly-disguised-as-panels, and exhibitions of alchemical form. Each preceptory farmed its Learners and Attendants out between themselves to prove competent at their secondary specialization and then bade them return home covered in acclaim, glory, and not a little soot.
The celebrations, naturally, matched the alchemists’ enthusiasm with equal fervor, spilling from village to village with bonfires and parties. The smell of rich dark earth just yielding from winter mingled with the scent of candied fruits. Stickums for luck flew through the air like flocks of real birds, trailing multi-colored sparks. Children fired off Orilindan candles and spun luminous green and blue Blooming Wheels for luck. The rich threw balls, and the less fortunate ran amok in street fairs, while circlers of every musical variety played in any village within walking distance of the sect—which was most of them. The four Mentors of Bedris dined at a dizzying succession of noble homes, and the evening courtyards bloomed nightly with Attendants flush with triumph or pale with despair, and ready to spend their stipends liberally.
Agents, in Ibram’s opinion, reaped the best and the worst of the festival, trailing after Afsoun Attendants with buckets of fire sand, or netting Govan Learners before they tumbled down the living mountain. The work made for an entertaining story around the draughtshop—even a free pitcher of wine if the keeper laughed hard enough. As well, the trouble sect agents had to endure each year was in direct proportion to the superb ingenuity of the potions and gadgets that came out of the examinations. Ibram had looked forward to the little rewards for good behavior a sufficiently motivated agent might acquire, say, if someone tall and hardworking from Yseult managed to make a helpful bauble or three.
It wasn’t a comforting thought, to be sure, in the dark of the tower. The usual cavalcade of agents, alchemists, and servants who bustled within the tower’s confines had been exiled. Shutters had been drawn over every window. The servants had even silenced the gigantic central fountain, and the alchemically translucent roof had been extinguished with a resounding clang of metal shutters. Ibram took a cautious step to the right, where Hilbert Zorion was mumbling amongst his fellows, suddenly aware of the tread of his boot heels on the wooden floorboards.
He tried to pitch his voice loudly enough to be heard, but not too painfully.
“Is your head any better, Ladyship?” Ibram called out.
“Of course, it isn’t,” she snapped. “Not until this blasted infusion of Zorion’s wears off.”
“Well, it shouldn’t be more than a day or two,” Zorion said. “I mean to say, the herbs did steep a bit longer than usual, but—”
“And don’t think this gains you a passing score, Hilbert!” Lady Azadiya interrupted him. “Incapacitating the judge was not mentioned in your submission!”
Ibram winced. No doubt if Ahksell had been standing with Ibram, instead of showing off higher up the mountain range in the Preceptory of Afsoun, he would have said something soothing at this point. The Attendants from Afsoun merely shuffled their feet against the wooden floor. Someone coughed. Ibram dimly remembered Ahksell remarking about how useful his friend Zorion’s infusions were, but for himself, he wasn’t seeing the possibilities for greatness here.
“Should I send for a tonic, Ladyship?” Ibram tried again.
Lady Azadiya was not tempted. “If I have to look at one more refraction of light, someone is going out the window.”
“But my notes!” Attendant Zorion exclaimed. He made a sad noise, and was quickly hushed again by his compatriots, all of whose exams now hung in the balance. The other three mentors of Yseult already had their full complement of evaluations. If this batch were halted, then that was it for the rest of the year. Ibram shook his head.
Soft footsteps echoed along the hallway and drew closer at Ibram’s left. He turned away from the door and peered through the gloom. He made out Amota Viran’s stern face as the man patted Ibram’s shoulder. Ibram stepped aside. As Lady Azadiya’s longest serving agent and Ibram’s titular ‘uncle,’ Amota Viran had precedence over everyone in the Fourth Mentor’s tower except an actual alchemist, and even then, the Attendants and Learners soon knew better than to challenge him. Amota Viran took Ibram’s place, and laid one hand against the door.
“May I come in, Damita?” Viran asked in his normal low speaking voice. Ibram tilted his head and glanced left and then right. There was truly so little light in the tower that Ibram strained to focus on the crowd around Ladyship’s office.
“Attendant Zorion, what was in that infusion?” Ibram asked quietly, and something heavy hit the floor with a bang in the office beyond.
“We shall postpone the rest of the trials,” Lady Azadiya announced, and then made a rough noise of discontent. “Until I am recovered enough to adequately examine the rest of this untidy lot.”
The aforementioned lot made a great deal of shuffling noises, and pushed Attendant Zorion to the front. Ibram knew that because Zorion smelled like stale shay and old citrus peels; his nose wrinkled. In the darkness, he barely made out Zorion bowing to the door.
