Chapter 7: Experimentation

Chapter 7: Experimentation

Ber, Day 27 of Rhexia
Winking Moons
Year 602

Then came the days of whist’ling wind and frosty crust of snow.

The icy heart of Boradîn lay frozen there below.

—From Observations on Heladrithian Travel, by Qu’ia Lennar, Urdan Poet

Bricot glanced momentarily toward the open door, thinking that he’d seen Farax striding past. But he was clearly mistaken; the flash of moving clothes had turned out to be nothing more than an errant breeze rustling a distant curtain.

She’d be teaching in an entirely different part of the university at this time anyway, and Bricot shook his head at his own foolishness.

The evening before had been very pleasant, giving him time to relax and chat with the other teachers in the local Craestor pub. It had been Farax’s idea, and Ishka had organized the outing. Seldom did any of them spend time together outside of their regular university duties, and they’d all joined in enthusiastically.

Farax could drink a lot more than he’d expected she could.

“Master?” one of his students asked, raising her hand.

“Yes, Bela?” he called, willing himself to focus until the completion of his class. He was giving a lecture at the moment on the properties of incendiary and combustible brews.

“How did the Eralian forces not foresee the Tragedy of 571?” she asked incredulously. “Surely the thought must have occurred to someone that transporting that amount of combustibles would be dangerous.”

Several of her fellow students nodded. All twelve of them were scattered comfortably about the room, with the bulk of the class settled at a large rectangular wooden table and its accompanying chairs.

“That’s an excellent point, Bela,” Bricot said. “And I’m sorry to answer you this way, but it was a massive oversight.”

As most of the students present shook their heads in amusement, one or two of them laughed, and someone let out a low whistle.

“Think about it from their point of view,” Bricot suggested. “Urdan regiments were headed their way and they were in possession of some very experimental, very important research materials. When threatened, people make strange choices sometimes.”

The students listened with interest.

“General Pon needed to move a large amount of martial material from a local warehouse to the Keep at Barthin where his forces could use it,” he continued. “I suppose they could have left all of the brew at the warehouse, but Pon knew Eral desperately needed the kind of firepower that those materials could provide. At that time, the best way to transport it was very slowly, by wagon. And since the components of those news potions were so new, no safety controls had been adopted yet.”

There was a short pause while this sank in.

“Who can tell me why it’s safe to transport this amount of martial material today?”

Connor raised his hand. He was a student in his fortieth odd summer, invited to Craestor on a scholarship for alchemical excellence. “Technically, it’s not absolutely safe,” he said, worrying at his thick beard with one of his hands as he spoke. “Shipments can be waylaid at any point. It’s putting a very powerful weapon in the hands of enemy forces.”

“Granted,” said Bricot. “But?”

“But,” continued Connor, “Martial materials are constructed differently now. There are some that respond only to the velocity reached by certain types of catapults or that are only activated on impact of a certain strength. But the most popular, and probably safest, type of slung potion is the one that needs a charge.”

“Correct,” said Bricot. “The one that needs a charge. Does everyone know what he’s talking about?”

Most of the students nodded, and one of them took a sip from her mug of tea, but a few sat still, listening for clarification.

“Most modern slung potions are brewed and shipped as they are and left alone until ready for use. Just before activation, a small bead is inserted into the container, which is then re-capped. This bead is combustible, and timed from the moment it meets the liquid. There are just as many different types of charges as there are martial materials, all with different countdown lengths and force and area blasts. But you can, and should, learn more about slung potions from an educated, certified master bombardier like Ola.”

The class stirred, and Bricot decided it was probably time to stop for the day. “Let me know if you have questions about the Tragedy of 571. I’ll be asking for names and exact dates on our next test.”

Everyone began to climb to their feet and gather their things.

“Ger?” Bricot asked, eyeing the young man, who nodded and made his way over to the master alchemist. “Is today still convenient?”

Ger nodded.

“Good. Let’s go to the lab.”

The two men made their way down the corridor, talking as they went.

