“The gargoyles,” Mattie said. “They want to hire me, and I want your permission to make them my priority, at the expense of your project.”
Loharri nodded. “It's a good one,” he said. “I guess our gray overlords have grown tired of being turned into stone?”
“Yes,” Mattie answered. “They feel that their life spans are too short and their fate is too cruel; I cannot say that I disagree. Only . . . I really do not know where to start. I thought of vitality potions and the mixes to soften the leather, of the elixirs to loosen the calcified joints . . . only they all seem lacking.”
Loharri smiled and drummed his fingers on his knee. “I see your problem, and yes, you can work on it to your little clockwork heart's content.”
“Thank you,” Mattie said. If she had been able to smile, she would have. “I brought you what I have so far—a list of chemicals that change color when exposed to light.”
Loharri took the proffered piece of paper with two long fingers, and opened it absentmindedly. “I know little of alchemy,” he said. “I'm not friends with any of your colleagues, but I suppose I could find a replacement for you nonetheless, although I doubt there's anyone who knows more on the matter than you do. Meanwhile, I do have one bit of advice regarding the gargoyles.”
Mattie tilted her head to the shoulder, expectant. She had learned expressive poses, and knew that they amused her creator; she wondered if she was supposed to feel shame at being manipulative.
As expected, he snickered. “Aren't you just the sweetest machine in the city? And oh, you listen so well. Heed my words then: I remember a woman who worked on the gargoyle problem some years back. Beresta was her name, a foreigner; Beresta from the eastern district. But she died—a sad, sad thing.”
“Oh,” Mattie said, disappointed. “Did she leave any papers behind?”
Loharri shook his head. “No papers. But, lucky for you, she was a restless spirit, a sneaky little ghost who hid in the rafters of her old home. And you know what they do with naughty ghosts.” Mattie inclined her head in agreement. “They call for the Soul-Smoker.”
“Indeed. And if there's anyone who still knows Beresta's secrets, it's him. You're not afraid of the Soul-Smokers, are you?”
“Of course not,” Mattie said mildly. “I have no soul; to fear him would be a mere superstition.” She stood and smoothed her skirts, feeling the stiff whalebone stays that held her skirts full and round under the thin fabric. “Thank you, Loharri. You've been kind.”
“Thank you for the tonic,” he said. “But please, do visit me occasionally, even if there's nothing you want. I am a sentimental man.”
“I shall,” Mattie answered, and took her leave. As she walked out of the door, it occurred to her that if she wanted to be kind to Loharri she could offer him things she knew he wanted but would never ask for—she could invite him to touch her hair, or let him listen to the ticking of her heart. To sit with him in the darkness, in the dead hours between night and morning when the demons tormented him more than usual, and then perhaps he would talk of things they did not talk about otherwise—perhaps then he would tell her why he had made her and why he grew so despondent when she wanted to live on her own and to study, to become something other than a part of him. The problem was, those were the things she preferred not to know.
Mattie took a long way home, weaving through the market among the many stalls selling food and fabric and spices; she lingered by a booth that sold imported herbs and chemicals, and picked up a bunch of dried salamanders and a bottle of copper salts. She then continued east to the river, and she stood a while on the embankment watching the steamboats huff across, carrying marble for the new construction on the northern bank. There were talks of the new parliament building, and Mattie supposed that it signaled an even bigger change than gossip at Loharri's parties suggested. Ever since the mechanics won a majority, the renovations in the city acquired a feverish pace, and the streets themselves seemed to shift daily, accommodating new roads and more and more factories that belched smoke and steam and manufactured new and frightening machines.
Still, Mattie tried not to think of politics too much. She thought about gargoyles and of Loharri's words. He called them their overlords, even though the city owed its existence to the gargoyles, and they had been nothing but benefactors to the people. Did he know something she didn't? And if he were so disdainful of gargoyles, why did he offer to help?
Mattie walked leisurely along the river. It was a nice day, and many people strolled along the embankment, enjoying the first spring warmth and the sweet dank smell of the river. She received a few curious looks, but overall people paid her no mind. She passed a paper factory that squatted over the river like an ugly toad, disgorging a stream of white foam into the water; a strong smell of bleach surrounded it like a cloud.
From the factory she turned into the twisty streets of the eastern district, where narrow three-storied buildings clung close together like swallows' nests on the face of a cliff. The sea of red tiled roofs flowed and ebbed as far as the eye could see, and Mattie smiled—she liked her neighborhood the way it was, full of people and small shops occupying the lower stories, without any factories and with the streets too narrow for any mechanized conveyances. She turned into her street and headed home, the ticking of her heart keeping pace with her thoughts filled with gargoyles and Loharri's strange relationship to them.
