Blue and Gold Read online

  Talking of which; Eudoxia never gave a damn about me. I genuinely believe she was incapable of any kind of affection. And she was terrified—real, tangible, wake-up-in-the-night-sweating fear—of getting old. Not death, which she never thought about, as far as I know. But being old; she said once that age was alchemy in reverse, turns gold into shit. I couldn’t really understand that, but I can reconstruct what led her there. At nineteen she was exceptionally beautiful. At twenty-five, she was starting to coarsen up a little, as though someone had subtly defaced a beautiful painting. She used to stand in front of the mirror staring at a new line or wrinkle nobody else could see, and I could practically smell the fear. So; once she’d reached the conclusion that I was the best alchemist in the world, it wasn’t enough that I was working for her brother, under contract and practically a prisoner in the wing of the palace he’d had converted into a laboratory for me. She had to make sure, which meant I had to be in love with her; with her beauty, to give me the strongest possible incentive. I came to hate her, the same way I came to hate alchemy, and for roughly the same reason. Even now, I find it hard to forgive her for that.

  It’s a central paradox that love and rape both find expression in the same act. For two years, I raped science, trying to give Phocas and Eudoxia what they wanted, gold and youth. Couldn’t be done, of course. Not possible. But they both had blind, unlimited faith in me; like being in love, or believing in God. I think I could’ve endured that. I might just possibly have been able to keep going, trusting that sooner or later the faith would start to crack and break up, they’d realise I wasn’t nearly as clever as they thought I was, and they’d eventually let me go, or kill me. What ruined that was the other thing; the discovery, or the faint possibility of it; my one and only truly worthwhile achievement, if only I could achieve it, that would bring me wealth, fame and maybe—just maybe—happiness.

  *

  THANKS TO LAODICUS, I had everything I needed; the last remaining supplies and bits of equipment, and ten angels cash, which he kindly embezzled for me from the Social Fund, of which he was trustee. With my wooden box under my arm, I walked briskly back to my cellar, thinking only about the experiment I was about to conduct, anticipating problems, working through each step in my mind. I can’t actually remember reaching the cellar, setting up the new apparatus, lighting the fire, drawing the water. Time melts in the presence of intense concentration. It expands, so that a pot of water takes forever to come to the boil, and contracts as you work through each step of a procedure, trying to get seven things done at the same time without rushing. I’d organised my mind so carefully that I didn’t waste a second, but either there wasn’t enough, or there was far too much.

  The blue and the green. I heated lacrimae dei and flowers of strong metal in a crucible while the compounds were reducing, then mixed the blue and the green in a stone beaker and added the solids to the liquid. No effervescence this time, but a dense white vapour, which made me realise that a windowless cellar wasn’t entirely ideal for my purpose after all. I added vis cer-ulea, a scruple at a time. The corner of a clean rag, dipped in the beaker, came up sky blue. Once step closer to genuine immortality.

  Trouble with concentrating on one thing, you neglect other stuff. I had my back to the door; they walked in quietly. First thing I knew about it was when they grabbed me.

  *

  THE CAPTAIN TOLD me it hadn’t been all that difficult. He’d sent out patrols with orders to report strange and unusual smells. Apparently, you could smell me halfway down the street. As simple as that.

  I had a short ride in a closed carriage, wedged in between the captain and a sergeant, with a rope tied to my ankle. When we reached the junction of Whitegate and Long Row, I waited to see which way we’d turn; left to the Station House, or right to the palace. We turned right.

  “We’d better get you cleaned up,” the captain said, as we drove through the main gate. “Can’t go and meet the prince in the state you’re in.”

  I pointed out that we’d been students together, living in self-induced squalor and degradation. First time I met Phocas, I told him, he hadn’t shaved for a week and he had vomit on his shoes. The captain smiled at me, and said that he hadn’t gone to university. He’d have liked to, but his father was a clockmaker with six children. That, apparently, was me put in my place.

