Blue and Gold (10 page)

So I did that.
Then I ran up three walnut-sized knobs 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 sergeant—not
the same one as last time—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
glass rod, when appropriate retarding 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 luck—”

“I’ll be fine,” I
said. “Really.” I smiled at him. “You know, I always thought I was smart, but
benefit of clergy—”

“Damn 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?”

“Yes.
Good-bye. Try not to rob anybody or blow anything up.”

“Phocas.” I looked
straight at him, something I wouldn’t usually do. “I need to tell you something
before I go.”

“Well?”

“In private.”

He looked dubious,
and the scuttlehats went suddenly tense. “Oh come on,” I said. “I’m a priest
now. If you can’t trust the clergy—”

“Fine.” He nodded
at the sergeant, and the scuttlehats left the room. “Well?”

I lowered my voice
just a little. “It’s started,” I said.

“What?”

“The experiment.”
It took a moment for it to sink in, and then his eyes grew round as dollars.
“I’ve started it up. It’ll take about five hours.”

He’d grabbed my
sleeve. “You mean—?”

“In my
laboratory,” I said, “on the bench, there’s a stone basin, next to the
water-clock. In the basin there’s a handful of iron nails, covered with a pale
green liquid. In about an hour from now, you should start to see a pale yellow
coating on the nails. Whatever you do, don’t touch them, the stuff in there’ll
eat your fingers to the bone. Just let them be, but someone’s going to have to
watch the stuff like a hawk. So long as the liquid stays green, it’s fine. If
it starts to turn blue, someone’s got to add two drops of the dark brown stuff
in the dark green glass bottle; that’ll put it right, but it’s got to be done
the moment the liquid starts changing colour. Otherwise the whole experiment’s
a write-off and I’ll have to start again, it’d set us back months.” I grinned.
“This is about the most inconvenient time they could’ve picked.”

He frowned at me.
“Couldn’t it have waited till you got back?”

I shook my head.
“The principal reagent only stays stable for a day or so,” I said. “It takes
nine weeks to mature once you’ve brewed it. Also,” I added quietly, “I may not
be coming back. I’d hate to die without having tried.”

He looked sick.
“Don’t talk like that,” he said. “The lawyers—”

“I’ll write it all
out when I get to Mezentia,” I said. “I’ll mail to you via the diplomatic
courier.”

“No.” He looked
terrified. “For pity’s sake, don’t do that. We can’t trust anybody with
something like this. When you get back, there’ll be plenty of time.”

I shrugged. “Suit
yourself,” I said. “Just make sure there’s someone watching that stuff for the
next five hours. That’s all I ask.”

“Don’t worry,” he
said, and his voice was just a shade higher than usual. “I’ll do it myself.”

“Really?”

“You have my
word.”

I smiled at him.
“In that case,” I said, “I’ve got nothing to worry about. Bless you, my son,” I
added, and went and banged on the door.

*

The story of
my life, so far.

When I was young,
I wanted to know the truth. I was impatient. I saw things so very clearly. It’s
probably a mistake to teach logic to the young. Logic is a weapon as well as a
tool. You learn it, you master it, you can’t wait to go out and use it on
someone. At Elpis, I laid about me with the sword of logic till nobody was left
to fight. Then, absurdly, the money ran out, and shortly afterwards, so did I.

Running away; the
story of my life. I ran away from philosophy and set about doing stupid things.
Stealing is stupid, because sooner or later you get caught. Getting caught is
also the story of my life. I always get away but I always get caught. I used to
think I just stumbled into alchemy by accident, but now I’m old enough to know
better, I understand that there’s no such thing as a coincidence. The two
predominent factors that make me up, philosophy and criminality, when combined
together on the block of ice hat serves me for a personality go to make up
alchemy. We were, to coin a phrase, made for each other.

The stupid thing
is, I probably am the greatest alchemist who ever lived. Not because I may or
may not have found out how to turn base metal into gold, but because—well,
we’ll come to that later. I’m also a pretty competent philosopher, but only as
long as someone’s prepared to pay me to do it. The longer you think about truth
and wisdom, the more clearly you come to understand that they’re figments of
the imagination; and what does that leave? Well, there’s the sheer pleasure of
fencing with logic, which wears a bit thin after a while, and there’s the
reasonable living that can be made from lecturing and writing and teaching. I’d
have settled for that, if only I’d been left alone, but no such luck.

Phocas and Eudoxia
shaped my life. When I wasn’t running away from them, I was lying to them, to
keep from getting killed. I murdered Eudoxia because I had to; too old and
tired to run any more, too weary to keep pulling knobs of pulveus fulminans out
of my arse and jumping through windows. As for Phocas; I guess he meant well,
but that’s no excuse. I’ve meant well at various stages in my life, and there’s
no excuse whatsoever for me.

Curiously enough,
one of my greatest talents, before I lost it, was making friends. People
instinctively liked me, once upon a time. Theodosia loved me. You’d need to be
ten times the scientist I’ll ever be to figure out the chemistry behind that.

Well. I’m sorry by
the way, that I lied to you earlier. Couldn’t resist. I guess that above all,
I’m a showman, a performer, a liar. And you can take that to the bank.

*

“For God’s sake
,” Pescennius said,
scowling at me. “Did you really have to trash the entire palace?”

He was
exaggerating, needless to say. But, “Yes,” I replied. “Omelettes and eggs,” I
explained. “Also, if a thing’s worth doing—”

He poured me a cup
of that pale green tea that’s so fashionable these days. Myself, I’d as soon
drink rainwater from the gutter. “How did you do it, exactly?” he said.

