Blue and Gold Read Free

because they make him feel
scholarly). “Actually, I’m not surprised. You lunatic.”
    I smiled. “Mind if
I sit down?”
    He shrugged. “What
do you want?”
    “Message to
Phocas,” I said, and he sighed.
    “Tell him
yourself,” he said wearily. “I had the scuttlehats here, earlier.”
    “Of course you
did,” I said. “Sorry about that.”
    “That’s all
right,” he said. “There’s beer in the jug, probably some cheese in the
cupboard.” Astyages practically lives on cheese; he gets it cheap from the
dairy on Ropewalk, but you’ve got to scrape the green bits off. “And I suppose
you’ll be wanting money as well.”
    I felt guilty. “I
still owe you from last time,” I said.
    “Yes,” he said. “I
can let you have two angels, but that’s it.”
    “Thanks,” I said.
“Will you—?”
    He shook his head.
“Go and see him, no,” he said. “Write him a note, yes. What do you want me to
say?”
    I thought for a
moment. “Well, sorry’d be a good place to start,” I said. “And then, please
don’t come after me. And it doesn’t work.”
    Astyages frowned
and adjusted the position of the glasses on his nose. They’ve worn a sort of
slot half-way down. “Is that true?” he asked.
    “Of course it is,”
I said. “Come on, nobody can turn base metal into gold. It’s not possible.”
    “That’s not what—”
    “It can’t be
done,” I said. “All my assurances to the contrary notwithstanding. So tell him,
really sorry about the lies and the false hopes, and I’m going abroad,
indefinitely. Usual best wishes, Saloninus.”
    Astyages laid down
his pen and looked at me. “You’ve cracked it, haven’t you?”
    “I just said, it
can’t be—”
    “Don’t bullshit
me, please. You’ve cracked it, and now you’re running away with the secret,
before Phocas has you locked up in a tower somewhere for the rest of your life
making gold. I know you,” he went on, overriding my attempts at protest. “You
know, I always had this tiny sneaking suspicion at the back of my mind that one
day you’d do it.”
    “Really, I—”
    He shook his head
irritably. “So,” he said, “what was it? Sal draconis? Virtus aurei in a
suspension of quicksilver?”
    “Not sal
draconis,” I said, with feeling.
    “All right, then.
It’s in the method, isn’t it? Something really obvious in the way you distil
the—”
    “It can’t be done,
Astyages. Everybody knows that.”
    “Fine,” he
snapped, “don’t tell me. But when you’re obscenely rich and living in your
palace in the Blue Hills, for once in your life do the decent thing and send me
money. All right?”
    “If it ever comes
to that,” I said, “I promise. On my word of honour.”
    He gave me a
cracked grin, scrabbled for a fresh sheet of paper, and started writing.
    I sat down. He
wrote about a dozen words—he’s left-handed, and it always amazes me, the way he
writes— then paused and chewed the end of his pen. “How’s the thesis coming
along?” I asked.
    “Oh, fine,” he
said. “Another month and it’ll be finished.”
    I believe him. I
always have. Which month he’s referring to is another matter. He wrote another
dozen words, then turned round slowly and looked at me. “The scuttlehats said
Eudoxia’s dead,” he said.
    “That’s right.”
    “They told me—”
    “That’s right
too.”
    He stared at me;
forgot to look over the top of his glasses. “God, Saloninus,” he said.
“That’s—”
    “It was an
accident,” I said.
    “Well of course it
was a bloody accident,” he snapped at me, “even you wouldn’t deliberately
poison your wife.” He paused. He’d run into that terrible impassable barrier we
all come up against when trying to express sincere sympathy to a friend. “I’m
sorry,” was the best he could do. Actually, it’s not bad.
    “Me too,” I said.
    “I always liked
her.”
    I grinned. “You
were nuts about her,” I said. “When I think of the exhibition you always made
of