The King's Alchemist - Part I

               Marcus had fallen asleep an apprentice natural philosopher. When Artom shook him awake the next morning, he was the King’s Alchemist – though the title wouldn’t settle into common use for several weeks. It was an unprecedented promotion in an unprecedented context, but the aspect of that dark night that would go on to win over Marcus’s memory was, despite it all, how well he had slept. He enjoyed many dreams, rich and long, throughout that night. He’d felt no unease as the world roiled and shifted under his bed. He hadn’t lurched awake, covered in night sweat, when the axe was put through his master’s neck. He might have slept into the middle of the day if Artom hadn’t awoken him. That he could know such peace through such a night would sow hidden thorns in any moment of peace he would have thereafter.

               “Marcus, get up! He’s gone and done it – worse than we thought! Marcus, the whole Academy is dissolved – run off or dead,”

               “Where is Boris?” Marcus asked, one foot still in his dreams.

               “Master Grey is dead – taken from his bed in the night and executed for treason,” Artom said, and Marcus’s ears filled with the sound of his own racing blood and his mind was a hornet’s nest. Artom went on, as if setting down a heavy burden, “The guard fell on everyone at once. The charge on each head was treason. Krauss was up through the night, by some grace. He heard them coming and knew it for what it was, bless him. He got a few of them out. The rest are dead – that we know of – paraded to the block like Dellian spies. There are some we don’t know about. Addie Mercer might have some people in the Sounding room with her – or at least, the guard was having trouble there – they were bundling sawgrass – they’re going to smoke them out – god! – Like rats!”

               “Artom, what do we… are they coming for us?” Marcus asked, and he hated himself for it, but he was relentlessly pragmatic, and anyone who knew him well would expect and forgive him his tactlessness. Artom didn’t know him that well.

               “We’re safe, if it comforts you to know it,” Artom said, “as safe as they were yesterday, at least.”

               “Do we run? What are the others doing?”

               “Most of the other students are doing their best not to draw attention to themselves. The outward position of the dormitories is one of perfect fealty. Godwilling, we’ll all be sent home to our families.”

               And that, they both knew, hinged upon how the sound of the day’s last beheading fell on the King’s ear – whether that moment would resound as the bloody exclamation point of his fevered raving, or another ellipsis in this series of ellipses.

               “Most? What of the rest?” Marcus was on the edge of his bed, lacing his boots, which he imagined was the first step to whatever came next, “There must be talk.”

               Something in the hall caught their ears. Shifting furniture. Hushed and urgent voices. Marcus was rapt, but Artom, who had already endured a hushed and urgent morning, continued.

               “There is talk. Some. Mostly variations on the theme of running. There’s a plot to destroy the registry and just fade back into the populous.”

               “You sound unconvinced,” said Marcus, still half-focused on the activity outside. He crossed the room, touched his forehead to his door, and shut his eyes.

               “The idea there is that, without the registry, we can escape and his majesty wouldn’t know our necks from any others younger than twenty years, but yes, I am unconvinced.”

               Marcus came back from the door, unsatisfied. “Because it takes as granted that he wouldn’t have every such person killed,” he said.

               “Whereas I think he might, if his rotting mind decides we’re also the enemy, and in destroying the registry we'd be openly declaring that we thought him ours. In that case, we should expect he do no less than what he has already done to rout all his other ‘enemies’,”

               “He has never killed half of his citizens,” said Marcus, “But I’m sure I see what you are saying.”

               “What he has done, over and over again, is surprise us with the degree of cruelty and unreason with which he acts in response to his capricious fears. His razing his own kingdom would be surprising. Everything he has done for these three exhausting years has been surprising.”

               “I follow you, and I suppose I agree, at least in that he would go to terrible ends. But then, are you advocating that we do nothing, or-”

Sounds in the hall, again. Not conflict, but definitely decisive motion. Both boys went animal-still trying to discern the nature of the commotion. Doors opening and closing, one after another. It was not random, but systematic. “It’s a search,” said Marcus, and a futile urgency seized them.

               “I’m saying we have to do far more,” Artom said, “The registry is a half-measure, but to be idle is to actively forfeit our lives. Marcus, we need you.”

Marcus felt a charge in the way he said ‘we’. The word crackled in the air between them. There was nothing hypothetical about it. Herman Krauss and Adalei Mercer were part of ‘we’. Master Grey was part of ‘we’, dead or no. Other students, members of the court, and some contingency of the guard who had seen enough cruelty, all passing coded messages and meeting in root cellars.

Most importantly, Marcus knew he himself to be part of ‘we’, but all he had time to say before the door opened was “Yes”.

First through the door was the end of a rusty halberd, held at length by some young guard conscript. The rest of his detail was nervously brandishing similar weapons down the hall in either direction.

“We’ve a summons for Marcus Locke,” said one senior guard among them, and he held at arm’s length what might have been the corresponding order, but his reach was half that of the boy’s restless blade, so the paper would go without scrutiny.

“I deny any charges of wrongdoing,” Marcus said. He began to step forward, but thought better of it when his eyes met the young conscript’s. There he saw a wild temper and little sleep.

“You are not under arrest,” said the senior guard, “I am to escort you to the Azure Mission. Now, if you would.”

“If I am not under arrest- The Mission? What is this? I could be of no use to the Mission.”

“And they will learn that to their satisfaction, I’m sure.” In a fashion he imagined subtle, the guard rested his hand on the pommel of the sword at his belt.

“I can make my way there, myself, if it’s all the same,” said Marcus.

“You are being deliberately and pointlessly difficult. You have no idea how lucky you are,” said the senior guard.

The boy with the halberd snarled.

“Put your prick away, child,” said Marcus, and then to the senior guard, “I’ll take myself to the Mission. What’s more, I’ll take my things, and I’ll take my time. You’re welcome to follow me, if you feel you’d otherwise be derelict in your duties.”

“Marcus, just go with them; you’re embarrassing yourself,” said Artom, holding Marcus’ coat and leather satchel.