Pescennius,
formerly head of the Popularist Tendency and now First Citizen of the Republic,
is, of course, an old college chum of mine. We go way back. “This stuff tastes
like piss,” I said.

“Yes. How did
you—?”

“All right,” I
said wearily. “But it goes no further, right?”

“You have my
word.”

I knew him too
well for that. Still, it didn’t matter. He and I had a murder in common. That
sort of mutual bond is something you can trust.

“Argens
fulminans,” I told him, stretching back into his really quite comfortable
chair. “Otherwise known as fulminate of silver.”

“Never heard of—”

“You wouldn’t
have,” I said. “I discovered it. Fulminate of gold’s been around for centuries,
it’s in all the books. I wondered if you could get the same effect with silver.
They’re both completely useless, of course.”

He scowled at me.
“Slow down,” he said.

I grinned.
“Fulminate of silver,” I said, “is an explosive, a really powerful one. Trouble
is, it’s incredibly unstable. Other fulminates blow up when you bang them or
drop them. Silver fulminate tends to go off under its own weight. No, I’m
serious. The weight of one layer of crystals forming on top of another is
enough pressure to detonate it. That’s why it’s so useless. You can’t make more
than a tiny quantity before it self-destructs, unless you slow it right down
with ice. And when the ice melts—”

He was thinking
really hard, trying to keep up with me. “Go on,” he said.

“I brewed up a large
quantity of silver fulminate,” I said. “On a big block of ice. I left it on the
bench in the laboratory along with another experiment I knew Phocas was
interested in. That was just to get him in the same room as the fulminate and
keep him there till it blew itself up. And him with it, of course.”

“And the whole of
the east wing.”

I shrugged. “It’s
not like I had reliable data to work from,” I said. “So I had to guess. You’ve
got to admit, I erred on the safe side.”

“You could put it
like that.”

“Anyhow,” I went
on, “it worked. And, thanks to you arranging the extradition for me, I was
twelve miles from the city in the company of irreproachable witnesses when
Phocas died, putting both you and me in the clear. Then, all I had to do was
escape from the Mezentines—”

“How did you—?”

I mock-scowled at
him. “Trade secret,” I said. “Which I intend to keep to myself, for when I need
it to escape from your scuttlehats, when the time comes.”

He was too smart
to be drawn by that. “It worked out all right,” he said, “just about. When you
suggested this whole thing, I—”

“You thought I was
crazy, I know. But you trusted me. Thanks.”

“I have this
feeling I’ll live to regret it,” Pescennius said.

“Then you’ll be
luckier than Phocas,” I replied. “Anyway, the hell with it. You got what you
wanted; Phocas dead, the government in chaos, all the ingredients for a
successful coup.”

“Don’t call it
that,” Pescennius said irritably. “It was a popular revolution.”

“Of course it
was.” I stood up. “Thanks for the tea,” I said. “I’ll be going now.”

He looked at me.
“Where?”

I smiled. “I’ve
never lied to you,” I said. “So don’t ask me that, or I’ll have to spoil a
perfect score.”

He nodded. “Take
care,” he said. “For what it’s worth, you’re a hero of the people.”

“And a priest,
too,” I said. “Is there no end to my talents?”

*

I
went to
Choris Seautou, where I had
money and a place to work, and it was there that I successfully concluded my
life’s work, the achievement with which my name will for ever be linked, my
great contribution to humanity, the source of my considerable wealth. It was
about time, and I’d earned it.

And here I am.
After a lifetime of wandering and running away, I now live in a big house, with
two hundred acres of parkland and seventy-odd servants. I spend most of my time
reading, now that I can afford to buy all the books I could possibly want. I
don’t write any more. Don’t need the money.

I did make some
notes of my various experiments in alchemy; but last year I had a huge bonfire
out in the meadow and burned the lot. So, for example, the only directions for
making silver fulminate anywhere in the world are the ones you’ve just read.
The idea is that anyone disturbed enough to want the stuff will follow said
instructions and, since there’s a deliberate mistake in them, won’t survive the
attempt. The recipe for gold-out-of-garbage will die with me; arguably no great
loss, since I never did find out if it works or not. The only data from my
alchemical researches which will survive me is the formula for my great
invention, which I sold, along with the business, to a Vesani consortium for
more money than anybody could possibly spend in a lifetime. Needless to say,
they intend to guard it with the utmost ferocity. It was a term of the contract
that I didn’t keep a copy of the formula myself. No problem, I told them.

I’m an honest man
now, a pillar of the community. I even pay taxes. In fact, last year alone I
paid enough to keep a regiment in the field for a year (now, there’s something
a man can be proud of, don’t you think?) Every Solstice I get a basket of white
plums and a case of Faventine red wine from First Citizen Pescennius, who never
did get around to holding free and fair elections, and is now practically
indistinguishable from my other college chum Phocas, except he doesn’t kill
alchemists. I eat the plums and give the wine to my gardeners.

Oh, and last
autumn I got married. She’s a nice girl; not much to look at but sharp as a
knife, and she makes me laugh. She married me for my money and my library. I
think I married her because I like someone who gets their priorities right. I
still think about Theodosia, of course. After giving it a great deal of
thought, I’ve reached the conclusion that I probably didn’t kill Phocas because
he had Theodosia executed. I’ve tried to blame him for that, but I can’t. My
fault.

My invention, by
which I turned base materials into negotiable gold and assured myself of the
only true immortality—Sorry, I haven’t been entirely straight with you. My name
really is Saloninus, but I changed it when I came to Choris. You’ll know me as
Longinus Agricola, the inventor of synthetic blue paint.