“Mentor Hobon, once again, I am very—” he began.
“I want everyone but Viran out of this tower by the time I count to ten,” Ladyship said. “Go practice, or revise, or something of the kind. You’ve got all my agents out grazing the fields, let them manage you.”
He could just see her waving them all away from her chair. Ibram swallowed down a chuckle. He heard the others’ footsteps straggle quietly down the second floor to the broad staircase that led out of the tower and shifted his weight to follow. Amota Viran pinched the back of his arm, and stopped him.
“What?” Ibram whispered.
“Three,” Ladyship threatened.
“What happened to one and two?” Ibram asked, and tugged on Amota Viran’s grip.
“Ibram,” Amota Viran whispered. “Hold your tongue! I have a job for you.”
Ibram pointed behind himself. “I was going to make sure they none of them tripped and hurt themselves!”
“Six!”
Amota Viran pressed a curl of paper into his hand. “Take this and go to the Savoldyns’ manor,” he said. “I was supposed to go and oversee Lady Azadiya’s order, but as you can see—”
“No, I can’t.”
“Nine!”
Amota Viran loomed out of the darkness, unamused. Ibram attempted to look repentant. He skittered back towards the stairwell.
“Our schedule will need to be changed,” Viran called out as Ibram ran down the steps. “And take Attendant Zorion off the mountain, or Catha the Grey will have his bones by midday!”
Lityen bustled in the sharp morning air, making all the day hum with energy as shops and stalls opened for the day’s business. He’d managed to drop Attendant Zorion in front of a festive street caffa with promises to escort him back up the living mountain once Ibram had picked up Ladyship’s order. It wasn’t difficult. Even though Zorion should have been taking the time to refine his infusions, Ibram had yet to meet an Attendant who wouldn’t choose relaxing in the village over examining their mistakes back at the dormitory. And if he wandered anywhere, Ibram could easily find Zorion again. Every traveling merchant caught between caravans had a stall out on the main road and every shop from Book Row to Weaver’s Hive had hung painted banners that glimmered in the sun. Something had to catch Zorion’s bespectacled eye, though if Ibram was being strictly honest, all the fluttering cloth and shimmering paint was starting to give him a headache. Still, the crowds were navigable this early; he kept his complaints to himself.
Ibram stared down at Amota Viran’s list of sundries as he walked the last few feet down the alley off the main road to the door of the Savoldyns’ manor. He’d never seen one of Lady Azadiya’s goods orders before, they were usually handled by other agents. The number of bolts of cloth and spools of thread numbered far above what his own mother and father ever needed. Though, to be sure, as a Mentor, Lady Azadiya was required to provide for a portion of the Sect of Seven Fires’ outlay as a whole. Strictly speaking, Ladyship wasn’t allowed to maintain a personal household; her servants and agents were supplied by the sect, who ultimately employed them.
These orders for linen, silk and damasks, and cotton could be for her own use, of course, but then Amota Viran had marked ‘senra’ next to three items. Ibram frowned. Senra meant… He paused before knocking. What did that mean in Merrilian again? Special, perhaps. Reserved? No, that wasn’t it. He scratched the back of his head. Ama had made sure he and Katka learned the Western tongue, but sometimes the details escaped him.
Nothing for it, though. Ibram grabbed the rope pull next to the tall wooden double doors and heard a bell toll from inside the manor. He let go and stepped back. The doors were clean of mud or traffic dust, with fresh dark paint over the swooping water birds carved into the panels. The Savoldyns had done well for themselves, rich enough to have a home within the village’s limits, but still mostly disconnected even from its neighbors by narrow alleyways.
The doors opened silently, and in the gap stood a small, compact woman in a plain blue gown slashed at the sleeves to show white wool, and her blonde hair taped around her head with thick white ribbon. She had a thin, narrow face, but her skin had a healthy red flush to it, as if she’d been running. Ibram bowed politely.
“Good morning,” he said. “I’ve come on behalf of Lady Azadiya Hobon, Fourth Mentor of the Preceptory of Yseult. I was told to look over Ladyship’s order?”
The woman frowned slightly, showing a few wrinkles at the corners of her mouth. “We were expecting Master Kalmar.”
Ibram nodded and held out his list. “My uncle Viran was regrettably detained, Mistress, or he’d be here. It’s the festival, you know. Heavy work makes schedules run over their banks just as rains to rivers, to be sure.”
