The Alchemy of Stone

Chapter 3




The next morning, Mattie remembered that she still had to finish Iolanda’s perfume. Fortunately, the night spent talking to the Soul-Smoker taught her more about regret than, she suspected, the entire city could. She found dried wormwood in her extensive apothecary, and prepared to sublimate its essential oil—she lit the burner and cleaned the aludel, and assembled it so that the smaller vessel sitting on top of the larger one was tilted at enough of an angle for the condensing vapor to slide down the concave walls into the waiting receptacle. As the wormwood heated, she crushed the brittle spiny leaves of rosemary, downy-gray, and mixed them with extractants and solvents to pry away its properties of memory.

One did not regret what one did not remember; Ilmarekh, who remembered every moment, every twinge of hundreds of former inhabitants of the city, told her that. The opium made him talkative last night, and the souls in his possession crowded and pressed, trying so desperately to look out of his blind eyes, struggling so valiantly to move his reluctant, cottony tongue. He spoke in a hundred voices; only one of them was Beresta, but Mattie felt that it would be impolite to ignore the rest of them, and she listened to their laments and reminiscences, to their complaints about children who grew up and never visited, about the sorrow of dark alleys and the cold, wet slither of a robber’s knife.

Mattie listened, waiting for the small voice of the alchemist woman who could tell her about the gargoyles. But it was so crowded that she only had a chance to utter the name of her son—Sebastian, and the street he lived on. She didn’t say anything else, but it was enough for now. Mattie thought that she would visit Ilmarekh again, perhaps visit him often. He knew so much, and yet no one dared to ask him questions for fear of losing their own souls. He was all Mattie’s, and she was not a woman to miss her chances.

The warm smell of wormwood filled her laboratory, and she collected the few transparent, pale yellow drops that waited for her in the aludel. She blended them with rosemary and with the sage-and-myrrh concoction she had prepared last night. The musk of ambergris enveloped the rest of the ingredients in its sensual embrace, forcing them all together, the bark of the cypress and the sharp, bitter camphor softened by the gentle herbal scents.

Satisfied with her work, Mattie nodded to herself and let the mixture settle and blend. She was about to go out for a walk, and maybe pick up a few chemicals she had fancied for a while but had no means to buy until now, when a sharp rapping on the door announced a visitor.

She opened the door to see Loharri—dressed in a formal frock coat, he seemed especially thin and sharp-edged. “Busy?” he said.

“No.” She stood in the doorway preventing him from entering. The smell of Iolanda’s perfume saturated the air, and she could not risk him recognizing it later and guessing at Mattie’s connection to Iolanda. “Going out?”

“Just an informal gathering,” he said, although his clothes clearly begged to differ. “Lunch with some friends and colleagues. Would you like to come?”

“Of course,” Mattie said. He rarely asked for favors nowadays, and she saw no reason to deny him. Besides, gatherings such as this always offered opportunities for eavesdropping. After her emancipation, she at first resented Loharri’s friends who treated her as before—that is, as his automaton, a part of him that deserved neither recognition nor acknowledgment as an independent entity. Later, she saw the advantage of being invisible—she walked into a room where mechanics talked about their secret business and they never missed a beat, never remembering or caring enough to notice that she was an alchemist and therefore a political enemy. She just didn’t know why Loharri kept giving her such opportunities.

“Hurry up then,” he said. “You might even learn something about your new friends.”

“Wait outside,” Mattie said. “I need to change.”

As she did—striped stockings, white and black, and a black dress with open neckline fringed with foamy white lace—Mattie puzzled over Loharri’s words. Why were the Mechanics suddenly interested in gargoyles? They affected the politics of the city very little—figureheads, outwardly respected but inconsequential. They remained outside of the daily life of the city, subject more to lore and superstitions than laws and elections. Their patronage of the Duke’s family and his court was symbolic—just like their predecessors who had undergone the inevitable transformation and now decorated the palace . . . they were even less important than the court, which persisted only, as Loharri often said, due to inertia and habit. Only the elected parties could pass laws, only they could command new construction and regulate commerce. But the Duke remained in his palace, useless and, as Mattie imagined, lonely.

Mattie descended the stairs and nodded at Loharri. He grimaced, pale and uncomfortable in his stern clothes. “Ready to go?”

She threaded her arm under his, and felt his tense sinews relax under the copper springs of her fingers. She hated admitting it to herself, but she stayed close to him because of the influence she had—she had the power to make him less concerned and more at ease, to make him smile even though it pained his broken face. She wondered at herself, at whether she would ever be able to forgive him for being her creator, for having such absolute control over her internal workings. For his love.

