‘That it is possible someone has learned this, but unlikely, and I do not believe it has happened this way. I have discovered . . . what I believe to be the only access to a certain kind of power. Found in my travels, in a … profoundly guarded place and at some risk.’
Crispin crossed his arms. ‘I see. A scroll of chants and pentagrams? Boiled blood of a hanged thief and running around a tree seven times by double moonlight? And if you do the least thing wrong you turn into a frog?’
Zoticus ignored this. He simply looked at Crispin from beneath thick, level brows, saying nothing. After a moment, Crispin began to feel ashamed. He might be unsettled here, this staggering imposition of magic might be unlooked-for and frightening, but it was an offered gift, generous beyond words, and the implications of what the alchemist had actually achieved here . ..
‘If you can do this… if these birds are thinking and speaking with their own … will.. . you ought to be the most celebrated man of our age!’
‘Fame? A lasting name to echo gloriously down the ages? That would be pleasant, I suppose, a comfort in old age, but no, it couldn’t happen … think about it.’
‘I am.Why not?’
‘Power tends to be co-opted by greater power. This magic isn’t particularly … intimidating. No half-world-spawned fireballs or death spells. No walking through walls or flying over them, invisible. Merely fabricated birds with… souls and voices. A small thing, but how could I defend myself, or them, if it was known they were here?’
‘But why should -?’
‘How would the Patriarch in Rhodias, or even the clerics in the sanctuary you are rebuilding outside Varena, take to the idea of pagan magic vesting a soul in crafted birds? Would they burn me or stone me, do you think? A difficult doctrinal decision, that. Or the queen? Would Gisel, rising above piety, not see merit in the idea of hidden birds listening to her enemies? Or the Emperor in Sarantium: Valerius II has the most sophisticated network of spies in the history of the Empire, east or west, they say. What would be my chances of dwelling here in peace, or even surviving, if word of these birds went out?’ Zoticus shook his head. ‘No, I have had years to ponder this. Some kinds of achievement or knowledge seem destined to emerge and then disappear, unknown.’
Thoughtful now, Crispin looked at the other man. ‘Is it difficult?’
‘What? Creating the birds? Yes, it was.’
‘I’m certain of that. No, I meant being aware that the world cannot know what you have done.’
Zoticus sipped his tea. ‘Of course it is difficult,’ he said at length. Then he shrugged, his expression ironic. ‘But alchemy always was a secret art, I knew that when I began to study it. I am … reconciled to this. I shall exult in my own soul, secretly.’
Crispin could think of nothing to say. Men were born and died, wanted something, somehow, to live after them-beyond the mass burial mound or even the chiselled, too-soon-fading inscription on the headstone of a grave. An honourable name, candles lit in memory, children to light those candles. The mighty pursued fame. An artisan could dream of achieving a work that would endure, and be known to have been one’s own. Of what did an alchemist dream?
Zoticus was watching him. ‘Linon is … a good consequence, now I think on it. Not conspicuous at all, drab, in fact. No jewels to attract attention, small enough to pass for a keepsake, a family talisman. You will arouse no comment. Can easily make up a story.’
‘Drab? Drab? By the gods. It is enough! I formally request,’ said Linon, speaking aloud,’to be thrown into the fire. I have no desire to hear more of this. Or of anything. My heart is broken.’
Several of the other birds were, in fact, making sounds of aristocratic amusement.
Hesitantly, testing himself, Crispin sent a thought: ‘I don’t think he meant any insult. I believe he is . . . unhappy that this happened.’
‘You shut up,’ the bird that could speak in his mind replied bluntly.