'What's. . . what's this?'he said, touching a huge contraption of strangely-wrought metal.
'Ah, that,' said Vate, rubbing his hands together. 'That's a telescope. Very ancient, very ancient. All the best things are old.''A telescope?'
'A device for looking on the faces of the stars,' said Vate. 'I can't quite make it work yet. But I'll get there, I'll get there.'
(He was over-optimistic, for what he thought was a telescope was in fact an electron microscope. And the device with which he hoped to transmute lead to gold was a zymometer. And his latest purchase – a curious metal sphere washed out of the sea by a storm – was not the magical treasure chest he imagined it was, but a bomb powerful enough to blow Stokos right off the map.)
'And what's . . . what's this?' said Drake, pointing to a very intricate device of interlocking wheels, arcs, crescents, levers and slides.
'That?' said Vate. 'Ah, that's an astrolabe. It tells sun, moon, tide and time. It's elven work. Very ancient. Very rare. But for sale, if you've gold sufficient.''No thanks,' said Drake. 'What I want is an assay.''Of what?'
'This tablet. But – mind! – I want some left when you've finished with it.'
'Break the tablet in half, then,' said Vate. 'Half is all I'll need.'
Drake did as he was bid, then watched with intense interest as Vate dropped the sample into a mortar, ground it with a pestle, added seawater and sulphur and the urine of a rabbit, stirred the mixture with the feather of a white owl, decanted it, weighed it, adulterated it with snuff, stared at it through a magnifying glass, sniffed it, then pronounced:
'This tablet contains horn of unicorn, ground-up ginseng and essence of oyster, plus talcum powder, soap and a trace of cocaine.''Will that cure me of love?' said Drake.'Nay, man,' said the alchemist. 'It's an aphrodisiac!''Then what cure is there for love?' said Drake.
'This!' said Vate, holding up a sharp knife. 'Come into the back room. I'll cure you for life in a moment.''No thanks,' said Drake.
And went away severely disillusioned with wizards and the world. But, since half the tablet remained, he took it. And, while that half a tablet contained no more than salt and sugar, Drake's faith in its qualities was such that he raged in lust for a week.
At this point it should probably be pointed out – in defence of the poor unicorn, which is increasingly rare these days – that there is no true aphrodisiac known to either man or woman (with the sole exception of propinquity, which does not come in tablet form).
In the end, Drake's lust diminished to normal levels (high, but not high enough to please him) and life itself returned to something close to normal.
Once more his main concern was his first sword. When was he going to get to make it? He dared not pester Gouda Muck, for fear the old man's temper would turn sour. But, in a frenzy of impatience, he watched Muck's slow but steady progress through his order list.
Just by watching, Drake began to learn a surprising amount. He was amazed at how much had escaped his notice in the last four years. Well, as the saying goes: 'One can achieve either perfection of the religious life or perfection of the practical life.'
Drake, till now, had always chosen religion over practicalities. But, if he had to go easy on religion in order to bring his apprenticeship to a successful conclusion, then he would make the necessary sacrifice.
'Come on, Muck,' muttered Drake to Drake, morning and night. 'Finish those swords! I want to get started on mine!'
5
Name: Gouda Muck. Birthplace: Cam. Occupation: swordsmith.
Status: taxpayer; senior citizen; second-best swordsmith on Stokos.
Description: old and ugly (Drake's opinion); wise and dignified (his own opinion); a waste of skin (his mother's opinion). .
Residence: Hardhammer Forge, Ironbird Street, Cam, Stokos.
Gouda Muck was an atheist.
He was, quite possibly, the only atheist in the city of Cam.' Most citizens enjoyed the practice of religion – indeed, for many devout souls, its consolations were all that made life worth living. But Gouda Muck was born to be a dissident. He refused to believe in the demon Hagon, far less to worship that formidable eater of souls.
He also avoided those sacred religious duties usually accepted even by unbelievers, viz:T patronizing the temple casinos;t copulating with the temple prostitutes;t playing the temple numbers game;t going to the temple cockfights;f participating in the human sacrifices.
His main objection to all the above activities was that they cost an exorbitant amount of money.'Religion,' said Muck, 'is a racket.'
He could get away with talk like that, for he was the second-best swordsmith on Stokos, where metalworkers were valued highly.
Gouda Muck lived with three boys, but slept with none of them. One was a deaf mute who shovelled coal, worked the bellows, and exorcised the minor demons of puberty by raping chickens. The other two, Drake and Yot, were older, virgins no longer though beardless still.
The fair-haired Drake had, till now, been very religious: he loved to drink, gamble, fight and swear, and relished the privileges which came with having a sister in the temple. Unfortunately, there had been times when he had overdone things somewhat – and the people of Stokos, like people elsewhere, frowned on religious mania.
'Balance,' said Drake to himself, 'that's the thing. I've got to find a balance between the pleasures of religion and the demands of the world of work.'
Yot, on the other hand, had no such problems to grapple with, for he was a spiritless fellow, a lank pale stripling with a runny nose (an allergy to coal dust made his life miserable with rhinitis) and warts.
And it was with Yot that the trouble began. It began only nine days after Drake saw the wizard Miphon – that is, just twenty days after Drake's ordeal at sea. It began when Yot, refusing to accept expense as excuse sufficient, demanded the real reason for Muck's dissent.
T only believe in the Flame,' said Muck, peering into the furnace.'The Flame?' asked Yot.
'Aye, boy,' said Muck, amused by Yot's wide-eyed attention. 'The living presence of the High God of All Gods, which purifies as it witnesses.'
Drake, who was working in the forge at the time, heard that, but kept himself from sniggering. He wanted to hear more. So did Yot.'How does it purify?' asked Yot.
'It burns, boy,' said Muck. 'Didn't your mother ever teach you that? Stick a hand in, if you doubt me – it'll do more than clean your fingernails. It burns, and I can see that it burns. Ocular proof, aye, that's the thing.'
'But what's this business about gods?' asked Yot. 'How did you find out about that?'
The Flame spoke to me,' said Gouda Muck. 'And it speaks to me still.'
And, seeing Yot's jaw drop, he continued the joke. At length.
Afterwards, Drake teased Yot for believing in fairy tales. But Yot, stubborn in belief, refused to concede that Muck's dogma was a load of tripe and codswallop, conjured up for the whim of the moment. They fought. Drake, as usual, won – but Yot still made no intellectual concessions. He went on asking for tales of the Flame, and Muck went on telling them.
Well, all was fine at first. Then, after Muck had been telling these fairy tales for three days, the Flame did speak to him. It roared up out of the furnace, hung purple in the air, and shouted in a voice of drums and cymbals:'Muck! Thou art who thou art!'Then left, even as Muck fainted.
On recovery, Muck decided he had experienced a true religious revelation. Actually, the syphilis scrambling his brain had made him hallucinate. The syphilis, by the way, was a souvenir of his riotous youth – Muck had been solemnly celibate these past thirty-five years or more.