“You’re in your second year, yes?” Bricot asked.

Ger nodded again.

There was a short silence, and some of Bricot’s anxiety began to creep in. It was always easier for him to address a group of students than it was a single person. Lectures, he could do. Small talk was not as comfortable.

“How long have you been teaching?” Ger asked, coming to his rescue.

Bricot considered, then answered, “I came here almost a year ago from Boradîn, which is where I grew up. I attended Tengue University there. I also worked as a master’s assistant during my last two years in the program. I’m a relatively young teacher.”

Ger nodded thoughtfully. “I enjoy your lectures very much,” he said.

Bricot ran a hand through his hair and reddened slightly in response to the unexpected compliment. “Well,” he said.

The silence between the two men stretched nearly to breaking.

Well what, Bricot? Then, “Thank you,” he added belatedly, a disastrously awkward afterthought.

His student said nothing, taking the exchange in stride.

Once they’d reached the lab, Bricot held the door open for his young charge. “Now,” said Bricot. “What would you like to practice brewing?”

Ger frowned, completely at a loss.

“Actually, no. Let me rephrase that,” the alchemist amended. “What can we make today that we could safely test the potency of ourselves?”

“Hmm. Haste potion?”

Bricot thought and then began to nod slowly. “I like that. I was going to suggest Energy or Strength, but Haste might be easier to qualify. Do you know the ingredients?”

“Ugalia bark.”

“Yes. What else?”

Ger considered. “Shaved elestial grey-brown quartz.”

“Very good,” said Bricot, “And we’re going to use ravenswort today as well. We’ll do a simple potion; no philters or elixirs. Let’s save the school’s premium ingredients for another project. Besides, I want to brew a whole batch of them.”

Over the course of the next hour or so, the alchemist and his student used the university facilities to brew eight vials of Haste. It was sweaty work, but not unpleasant. The roiling, infused water bubbled merrily and the burners gave off a soft companionable whirr.

Ger’s already pink face had grown flushed from the heat in the room, and his eyes sparkled with the intensity of the prep work and execution.

Bricot felt as the young man looked—engaged. Alchemy woke a part of one’s mind that generally laid dormant. It was heady.

When they had finished, eight small vials sat filled and steaming before them.

“We’re going to go through each one,” Bricot instructed, “and we’re going to experiment with different imbuing techniques. I want you to speak them out loud, alright? And we’ll tag them according to how you perform. Don’t worry about the labels—I’ll write those. Good?”

Ger nodded nervously.

“Please don’t fret! You’ve done all of this before,” Bricot encouraged.

“Not alone,” Ger shot back. “And not directly in front of my alchemy teacher!”

Bricot laughed, saying, “Come, now. When I was younger, my first imbuements didn’t even take at all. No effect whatsoever. Ger, breathe.”

As if suddenly remembering the function were required, the student complied.

“Now. With this first one, just do what you’ve been doing,” Bricot instructed. “When I tell you to perform an imbuement for school, what do you default to? Show me.”

Ger picked up the first vial and closed his eyes. He took in another deep breathe and then let it out slowly. “Calumn, this is a Haste brew,” he said. “Please bless it with extraordinary potency.” He cracked one eye and looked at the master alchemist, who nodded encouragingly at him to go on. “May the drinker experience supernatural effectiveness and speed, and may the brew itself be consumed as my very worship to you,” he finished.

Bricot raised his eyebrows and crooked his mouth in appreciative acknowledgement. That was a new one.

The young student opened his eyes. “That’s all,” he said to his master. “That’s what I do.”

“Alright,” said Bricot. “That’s—that’s a… way to do that.”

Ger coloured.

“No,” Bricot corrected. “Listen, I don’t want you to think you’re at all unusual. Many, many students do this, I promise you. I just don’t think I’ve encountered a student with such staunch belief in the power of the Divines. We should definitely talk theology at another time, because I’m interested to hear your thoughts.”