  I’d never been forcibly washed before. I told them I was perfectly capable, but I guess they were reluctant to allow me full use of my limbs, in case I got away. The shave wasn’t so bad, in fact it brought back old memories. By no means the first time I’d had a blade pressed to my throat while four men held me down. They issued me with a plain, clean gown, slightly frayed cuffs, sort of beige colour. No pockets.

  The captain and his men took me as far as the great hall, where I was handed over to the Duty Chamberlain’s men. As he handed over the end of my rope, the captain nodded politely and wished me good luck. I was so stunned, I couldn’t speak.

  *

  THE FIRST TIME I met Phocas, of course, he was nobody. In fact, he was less than nobody. He was twelfth in line to the throne, which meant he had no chance whatsoever, and his father had just been executed for treason. It was amazing how many people could look straight at him and not see he was there.

  I, by contrast, was the favoured nephew of a prosperous land speculator with important political connections, a rising academic star, and one of the inner circle of the inner circle of the in crowd. In fact, I was so central, you could have plotted the location of everybody else by sticking the point of a compass in the top of my head. By rights, I should never have wasted my precious time and attention on a negative quantity like Phocas. But I liked him, then.

  He was being thrown out of a party just as I was arriving. He was aggressive-drunk, and the reason for his expulsion, I later gathered, was that some of the puke missed his shoes and hit the hostess’s dress, which he’d been endeavouring to remove, regardless of her objections, when his digestive system betrayed him. Two footmen carried him out into the street, with his feet off the ground, kicking in air like a hanged man, and dropped him neatly in a big brown puddle. He sat there for, I don’t know, five seconds; then he stood up, a bit shaky but with a certain essential grace and dignity like a cat; then swayed and flopped up against the wall.

  The people I was with marched past him, all don’t-look-at-him-you-don’t-know-where-he’s-been. But he smiled at me—I could see him clearly by the lantern light—and his face said, please don’t think too harshly of me, you’re not quite catching me at my best. I grinned back at him, and he fell over.

  Next time I met him was at one of Menestheus’ lectures on Stratylides. I’d been sitting patiently, formulating a question in my mind that’d demonstrate beyond doubt to any perceptive witness that I was ten times cleverer than Menestheus, and at least three times smarter that Stratylides. I was putting the finishing touches to it when the old fool stopped talking. Phocas promptly stood up and asked precisely the question I’d been planning.

  Well, not precisely the same. Not nearly as tersely or elegantly phrased. But he’d picked up on the same frayed end in the logic as I had. Menestheus gave him a look, then said, “Actually, that’s not quite as stupid a question as it sounds”, and went on to give an answer I’d have had great difficulty beating. I was grateful to Phocas for saving me, and impressed with the quiet, good-humoured grace with which he accepted the mincing he got. I asked some people I was with who the kid who asked the question was, and they told me. I arranged to have him invited to a party I was going to, and made a point of talking to him; we chatted for half an hour about ethical positivism, then slipped the party and went for a drink. He didn’t have any money, so I lent him half an angel.

  A year later, we had the plague. It killed off nine of Phocas’ eleven supervening cousins, and my uncle, who proved to have been on the edge of bankruptcy. He was, in fact, a conman of substantial ability but limited intelligence; he hadn’t foreseen the flaw in his scheme,
which would’ve collapsed round his ears inside of a month if he hadn’t died first. I was six months off my final exams; I had a trunkful of clothes, which my landlord distrained on for arrears of rent, five dozen books and four angels cash.

  It never ceases to amaze me how adaptable social geometry can be. Within a couple of days I went from being the centre of the circle to an indefinite point outside its circumference. I couldn’t even get close enough to my old friends to ask them for money, and Phocas, newly rich, was out of town, up at the capital for the funerals. My tutor, who admired and loathed me, got me the porter’s job. I stayed on and became invisible.

