The Alchemist's Code

14

H aving seen the Maestro securely loaded on Bruno’s great shoulders, and retrieved my rapier from the fante who had confiscated it, I led the way out of the palace by the Frumento gate with no small sense of relief. Dusk was settling over the basin, where a dozen galleys lately returned from distant lands had been unloading cargo all day and now were falling silent. Giorgio was chatting with a dozen other gondoliers on the Molo, and waved when he saw us. In moments we were skimming over the waters of the Grand Canal, homeward bound and rid of both our uninvited guests.

The long day was over, I hoped-I had a date with Violetta. Yet I had not forgotten all the firewood that Bruno had taken into the atelier. Pyromancy? I knew nothing about pyromancy and would happily wait until tomorrow to learn. It was too hot for pyromancy, although sunset was painting blood on great clouds to the east, the first clouds I had seen in weeks. The heat might be going to break at last.

Mama had supper ready, of course. Dismissing mention of it, the Maestro went straight to the atelier. Eating he considers a waste of time. I unlocked the door for him and detoured around him to get ahead and light the lamps, hoping we could have a discussion about those bloodcurdling risks he had mentioned and the decision that I was to be allowed to make.

He hobbled over to the red chair. “Bring me Sun of Suns, then go and eat.”

I was pleasantly surprised. “Thank you, master.”

“You need to keep your strength up.” Since he did not know about my date with Violetta, that last remark was not encouraging.

Restored by two helpings of Mama’s excellent granceole all ricca, I returned to find him as I had left him, nose deep in Abu the Confusing. Without even looking up, he said, “Warn Giorgio that we are not to be disturbed on any account. First you must set the Aegia Salomonis. Let me hear the incantation.”

I sat down, regretting my second helping of spider crabs. “It is still early, master. Not all the Marcianas will be home yet.”

He dismissed my objection with a Pshaw! noise. “Residents returning will not harm the wards as long as they come with peaceful intent. The incantation!”

The Armor of Solomon was easily the longest and most complicated spell he had taught me, and I took a few moments to rehearse my memory. One slip during the actual ritual and I would have to start all over from the beginning. Then I drew a deep breath and repeated the incantation from start to finish.

“Not bad,” he admitted, which is effusive praise from him. “Proceed. Just remember it is your neck you are saving.” He went back to his book.

Inspired by this admonition, I fetched a fresh beeswax candle, our jar of balm of Gilead, and a twig of olive wood. The roof was the obvious place to begin, because that was where the candle was most likely to be blown out, another fault that would require me to start over. As I climbed the attic stair, I heard the youngest Angeli children being put to bed, but I managed to slip out the hatch to the altana without being detected. Absolutely the last thing I needed was a band of chattery witnesses asking what sort of devil worship I was engaged in now, or-even worse-trying to help. The clouds were ominously closer although there was no wind; it was the calm before the storm. I knelt, opened the jar of oil, and glanced around to see if I was being watched. I wasn’t, so I lit the candle and began.

The ritual required me to draw the tree of life on the deck with the olive stick while holding the candle in my left hand and reciting the incantation. The tree of life schema comprises twenty-two paths connecting the sephiroth, the ten attributes of God, and again no errors are allowed, although the balm is so close to invisible that you have to locate each node as you go along pretty much by memory. This is not the sort of exercise you would want to try while calculating solar eclipses or dancing the moresca. I reached the end without a stumble, corked the jar, and set off back down the stairs, still clutching the lighted candle and wondering why I had not enrolled as an archer on a war galley instead of apprenticing to a philosopher.

Luck was with me, and I managed to descend all the way to the androne without encountering anyone. There I found a secluded nook behind a stack of wine barrels and repeated the ritual undisturbed. In the still, enclosed space, the balm suffused the air with its distinctive sweetness. When I finished this second station, the worst of my ordeal was over, because the aegis would already be powerful enough to protect me from casual interruption. Back up in the Maestro’s apartment, I performed the ritual four more times-in my bedroom, the dining room, the kitchen, and finally in the atelier, each time writing the tree on the floor under the windows. The last time, the Maestro heaved himself off his chair to hobble over and watch. As I completed the drawing and the recitation, the candle went out of its own accord, signifying that the Aegia Salomonis was now in place. By warding Ca’ Barbolano at zenith, nadir, and the four cardinal points, I had made it proof against satanic influences.

“Whew!” I sat down on the floor with a thud, feeling as if I had just swum the length of the Grand Canal in plate armor.

“Good,” the Maestro said, with heartwarming indifference for my exertions. “Now go and fetch the Guise of Night.”

With a sigh almost inaudible, if not quite, I rose to do as I was bidden. Of course no occult defense can withstand the evils of the world for long, and even the Aegia Salomonis could not deflect an armed intrusion. The moment a physical enemy gained entry, the spiritual barriers would fail also.

