The Book Without Words_ A Fable of Medieval Magic - Avi [10]
“Mistress Weebly,” proclaimed the reeve, drawing himself up to the full bulk of his bluster, “alchemy, being unnatural, is an offense against all nature, its practice treason against the state. Moreover, all those who gain by such acts are equally guilty—with dire punishments for those engaged. Confiscation of property will occur. Removal of a finger may be necessary. A hand, perhaps. Even a head. Depending. Depending on me. Dura lex, sed lex. I am the law, and I am hard.”
“And,” simpered the apothecary, “how glad I am that such power rests with you.”
“Mistress Weebly,” said Bashcroft. “In exercise of that power, I hereby put you under house arrest.”
“Arrest!” cried the apothecary.
“This information about Master Thorston’s alchemy,” said the reeve, “is much too dangerous to be allowed to flow freely among the ignorant public. Rumors of it will cause excitement. Excitement will cause expectations to rise. Large expectations in small minds are a menace that must be always suppressed, else riots will follow. For, beyond all else, it’s my duty to protect the citizens of Fulworth.”
“But, Master Reeve, you and I have been partners and-”
“Silence! When I resolve this matter you’ll be free.
For now, do not leave these premises. Speak to no one about this. Not even to your apprentice. I shall post a soldier by the door.”
Without further ado, the reeve stormed out of the shop.
5
After arranging for a guard to remain at the apothecary’s door, Bashcroft mulled over what he had learned: a Master Thorston, residing in town but hiding, was a dying man practicing alchemy. Making gold.
Bashcroft could only feel that the secret of how to make gold would be an extraordinary stroke of luck and fortune—in his own hands. He considered his position: he had insufficient wealth. Without wealth, there is no real authority. Without real authority, there is no dignity. Without dignity, chaos comes. If chaos reigns, the world is undone. Undo the world, and you strike against God’s very creation. Therefore, for him, Ambrose Bashcroft, to live in poverty was a sin against God Himself.
If this Master Thorston was in need of a child with green eyes, then he—Bashcroft—would place just such a child in that household—and gather the gold-making secret for himself. But it must be done in haste—before the old man expired. Happily, Bashcroft knew where to secure such a child. So resolved, he headed for the banks of the River Scrogg—the poorest part of Fulworth.
6
Mistress Weebly was furious. She cursed herself for being such a dupe. Why had she so trusted the reeve that she gave him all that information about Master Thorston? It was perfectly clear to her that Bashcroft was going to take advantage of her information for his profit. But she—more than anyone—could make use of it. Did she not have all the ingredients required to make gold? All that was wanting was the formula.
Greatly agitated, she pushed open the rear door, shoving Damian away, who had been standing on the other side.
“Were you listening?” she demanded.
“Of course not, Mistress,” said the boy as meekly as he knew how.
“See that you don’t,” she said, boxing his ear for good measure. “Now, go and attend the shop. My head hurts. I must he down.” She went directly off to bed.
Damian, his ear smarting, came into the shop. But it wasn’t only the blow that was causing his ear to tingle: he had been listening, and heard all about Master Thorston and his alchemy.
He went right to the little mirror and studied his eyes. Not completely green, he thought. They contain flecks of blue. Still, close enough. “Indeed, I’m tired of being an apprentice,” he muttered. “I’m fit for better things.”
So it was that Damian made up his mind: the next morning he would go to this house on Clutterbuck Lane. This Master Thorston was apparently old, sick, and dying. Easy enough to pry the gold-making secret from him. As for this Sybil—she being the only servant, and a maid, he had no doubt he could dominate her.
Moreover, Damian vowed that once he had gold