They headed uphill, toward the palace and the heavy gray architecture of the old buildings. Mattie suspected that the stone of which large rough blocks of the palace were hewn was the same as the stone gargoyles became, and wondered if there was a promising venue of investigation there; she made a mental note to take a mineral sample once they got to the old city.

“It’s too hot to walk,” Loharri said, even though the sun, still low over the rooftops, barely kissed the pavement and the air still retained the pleasant coolness of the night. His gaze cast about for a cab or a sedan.

“It’s fine,” Mattie said. “I enjoy walking, and you could use a constitutional. You spend too much time indoors.”

Loharri scoffed. “I should’ve made you without a voice-box. Being lectured by my own automaton—why, that’s an indignity no man should be forced to tolerate.”

Mattie was used to his querulous tone, and simply changed the subject. “Did you know that Beresta had a son?”

“I heard,” he replied, smiling. “I see you spoke to the Soul-Smoker.”

Mattie inclined her head with a slow, ratcheted creaking of the neck joints. “I have. You should meet him.”

“No thanks,” Loharri said. “I prefer to keep a hold of my soul, thank you.” He almost stumbled as a large puddle suddenly opened before them on the pavement, but circumvented it.

Mattie, whose legs were agile but not nearly as long as Loharri’s, stepped into it, wetting the hem of her dress and soaking her slippers—she wore them for the occasion’s sake, even though she had no need of footwear.

Loharri grabbed her elbow, pulling her out of the mess. “Look at that,” he said. “I swear, the condition of these streets is just shameful.”

“Why don’t you do something about it?” Mattie shook out her skirt, spilling the murky drops onto the pavement. “You’re in charge of the city—you and your friends, I mean.”

“Priorities, dear.” Loharri still held on to her elbow and dragged her along. The fresh air apparently energized him, since he was now moving in long, confident strides. “And besides, this is the Duke’s territory, and he wants to keep it ancient and quaint. And it is only right to abide by his wishes—as long as they don’t interfere with our plans.”

Mattie was getting a distinct feeling that Loharri’s willingness to discuss political and urban matters with her had a hidden purpose—perhaps he wanted her to talk . . . but to whom? Mattie was not a full member of the Alchemists’ party, and as such she saw little interest in politics—why worry about something she would never have an impact on? She shook her head. Loharri was rubbing off on her, scheming and trying to guess people’s motives and question everything—that was him, not her. Mattie only wanted to do her craft, and worry little about civic planning.

“What are the main priorities then?” she asked.

“Governance.” He gave her a long look. “So, what did you hear about Beresta’s son?”

“Nothing.” Mattie shook her arm free and threaded it under his, as was proper. “Just that she had one. Why, is he famous?”

“Not in a way you’d want to be,” Loharri said. “So, nothing about his current whereabouts?”

Mattie moved her head side to side, in a slow gesture of negation. “I just told you. I only learned that she had a son . . . she was not communicative.”

“Hm,” Loharri said. “I suppose you’ll try and look for him then? To see if he knows of his mother’s work?”

“Maybe,” Mattie said. “Why?”

“Just curious. He’s been missing for some time now. You’ll tell me if you find him, won’t you.” Loharri did not wait for her answer—he turned under an arch of crumbling stone encrusted with pallid circles of lichenous growth, into a shaded courtyard. The wall of the building, gray like the rest of the district, was half-hidden under the living green carpet of toad flax, which already sent forth its tiny white flowers. Mattie recognized the building because of it—this seemed a side entrance into a little-used wing of the ossuary adjacent to the Parliament building. This wing contained no bones yet, and its echoey empty halls were occasionally used for parties and large-but-clandestine gatherings.

Loharri knocked on the small door half-hidden under the curtain of vegetation, and they were admitted inside. Lamps on the walls created warm semicircles of yellow light, and they overlapped, creating a scalloped edge on the walls and the floor made of large oblong slabs, destined to one day become the coffin lids of the notable citizens. The floor resounded hollow under the feet, always reminding of its ultimate purpose.

The mechanics were apparently throwing a party, but surreptitious business was the usual side effect of such events. These men, fastidious and solemn, did not seem to be able to remain in the same room with another human being without trying to figure out exactly how the fellow could be useful, harmful, or neither. They paid Mattie little mind, and no wonder—regular humans were mere clockworks to them, to be examined and figured out and, if necessary, taken apart; the automatons passed beneath notice.

Several serious fellows greeted Loharri with nods and reserved smiles—Mattie suspected that he was too lively for them, too moody, too unpredictable. His position of influence was assured by his proficiency and his many inventions—the most recent one already belched fire in every foundry, increasing their efficiency by some subtle but important percentage—but his demeanor and his disordered personal life earned him a few disapproving looks.

