The elixir of inheritanc.., p.4
The Elixir of Inheritance, page 4
He pushed forward into the throng down closer to Book Row, and walked straight into a wobbling iridescent bubble. It popped in his face, and he shivered to a halt, and then sneezed. Lemon and flowers and soap scented the air before a stray wind blew the scent of roasting onions past his nose, and overpowered the bubbles. He rubbed soap out of his face on his left sleeve, conscious of a laughing crowd. He cleared his throat, and took a look around himself.
There in the little square carved out of the village by a large roasting kitchen and an attached caffa, sat a dozen or more plank tables lined with a crowd of caffa drinkers, arrayed in their festival clothes, beneath a much repaired canopy of tattered rugs. Roast mouflon and cheese on platters of bread pranced by Ibram as servers ran from the street kitchen. He moved out of the way and turned his head at a roar of laughter. Off by the bubbling, boiling drips all yoked in dark wood cases, stood Attendant Zorion, balancing on the edge of the caffa stall’s counter with his face in the top of the nearest grinder.
“All right, try it now,” Zorion called out.
The grinder made its noise and a bracing scent of lemon bloomed in the air. A gigantic bubble grew from its open funnel and floated away across the crowd. They clapped. By their clothes, Ibram saw it was a higher society of youngsters out with their maids and minders, easy to entertain. Ibram didn’t groan aloud; dismay in the face of an Attendant behaving badly was only encouragement to them.
“Pardon, beg pardon,” Ibram called out as he made his way through the crowd to the wayward alchemist. They parted with good nature, too entertained to worry about a man intent on a drink, as it no doubt seemed to them. He held the basket before him, and rested it on the bar by Attendant Zorion’s feet. He was a tallish sort of man, dark-skinned, supple and thin like a withy tree. How had he climbed up on so narrow a perch?
Ibram tugged Zorion’s trouser leg. Zorion left the grinder, and blinked down at him. His glasses were fogged over and his thick braids stuck out at odd angles around his dark face.
“What did you put in there?” Ibram asked, very peaceably he thought. This was Ahksell’s friend, after all, and Amota Viran had put Ibram in charge of Zorion’s welfare. Well, he’d been instructed to get him out of the way, at the least.
Attendant Zorion’s shoulders were rounded in a perpetual scholar’s hunch. He removed his glasses and rubbed them on his green gambeson. He replaced them on his face, and smiled.
“Master Ucalegon! Is it time to go?”
“It will not be,” the woman behind the bar interjected. She set a small wooden cup onto the grate of the caffa drip before her and opened the spigot. Dark, bitter, rich caffa poured over the rock of sugar balanced over the cup by a slotted metal ring. “Not until Master Alchemist here fixes my best grinder.”
“But it will work so much better now, Mistress! And the leavings will be cleaner.” Zorion made a strange waving gesture, briefly lost his balance, and then steadied himself again. “This is Mistress Grouvan’s establishment, did you know that?”
The smell of lemon was overpowering; Ibram wrinkled his nose. Around them, the caffa drinkers and their servants made a happy crew. Folk were always pleased to see an alchemist in Lityen. The owner, of course, was not so happy, and unhappy shop owners often made official complaints. He sighed. Perhaps it was his fault; he’d left Zorion to make his own entertainment, and this was a man who had blinded Lady Azadiya, possibly forever, in the name of passing his examinations. Or…if not blinded, then seriously inconvenienced. To put a point on it, Ibram wasn’t supposed to allow those sorts of situations to occur in Ladyship’s life, even if they were in the realm of an examination.
Attendant Zorion shook the hopper on the grinder, and dipped his arm inside. He came up with a small flask that looked like it had been mangled. Ibram tapped thoughtfully on his belt, just above the purse where he kept his dice. Yilka the Green’s second face was luck, perhaps his being stuck with Zorion was a happy turn after all.
“I did know she owned this counter,” Ibram said, and angled his head to see the woman more clearly. “Good morning, mistress. Has this one gotten you in trouble?”
