Star Winds

A curious thought occurred to Rachad. When air traffic eventually dwindled into insignificance—as it must—Olam would lose its place altogether. All these goods, for which it was currently a center of distribution, would come instead through Umbuicour. In his imagination Rachad could see Olam as a tumbledown ghost town whose few inhabitants reminisced sadly about the past.

He sighed and under the armorer’s watchful eye carefully replaced the slender sword. Then he left the marketplace and walked into the old part of the town where the houses were mostly of blackened timber, picturesque and ancient, until he came to the Street of the Alchemists.

In an earlier generation the street had, as its name implied, been a coterie of those who delved into the secrets of matter and labored to find the Philosopher’s Stone. Those who came after them had shown only a cursory interest in such long and fruitless researches, and the street was stocked instead with practitioners of related matters—apothecaries, metalsmiths and the like. In the whole avenue there was only one proper devotee of the ancient art, and that was Gebeth, whom Rachad referred to as his mentor, in his more flamboyant moments.

As in much of this quarter the street was laid with loose sand instead of with cobbles, for such had been the custom in older times. Rachad passed by the open workshop of a maker of bronze door-knockers and, at the next house, had occasion to make use of a sample of the same man’s work: a large heavy knocker fashioned in the form of Mercury, the winged messenger and symbol of quicksilver, which he pounded decisively against the thick plank door.

He had to pound a second time before there came a scraping of wood on wood from within and the door eased open. Standing in dimness, because of the shuttered windows, was the man he knew only as Gebeth the alchemist.

“Good day, sir,” Rachad said brightly.

The other grunted in displeased fashion. “Oh, it’s you. You’d better come in.”

Rachad followed him into a small living room which, despite the bright sunshine outside, had as its only illumination a small oil lamp on a book-strewn table in the corner. Gebeth liked to shut himself away from the outside world, to ponder, study and work in quiet solitude.

The alchemist seated himself at the table, where he had evidently been reading when interrupted by Rachad. He was a man advanced in years, his face much lined by the effort of prolonged thought. His hair was white and wispy. His eyes had an introspective look, as of one given to daydreams, but when they settled on Rachad they were steady and challenging.

“And to what do I owe this unexpected visit?”

“I am here for the same reason as always, Gebeth.”

“I have not seen you in three days,” the older man said, disgruntled. “With such laxness you will not learn much, and why should I bother to teach you?”

“Do not be displeased with me, sir,” Rachad said defensively. “I have been working to earn money. See, I have brought you a sum to help further your work.”

Gebeth inspected the coins he handed over, and glanced at Rachad suspiciously. Rachad’s countenance remained bland; in point of fact, the money was a part of his share in the spoils of a minor escapade—theft from a warehouse near the airfield—but he did not wish Gebeth to know that. Financing his research was a continual problem for the old man and Rachad regarded it as in his best interests to help whenever he could.

Gebeth sighed and waved a hand as if waving away the fumes of his former bad humor. In all honesty he could not regard Rachad seriously as an apprentice in the Hermetic Art. The boy was flighty and volatile, and little interested in abstract matters. Nevertheless he was useful as an assistant, which was one reason why Gebeth had kept him on. A certain amount of grumbling over his defections was an integral part of their relationship and not at all harmful. He had even managed to teach Rachad a smattering of alchemical lore.

He closed the book he had been studying, marking his place, and rose to his feet.

“Come.”

With a key from the pocket of his gown he unlocked a door to a short, dark corridor leading to the rear of the house. At the end of it he unlocked a second door. Rachad’s nostrils were assailed by various acrid odors, predominantly the smell of burning sulphur.

Unlike the living room, the laboratory took advantage of natural light which came through smoky glass panels in the sloping roof. It was also uncomfortably hot. Each degree of heat required a different furnace and Gebeth had half a dozen, three of which were currently stoked.