The Alchemist's Apprentice Read online

  “How fortunate for your master that he has such a loyal servant,” Reginald said. His eyes bored into mine. “Such a strong spirit buried in the body of a slave.”

  I felt my cheeks heat. I hoped my tinted skin was dark enough to keep him from seeing it. A slave? I wasn’t a slave!

  “And yet, you might be surprised what I can do,” Reginald added. “Do you want to know what I can do?”

  I took a step back, breaking eye contact. “I won’t break my word,” I said. “Not even for you.”

  Master Travis came down the stairs before Reginald could think of a retort. “Ah, Reginald,” he said. “Thank you for coming.”

  Reginald looked, just for a second, as if he wanted to make a smart remark. “I came as you requested,” he said, coolly. “Do we ... I’m ready.”

  I felt a stab of betrayal. Master Travis had invited Reginald to the shop? I told myself I was being silly, that we needed the money Reginald could provide, but it still felt as if he’d done something wrong. I didn’t want Reginald anywhere near me. But what could I do about it?

  “Very good,” Master Travis said. “If you’ll come with me ...”

  He turned and led the way up the rickety stairs. I felt another pang, this time of envy, as Reginald followed Master Travis into the darkness. I’d barely seen my master over the last few days, yet he showed himself at once when Reginald appeared? It wasn’t fair ... I reminded myself, sharply, that life wasn’t fair. If it was, my father would never have left my mother and I would never have grown up with my stepfather.

  But I wouldn’t have met Master Travis either, I thought, as I turned back to the jars. And I would never have discovered a talent for potions.

  I put the thought aside as I counted the unopened jars. The mystery girl had bought almost our entire stock of beeswax. I’d have to make sure we ordered more. We had a good stockpile of potions and salves made with beeswax, and the other ingredients she’d purchased, but some of our customers preferred to purchase the raw ingredients. Others simply didn’t have the time to brew themselves. I found it incomprehensible, but I supposed I should be grateful. If people brewed their own potions - or found a way to reuse potions like they reused clothes - we’d have to close the shop. We wouldn’t make any money.

  Who was the girl? The question echoed through my mind, but there was no answer. She’d clearly believed that Reginald would recognise her - he’d asked about her, which made me wonder if he’d seen through her glamour - but that meant nothing. Or at least not very much, I supposed. Reginald Bolingbroke and Caitlyn Aguirre were about the only people in High Society I knew by sight and that was only because the former had visited the shop and the latter’s face had been splashed across all the broadsheets. But Reginald presumably knew far more people in High Society. It was truly said that you hadn’t arrived in High Society until the Great Lords and Ladies knew your name.

  It doesn’t matter, I told myself. Reginald’s reaction had unnerved me more than I cared to admit. It’s better not to know for sure.

  I was midway through drafting a letter to our suppliers when I heard Reginald clumping down the stairs. He came into view a moment later, his face deathly pale. His right hand was pressed against his left elbow. I stared, then hastily looked away. Reginald would not react well if he thought I was laughing at him, or taking pleasure in his pain. I watched him leave the shop without even a glance at me. I should have been relieved, but ... there was something alarming about his pose. It bothered me.

  “Rebecca,” Master Travis called. “Come up here, please.”

  I checked the wards, then made my way up the staircase and into the workroom. Master Travis was seated at his table, carefully sealing a small collection of vials filled with a blood-red liquid. I stared, torn between horror and awe. Blood ... Reginald’s blood? Master Travis had warned me to be careful - very careful - when working with blood. I found it hard to believe that he’d taken blood from Reginald, or that Reginald had given it to him. And yet, what else could it be?

  My voice shook. “Master ... is that blood?”

  “Yes,” Master Travis said. He smiled, rather thinly. “Like most bombastic young men, Master Reginald grew faint at the first sight of a needle. It was all he could do to remain still while I drew the blood from his veins and transferred it into a bottle.”

  “Ouch,” I said. Master Travis had taught me how to draw and store blood, but he’d made it clear that I wasn’t to experiment without supervision. He’d also shown me how to use magic to cut the link between me and my blood, just to make sure it couldn’t be used against me. I wondered if Reginald had used such charms himself. “Is it ... is it linked to him?”

  “It’s his blood,” Master Travis said, evasively. “And we have to be very careful with it.”

  We could use it to curse him , I thought. There were a number of blood-based potions and curses in the books. A simple spell would put him out of our lives forever .

  I ran my hand through my dark hair, dismissing the thought. Reginald was powerful in his own right. If we managed - somehow - to get a curse through his personal defences, his family would spare no effort to track us down and destroy us. They’d probably be able to break the curse without raising a sweat. Rumour had it that the Great Houses had vast stockpiles of spellbooks dating all the way back to the Thousand-Year Empire itself. They could certainly crush a tiny apothecary without even noticing.

