Moe Eisen wondered what he was doing for the hundredth time. He had created

several alchemical solutions to problems, but his failures weighed on him more than

he liked.

He studied the glowing glop he had created as it rested in the bottom of the vial. It

should be glowing, but it also should be indicating the movement of air inside the

vial.

He couldn’t understand why it remained frozen in place when it should be pointing,

or at least swirling along lines of invisible force.

He shook his head. If he had been able to make it work, he could have put it on an

immobile sign and showed air travelers which way the wind was blowing so they

could come into the city safer than what they had now.

Bern received aircraft from other nations, but didn’t have any of its own.

Moe hoped his chemical solutions would be useful in getting a new port open for the

city off the ground. Then he could expand into other things.

He would have to consult with other alchemists and see what they had cooking.

Maybe he could share his work, and get some feedback on his own. At least he had

this failure he could give to someone to see what they could do with it.

Moe took the vial and poured the substance into the holding tank set up in his shop.

He closed the lid before the fumes could knock him out. He would have to flush the

thing soon.

He had run short on neutralizer while working. So every failed experiment so far went

into the holding tank until he could get some. One pour of that into the tank would

shut the reactions down and render everything into a poisonous but mostly harmless

solution.

He knew he had been lucky so far that none of the reactions had triggered each other

while they were in the tank. That could spell disaster for him.

“Hey, Grandpa!,” called one of the neighborhood kids from the front of the shop.

“I’m here to do business.”

Moe groaned. He wanted time to go over his notes. He didn’t want to deal with

Mistress Isenhour’s mental problems at that moment. He closed his eyes. He still had

to run a business. The faster he got rid of the kid, the better.

Then he could try to figure out why his air director hadn’t worked.

He went to the front of the shop, closing the door to the back room. He wiped his

hands on a rag he kept on the counter for that.

“What can I do for you today, Bernard?,” asked Moe. He walked down to the end of

the counter. His appearance seemed to have startled the boy.

“Grandma wants some more of that stuff you sell for headaches,” said Isenhour’s

grandson. “She says it works wonders.”

“Did you tell her she might want to see a doctor?,” said Moe.

“She’s not having it, Pa,” said Bernard. He peered over the counter, using both hands

to hoist himself up. “She says she knows what’s wrong with herself better than any

medicine man.”

Moe frowned. He didn’t know what was irritating him more. Mistress Isenhour

demanded pain killer when she could go and get her problem fixed for good, or her

grandson calling him Pa both got on his nerves. He supposed the old lady bothered

him more. He shouldn’t be giving her anything without some kind of note saying

what her problem was.

He checked the shelves for the solution he usually gave Bernard to give his

grandmother. He didn’t have any of it out. Maybe he had some in the back room.

“Wait here,” said Moe. “I have to see if I have any of the pain killer I usually sell your

grandmother.”

“I can wait, Pa,” said Bernard. “I don’t have anywhere else I have to be.”

“All right,” said Moe. “I’ll be right back.”

Moe stepped into the back room. He left the door open so he could see part of the

front room if he wanted to check on Bernard. The boy was so small the counter hid

him from sight.

Moe found a bottle of the chemicals he wanted. He needed to parse it out into a

separate jar for Bernard to take with him. Then he could get back to seeing why his

experiments had failed.

He heard the bell on the door tinkle. He looked up from where he had Mistress

Isenhour’s pain killer half separated. Why did he always get customers when he

didn’t want them, but when he was bored out of his mind, he couldn’t sell a thing.

“Hide Pa,” said Bernard. He ran into the back room and closed the door. He couldn’t

reach the lock bar. “It’s the Shariff.”

“What?,” said Moe. “The Shariff?”

The back room door burst open. Bernard was knocked to the holding tank. He tried

to get up. The figure in the doorway waved a hand to let him know he might want to

stop moving.

Moe frowned at the invader. The Shariff wore clothes made of rags from other

clothes. He leaned on a walking stick with a cat head at the top. His hat had seen

better days from the way the brim had been folded up in the front. He took a puff on

a big cigar in his mouth. Little faces danced in the smoke.