An older woman with short grey hair and a neat cloth tied around her waist raised one silvery eyebrow at him. Her hands moved through the motions of closing the caffa spigot; she revolved the mug to the left on the little circle of metal beneath it with one finger and removed the slotted ring with her other hand. She tossed the ring into a bucket of water.
The woman next to Ibram took the mug and was off with a jostle to his elbow. He righted the basket in front of him. Attendant Zorion opened his belt pouch above Ibram’s head; he ducked out of the way of its dangling traces.
“I’m only trying to help,” Zorion said. “It’s not my fault the grinder needed cleaning.”
“So you have been fiddling,” he frowned and Zorion scoffed. Ibram settled his weight against the counter and tugged at Zorion’s pants leg again. “You’ll come down now, Attendant. Mentor Hobon won’t like word of further meddling.”
That did seem to give the man a moment’s reflection, but Zorion soon shook his head cheerfully and peered deep into the grinder. It stood waist height, there was no need to clamber over the counter. Ibram tsked. Ahksell never fiddled with merchants’ stalls when they were out together. Why did other preceptories have to be so difficult? Yseult was not ranked highly in the Sect of Seven Fires, but they at least knew how to get a caffa in public.
“What’s to do?” Ibram asked with a sigh. “Is it the bubbles or the smell?”
“I wanted my usual,” Attendant Zorion answered, as he secreted away his ruined flask, and dug into his pouch with a frown. “Mistress Grouvan makes the best caffa—I found her soon after you left on your errand—and I merely wanted to accentuate the delightful fruity acid in her roast.”
Mistress Grouvan glared at her equipment. “He turned my grinder into a sideshow, that’s what he did.”
Zorion tilted his head; he seemed a little hurt at the implication. Both of his hands tightened on the lip of the grinder’s funnel. Ibram rested one arm on his basket and took a slow look looked about the crowd underneath the open canopy. “Doesn’t seemed to have hurt your trade,” he said. “People like a bit of a show.”
“They like to drink in peace,” she countered.
Ibram rubbed the back of his head and tucked his hair behind his ear. The bottled shay in his basket was growing cold as cold as the corpse he’d found it next to. Still, he had his standards when dealing with layfolk.
“Now,” he said, loudly. “What’s this special drink you desire, Attendant Zorion?” He looked up into Zorion’s startled spectacles, and then briefly glanced out amongst the sundry bored rich children in the crowd. “Does it make you fly?”
Zorion seemed incredibly confused. “How would it possibly do that?”
“Well and who knows what an alchemist’s infusions might do?” he said, keeping his voice up. From the corner of his eye, he saw several young Tyal scions inch closer.
“Certainly not that,” Zorion said, and crinkled his eyebrows. “No, I just wanted a summer coffee.”
Ibram shook his basket back and forth and considered his options. Did poison go bad? If it even was poison. “And what’s that when it’s at home?”
Zorion’s face cleared with enthusiasm. “It’s cold.”
“Is that all?” someone called out. They sounded young and disappointed.
Zorion looked about himself. Ibram saw he had one of those cold charms they made in the north dangling from his fingers. “Well, it’s got sugar,” he said, “and lemon juice and water.”
“Lemons?” Mistress Grouvan scoffed. “Grown out here?”
“No, from my family’s orchards in Bastilat,” Zorion said.
Ibram’s eyebrows hit his hairline, and maintained position. Family orchards in an ancient garden city such as Bastilat? It appeared Attendant Hilbert Zorion had hidden depths, or at least, a family vault or two. He whistled, and the crowd murmured.
“That’s what in your grinder, a distillate of juice. The bubbles are just for fun.”
Ibram winced. “Was that supposed to go in the grinder, Attendant?”
Attendant Zorion shook his head. “No, I tripped getting up on the counter and spilled.”
“But its contents were all the way from Bastilat?” Ibram said as he reared back to cover. “Mistress Grouvan, that’s a princely drink order. Lemons and sugar! In caffa!”
“I was attempting to add sugared peel.”
“Is it really for royalty?” one of the larger Tyals got up the courage to ask.
“Well, I don’t see why they wouldn’t drink it,” Attendant Zorion said. He tugged on a large green bead in one of his braids. “Why do you ask?”
