The Enterprise of Death - Jesse Bullington [181]
“I came here because I wish to learn from the best,” said the doctor, his pride trumping his fear. “Theophrastus Philippus Aureolus Bombastus von Hohenheim is my name, and I have come because my associate Awa informed me there were no greater minds in the entire world than those assembled here. If such a thing were true then I should not be made to feel bullied, but instead welcomed, by the intellectual elite. Instead you wish to twist my words against me, just like those turds at the universities, instead of hearing them for what they are.”
“Theophrastus inherited Aristotle’s school, did he not?” said the woman, her voice just behind him.
“If you seek meaning in my name, I prefer Paracelsus,” said the doctor, the schnapps he had steadied himself with outside the door abandoning him to a sudden and dreadful sobriety.
“Celsus, the philosopher? Para? Greater than he, are you?” The man’s voice was right in his ear but Paracelsus felt no breath stirring his long, manky hair.
“Para celsus, as in beside Celsus, not greater than,” said he. “My detractors might have you believe otherwise, though.”
“Well then, Herr Beside Celsus,” said the woman. “What do you bring us?”
“What?” Paracelsus swallowed. “Why, a mind eager to unravel the cosmos and the alchemical, and a most impressive body of knowledge already accumulated.”
“Not enough,” said the man.
“Not nearly,” said the woman. “Too bad. I was beginning to like him.”
“What else could I bring?” asked Paracelsus, keenly aware his voice was rising.
“Something,” said the woman.
“Anything,” said the man. “Save for a physical form and spongy brain. We have recently had a new addition to our society, thanks to someone’s predilections for appearances and potential.”
“Only one of which you possess,” said the woman. “With nothing else to contribute—”
“Wait!” Paracelsus had hoped to forestall the revealing of his prize until he was a full member of their little club, but circumstances were just that. “I do have something else.”
“What?” said the woman.
“Something good, I hope,” said the man.
“Nothing less”—Paracelsus cleared his throat—“than the Philosopher’s Stone!”
“Really?” said the woman, and a brilliant light flared up, blinding Paracelsus just as thoroughly as the darkness had. “Let us see.”
“Now,” said the man.
“Hold on,” said Paracelsus, fumbling in his pockets. He felt the pouch but kept rooting until his eyes adjusted enough to see what was happening. The man and the woman were both watching him intently, and he saw they were both completely naked and hairless. The woman held Paracelsus’s missing sword casually in her thin hand. Licking his dry lips, the doctor pulled out the pouch and held it to them. The man took it reverently and opened the drawstring, then dumped the contents into his associate’s cupped hand. A rough stone fell out, a jagged piece of gray rock.
“Where did you come by this?” asked the man as the woman lifted the stone up to a glowing beaker that floated between them, its yellow light filling the chamber.
“A hyena, it is called,” said Paracelsus. “I remembered my Pliny, and did a little digging in the creature’s eyes. The stone —”
“Is a calcium deposit and nothing more,” said the woman, and the light went out. “What shall we do with you, Theophrastus Bombastus?”
“Take him below,” said the man, and before the doctor could say another word his tale was cut off, leaving him in the clutches of those diabolical Bastards of the Schwarzwald.
XXXIX
Et in Arcadia Ego
Pity Boabdil. That is how the necromancer began Awa’s tale, and when she was alone with the moon Awa wondered what simple language might end it. She knew that whatever words were used, pity should not be one of them, but beyond that she had no earthly idea. That is the problem with telling tales about real people, she supposed, no summary can convey every truth, every facet, and what is good for the hare is not good for the fox. Do not pity Awa, she would think, and shiver to imagine the raspy voice of her tutor voicing the sentiment. Maybe