Next, Ger tried simply speaking single words at the brew under Bricot’s instruction, saying hesitantly, “Haste. Speed, fast, hurry. Quick. Quicken. Dash. Fleet.”

“This technique is what we try to encourage at Craestor,” Bricot explained, “as I’m sure you remember from classes. The more descriptive words you can use to round out the imbuement, the more powerful the brew will be. Each word acts like a lash to bind the immaterial to the material.”

Ger also practiced an imbuement that involved him speaking commandingly to the brew as though it were a person. “You will be powerful,” he said. “You will give your consumer unnatural haste and efficiency. Be excellent in makeup, exemplary in application.” Ger laughed a little after that one, remarking that he almost wanted to threaten the vial.

“Try it,” Bricot said gamely.

Hesitantly, Ger picked up his fourth vial and held it aloft in front of him. “Haste potion, I address you directly. If you do not infuse your designated drinker with all of the qualities expected from a medium-grade Haste potion, your existence in the realm of Heladrith Minor will be a total waste and abomination. You will be dashed to the ground and trod upon—”

Here, Ger’s voice began to shake and Bricot realized the young man was in danger of dissolving into a fit of laughter. An answering smile twitched at his lips.

“This is ridiculous,” Ger whispered breathlessly.

“Finish the imbuement,” Bricot insisted. “Make it count. Don’t you want to see what happens?”

Ger nodded and swallowed thickly. “...Trod upon. Let it be known, Haste potion, that you have two options; disappointment, or victory. Achieve all you were meant to, or your presence in Heladrith will be utterly meaningless.”

When it was over, they both released their held laughter. With the imbuement finished, Ger set the vial down while Bricot scratched out a new label.

“That was a thing,” remarked the master alchemist.

So far, the eborel tags read Prayer to Calumn, Simple Words, Command, and Threat. In the next few minutes, the two men added the labels Request, Congenial Request, Beg, and Recite a Poem.

“This is the most interesting experiment I’ve ever tried,” observed Ger offhandedly and in no small amount of awe.

“It’s not over yet,” replied Bricot. “Over the next eight days, I want you to test the potency of each brew. Keep a careful journal. I’d recommend sprinting the same distance each day and recording your times. Make sure that you indicate which result goes with which brew, and mix up the order if you can. And please,” the teacher said curiously, “Let me know what happens. I have to say, I’m extremely interested.”

* * *

Craix was still in the Tief Outlands but had finally reached Midgrove, a small village among the trees.

Midgrove was situated near a stream that trickled constantly and provided inhabitants with fresh drinking water. She found this new atmosphere instantly peaceful and healing, and was relieved to be at last in the company of others, even without direct interaction.

She strode into the center of the village under a primitive arch fashioned from bent branches. The lane was a patch of bald, packed dirt that felt somehow spongy under her feet.

Slung over her shoulder, Craix hauled a thick eborel sack containing a tough apple, a sheathed hunting knife, some thick string, a generous handful of nuts, salt, and some crushed herbs. She’d already eaten Krup’s game hen.

The gentle sounds of trade and conversation from the inhabitants of Midgrove rose around her.

She caught the eye of a male villager splitting wood and nodded at him. He nodded back, dabbing at his sweaty forehead with the back of his gloved hand.

Here, she thought. This is the place. Which building, though?

Under the thick canopy of trees stood a row of wooden structures, all of them different shapes and heights. The whole plan seemed haphazard, but worked in harmony with the placement of the lush vegetation.

Craix stopped by a large carel tree in the center of the dirt lane and looked around.

Several of the buildings were marked with signs, but she couldn’t tell from the names which were meant for lodging, which for shopping, which for eating. Eating, she thought hungrily, exasperating herself. Come now, Craix. Pay attention.

She passed Dundan’s, which, from the sounds emanating from inside, was probably a smithy. She also passed Brews, Peder’s, and an unmarked building, all of which looked to be a potions vender, some sort of outfitter, and a forest temple, respectively.

