The Alchemists Of Vra

Opening Chapter-1

1____________________

“We live through song of heart. Not calculation of head.

We remain equal with the Earth, with no desire to rise above it.

In our world, imagination is wholly rejected.

Far from the manner in which it has been embraced in yours.”

– The Clandestine Alchemists.

THE city was dark and dangerous. Even its shadows had a reputation for violence. This night, a little dog scurried through its laneways, hoping he wouldn’t contribute to it statistically.

The place appeared desolate.

Abandoned.

But it was not.

The little dog knew that nasty things lurked nearby.

He stopped and fell against a wall, forcing breath still to listen for those in pursuit.

Silence.

Swallowing, he stumbled on through streets he knew little of, other than by reputation. Having been on the run for three nights, he had no choice but continue. There would be no reprieve in surrender, for those in pursuit knew the word, but spat at its definition.

Ahead, lanterns suggested others remained awake. But even amidst others he’d find no reprieve from the animals in his wake.

For one cannot hide from those already hidden.

Pressing against a wall, he slid toward the lanterns. They lit a restaurant. There was movement within. The place was busy. But as much as he wished to, he dared not beg for their help lest he end up on the menu.

He threw himself across the street and peered through the restaurant’s window. The scene was convivial. Animals sat at tables munching, while others waited. Several milled among them bringing dishes to some and taking orders from others. Waiters with empty plates disappeared through a doorway, before re-emerging with full ones. Steam billowed in their wake, along with shouts, clangs and thumps from the kitchen beyond.

At one particular table, a dog waited.

Though not in a patient manner.

Initially, he had been, until a meal of food was brought that wasn’t what he’d ordered. It was a mistake, he was certain, that arose because of all the milling going on. Having advised a waiter of this, he’d been relieved of said meal, but hadn’t yet received another in return. With paws folded, he scowled at waiters.

They ignored him.

It was policy to ignore disgruntled patrons, because when they lost their tempers, they could be thrown into the street as a succinct end to the matter. This was a popular means of managing disgruntled patrons in Talsik-Kerr, because there are so many of them. Indeed, the city is so rough that is hadn’t so much earned its reputation, as stolen it from elsewhere.

The dog’s temper was on the boil.

“Where’s my chicken?” he growled at a milling waiter.

“I’m sorry?” the waiter replied, in a graceful twirl of attention.

“My chicken. I ordered chicken and some muppet got the order wrong and brought me fish instead.”

From behind teetering crockery, the waiter looked at the dog’s empty table. “I can’t see any fish.”

“It’s gone now. One of you muppets removed it.”

“Well, if you didn’t want it and it’s now gone, I fail to see the problem.”

“The problem is that I want my chicken.”

“The fish is very good.”

“I don’t want fish.”

“But you don’t have any.”

“What is wrong with you?”

“Me?” the waiter exclaimed, as his colleagues stopped milling, all eager to end the matter succinctly. “You’re the one making a fuss about nothing!”

“Nothing?”

“Yes. Nothing.” It stabbed a free paw at the empty table.

The dog took a deep breath. “May I,” he said, deciding to start again. “May I please have a serving of chicken?” He smiled through bared teeth.

“You may. I shall just distribute these meals of food, and then return to take your order.”

“But I just gave you my order.”

“Indeed, but the kitchen is busy and steamy, and so am I. So it is, I am sure you’ll agree, best to write these things down.”

“Write these things down,” the dog repeated.

“Indeed. To avoid confusion.”

“Confusion. What, like messing up orders?”

A patronising nod. “Exactly.”

“It didn’t help last time though, did it?”

“You must have said fish.”

“I did not order fish.”

“No, but you must have said it.”

“I did not say fish, all right? Why would I say fish? I hate fish. My mother choked to death on a fish. And what’s more, I am allergic to fish.”

“Well, you must have.”

“I. Did. Not.”

The waiter turned to his colleagues. “Who took this dog’s order please?”

There was a pause, before a paw rose.

“Do you have the order slip?”

There was some fiddling, a bit of tearing and a small piece of paper made its way forward. Despite teetering crockery, the waiter read it, and then held it out for the dog to see. “It says here: table eight: fish.”

The dog stared at it, knowing he hadn’t ordered fish. “I did not order fluffing fish!”

Before the waiter could punch him in the face, the animal responsible for taking it piped up. “It is true. He did actually order chicken.”

The waiter turned. “You are not helping.”

“But it is true. He did actually order chicken.”

“The why did you write fish?”

There was an awkward pause. “I can’t spell chicken.”

On the pavement outside, the little dog gasped at noises from somewhere behind. He slunk to the ground, peering at shadows, convinced he was about to be pounced upon and torn into long, thin pieces. He scrabbled at the restaurant’s door and stumbled inside.

Having not been in a restaurant before, he stood trembling and waited for something bad to happen. He was ignored, however, as attentions remained on the unfolding cabaret. With a lunge, he hid behind a pot plant.

“What do you mean you don’t have a pen?” the riled dog demanded. “I cannot believe you do not have a pen! This is being done intentionally, surely? I’d believe one of you lot being hopelessly disorganised! But all of you? You are clearly an entire troupe of muppets!”

The waiter, having returned from the kitchen, patted himself down, surprised to find he was indeed devoid of pens. Behind him, others did the same, patting themselves for anything resembling writing implements.