Mattie's room and laboratory were located above an apothecary's, which she occasionally supplied with elixirs and ointments. Less mainstream remedies remained in her laboratory, and those who sought them knew to visit her rooms upstairs; they usually used the back entrance and rickety stairs that led past the apothecary.
When Mattie got home to her garret, she found a visitor waiting on the steps. She had met this woman before at one of Loharri's gatherings—her name was Iolanda; she stood out from the crowd, Mattie remembered—she moved energetically and laughed loudly, and looked Mattie straight in the eye when they were introduced. And now Iolanda's gaze did not waver. “May I come in?” she said as soon as she saw Mattie, and smiled.
“Of course,” Mattie said and unlocked the door. The corridor was narrow and led directly into her room that contained a roll top desk and her few books; Mattie led her visitor through and into the laboratory, where there was space to sit and talk.
“Would you like a drink?” Mattie asked. “I have a lovely jasmine-flavored liqueur.”
Iolanda nodded. “I would love that. How considerate of you to keep refreshments.”
Mattie poured her a drink. “Of course,” she said. “How kind of you to notice.”
Iolanda took the proffered glass from Mattie's copper fingers, studying them as she did so, and took a long swallow. “Indeed, it is divine,” she said. “Now, if you don't mind, I would like to dispense with the pleasantries and state my business.”
Mattie inclined her head and sat on a stool by her workbench, offering the other one to Iolanda with a gesture.
“You are not wealthy,” Iolanda said. Not a question but a statement.
“Not really,” Mattie agreed. “But I do not need much.”
“Mmmm,” Iolanda said. “One might suspect that a well-off alchemist is a successful alchemist—you do need to buy your ingredients, and some are more expensive than others.”
“That is true,” Mattie said. “Now, how does this relate to your business?”
“I can make you rich,” Iolanda said. “I have need of an alchemist, of one who is discreet and skillful. But before I explain my needs, let me ask you this: do you consider yourself a woman?”
“Of course,” Mattie said, taken aback and puzzled. “What else would I consider myself?”
“Perhaps I did not phrase it well,” Iolanda said, and tossed back the remainder of her drink with an unexpectedly habitual and abrupt gesture. “What I meant was, why do you consider yourself a woman? Because you were created as one?”
“Yes,” Mattie replied although she grew increasingly uncomfortable with the conversation. “And because of the clothes I wear.”
“So if you changed your clothes . . . ”
“But I can't,” Mattie said. “The shape of them is built into me—I know that you have to wear corsets and hoops and stays to give your clothes a proper shape. But I was created with all of those already in place, they are as much as part of me as my eyes. So I ask you: what else would you consider me?”
“I sought not to offend,” Iolanda said. “I do confess to my prejudice: I will not do business nor would I employ a person or an automaton of a gender different from mine, and I simply had to know if your gender was coincidental.”
“I understand,” Mattie said. “And I assure you that my femaleness is as ingrained as your own.”
Iolanda sighed. Mattie supposed that Iolanda was beautiful, with her shining dark curls cascading onto her full shoulders and chest, and heavy languid eyelids half-concealing her dark eyes. “Fair enough. And Loharri . . . can you keep secrets from him?”
“I can and I do,” Mattie said.
“In this case, I will appreciate it if you keep our business private,” Iolanda said.
“I will, once you tell me what it is,” Mattie replied. She shot an involuntary look toward her bench, where the ingredients waited for her to grind and mix and vaporize them, where the aludel yawned empty as if hungry; she grew restless sitting for too long empty-handed and motionless.
Iolanda raised her eyebrows, as if unsure whether she understood Mattie. She seemed one of those people who rarely encountered anything but abject agreement, and she was not used to being hurried. “Well, I want you to be available for the times I have a need of you, and to fulfill my orders on a short notice. Potions, perfumes, tonics . . . that sort of thing. I will pay you a retainer, so you will be receiving money even when I do not have a need of you.”
“I have other clients and projects,” Mattie said.
Iolanda waved her hand dismissively. “It doesn't matter. As long as I can find you when I need you.”
“It sounds reasonable,” Mattie agreed. “I will endeavor to fulfill simple orders within a day, and complex ones — from two days to a week. You won't have them done faster anywhere.”
“It is acceptable,” Iolanda said. “And for your first order, I need you to create me a fragrance that would cause regret.”
“Come back tomorrow,” Mattie said. “Or leave me your address, I'll have a courier bring it over.”
