The Magister strode into the cellar, torches flaring to life as he passed them. Gavros, behind him, struggled to keep from showing astonishment. It was wasted effort. The Magister never once turned to look at him.
It might have been a wine- or grain-cellar, but it felt like an echoing cavern. It stank of damp and virulent mold. He forced himself to be rational. A tangle of vessels and pipes lay heaped to one side, ending in a high-sided wooden trough. The Magister’s newest marvel, that must be. In a darker corner a heap of crates, or the junk of ages, had been shoved aside to clear the floor. He shivered. Something in the cellar did not care to be looked at rationally.
"Well?" he demanded. "Is this your miracle?"
"It is, my lord." The Magister busied himself with the pipes, though nothing was flowing through them. The whole array stood dry and empty.
"Alchemist’s tricks. I see no miracle."
The Magister frowned. "No trick, I assure you. The work is sound."
"And the result?"
"Here, my lord." He indicated the trough -- rough-carved and narrow, the length of his two arms. Not empty, either.
"This muck? This is your miracle?" A pallid soup curdled in the trough, lumpish in spots, watery and grease-specked. Unblended red streaks swirled in the brown-gray muck. The stench was stronger as he bent over it. "It looks like what the savages beyond the Oliba feed to their gods."
"So it is, in a way," the Magister said. "They sacrifice living material, and this -- vivix -- is compounded of the basic stuffs of life."
Gavros stared, swallowing sudden nausea. The Magister in the torchlight looked as repellent as his creation. "You tell me that this -- this glop -- will bring life to a dead hand, to fight or scribe or play with the skill of two men?" He leaned over the trough for a second look. His hair flopped over his eyes; he pushed it irritably back. It smelled less of mold, this close. Turned earth, after long years fallow? He couldn't place it.
"Magister," he repeated, "will this make a miracle?"
"Not -- yet, my lord."
"Not yet?" Echoes shivered off the cellar walls. "It was to have been completed...."
"In your presence." Gavros' protest died unspoken as the Magister went on. "It will be completed now, my lord. I wished only to have a witness to the final making."
"Get on with it, then." Gavros folded his arms, prepared to wait.
It might have been a wine- or grain-cellar, but it felt like an echoing cavern. It stank of damp and virulent mold. He forced himself to be rational. A tangle of vessels and pipes lay heaped to one side, ending in a high-sided wooden trough. The Magister’s newest marvel, that must be. In a darker corner a heap of crates, or the junk of ages, had been shoved aside to clear the floor. He shivered. Something in the cellar did not care to be looked at rationally.
"Well?" he demanded. "Is this your miracle?"
"It is, my lord." The Magister busied himself with the pipes, though nothing was flowing through them. The whole array stood dry and empty.
"Alchemist’s tricks. I see no miracle."
The Magister frowned. "No trick, I assure you. The work is sound."
"And the result?"
"Here, my lord." He indicated the trough -- rough-carved and narrow, the length of his two arms. Not empty, either.
"This muck? This is your miracle?" A pallid soup curdled in the trough, lumpish in spots, watery and grease-specked. Unblended red streaks swirled in the brown-gray muck. The stench was stronger as he bent over it. "It looks like what the savages beyond the Oliba feed to their gods."
"So it is, in a way," the Magister said. "They sacrifice living material, and this -- vivix -- is compounded of the basic stuffs of life."
Gavros stared, swallowing sudden nausea. The Magister in the torchlight looked as repellent as his creation. "You tell me that this -- this glop -- will bring life to a dead hand, to fight or scribe or play with the skill of two men?" He leaned over the trough for a second look. His hair flopped over his eyes; he pushed it irritably back. It smelled less of mold, this close. Turned earth, after long years fallow? He couldn't place it.
"Magister," he repeated, "will this make a miracle?"
"Not -- yet, my lord."
"Not yet?" Echoes shivered off the cellar walls. "It was to have been completed...."
"In your presence." Gavros' protest died unspoken as the Magister went on. "It will be completed now, my lord. I wished only to have a witness to the final making."
"Get on with it, then." Gavros folded his arms, prepared to wait.