“None of you?” the dog asked, flabbergasted. He turned to some patrons, who shrugged in admitting that it was rather absurd. “I demand—demand, do you hear—to see the manager!” Furious, he stood, and his chair skittled across the floor.

A chef burst from the steaming kitchen, demanding to know what all the fuss was about. “What in fluff is all this fuss about?”

Smaller chefs steamed after him, their irritation no less apparent.

“I am the manager!” he steamed. “And I cannot hear myself yell in there, for all the yelling out here!”

The furious dog strode toward him, pushing past those still patting themselves down. “Oh, so you’re the manager, are you? You’re the creature responsible for this maelstrom of muppets passing themselves off as staff then?”

The chef folded his paws, about as interested as meeting the runner-up in a bi-annual cabbage counting competition. “Is there a problem?”

“Oh, yes, there is! For I have never, ever, been so insulted in all my born days!”

“Then you should come here more often.”

“I am warning you—”

“That won’t be necessary.”

“What?”

“It is not necessary. I’ve had my tablets, thank you very much indeed.”

“You’ve had your what?”

“My tablets. I’ve already been wormed. We all have. Do you think we could work in this place with itchy bottoms? It’s hard enough holding teetering crockery as it is.”

The dog stared until realisation dawned. “Not wormed, you stupid muppet! I said warned! I am warning you!”

Although a genuine mistake, it was an amusing one, and several patrons chuckled. As did some staff amidst their pen-patting.

The dog stared at them all. He was hungry, and all he wanted was some fluffing chicken. When the kitchen’s billowing steam became smoke, two of the more posterior chefs hurried back into the kitchen to discover the chicken was undergoing cremation.

“What exactly do you want?” the chef steamed once the dog’s gaze came full circle.

“I just want some fluffing chicken!”

One of the little chefs hurried back from the kitchen and tugged at his boss’ sleeve. The chef bent down and listened.

Nodding, he straightened up. “Right. Well. Apparently we no longer have any chicken,” he said. “Would you like some fish?”

With a roar, the dog lunged and punches were thrown. The violence spread to staff, who proceeded to remove the dog from the premises in a succinct end to the matter. The dog had his own thoughts, however, and threw chairs at them, which they countered by hurling tables. Without bothering to open the door first, the dog was thrown from the restaurant, followed by several meals of food, which, ironically, left him covered in chicken—though more as fashion accessory than edible condiment.

Finding opportunity, the little dog darted through the chaos, shovelling bits of chicken and fish into his mouth, before skittling into a wall. He turned to see if he'd been noticed. He hadn’t. With mouth bulging and tummy grateful, he dared hope flee was possible after all. If he remained moving, kept his wits about him and didn’t lose his leather pouch, he might just save the world.

On the pavement outside, the dog stood and brushed himself down. When he lurched sideways as though pushed, the little dog froze, mid-swallow. What was left of the door shifted as though kicked, before tables and patrons were thrown across the restaurant by invisible paws. With a cry of despair, the little dog scrambled into the kitchen. Battling trolleys and pots, he scurried through smoke, over saucepans and around a sink until coming to another door. His paws found a handle, which he fumbled with until the thing opened. He burst from the restaurant’s rear and tumbled into garbage bags. Fighting them with flailing paws, he scrambled free and stumbled into a laneway. Racked with sobs and blurred with tears, he hurried on, desperate to reach lands further north. After fleeing around a corner, he collapsed against a wall and stared around wildly, no longer knowing which direction north was.

2____________________

TO ensure he looked the part, Sinson-Rascalian had ordered some special clothes made of Taper Silk. It was fitting, he’d told his minions, that he looked the part because he was the part. Those loyal didn’t dispute this. He’d shown them wonderous lands beyond the green sea, which proved he knew how the outside world worked, while they understood none of it.

In a dank and humid cave, Sinson-Rascalian tried on his new apparel. Extending his paws, he asked those loyal to describe what they saw. His minions said nothing, however, not understanding the question. He sighed at their stupidity. It wasn’t their fault, being more a result of circumstance.

“Well?” he asked, wishing he had a full length dress mirror so he didn’t have to. “Speak then! How do I look?”

Two Dark Alchemists glanced at each other.

He glared at them. “I asked you a question, and I shall have an answer: how do I look?”

“Well, we’re not entirely sure of what you speak, Sinson,” one tried. “For you look as you always do; a cat of some persuasion.”

He humphed. Having grown up in a reclusive monastery, the animals’ inability to understand anything meant such comment was as close to a compliment as he could hope to get.

He posed and imagined the effect.

Knowing he looked wonderful was one thing, but having no one realise was another.

He twirled a paw within silk until a claw caught and tore the fabric. He swore and ordered a Dark Alchemist to fetch some thread so he could mend it before the seam unravelled further. The animal hurried away, grateful to serve a purpose.

The cave was deep, dark and smelt like egg. Hidden within the bowels of monastery, few were aware of it, other than the forgers of amberstone, who ignored the antics of Sinson-Rascalian and other apprentices who pranced around the place, not least because it smelt like egg. When the fumes were particularly bad, Sinson-Rascalian would ensure water in a dish remained within reach, which he’d sprinkle in his eyes when they burnt too much.

Smell or not, this was his domain.

His den.

This was his lair.

In the Monastery above, three hundred Clandestine Alchemists roamed, all of them oblivious to his secret order of Dark Alchemists beneath.