“Can I help you?,” asked Moe. He wiped the chemicals from the pain killer from his

hands.

“I heard your boy tell you who I am,” said the Shariff.

“He’s not my boy,” said Moe. “He’s Lolita Isenhour’s boy. Secondly, your name

means nothing to me. So what can I do for you today?”

“You’re very cool under pressure,” said the Shariff. “You don’t see that much these

days.”

“I served the Army for a bit before I opened my shop,” said Moe. “It seemed the thing

to do at the time.”

The Shariff took a long puff on his cigar. His eyes glazed over with white shells

before clearing again. He smiled with too many crooked teeth at Moe.

“I have it on good authority that you are a decent alchemist,” said the Shariff.

“I invented some things in my time,” said Moe. He didn’t like the way this was going.

He especially didn’t like Bernard being in the same room as this negotiation, if that

was what this conversation was. The boy could be hurt at any time, and the alchemist

wouldn’t be able to stop it.

“That’s what I heard,” said the Shariff.

“I still have to make Mistress Isenhour’s solution for Bernard to carry back to her,”

said Moe. “Is there anything I can do for you?”

“I need an extension of the drug I take,” said the Shariff. “Everyone says you know

how to alter the effects of said drug to match what I need.”

“What everyone says, and what I can do might be two different things,” said Moe.

“Do you have a sample of this drug that I can examine?”

“As a matter of fact, I do,” said the Shariff. He reached into his coat pocket and pulled

out a paper wrapped package. He handed it over. He took another puff of his cigar.

Moe took the package to a counter devoid of work equipment. He carefully

unwrapped the paper. Five purple leaves lay in the nest. They looked dry to him.

How was he going to break this down into something he could use? He scratched his

balding head. Did he even have the right tools for the job?

“Is something wrong, Mr. Eisen?,” asked the Shariff.

“I’m trying to figure out where to get started,” said Moe. He decided that maybe just

looking at one of the leaves would give him some kind of inspiration.

He went to a drawer and pulled out a magnifying glass. He used that to examine the

parts of the leave. He frowned at the irregular vein structure he saw.

“Is it all right if I damage these?,” asked Moe. “I need to run some simple tests to see

if I can do what you want.”

“By all means, let your examination be as complete as you can make it,” said the

Shariff. He made an expansive gesture with his free hand while he puffed on his

cigar.

“All right,” said Moe. “This is going to take some time. At least a couple of days. Can

you come back the day after tomorrow?”

“I will give you three days,” said the Shariff. He smiled. “And an object lesson if you

intend to betray me.”

He pointed his stick at the holding tank above where Bernard still sat. He puffed on

his cigar. A hole punched through the side of the tank. The chemicals inside fell on

Bernard, dousing him in glowing light.

“What?,” said Moe. He looked around for neutralizer before remembering he didn’t

have any. “Why did you do that?”

“To show you I mean business,” said the Shariff. “Have what I need ready, or the

same will happen to you.”

The alchemist seized a bucket of water he kept around to wash his hands. He poured

that on the shrieking boy. The Shariff might have killed him as painfully as possible

to illustrate his point.

Moe filled the bucket from a pump he had set up when he bought the place. He

looked at Bernard. He doubted he was helping. Why hadn’t he kept up the

neutralizer?

He had let complacency lure him into a trap sprung by someone else.

“Bernard!,” Moe shouted. “Can you stand?”

The boy stood. Glowing light flared under the dousing he had received. Moe poured

more water on the boy. He didn’t like the sigils burning along the exposed skin he

could see.

If the boy survived the next few minutes, then Moe planned to take him to the local

medicinian. That was the best he could do. He wasn’t capable of healing something

like this.

He doubted anyone in Bern was capable of healing something like this. And he

wasn’t sure they could impose on the Alvas for help. Why would the enemy help heal

a boy they didn’t know?

Why had the Shariff thought he could help with the purple leaves?

Moe pumped another bucket of water as he tried to concentrate on the most important

thing first.