  So what? Big deal. I learned an important lesson in alchemy, at any rate; the catalytic agency of gold in the process of conversion between precious-rare and dross, the mutability of all things. Other things I learned; how to shift heavy objects, how to sweep floors, clean up mess, stand perfectly still and quiet for three hours and not be noticed. All good stuff, much more use to me in later life than the course material. I take the view that we’re the sum of everything that happens to us, good and bad. It’s an alchemist’s interpretation, of course, seeing people as a compilation of ingredients combined and acted on by processes. The implication is, if you leave out one of the ingredients, even if, particularly if, it’s unstable or noxious, you get a different result. If the experiment comes out well, then you can’t say any one particular ingredient or process was bad. If you end up with a result like me—well, good and bad are by definition unscientific terms. What matters is the purpose of the experiment and whether or not you achieve it.

  By any reasonable criteria, Phocas was a successful experiment. He started off as garbage and came out of the crucible pure gold. A lesser man might’ve celebrated his sudden, unexpected transformation into heir apparent with a whirlwind massacre of everybody who’d derided and despised him when he was nobody; this would’ve entailed wiping out ninety per cent of the university of Elpis, but that was the sort of thing Phocas’ family had been doing for centuries, and nobody seemed to think any the less of them for it. But Phocas wasn’t like that. He forgave his enemies and rewarded his friends, except for me. Don’t get me wrong. He wanted to help. He tried quite hard to find out what had become of me. But by then my tutor was dead (the plague; we had it relatively easy at Elpis, but he was one of the victims) and nobody else knew or cared. I carried on portering and working in the library when the students were in bed or out drinking, without the faintest idea that Phocas was trying to find me, until I ran into a spot of trouble and had to leave town.

  History will have all manner of nice things to say about Phocas; how he checked the power of the provincial nobility, ended the war with the Ammagene, got the public finances under control. In fact, history will love him. No matter which side’s in the ascendancy, there’ll be a bit of Phocas they can grapple on to and make their own. The Optimates will admire the way he broke the power of the labour guilds and supported free trade, while the Tendency will worship him for his welfare provisions and land reforms. They’ll debate endlessly about what his real agenda was, which side he was actually on, and they’ll never get within a long spit of the truth, because history refuses to recognise the possibility that great events and changes of lasting significance could be brought about just because once upon a time there was an absolute ruler who simply couldn’t make up his mind. His intentions were always good. Where he was luckier than all his fellow altruists was in somehow contriving to pursue his good intentions without doing irreparable damage to everyone and everything around him. The truth is, he was a simple-minded, basically decent sort of a fellow, born well outside the dangerous confines of the purple, who did the best he could to keep things ticking over quietly so they wouldn’t distract him from his overriding mission in life; to discover, or more realistically sponsor the discovery, of the secret of turning base metal into gold. If ever I get around to finishing my Ideal Republic (started it ten years ago, paid in advance, spent the money), I’ll have to fit him in somewhere as a model autocrat; the man who rules well because he doesn’t really want to rule at all.

  *

  “HELLO, PHOCAS,” I said.

  He looked up at me from the papers he’d been reading. “What the hell was all that about?” he said.

  I shrugged. “I’m sorry,” I said. “I thought—”

  “No,” he snapped, “you didn’t, that’s the point. Damn it, I wrote you a letter. And you’re supposed to be smart.”

  I sat down. The guard didn’t like it, but Phocas didn’t notice. “You see,” I went on, “I had the idea that you might, well, blame me—”

  “Really.” He gave me a hurt, angry look. “How long have we known each other?”

  “I’m sorry,” I repeated. “I panicked, all right? It happened, and I just had to run, get out of there, as far away as I could. And then I thought, how suspicious does that look? I thought—”

  “You thought I’d assume that because you ran away, you’d killed her.” He shook his head, as though stunned that anybody could be so stupid. “Well, the main thing is, you’ve come to no harm. But really, for crying out loud, Nino, did you have to blow up a fucking wall?”

  I did my sheepish idiot grin. “I couldn’t think what else to do.”

  “Amazing.” He smiled at me. “Someone could’ve been killed, you realise. And then you’d have been in the shit.”

  I hung my head. “Wasn’t thinking clearly.”

  “Just having the stuff’ll get you your neck stretched. There’s only so much I can do, you know.” He took a deep breath, let it out slowly. “How did it happen?” he said.