“A cold drink for clear eyes and a thoughtful mind!” Ibram cut in swiftly. They needed to leave, after all. “Healthy for sailors, I’d expect. And devotees of the Navigator! What prince or princess of Vissilia wouldn’t have such a drink as that? Surely, the Attendant should have his order. It’s the festival after all.”
A swell of general agreement washed across those assembled, even the ones who still had their own drinks. A few of the servers walked past with water pitchers sent over from the roasting kitchen. As she eyed the crowd now at her counter, it appeared the good mistress was revaluating her attitude.
“I’m sure he’ll need the energy,” she said. “May the Wheelmaker set his hand to the Preceptory of Bedris.”
Incorrect on many levels, but Ibram supposed not everyone could see the neck tab of a scrub jay on Zorion’s gambeson. Still, a worthy effort. Ibram nodded.
“An excellent thought,” he said and then shouted. “A summer coffee for our Attendant! To speed him up the living mountain!”
The crowd cheered, and finally Attendant Zorion jumped down from the counter. Ibram hooked the cold charm out of his hand, and slung it over the nearest caffa drip. He smiled at Mistress Grouvan. “We’ll keep the cup, and be back for the charm at end of day, shall we, Mistress?”
Mistress Grouvan ignored him, but she did grab a mug.
Apart from the lead up, Zorion’s concoction didn’t take that long to make. In fact, had Ibram been allowed a bet on it, he’d have wagered it took only half as much time to chivvy his charge up out of the square and back up the living mountain. The relay systems were all working, instead of being constantly down for repairs, and this time of the day, crowds weren’t too much of a problem. He simply propelled the Attendant before him to cut whatever line might be forming, and then tucked Zorion in a corner of the aerial gondola so that he might not escape.
“Do you do this to Ahksell?” Zorion asked, and wiped cold, citrusy caffa from the corners of his mouth.
It was a low blow to remind him of better, more amiable Attendants. Ibram kept the basket on his left arm blocking Zorion’s escape route, and leaned his right arm against the wall of the gondola as if he was tired and needed the support. It would have been as well to say that Ahksell had never needed Ibram to do anything to him, but he let the temptation pass through him. He had wrangled Zorion’s freedom, won him the admiration of a crowd, and managed not to say anything about what bad manners it was to incapacitate a man’s employer. Ibram counted these as victories, and not even Zorion would spoil it for him.
“He never mentioned the herding aspect of your work,” Zorion continued, and gestured slightly with his cup. “It’s really very efficient, but I don’t know if I like the feeling of being impelled.”
Ibram smiled politely, and swayed with the jostling group of servants and agents at his back. As he’d gotten on, he’d spied a few Learners as well, no doubt out on a daytrip; it wouldn’t do to be impolite. He readjusted the basket, and then had a thought.
“What’s your concentration, Attendant Zorion?” he asked, and then risked a quick look out the window. They were on the last run before the station outside Yseult’s walls. His gut rebelled as they climbed higher, but Ibram was the conqueror of his own stomach. “Is it all potions and potables for you?”
“I suppose you could say so.” Attendant Zorion readjusted his glasses. “I make infusions. Mentor Tikari says they’re quite extraordinary!”
“Lady Azadiya certainly found them unique.”
Zorion winced. “Yes, sometimes testing can be a little…unpredictable.”
Ibram snorted, and then glanced behind himself at the rest of the passengers. The gondola was swaying into the hands of the servants at the station, preparing to stop. He turned back and lowered his voice.
“What was it supposed to do, anyway?”
Zorion’s mouth opened and closed on a puff of air. He shook his head and looked briefly out the window. He wasn’t as tall as Ahksell (who could be?) but he was of a height enough that it made his braids something of a hazard when Zorion shook his head.
“It’s intended to mimic the same changes made possible by a lifelong study of the human body in Yseult,” he said. “Sharpening the eyesight, in effect.”
“Don’t they make spectacles for just such an occasion? Or those water bottles cobblers use for magnification?”