The tempting smells of cooked meat and ale beckoned her toward a goodly-sized structure to her right. There was an internal component which housed the kitchens and prep, and an outdoor sort of cafe protected by wooden support beams, a crude roof, and a containing bent-branch railing enclosing it all.

This was it, she was sure of it.

She didn’t expect anyone to be here to meet her, but one could never tell. She’d learned to expect the unexpected.

Craix strode up to the entrance, gave a tentative knock, and then pushed the wooden door inward.

As she ducked into the little establishment, the weathered wooden boards creaked under her feet, and her light-shocked eyes adjusted hurriedly to the dark interior. Inside, the smells of food and alcohol were even stronger, and she caught the scent of a succulent and creamy fish stew bubbling somewhere nearby.

Her stomach growled, but she ignored it.

She made her way to what appeared to be the service counter. A gangly youth was polishing mugs there, and beyond him, two cookwomen tended open fires and their accompanying dishes. One of them glanced up at her appraisingly, then looked quickly away.

Craix readjusted the shoulder strap to her bag and sidled over to the lad, who looked up inquiringly. “Do you have chips?” she asked, and he nodded.

His face held that surprised look Craix often received when people noticed the discrepancy between her appearance and her voice.

“Chips and ale, please,” Craix ordered evenly. “I’ll take it outside.”

The young man nodded again. “Very good,” he said. “That’s five eccats. I’ll bring it out to you.”

Craix pressed five coppers to the battered wooden counter and turned away, heading for the outside seating area.

As soon as she pushed the rickety side door open, the cool air brushed pleasantly at her face and the sounds of river and birdsong soothed her.

She sank onto an open bench near the twisted branch containment rail and felt her shoulders relax a bit. She cracked her neck. She dropped her head forward and felt the skin pull at the back of her neck, willing her muscles to drop.

Then she reached into her bag and retrieved her knife, holding it flush against her thigh in case things were to go badly.

Footsteps on the creaking floorboards alerted her, and she straightened to see the woman who had regarded her inside the pub approaching.

The woman was somewhere between forty and fifty summers, and her grimy grey hair was pulled back tightly into a bun. She held a plate of steaming chips in one hand and a mug of cool ale in the other. She set them down. “Here you are, sir—er—” the woman frowned in confusion as she stared at Craix, trying to distinguish her gender.

“Thank you,” Craix said smoothly.

“Of course,” said the woman quickly. There was a moment of hesitation, and then she added, “I have something for you.”

“Oh?”

“Indeed. Was left with us yesterday.”

“I hope it’s a message,” Craix said, not moving, not even blinking. Holding the knife loosely against her leg, she spoke the first code phrase. “I’ve been waiting on some news.”

The woman nodded, her face devoid of expression. “It’s here, and unshared. I am one of the more careful couriers,” she replied.

“That’s good to hear,” said Craix, listening very closely.

And the cookwoman said slowly, “Indeed. If one follows care, they will find the path to a long and healthy life.” Then she left.

Craix relaxed, letting out a breath. She’d been in situations before when the phrases were botched or out of order and she’d needed to move on without receiving any communication.

A few moments later, the boy came out with a folded piece of eborel paper. She took it from him and thanked him, then sat back to open and read it.

* * *

Suddenly aware of his body wrapped in skin and his skin wrapped in the sheets, Beynon stirred. There was a sharp pressure behind his eyes that made him wince. He took a deep breath. Then another. It made a strange wheezing noise; that was unusual. He was unaccustomed to his lungs making that sound upon drawing breath.

Beynon slowly, groggily lifted his lids. He was in his bedroom. In his bed.

All at once, the memories of the attack slammed into him. Blood. Pain. Sharp, stabbing, throbbing. He gasped, and the movement drew a slicing pain from his back and shoulders.

Recalling the terrifying feeling of paralysis he’d experienced during the attack, he quickly flexed his feet and ankles, then tried moving his wrists and arms, relieved when everything behaved as it should. Whatever the attacker had used on him had been temporary, then.