  I told him. When I described how his sister died, he closed his eyes and turned his head away, just for a moment. Reminded me of me, when I was a kid and my mother killed a chicken. Thing was, I ate the chicken, even though I disapproved of death. Some things are ugly but necessary.

  Then he shook himself, like a wet dog, and said, “Why didn’t you warn her?”

  “I’m sorry?”

  “Not to drink the stuff.”

  I smiled weakly. “You think she’d have listened?”

  “No,” he conceded. “No, I guess not.”

  “Besides,” I went on, “it was all so fast. And I suppose I assumed she’d know better than come in the lab and drink a beakerful of stuff without asking if it was safe.”

  He was interested. “She just—”

  “She asked me what it was. I told her the ingredients. Next thing I knew—”

  “Ah.” He nodded. “That makes sense. She’d have reckoned she knew what it was from what was in it. Always had a very high opinion of herself, my sister.”

  “She was a good scientist,” I said. “She’d learned a hell of a lot.”

  “Which killed her,” he said, quietly, like a man finally winning a chess game he’d lost interest in a quarter of an hour ago. “Excellent argument against the education of women, if you ask me. Thought she knew what it was, decided to swallow it before you told her she couldn’t. Impatient, you see. She was like it as a kid. Always snatched the honey-cakes as soon as the servants brought the plate in.”

  “If I’d had the faintest idea—”

  “Of course.” He raised his hand. Subject dead and buried. “Well,” he said, “I guess we can draw a line under all that. I’ll issue a statement saying my sister died of natural causes. We’ll have to have a state funeral, of course, I’ll need you there as chief mourner. Sorry,” he added. “I know you can’t be doing with official occasions.”

  “Don’t worry about it,” I replied. “Least I can do.”

  “It’ll take a week to arrange,” he went on. “And in the meantime—”

  He didn’t need to finish the sentence. Back to my bench, enough time wasted already. He really didn’t mean it as a punishment. He sincerely believed I enjoy doing all that stuff.

  I stood up. “Just one thing,” he said. “Not that it matters worth a damn, but somebody must’ve helped you. Else, how di
d you get all that gear? You know we’re just fine, but I’m going to have to ask you who helped you out. Got to give somebody to the Prefect, or my life’s going to be hell for months.”

  I sat down again. “I have contacts,” I said.

  “Yes, I’d gathered.” There was a cold core to his eyes. I knew that look. “I’m sorry, but I need some names.”

  “In the Thieves’ Guild,” I said.

  His eyes widened slightly. “So there really is a Thieves’ Guild,” he said.

  “Of course there is,” I lied. “And I’m very sorry, but—”

  He shrugged. “More than your life’s worth, right. Fine, forget about it. Now I know there actually is a Thieves’ Guild, the watch can take it from here. Thank you,” he added, “that’s a real help.” He frowned. “Have I just landed you in it?” he asked. “Only, if I have, I can forget what you just told me—”

  “It’s perfectly all right,” I said. “We assume you’ve known all about us for years.”

  (And I thought; curious. He’d asked about his sister’s death the way you ask about the health of a business associate’s invalid spouse, but verification of the existence of a Thieves Guild had been interesting. What would I have seen, I wondered, if I’d been there when they came to tell him Eudoxia was dead?)

  “How soon?” he asked.

  I’d just put my feet to the ground, ready to walk out. “It’s hard to say.”

  “Try.”

  I shrugged. It was the gesture of a man without a care in the world, fooling nobody. “Really, I can’t say. Could be six weeks, could be a month, could be—”

  “Six weeks.”

  “Or six years,” I replied, “it all depends on how lucky I get. If I’m lucky, this time tomorrow. If I’m unlucky, never. There’s always the possibility that it simply can’t be done.”

  He grinned at me. “I get the same from the highways contractors,” he said. “They know precisely how long it’ll take to build a road from the City to the docks, but when I ask them, they always add on two months. Then, when the job’s finished when they knew it would be, they ask for a bonus for early completion. Come on, Nino. When?”