Zorion adjusted his glasses. “Metal frames can be a trouble in my line of inquiry, and wood can often debase the lenses with ephemera. I hope to create a potion which will eliminate the need for glasses entirely.”
Zorion’s dark eyes caught on Ibram’s for a moment, before he quickly looked away. It sounded a bit like cheating—counterfeiting all that effort Attendants of Yseult put in to gaining the smallest modicum of control over their bodies; Ibram approved. He nodded. “A worthy effort, Attendant.”
The gondola swayed to a stop with a jerk of the hauling rope’s machinery. Ibram heard the crowd surrounding them sigh and shuffle forward in a dozen busy footsteps. He stepped back and Attendant Zorion took a sip of his summer coffee.
“You’d do well to savor that,” Ibram said. “I think we might need to wait a few days before we’re welcomed back in that particular caffa.”
“I do,” Zorion said. “It reminds me of home.”
“I see.”
He did, more’s the pity. Bastilat was as old a city as you could find in the Empire of Vissilia, covered in the soft golden light you only found down south, where the temples were only eclipsed by the imperial palaces. He’d spent a summer drenched in sweat there, drinking wine chilled by charmwork, and trying to remember which manor Lady Azadiya wanted a report back on. There had been a family there all the way from Merrilia, directly from the Red Coast. Their store had smelled like home, same spices and flavors, and he’d eaten handfuls of small brined fish with flatbread dripping with oil and herbs. The master of the house boiled down asajika so thick and red that it could make a man spit fire and thank them for the privilege. It was a city that lingered in all six senses.
Slowly, the other passengers disembarked. Ibram turned aside when there was room, and they walked out of the gondola onto the station’s platform. Above them, the sky had turned a bright blue heavily threaded with wooly clumps of cloud. Ibram gestured the Attendant through the little roofed station with its small benches and waved at the woman in the back kitchen, where the relay servants took their meals.
The stone stairs down to the walkways around the mountain were wet. They took them down side-by-side, and Zorion didn’t spill a drop. Ibram held the basket in both hands, and clenched so hard the smell of withy tree wood rose up in the air.
He had the thought, still, in his mind that Master Savoldyn was a murdered man, and though he knew it was based on very little but a strong scent and a sudden demise, it still seemed more likely than a drunkard’s innards giving up his ghost just at that specific moment. He frowned.
He shook his head and rubbed his eyebrow with his thumbnail. Around them, the day-to-day crowd of folk who lived and worked in the Preceptory of Yseult, as well as those from the surrounding preceptories, made their way, laden with goods or pulling carts. Some of the larger carriages were out and about; the ponies were good hill stock, and navigated the curves and ramps carved into the mountain with little trouble.
Ibram resettled his basket. He glanced up at the sky and then back down to the green and yellow scrub beside the road. The problem was that his thoughts tended to circle if not given some kind of an outlet, and there was no one here inclined to play ‘worst thoughts’ with him. He couldn’t very well make his case to Amota Viran while still arguing it with himself.
“I don’t suppose you know how to kill a man, Attendant Zorion,” he said.
Attendant Zorion laughed sharply. “Very well, I expect!”
Ibram looked up. “You do? I didn’t think they went in for weaponry up in Afsoun.”
“Of course not!” Zorion drank the last of his summer coffee and then held the cup down at his side. They turned up the road towards Yseult’s gates. “We’re much too far from the capital to be allowed any kind of permit for offensive constructs. But we all know the principle of the—the transmutations. At their heart, making up survival equipment and glowbulbs and weaving some wire nets… Well, it’s the sort of common knowledge every sect has.”
Ibram nodded and raised his arm to guide Zorion down the left side of the road, out of the way of a passing cart. Zorion handed him his empty cup; Ibram pinched his lips together briefly. He tossed the dregs out into a nearby bush, and then placed the mug in his basket.
“And you’re from Bastilat, besides,” Ibram said, glancing up at the thick stone walls as they passed through the inner gate. For a brief second, it almost seemed like one of the massive lodestones clamped to the outside of the walls sparked with blue lightning. He shook the afterimage from his eyes, and squeezed his eyes open and shut quickly.
