Azal

A series of dull knocks sound over my head. Sighing, I try to ignore them and continue my reading.

THUD.  THUD THUD THUD.

If only they were in any kind of rhythm, I could ignore them.

THUD THUD. THUD THUD. THUD.

!__foreign curse__! Throwing my book aside - I needn’t worry about losing my place, I’d lost the train of thought long ago - I get to my feet and head for the stairs. Not the main stairs, or any of the several sets of servant’s stairs, but the ones hidden away at the rear of the closet in my study. There are several such deceptions in the house, halls that don’t lead quite where they ought to, stairs where they are not needed, doors that open to nothing, windows without rooms and rooms without windows. I suspect the original builder was heavily superstitious, and set the mazes and lures to bewilder any spirits that might be roaming the place. Superstitious, and probably with a guilty conscious, as well. I am under no such illusion - whyever would an incorporeal being be deterred by a lack of a door in going where it wished? But I find the house charming, and, as Luce has found with his garden labyrinths, it is both amusing and occasionally useful to have persons unable to find their own way in or out.

I suppose I could have left the old man in a less secluded room, where I could easily send any of the servants to shut him up at times like this. But I prefer to keep his activities unknown, and limit the risk of his concoctions falling into the hands of others. Should he produce something pleasant, I should hate to have it wasted on a servant’s bribe, and should he produce something foul, I should hate to have to replace a servant, it’s such a bother while they acclimate to my requirements. There is one who knows of this room, to bring his meals and remove his waste, but she has proven herself trustworthy over long years - and is mute, besides.

The smell hits me as I unlock the closet door, making me take an involuntary step back. I am familiar with many strange substances, but this must be a side-effect of some rare combination, the odor alone has destructive powers. My head remains clear, though my stomach turns a bit as I mount the stairs, breathing as shallowly as I can manage.

“Can you not do your work without threatening to burst the ceiling over my head? Are there not tables and carpets enough that you might pound on something that dulls the sound?”

“Hrmph. Couldn’t get enough leverage. Needed the floor.”

I’d sigh, but sighing requires breathing in more than I’d like to do right now. Now able to see the man as I reach the end of the stairs, I note that he has wrapped fabric around his nose and mouth, though I can’t imagine that does much to avert the odor.

THUD. THUD THUD THUD THUD. “Nearly done though.” He gives the large stone mortar and pestle another few heavy blows, then resumes pressing and stirring. The smell grows a little more intense, though not exactly worse.

“Splendid.”

“Then I’ll need to try exploding it. That might get a little loud too.”

I raise an eyebrow. “I do not recall asking for a compound that would explode.”

“Didn’t say it was supposed to. Said I need to test it. If it’s wrong, it’ll blow up.”

“And if it’s correct?”

“It’ll just keep smelling bad.”

“Continue, or worsen?”

“Continue, I think. Until I add the sheep’s gall, then it’ll smell worse for a bit. Unless it blows up after.”

“You are keeping records of all your attempts? Amounts, timing, full instructions?”

The man waves a hand vaguely at me. “Yes yes. And you can take the green book there by the kettle, it’s full now. Bring back the red one though, I want to check something.”

I take a few steps into the room, carefully skirting the many tables and overflowing shelves, that I might reach the indicated book. Fortunately, the old man and his nauseating concoction are at the opposite side. The tables are covered in clutter, bottles and jars with handwritten labels and murky contents, candles that burn in different colors, old books, shriveled dry bits of plants and animals.

“List there, too, things I need.” THUD THUD THUD.

I spot the ink-blotted sheet near the note book, and take both from the table, careful to disturb nothing else. A covered iron cup seems to be trembling slightly - whether from a living thing or chemical reaction, I do not ask, either is as likely as the other. I long ago made my own forays into alchemy, chemistry, but found the investigatory research to be far too tedious to be enjoyable. I have long kept someone on retainer to do so on my behalf, and Phineas is as capable a one as I have encountered in some time. Which is why I have made his employ a permanent situation - my presence may a fairly private one here, but I do have a few enemies that might be clever enough to use men like him. A small risk, but easily avoided. And truly, the man should be grateful for a patron such as I - glancing at his list, I see it contains a few items that are far more rare or expensive than he could have hoped to gain access to without my support. !___random creepy/pricy things___!

“Keep to that side of the room, now.”

I remain in place, folding my arms with a wry smile. He removes the pestle, leaving the mortar and its contents on the floor. After taking a few steps back, he takes a set of remarkably long tongs from a shelf, and uses them to lift a vial from its stand. Delicately, he tilts the glass tube, adding a few drops to the mortar.

Nothing happens.

He grunts in satisfaction, and dumps the rest of the liquid in. A small puff of gas billows into the air, and it certainly does smell worse in the room. Phineas coughs, but his hand remains steady, holding the vial in place until empty, then setting it and the tongs aside before approaching the mortar. He grunts again, then lifts the stone with its slightly bubbling contents, and moves it onto another table. His gnarled stained fingers skim over the page of an open book, he nods and drapes a linen cloth over the bowl. He shuffles across the floor and prods the fire with a poker.

The moment of crisis having apparently passed without incident, I flip casually through the pages of the notebook. “Anything of particular note recently?”

The man shrugs, moving to a shelf and holding a few jars to the window, inspecting their contents. “Some promising avenues. Nothing certain.”

“Mmm. Anything of use in the book I brought you last week?”

“Still reading. Might be.”

“Well. Your conversation is stimulating as always.”

“Ain't like I get much practice anymore.”

“I offered to bring you a companion if needed.”

He snorts, dumping a jar into a refuse pot. “Too old for whores, sir. Too cranky for chatter. And who’d put up with the stinks I make anyway.”

“Yes, well, that is a valid point. Those windows can be partly opened, you know.”

“Huh, I know. And ‘partly’ ain't hardly enough for a rat to escape through, not that it stopped me tryin’ once or twice.  But don't want any ash getting into that pot now, hell knows what things get into this city's air.”

“True, I suppose it could affect the more delicate chemistries. Well, carry on, I should have most of these items for you within a few days.”

“Huh. I wouldn't promise that, you read the things on there yet?”

“Yes, I have, and I meant what I said.”

There is a moment of heavy silence as we stare at each other, each of us perfectly arrogant and certain of being the stronger man. Of course, I know his true nature far better than he knows mine, so I am confident I am in the right.

Our stubbornness, however, is well-matched, so it's a relief to us both when a pot over a low flame starts to bubble over, and Phineas darts over to calm the hissing violet liquid. I take the opportunity to return down the stairs, being careful to lock the door behind me before seeing the alchemist's notebook on my study table.