  “Take the blood down to the ironhold and secure it within the safe,” Master Travis ordered, once he’d finished sealing the vials. There was no name on them, nothing to suggest who had provided the blood. I doubted it would matter, if someone went looking. The blood would only resonate with Reginald and his closest relatives. “And don’t do anything else with it.”

  “Yes, Master,” I said, putting aside a handful of foolish ideas. “What ... what are you doing for him?”

  “Better you don’t know,” Master Travis said, curtly. He scribbled a note in his book. “It’s something that might change the world.”

  His lips curved into a cold smile. “Or at least Reginald’s world.”

  I kept my thoughts to myself. Whatever Reginald wanted had to be illegal - or at least highly dubious. There were plenty of Potions Masters in North Shallot, but they all had ties to the Great Houses. Reginald’s secret would be out within the hour. But what would he do to us to keep the secret? I didn’t think he could be trusted.

  But I couldn’t say that to Master Travis, not when he was clearly fascinated by the project.

  “Yes, Master,” I said, instead. “And afterwards, may I cook dinner for you?”

  “Tend to the shop,” Master Travis ordered. “I’ll eat tonight.”

  I eyed him, concerned. “I’ll hold you to that,” I said. “I’ll cook your favourite.”

  Chapter Five

  The next few days would have been enjoyable, if I hadn’t been so worried about Master Travis. He’d practically spent the entire time in his workroom, barely surfacing once or twice to eat and sleep. I ran the shop, wrote and signed the letters to our suppliers myself and fretted about him. I would have basked in my new responsibilities if I hadn't been so concerned. The older man was practically wasting away.

  “You can’t force someone to take care of himself,” Ginny said, when I confided in her. I had to invite her to the shop. There was no way I could go out. “And he’s clearly very busy with something else.”

  “I know.” I couldn’t give her any details. “But what is he doing?”

  “Some magicians, particularly research magicians, get very involved in a project,” Ginny pointed out. “And they don’t come up for air until they’re done.”

  I nodded, curtly. Master Travis had told me, once, that he’d been a researcher ... but he’d had to leave at very short notice. It galled me, sometimes, that I knew so little of his life before I’d gone into his service. His dark skin might indicate a connection to House Aguirre or one of the other darker-skinned families, but it might al
so indicate an origin in one of the southern cities or even North Cairnbulg itself, on the other side of the Inner Sea. I didn’t really believe the latter - Master Travis had shown no interest in joining the community of expats from North Cairnbulg - yet I had to admit it was possible. I had no real interest in joining the community of half-castes either.

  Maybe he was brewing something illegal , I thought. It was rare for a full-fledged Potions Master to turn evil - they rarely had any trouble making a very good living - but I could understand one getting in over his head and crossing the line without even noticing. Or something that was retroactively declared illegal ...

  The days slipped by slowly as we inched towards high summer. I did the best I could to keep the shop running, barely noticing when children were released from school for the holidays ... and promptly put to work by their parents, who couldn’t afford to have children lollygagging around when they could be earning money. I ignored the children on the street, the few times I got to leave the shop; their presence was a grim reminder that I could have gone further in school, if my stepfather had agreed to pay. I tried not to dwell on what might have been and thought about the future instead. When Reginald’s project was finished, I told myself, Master Travis would take a break. And then I could ask him about an apprenticeship.

  I was sitting at the counter, daydreaming about Rebecca the Potions Mistress, when the door opened. I looked up, irked. It was rare to get many customers between ten and twelve in the morning. Clive was about the only person who visited us between ten and eleven and I’d already had quite enough of him. But the visitor wasn’t Clive. I stood, hastily, as the newcomer stepped into the light. He carried himself like an important man.

  “You must be Rebecca,” he said. His voice carried an odd accent, a little like the hunters who prowled the northern edge of the Desolation and then returned to sell their wares in Shallot. “It’s a pleasure to meet you at last.”

  I studied him with interest. He was taller than me, muscular with broad shoulders, a pale face with dark hair cut so closely to his scalp that he was almost bald. His clothes marked him as a manual labourer, but they were made of fine cloth that no labourer could have hoped to buy with less than a decade’s wages. I felt a flicker of puzzlement as he looked back at me. Our visitor was sending some very mixed messages. A nobleman, pretending to slum with commoners? Or someone who wanted me to think he was a nobleman? But only a nobleman could afford such an outfit for day-to-day life.

  “Thank you,” I managed. “And you are ...?”

  “Zadornov,” the visitor said. He gave a self-effacing smile. “You may have heard of me.”

  I nodded, feeling ice starting to trickle down my spine. I’d heard of Zadornov, all right. Everyone in Water Shallot had heard of Zadornov. He was a crime boss, with his fingers in half the city’s crime ... yes, I’d heard of him. It crossed my mind, just for a second, that the man in front of me might not be the real Zadornov, but I doubted it. Quite apart from the clothes, no one in their right mind would take Zadornov’s name in vain. They were still talking about the unspeakable horrors Zadornov had inflicted on the last person who’d defied him.

