“Yes,” affirmed Rudolf, “we do recall the particular conversation right well.”
“To be sure, another part of the difficulty lies in securing sufficient quantities of feculent earth needed to produce the righteous oil.”
“Of course.” Rudolf nodded. Alchemy was a complicated business. He marvelled that anyone could maintain his wits in the face of such monumental and implacable intricacy.
“By a most fortuitous coincidence,” continued Bazalgette with mounting excitement, “my assistant-remember young Rosenkreuz?-was at this new Kaffeehaus in the square, and he adroitly obtained a goodly quantity of a new and hitherto unknown substance-a bitter earth called ground of Kaffee.”
“Did he indeed?” The imperial eyebrows lifted in mild surprise. “How very enterprising of him.”
“He is a most capable assistant, Sire,” commended the chief alchemist benignly. “We have already begun experimenting with the substance, Highness, and though a complete assay will take some time, I am pleased to say that preliminary results appear extremely promising.”
“We have heard of this Kaffee,” the emperor mused. Turning his face toward the door, he shouted, “Ruprecht!”
The door opened momentarily and the master of audiences appeared. “Highness? You called?”
“We have heard of this Kaffee, have we not?”
“I believe so, Highness.”
“But we have not imbibed it?”
“No, Sire. Not as yet.”
“Have some brought to us,” Rudolf commanded, then hastily added, “-today! Without delay.”
“It will be done, Your Highness,” intoned the master of audiences.
“If I may interrupt, Sire,” ventured the alchemist, “I have already taken the liberty of inviting the owners of this Kaffeehaus to visit me at court to discuss supplying us with the bitter earth for our experiments. Inasmuch as their cooperation is of inestimable value to our experiments, I thought we might bestow an honour upon them-the better to secure their future goodwill for the aid and advance of the Great Work.”
Rudolf smiled. “Good thinking, Bazalgette.” To the lingering Ruprecht, the emperor commanded, “Send a coach for them at the arranged time, and make sure they bring some of this Kaffee with them. We would like to taste it.”
“It will be done, Highness.”
Turning once more to the alchemist, Rudolf said, “It is a momentous age we inhabit, is it not?”
“Indeed, Sire,” agreed the alchemist, “all the more when I tell you that just this morning I received word from an acquaintance of mine who is soon in Prague and wishes to engage certain members of our enlightened brotherhood in the construction of a device to further his astral explorations.”
Rudolf blinked at the alchemist. “His what explorations?”
“Astral, Sire,” answered Bazalgette. “The etheric realms, you might say. It appears that he is even now perfecting the means to travel the astral planes by means known to him and wishes our help in furthering his endeavours.”
“Spirit travel?” wondered Rudolf. That, in itself, seemed of little promise, and less interest.
“Oh, no, Sire,” countered the alchemist quickly. “Physical travel-moving bodily between various planes or dimensions of existence. I believe he can demonstrate this ability.”
“That we should like to see,” said Rudolf, his interest piqued.
“No doubt it can be arranged,” offered Bazalgette.
“Summon him to us,” commanded the emperor. “We will grant him a place here in the palace should he so desire. We wish to see what he can do, this astral explorer. It may be that this mode of travel could prove a very boon to humanity if it could be perfected for good.”
“I could not have said it better myself, Sire,” agreed the alchemist. “I will engage him directly when he arrives in the city.”
“Good. Speak with Ruprecht. We would like to meet him.”
“Of course, Highness.”
“Excuse me, Your Majesty,” said the court painter Arcimboldo. “I would never dare to interrupt, but you asked me to tell you when the portrait was ready for viewing. I have finished for the day, so if you would like to see it, I humbly offer it for your inspection.”
“Come, Balthazar, let us see how this portrait is developing.” The emperor rose and crossed to the artist’s easel. “Tell us what you think,” he said, casting a critical eye over the expansive canvas. “The truth, now. We will not hear flummery.”
“Exquisite, Highness,” remarked the chief alchemist in a reverential tone. “Undoubtedly a work of genius. Just look at that melon-and those peaches!-wondrous to behold. The grapes are a revelation, if I may say it. And the asparagus is astonishing.”
Giuseppe Arcimboldo had made a name for himself by painting fruit and vegetables in a most remarkably lifelike way. Lately, he had hit on the idea of portraiture as still life-rendering his patrons as if they were agglomerations of items from a greengrocer’s stall. Although the enterprise was still in its infancy, it was hoped that the style would catch on.
“This pear,” said Rudolf, indicating a large fruit in the centre of the canvas. “What kind is it?”
“It is a Fiorentina pear, Majesty-an Italian variety.”
“Do you think an Italian pear was an appropriate choice for our nose?” wondered Rudolf. “Does not its shape make our nose look bulbous?”
“By no means, Sire. With peaches for cheeks, a pear for a nose makes perfect sense.”
“Ah, but would not a fig be better?”
“Perhaps a Turkish fig-”
“Do not speak to us of Turks!” snapped the emperor. “We are sick to death of all things Turkish.”
“I am sorry, Your Highness,” said Bazalgette quickly. “Pray, forgive me.”
“And then there is the issue of colour,” suggested the artist delicately. “Ripe figs being purple, you see.”
“Let it stand as it is,” commanded Rudolf.
“A wise decision, Sire. The painting is approaching perfection. I feel as if I could reach out and take hold of that artichoke, or smell those roses,” offered the alchemist, happy for a chance to distance himself from any mention of the hated Turks. “And the aubergine… oh, the aubergine is a magnificent specimen of its kind.”
“Yes,” agreed the king. “It is truly masterful.” Half turning to the painter, he said, “Well done, Arcimboldo. You surpass your craft.”
“Thank you, Your Exalted Highness,” replied the artist, who stood looking on. “Your praise is food and drink to me.”
“We will see you tomorrow,” Rudolf told him. He crossed the wide floor of polished walnut to the chamber door, which was opened by one of the two pages standing at attention there; he entered the mirrored corridor. Turning to his chief alchemist following two steps behind him, he said, “We will expect you to inform us when this traveller fellow arrives. We wish most ardently to converse with him.”
“Never fear, Highness,” said Bazalgette with a respectful bow. “It will be a most interesting meeting of the minds, and I welcome it with greatest anticipation.”
The emperor gave a slight flick of his hand to dismiss his courtier and proceeded down the corridor, led by the regal figure of his master of audiences and the two young pages. “Ah! Bazalgette,” he called behind him. “Do not forget the Kaffee. We want very much to drink this Kaffee.”
“Worry for nothing, Highness,” answered the Lord High Alchemist. “It will be done.”
PART FIVE
The Man Who Is Map
CHAPTER 28