Loharri acted as if he didn’t notice—he shook hands and chatted, and even came to say hello to several women sitting around the long tables, away from the men. They came as a decoration, and no one else seemed to pay much attention to them. Mattie wondered if she should join them and keep away from trouble, but her feet already led her after Loharri, the role of an obedient automaton as familiar to her as the sight of her own face.

She caught snatches of conversations—some talked about the Alchemists rallying for the next election; there were rumors that they were holding their most potent medicines in reserve, to be unveiled before the election, to wow and stun the populace. Imagine that, curing typhoid! Would there be anything but gratitude? Others mentioned that the Alchemists had been getting cozy with a few of the Duke’s courtiers, seeking influence by the route of tradition rather than popularity.

And yet others talked about the gargoyles. Mattie stopped shadowing Loharri for a moment and listened, not moving, looking fixedly at her creator’s back. The speaker—a small, rotund man of middle age whom she had met many times but whose name she could not remember, talked to Bergen—a man who looked as though pickled by many years that passed over his balding head. His dark clothes hung loosely on his desiccated body, and yet his mind was sharp; he was perhaps the only one in this gathering whom Loharri would call a friend.

“Think about it,” said the rotund man, his face filling with alarming red color. “Without the gargoyles, what will the Duke be?”

“The Duke,” Bergen replied. “Sure, the gargoyles and their sanctions might seem irrelevant, and perhaps they are. But without the third leg, this government will not be stable—we do need the court, you know. Otherwise, it’ll be nothing but our squabbling with the alchemists.”

“And that would be a bad thing?”

“Of course,” Bergen said. “I for one do not think a civil war is such a good idea, and without the Duke we might have just that. Not that we don’t have enough trouble already.”

“But the gargoyles . . . ”

“Are our history. This city is proud of its gargoyles, and there isn’t much you can do about it,” Bergen concluded and turned away from his interlocutor. “Spiritual guidance, be it superstition or tradition, is not always a bad thing. Some people need an external compass.” His watery old eyes stopped on Mattie, and he smiled.

“Good afternoon, Messer Bergen,” Mattie said in her flattest voice.

“Hello, Mattie,” he said. “Your master around?”

She pointed wordlessly at Loharri, still leaning on the table by a cluster of brightly dressed women.

Bergen chuckled. “I don’t understand what women see in him.”

“He talks to them?” Mattie suggested.

“In any case, I need to talk to him,” Bergen said, and walked up to Loharri, favoring his right foot. Gout, Mattie remembered. The old man had gout.

She moved behind Loharri, to stand still and listen. Loharri shot her a quick glance and a smile, and she momentarily felt grateful for that acknowledgement. Even though he had made her, with his own hands, put her together out of joints and slender metal bones, even though he knew more of her internal workings than anyone, he still managed to really see her as a whole.

Her attention was diverted by several automatons filing into the hall, their metal feet reverberating on the hollow floor of the sepulcher. They carried bottled wine and honeyed water, trays with fruit and bread and sweets, stacks of dishes and utensils. They moved in unison, their movements measured and devoid of any indication of free will. She had seen such servant automatons before, the mindless drudges that allowed for the leisure of the city’s inhabitants. And every time she saw them she felt deep unease, a pervading sense of wrong—how could they make them like that? she thought. If they were to have a mind, they would’ve been miserable with their lives of servitude—Mattie remembered the dark sense of injustice when she was little but a maid—but at the same time they would have the choice of misery. Making them without minds removed a potential conflict, and Mattie thought of the slaughterhouses in the outskirts, the dank places that smelled of rust and iron and rot. She ventured there to buy offal that was used in some of her ointments, but sometimes she watched the animals. It was like that, she thought, remembering the panic in sheep’s eyes; it was as if they managed to create a sheep that didn’t mind being slaughtered after it was led into a dark steel barrel of a room where steaming blood stood knee-deep.

Loharri touched her hand. “What are you thinking about?” He traced the direction of her gaze and spoke softly, solicitously.

Mattie looked away. “Thank you for not making me like them.” And added, before he had a chance to respond, “You should eat something. You look pale.”

“I always look pale,” he said but didn’t smile as he normally would. “It really bothers you, doesn’t it?”

She nodded. “They never had a chance. You removed the possibility of them even questioning if it was wrong.”

He frowned a bit. “We’ll talk about it later, if you don’t mind.”