  “I’ve heard of you,” I said, dumbly. Should I curtsey? Or ... or what? I found myself utterly unsure of what to do. Zadornov was here ? What did he want? I could barely force myself to look at him. I didn’t dare meet his eyes. “I ...”

  “Rumours of your beauty have travelled far and wide,” Zadornov said. It took me a moment to realise that I was being teased. “But they don’t do you justice.”

  I swallowed, hard. Zadornov actually sounded sincere . But I was all too aware that a crime boss would be a very good liar. Besides, no amount of beauty would make up for my heritage. I’d considered forging a family tree, once upon a time, but how could it pass muster? My face alone was a dead giveaway. And I couldn’t change that for long.

  “Thank you,” I said, finally. I knew how to handle Clive, but Zadornov? Master Travis’s reputation might protect me ... or it might not. “I didn’t start the rumours.”

  “Rumours are rarely true,” Zadornov agreed, gravely. He gave me a broad smile. “And in this case, they understate your beauty.”

  I flushed. The rumours about Zadornov were terrifying . If they were understated ... I gritted my teeth, reminding myself that I was behind powerful wards. I was in no immediate danger, unless Zadornov had an Object of Power that could bring the wards crashing down. And I doubted it. Rumour claimed that Zadornov had a vast collection of working Objects of Power, but I didn’t believe it. A cache of weapons and tools from the Thousand-Year Empire would have brought the Great Houses down on him like a ton of bricks. That rumour, at least, was probably untrue.

  “Dame Rumour is often a liar,” I said, carefully. “And beauty is in the eye of the beholder.”

  “Then consider yourself beheld,” Zadornov said. His smile grew wider for a second, then dropped away. “But I do wish to speak to your master.”

  I hesitated. “Master Travis is busy ...”

  “He’ll see me,” Zadornov said, with quiet confidence. “Call him.”

  “Yes, sir,” I said. I reached for the wards, using them to send a message. Master Travis would either come down or tell me to handle it myself. I hoped he’d come down. I had no idea what I could say to Zadornov if Master Travis was too busy to see him. “I’ve told him.”

  Master Travis came down the stairs a moment later. “Mr. Zadornov,” he said. “Thank you for coming.”

  Zadornov dropped a half-bow. “You did call me, Master Travis.”

  I blinked. Master Travis had called Zadornov? First Reginald, now Zadornov? I was starting to think that no amount of money was worth the potential danger of getting involved with noblemen on one side and crime bosses on the other. But there was no way I could say that in front of Zadornov. Master Travis might refuse to listen to me, whatever I said. The lure of enough money to further his research without running the shop had to appeal to him. He would have told Reginald to get lost if he hadn’t been tempted.

  “Yes,” Master Travis said. He looked at me. “Rebecca, close the shop and make two mugs of tea. The special tea. Bring them up to my workroom when they’re ready.”

  “Yes, Master,” I said, dropping a curtsey. I had the idea that showing anything less than proper respect to my master in front of Zadornov would be a mistake. “I’ll bring them up in five minutes.”

  Master Travis nodded, then led Zadornov up the stairs. I watched them go, then put up the closed sign on the door. It was unlikely anyone would come until twelve, when the workmen took a break for lunch, but there was no point in taking risks. If Master Travis wanted me to wait on them ... I went into the backroom, put the kettle on and dug the special tea out of the cupboard. It came from Hangchow and cost nearly twenty times as much as a normal bag of tea leaves. Personally, I’d always considered it a waste of money. Master Travis certainly didn’t demand it every day.

  He’s trying to impress , I thought, as I poured water into our finest mugs. Zadornov was going to be disappointed if he expected fine china. I added a small plate of biscuits, more in the hope that Master Travis would eat than any belief that Zadornov would be impressed, and then carried the tray upstairs. But what does he want with a criminal overlord?

  The two men were seated in Master Travis’s workroom when I entered, talking in hushed voices. I didn’t know why they bothered. The wards were more than strong enough to keep me - and any intruders - from hearing their conversation. I placed the tray on the table, then stepped back and dropped another curtsey. It was something I’d learnt from watching the girls at the coffee shop. Master Travis had never expected me to pretend to be a servant from one of the Great Houses. He certainly hadn’t taught me the forms.

  “Thank you,” Zadornov said, kindly. He took his mug and sipped with every evidence of enjoyment. “The tea is excellent.”

  “You are more than welcome,” Master Travis said. He met my eyes. “I’ll ring if I
need you.”

  It was clearly a dismissal. I dropped yet another curtsey, then hurried out of the room. The wards snapped back into place behind me. I felt oddly excluded, even though I knew I should be grateful. The less I knew, the less I could tell. And yet, I had the feeling that innocence wouldn’t be much of a defence. A serving girl was practically considered nothing more than an extension of her master’s will.