“No need,” Iolanda said. “I will send someone to pick it up. And here's your first week's pay.” She rose from her stool and placed a small pouch of stones on the bench. “And if anyone asks, we are casual acquaintances, nothing more.”
Iolanda left, and Mattie felt too preoccupied to even look at the stones that were her payment. She almost regretted agreeing to Iolanda's requests—while they seemed straightforward and it was not that uncommon for courtiers to employ alchemists or any other artisans on a contract basis, something about Iolanda seemed off. Most puzzling, if she wanted to keep a secret from Loharri, she could do better than hire the automaton made by his hands. Mattie was not so vain as to presuppose that her reputation outweighed common good sense.
But there was work to do, and perfume certainly seemed less daunting than granting gargoyles a lifespan extension, and she mixed ambergris and sage, blended myrrh and the bark of grave cypress, and sublimated dry camphor. The smell she obtained was pleasing and sad, and yet she was not certain that this was enough to evoke regret—something seemed missing. She closed her eyes and smelled-tasted the mixture with her sensors, trying hard to remember the last time she felt regret.
Ekaterina Sedia is the author of The Secret History of Moscow. A native of Russia, she lives in New Jersey.
READ MORE!
THE ALCHEMY OF STONE by Ekaterina Sedia
Prime Books, trade paperback, $12.95 | On sale now
More info:
www.ekaterinasedia.com
* * *
A guided tour of the dark master's world | by Kenneth Hite
This stop: CTHULHU'S PACIFIC OCEAN
“It was in one of the most open and least frequented parts of the broad Pacific that the packet of which I was supercargo fell a victim to the German sea-raider.”
—H.P. Lovecraft, “Dagon”
for a new englander, Lovecraft gives surprisingly short shrift to the Atlantic. “The Temple” and a few minor pieces aside, almost all of Lovecraft's oceanic brooding concerns the vast Pacific. The Pacific swells in “Dagon,” HPL's first story in
Weird Tales
, and if we take Australia as a Pacific nation, its waves are audible in “The Shadow Out of Time,” his penultimate tale. So what surfaces in Lovecraft, in the “least frequented parts” of the ocean?
“With the upheaval of new land in the South Pacific tremendous events began.”
—H.P. Lovecraft, At the Mountains of Madness
As befits our subject, let's broaden the scope somewhat. To Americans, even to New Englanders, the Pacific has long been the next frontier. When America's westward expansion hit the shores of California and Oregon, it kept going: to Hawaii and Samoa and Guam and the Philippines in Lovecraft's youth. Lovecraft's fellow Yankees started “the China trade” in 1790, furs and then whale oil and sandalwood across the Pacific to Canton, and it made them rich. Like the “amber waves of grain” in the West, the Pacific is a treasure-house. Melville, for example, repeatedly equates Pacific whales and gold in
Moby-Dick
, reinforcing the parallel to the agrarian West with “harvest” metaphors. Lovecraft intriguingly recasts the image: in “The Shadow Over Innsmouth,” Obed Marsh finds actual gold in the Pacific and brings it back to Innsmouth—along with the Pacific's Deep One taint.
“He was the only one as kep' on with the East-Injy an' Pacific trade, though Esdras Martin's barkentine Malay Bride made a venter as late as twenty-eight.”
—H.P. Lovecraft, “The Shadow Over Innsmouth”
Here Lovecraft and Innsmouth wash up against the other great American trope of the Pacific: as a lure for Americans, a prelapsarian paradise of indolent lotus-eating. Melville's
Typee
and
Omoo
portray castaways or marooned victims worrying about being absorbed by the Pacific, or rather, by the Pacific islanders' alien culture. James Fenimore Cooper's
The Crater
mirrors this metaphor: an idyllic Pacific island actually sinks under the weight of too many modern Americans. Jack London's
South Seas Tales
likewise present the Pacific as an all-too-seductive beauty spot, remote from the modern world. (Outside America, Paul Gaugin and Robert Louis Stevenson, among others, do their best to reinforce this vision.) While Lovecraft writes no paeans to the glories of Tahiti, note the siren calls in his Innsmouth ship names:
Malay Bride
and
Sumatra Queen.
Arch hints at the nature of the “Innsmouth taint” to be sure, but also evidence of the Pacific's powers of seduction. In
Moby-Dick
, Melville sets it out: “Lifted by those eternal swells, you needs must own the seductive god, bowing your head to Pan,” and his story is of a man driven mad by a seductive god, a sea-monster from the Pacific.