I store the Guise of Night in a bag at the bottom of my clothes chest, accompanied by some aromatic herbs, yet it still smells old and fusty, with an ominous overtone of singed. I returned to the atelier, locking the door behind me.

Without looking up, the Maestro said, “Lay the fire.”

I obeyed, although I was still decked out in my palace best. Nostradamus continued to frown over the book, comparing text on two or three different pages. Obviously he was not completely familiar with whatever procedure he was planning to inflict on me, which was not especially comforting. I finished placing the smallest sticks over the tinder and stood up, dusting my hands. Building a fire is something I have always been good at; my mother would always have me strike the flint for her.

“You want me to light it, master?”

He still did not look up. “Put on the Guise of Night.”

“I don’t need to.”

Now he did look up. “Mm? What?”

“I can perform pyrokinesis without wearing the Guise. I never use it unless I am alone, as you warned me, but I don’t need to get dressed up for it.”

He chuckled. “Of course you don’t! You heard what I told the chiefs about your natural talent for pyromancy. Did you think I was making all that up? I remind you that I was under oath.”

“Oh,” I said. “Then do let’s discuss the bloodcurdling risks.”

He shrugged his narrow shoulders. “I may have exaggerated just a trifle. What do you remember about the first spell I ever taught you?”

“About a month after you took me on. You made me dress up in that ridiculous stuff ”-I pointed at the Guise of Night bundle-“and then you showed me how to ignite a scrap of tinder.”

“And you did it. Right off.”

“Well you told me it was an easy spell and it was.” That was how I had lit the candle for the Aegis spell.

He stretched his mouth in a close-lipped smile. “I told you it was easy just to give you confidence. It turned out to be child’s play for you, amazingly so. You did it in a few minutes. It took me a month to master it when my uncle taught me. You know you have skill at calcining and vesication. Boy, you seethe with so much phlogiston it’s a wonder you don’t self-combust!”

I distrust the old rascal when he flatters. On the other hand, Violetta sometimes expresses similar opinions, couched in less-technical terminology. “Thank you, master.”

“I’ve never bothered to teach you any more pyromancy because I know you’ll swallow it whole.” The fact that he expected me to be much better at it than he was would be quite irrelevant, of course. “Now put on the costume.”

“I don’t need it,” I repeated. “I don’t even need the ring.” There was an unlit candle on the mantel. I pointed my left thumb at it, turning my palm outward so that my fingers stood up like flames. I moved them gently, spoke the Word, and a wisp of smoke rose from the wick, followed by a tiny yellow flame. “See?” I probably smirked.

He sighed. “Your elemental balance is hopelessly skewed! No wonder you can’t foresee in the crystal. No matter. We must follow the directions of the sagacious Abu Ibn Wahshiyah, so stop arguing and put on the Guise.”

Grumpily I picked up the bundle and went over to the examination couch in the corner. Feeling ridiculous, I stripped to the skin. The Guise is made of some rough cotton, dyed black. I don’t know where it came from, or how old it is; it is big on me and would swallow the Maestro completely. I began with a waistband; then loose stockings that extended from toes to crotch and laced up to the waistband; then a thigh-length smock and gloves. Leaving the hood for later, I returned to the fireplace, feeling utterly absurd.

“The crystal shows the future,” he said, laying the book facedown on his lap. “As you know, glass won’t work. It must be rock crystal, which is eternal. Fire both purifies and destroys; it shows spirits, both sacred and demonic. According to Ibn Wahshiyah, you must use a fire you ignited yourself with the Word and you must be wearing the Guise of Night. Here.”

He held out a gold ring bearing a ruby, which tradition requires but I do not need, at least for simple fire lighting. I slid it on my left thumb and donned the hood, so that only my eyes were visible.

“Early for Carnival,” I said, in a voice that sounded muffled even to me.

“Don’t be flippant. How much frankincense do we have?”

“Half a jar.” I fetched it from the reagent shelves, being careful not to trip over the floppy ends of my hose.

“Scatter it over the pyre and then ignite it.”

With the ring to symbolize sunlight and fire, pyrokinesis was as easy as snapping fingers. I pointed my thumb at the tinder…the gesture…the Word…smoke curled. Then flames. I made the twigs and chips around it blaze up also.

The Maestro muttered something flattering. “Now you must extinguish all other lights and close the shutters.”

I admit that I was feeling skeptical. Perhaps my endless efforts to foresee in the crystal had made me give up hope of ever developing prophetic skills of my own. I should have remembered that I was skilled with the tarot and had been making progress in oneiromancy. I extinguished all the lamps and candles and returned to sit cross-legged on the hearthrug.