Mistress Gatekeeper didn’t seem as impressed with Ibram’s turn of phrase as he felt, but then it did sound better in the original Merrilian. He smiled at her and popped his weight from his toes to his heels. Her rather wide eyes narrowed at Ibram’s chest, where his freshly polished torch-shaped brooch marked him as an agent of the sect.
“And you are Master Kalmar’s nephew?” she asked.
He was and he was not, but Ibram definitely didn’t feel inclined to explain the finer workings of Westerner society today. The lady didn’t seem inclined to listen to a detailed explanation, either. He gestured again with his list, and tilted his head.
“We have the same chin, don’t you think?” he lied.
Her eyes narrowed, but she said nothing. Ibram pressed onwards, regardless. He brandished his list yet again.
“Now,” Ibram declared. “Not that I am not inclined to stay at the gate and listen to your honeyed tones for a twelve-day, but Lady Azadiya’s shopping awaits me. Do you think I might pass through, Mistress?”
“Dolman?” a woman’s voice called out behind the door. “What are you doing? Who’s at the door?”
The door wavered in Mistress Dolman’s hand, and Ibram set his foot over the threshold, just in case. Mistress Dolman’s entire face pinched, as if she’d tasted something sour; she half-turned from the door to face the newcomer.
“There was no need to run, Mistress,” Dolman said through thinned lips. “I’ve things well in hand.”
“And yet I sent for shay an hour ago, I’m certain. You know how it soothes him.”
A woman of middle age stepped into view, broad all over, and stood there, breathing quickly. Her pleasant round face was dewed at the temples with sweat and her snub nose was a trifle red. She was finely dressed in a yellow wool gown and a blue kirtle pinned to her waist with golden clasps, emerald stones made the leaves. Her blonde hair, which she was in the process of patting with both hands, was caught back in a fine net held by a green velvet band, very much in the style of the river folk further south. She had rings on her fingers and a delicate silver chain around her neck, looped three times and then caught in the center by an enameled pendant in the shape of a spoked wheel. It wasn’t as accomplished as Ibram’s father’s work, but it certainly appeared expensive.
“I beg pardon,” the housekeeper said, “but shay was served to the master just as Mistress Ignalle requested. It’s been no more than an hour, since.”
“Then I’m sure the pot has gone quite cold, Dolman, and it would go much better for us all if someone brought in a new tray to refresh them. And who is this?” she asked, turning a polite face towards Ibram. The lady of the house—or one of them, perhaps—clasped her hands together in front of her chest and then twisted a ring on her first finger. “What brings a handsome stranger to our door?”
He hated to get in between two evenly matched combatants, but if he came back up the living mountain with only Attendant Zorion, he had the feeling his life would not be worth living. Ibram bowed more fully, putting his hands on his stomach, and then straightened. He held up his list again and opened his mouth.
“He says he’s from Mentor Hobon up the living mountain,” Mistress Dolman interrupted him, with a suspicious look. “But Master Kalmar handles all her goods.”
“And I remember informing you that I’d been sent in his place,” Ibram said.
The new woman chuckled. “Ah, he’s been caught out because of the festival, hasn’t he?” she asked and then flapped her hands in Ibram’s direction. “Come in, come in! We’ve been expecting someone today, you know.”
“But Mistress Savoldyn,” Mistress Dolman protested. “Mistress Ignalle left strict instructions—”
“Nonsense.” Mistress Savoldyn waved her off. “Business is business. Now, young master, you have your list? Good, good, come along!”
Ibram grinned and walked over the threshold, ignoring Mistress Dolman’s sour look. He tucked his free hand behind his back; the door shut decisively behind him. The reception hall was long, but narrow, with oil lamps clamped to the whitewashed timbers. Air and a little light came in from an open window above. The blonde woman resettled her skirts and the dangling chain of keys at her belt.
“Ibram Ucalegon, at your service, Mistress,” he said.
“And I am Yanna Savoldyn,” she said and inclined her head with a smile. She had good green eyes set only a little too widely in her head. “Master Savoldyn’s wife. Follow me then!”
Ibram felt his eyebrows raise entirely of their own volition. Married persons kept their family name unless required to give it up in the marriage contract, usually in exchange for a large settlement of coin or an equally large exchange of prestige. Mistress Savoldyn waved him to her side. It was always nice to feel welcome, to be sure, but he had a feeling she was hurrying him along for an entirely different reason than Lady Azadiya’s account. She turned in a swirl of heavy skirts, and walked down the hall to a smaller entrance cut next to the larger double doors; he followed.
Ibram blinked as he crossed the threshold and hung back behind her half a step. The hallway had been richly appointed, but this was downright ostentatious. He turned at a cough from behind him; Mistress Dolman glared as she swept past.