She didn’t; the mechanics continued to mingle, most of them carrying plates now, and to speak in their sedate voices. Mattie followed Loharri, listening for any mention of the gargoyles, but everyone seemed rather preoccupied with solving the transportation problem. Mattie listened just enough to conclude that the alleged problem was not a problem at all, but rather the way things had always been—the mechanics never tired of improving upon what was not broken. They felt that produce was slow to arrive from the farms, and that during the harvest the roads could barely sustain the crawling traffic of produce carts and the six-legged lizards that dragged them at a leisurely pace. It interfered with the deliveries from the mines, and during harvest the production of the factories often dropped. The mechanics, of course, thought that it called for automation of the lizards, the carts, or both. Mattie wondered if they would ever think of automation of the peasants.

“We would also need a bigger road,” Bergen suggested.

“Or merely a better one,” Loharri said.

Mattie grew bored of the conversation centering on roads and whether it was worthwhile designing a road that would move and carry stationary produce to the city, and wandered through the crowd, whirring and clicking, listening. She stopped by a small cluster of mechanics who spoke in low voices, often glancing over their hunched shoulders with a palpable air of secrecy. Mattie stopped a few steps away, far enough not to arouse suspicion but close enough to catch their whispers with her exceptional hearing.

“I know that they are up to something,” said the rotund man that she recognized from earlier, and glanced around furtively. “Mark my words—exiles never go away peacefully; they always want to get back in. Always.”

“Suppose you’re right,” said a young man, whose pimples and straight back testified that he was fresh out of the Lyceum. “What can we do about it?”

“Build fortifications,” the rotund man said.

The rest of the group snickered.

“Isn’t it a bit premature?” said one of them. “If you are concerned, perhaps some careful reconnaissance . . . ”

“Enough of this nonsense,” interrupted the man who appeared to be the oldest and crankiest in the group. “Wait for the problem to arise, then seek solutions.”

Mattie thought that the mechanics were generally inclined to solve non-existent problems; she took a step away from the group when her leg shook and she felt faint. Her movements faltered, and she felt a fine tremor spreading through her arms and legs, while her head felt suddenly foreign and unwieldy. She stumbled and would have fallen, if the edge of the table had not presented itself to her dimming vision; Mattie grabbed onto it, her fine fingertips splintering under her weight.

She saw Loharri making his way toward her, worry on his face, and his fingers already unbuttoning the tall collar of his jacket. Before her eyes closed, Mattie saw him pulling out a thin chain and a blinding flash of light reflected from a polished metal surface. The flash grew larger and obscured the room and the dismayed faces of the mechanics, annoyed at such brazen automaton malfunctioning, and Mattie could only feel her creator’s hands—loving, repellent—tugging the dress on her chest down, exposing her shame for all to see. And then she stopped feeling altogether.

Mattie came to—at first, she didn’t realize that she was in the same room, lying on the same floor. Most of the lamps had been extinguished, and the people were gone. Only Loharri perched on the edge of the table, motionless and dark like a gargoyle in the gathering dusk.

She pushed herself up, and her hands clanged against the hollow floors, making them sing with resonance. Her fingers found the smooth window in her chest and traced its familiar oval shape. It was closed again now, secure and snug, but her heart whirred strongly behind it, all wound up and ready for another few months of labor. “I’m sorry,” she said.

“It’s not your fault.” He didn’t move, and she could not quite decide whether he looked tired or irritated. “Not the best timing, but these things do happen.”

She stood, testing her limbs. He didn’t seem mad at her for the embarrassment she caused him. She should be grateful for that, she thought, but instead she felt hurt. Violated. He exposed her heart for all to see, he wound her up with the key around his neck right in front of his friends. “I want to go home,” she said.

He hopped off the table, and the floor echoed again. “As you wish. I’ll walk you.”

“No need,” she said.

“I’d rather keep an eye on you,” he said. “To make sure you’re all right. I just wish you’d tell me when you need winding.”

“I don’t know when I do,” Mattie said. “I just wish you had given me the key.”

Loharri led her outside, into the uncertain, still-tremulous light of the streetlamps that were just starting to go on. “If I give you the key,” he said, taking her hand into his, “you’ll have no reason to spend time with me.”

They had had this conversation often enough, and it always went in circles like that. Mattie reassured him that she would come and see him, but he shook his head and insisted until Mattie agreed that he was right. She wouldn’t—oh, for a while she would feel dutiful and visit, and then the obligation would become a meaningless chore as the reasons behind it faded and resentment overcame loyalty. She looked away.

“Why do you hate me?” Loharri asked.

“I don’t.” Mattie faltered, unsure at the sudden change of tone and subject. She didn’t, not really. He was just trying to confuse her, to take care of the uncertain, vulnerable state when her mechanisms settled after the recent disruption. “I honestly don’t. I just . . . I just wish you’d given me the key.”

He patted her arm. “All in good time,” he said.