Next to him, Alisia stood and put a hand on his arm.

Alisia. Had she been here the whole time? he wondered.

A chair had been pulled to the bedside. A small supplemental side table stood nearby, bearing several empty glasses and a small stack of books.

His wife was wrapped in a plush blanket and looked to have slept there.

He looked at her, and she moved to touch his face with her hand, but changed her mind and rested it on the bed. She seemed to be searching his eyes for something.

Beynon licked his dry lips and rasped in a breath. “How long?” he croaked.

“Four days,” she replied in her soft Eralian accent. “It’s the twenty-fifth.”

In his current state, that meant nothing to him. “Did—” his voice gave out and he started again hoarsely, “Did I miss the Hunt?”

She smiled and shook her head. “No.”

“Did I miss a council meeting?”

“Yes.”

He lay back grimly and closed his eyes again. “Good.”

“Bryn,” she said softly. “We administered sedatives and pain relievers while you were unconscious. Would you like more?”

That made him angry. He moved his head from side to side and grimaced as he felt the sticky gashes on his upper back pull from the movement. “No,” he said quietly. “No. Absolutely not. I would never consent to that, and you should not have made free to do so.”

She hesitated, as if deciding whether or not this was a point worth fighting, then sighed in defeat. “Very well,” she acquiesced.

He opened his eyes with some effort and looked at her again. “What happened?” he asked her.

Alisia sat back down in the chair and scooted it closer to the bed so he wouldn’t have to strain to reach her if needed. “Well,” she said, “You were almost murdered.”

“Right,” he said, gritting his teeth against a new wave of pain.

“The man is a Journeyman Combatant right here at the Capital. His papers are all in order and his colonel confirms his service in the fourth battalion.”

Beynon shook his head in disbelief.

“It appears he acted alone,” Alisia added slowly, “but if that’s the case, no one knows where he got the martial material.”

“He used a potion?”

“Yes,” she said bitterly. “Paralysis.”

He thought on this for a moment. “Why Paralysis?” he asked. “Why not just poison me?”

She shifted a bit in her chair. “Bryn, you don’t seem to understand this, but you’re a very strong man. Oftentimes paralyzing brews work must faster than poisons. It was probably the quickest way he could think of to incapacitate you.”

“He said something strange,” Bryn mused aloud. “He said, ‘We won’t be silenced,’ or something of the sort.”

“Did he?” Alisia wondered, more to herself than to him.

“Yes,” Bryn said, remembering.

Alisia frowned and looked back at the emperor. “The man’s being held for questioning right now. He’s being very incooperative.”

“Uncooperative,” Bryn corrected.

“Uncooperative,” she repeated.

Beynon lay back, trying to relax his tortured muscles. He wondered how long it would take the deep wounds in his back to heal. They must have stitched him back together, which meant he’d need to move gingerly for a long time or risk tearing all of the work out.

“What’s his name?

Alisia glanced toward the ceiling as if culling her memory. “I don’t know his first name,” she said, “but his surname is Talebot.”

Talebot. He doubted he’d ever heard of the man before. And why should he have? A Journeyman Combatant had no reason to be in direct contact with the emperor.

Bryn recalled the slippery way the man had tried to deliver the “message.” He’d disguised himself in palace livery, used an excuse to get close to Beynon, and had executed some practiced body weight distribution maneuvers. The man was trained, obviously. As Bryn went over the attack again in his mind, he looked suddenly over at Alisia.

“You,” he said, rather stupidly. “You were there.”

She nodded, confused. “Of course. I heard you screaming and ran in to help.”

“But you—” he trailed off. The image of her sprinting toward the attacker and then using the fallen knife as a vehicle to carry her across the slick floor played over in his mind. “You slid… over there,” and he pointed. “You tripped him. You stopped him from escaping.”

Alisia coloured.

“That was—” Beynon swallowed. “Quite something.”

She shifted in her seat again. “There’s a lot you don’t know about me, Emperor Beynon.”

He eyed her. “Apparently.”