“Build up the pyre,” the Maestro said. “Use lots of wood, because this may take a while. Then just watch. Let your thoughts wander. We have all night.”

“I’ll be well cooked in five minutes in this heat,” I grumbled.

Sitting staring into a fire by night is the most soothing experience I know. As a child I had sat for hours like that, in the tiny single room I shared with my mother, whiling away the tedium of winter nights. As predictor of my future the fire had served me poorly, for I had never foreseen the Maestro or my hands massaging away an ache in the doge’s back. To a bored-and often hungry-boy, the glowing embers had illustrated great ships venturing out over the seas, bound for wonderful places. I had seen myself aboard them, strong and handsome, swaggering with a sword, massacring pirates, bowing before great ladies-although ladies had not interested me much back then. Now, I thought, I should be able to find Violetta fairly easily, but I searched the blaze in vain for her.

At first the flames were too unsteady but as the fire burned hotter, coals began to glow and images grew crisper. Unburned wood became stone and the brightnesses between morphed into caves and crypts and passages, leading deeper into labyrinths of infinite mystery. It seemed that my fancy should be able to penetrate inside those fiery voids, exploring around corners and onward, deeper into the fire; that I, shielded and made invisible by the Guise of Night, could wander unharmed within those vast caverns of heat. Stalactites of fire hung on every side, draperies of flame enclosed me in a world of red and black, but I strode freely on, seeing wonders all around. Glowing basilisks and demons on guard could not see me or challenge my right to pass into a truly magical world.

In my dreaming progress I saw sphinxes and cherry trees, galleons and gladiators, but I did not linger until I arrived at a dark alcove, a hallway on my left, vast and cryptical, where stood two men I could not identify, for they were men of flame that wavered as flames will. One was gold and the other red. Nor could I make out their voices through the busy crackling of the fire all about me, but I could tell that they were quarreling. Their dispute grew ever more agitated until Red suddenly charged, raising a weapon-a cudgel, I thought, from the way he held it. Gold leaped back and drew a sword. He tried to lunge, but Red struck his blade aside and closed with him. Two flames joined, Red and Gold striving for possession of the sword. Gold evidently lost, for he broke loose and tried to flee, but Red stabbed at his legs with the sword; he dropped to his hands and knees, and Red plunged the blade into his back. He collapsed, understandably. I caught a brief glimpse of Gold lying prone and the victorious Red standing over him before the tragedy vanished in a blizzard of sparks.

Somewhere far off I could hear my own voice angrily describing what I was seeing, responding to the Maestro’s questions as if they were intolerable distractions. The part of me that wandered through the inferno was unaware of him, preferring to admire the twisted columns of flame that supported the roof, unseen far above. This was not the Inferno of which Dante sang, but a metaphorical playground of the fire elementals. Faces watching me were not damned souls, for many smiled. Some I knew, but they were all unimportant for my quest, so I pushed on through them without response.

Now the floor tilted downward until I walked thigh-deep in a sea of flame. Waves ran through it, and at times ran through me also, so that I walked underwater, except that the water was fire. In the troughs, when my head was above the fiery sea, I saw a figure in the breakers, two figures contesting together, so I headed in their direction.

One was undoubtedly Neptune, the old man of the sea, easily recognizable by his flowing beard as the model for the statue in the courtyard of the Doges’ Palace. The other was a mighty horse-a seahorse, obviously-plunging and bucking amid the fiery foam. This was important and I watched until I was certain that Neptune was going to win the tussle before I resumed my journey.

Clear of the ocean again, I walked down a long canyon lined with an infinity of alcoves holding infinities of shelves, each bearing infinite fires. “This,” I declared, “must be the storehouse of all wisdom,” for some shelves burned with clear, pure golden light, and others with dark red evil. Clothed in flames and whirling sparks, many people moved to and fro along the central hall, veering off to explore alcoves, ever seeking whatever it was their hearts desired. One couple I followed, although they did not seem to notice me trailing them. The woman was of rare beauty and they walked together bravely, hand in hand.

The man cried out and fell; in that moment I recognized him as Nicolo Morosini, Eva’s dead brother. The woman reeled back from whatever it was that had struck him down and turned to flee. I stepped aside as she approached, but after her came a small but fearsome thing of evil, perhaps a spider, moving too fast for her. Like a cat it leaped upon her. I rushed to help, brandishing flame, but she succumbed before I reached her and then the thing, whatever it was, darted toward me. Now it was my turn to fly in terror. I ran as hard and fast as I could but it pursued, racing over the ground, a fiery scorpion on many tiny legs. It was gaining, gaining…

I cried out and the Maestro battered the pyre with the poker to shatter the visions and bring me back.