Tipped scales

by Tym Greene   

An orc tries to create gold via alchemy. Naturally, when the magick goes wrong, he gets more than he bargained for.

The noise outside had finally died down, and an early dusting of snow—swiftly melting into dirty puddles—had shooed the lingering crowds back inside where it was warm and dry. Ulat Ulflump bit into the tea egg he’d purchased from a street vendor earlier that day, not tasting its slightly-sweet saltiness, nor did he appreciate the intricate marbled shell-crack pattern of the darkened albumen. He set the remaining half back on the plate and returned to his notebook, grateful that the Harvest Season was finally over.

Focused as he was on his work, the orc had no time to spare for such frivolities as candle dances and parades. Perhaps someday he’d be one of the ones awarded a triumphal crown of mint leaves while morys dancers frolicked around him. But only if I succeed, he reminded himself, popping the rest of the egg into his mouth, as much to free his hands from the need to feed him further as from actual hunger.

Two years ago he’d saved up a week’s worth of time off—and spent nearly his whole life savings—to take an airship across the mountains to the city of Bayard, as famous for its archives as it was for its scribes. He had pursued every lead, spent sleepless nights reading in the salt mine-cum-library, searching for any hint that what he’d dreamed was possible. On his last day before the airship would take him back to Mueh, he’d found an ancient text that spoke of a still more ancient work: one of the master magicians of desert-swallowed Nordant had succeeded in his transmutation.

The secret, it seemed, was not to begin with lead, but with copper. Copper begat silver, which begat gold—or so this second-hand account suggested. It was scanty proof, but the orc had returned home satisfied that his time had not been wasted, head buzzing with calculations. In the days and months since, he’d spent every free moment puzzling over his notebooks, over texts borrowed or purchased, with the single-mindedness that as a child had seen him playing with the same blocks until he had the feel for the balance of each, knew how far he might stack them off the centerline before they toppled. And now he proposed to do the same with the building blocks of the universe.

The evening’s gentle snowfall had warmed just enough so that the flakes now fell as frosty sleet, pattering at the windowpanes and hissing down the chimney. The only other sound in the taproom, apart from the skritch of his pen, was the gentle snore of the horse in the corner booth. Ulat would give her an hour more, then usher her up to her room. The orc’s natural interest in discovering the patterns behind the world had also translated itself into the calculation that guests for the five-day Harvest festival would be unlikely, as more and more travelers went to the capitol city for the occasion. This year the only guest of the Opened Strongbox Inn was the traveling metal merchant, caught by the inclement weather as much as by the holiday.

Even Lucian Ym—the owner of the inn and Ulat’s boss—had made the journey south to Gulporte. The jackal had left nearly ten days before, and it would likely be several more before he returned, leaving the orc with nothing but time and alchemy on his hands. He’d considered suggesting that Mr. Ym close the inn while he was away, but then he wouldn’t have been paid for being on duty, and that was money he needed for alembics and retorts and various esoteric substances. And food, he thought as he licked lingering crumbles of brown-stained egg white from his tusks.

That was the other cost to having the inn closed or nearly bereft of customers, he realized, looking over at the mare’s table. Being waiter as well as bartender meant that he could pick the choicest scraps from the plates he bussed, saving him from having to cook food as well as pay for it, but no customers meant no food; indeed, the inn’s little kitchen had been closed all week, leaving Ulat to fend for himself. But the hunger of the body was nothing when compared to the hunger of the mind.

Which was why he’d traded a few extra drinks (out of his allowance as employee, which he rarely used himself, apart from the elderclear liquor he sometimes re- distilled for use in his experiments) to the merchant in exchange for an ingot of pure copper from the mines near Bisect. And speaking of experiments...he looked at his calculations again, hardly believing what he saw.

Healthy doubt was part of the scientific process, and better than a superstitious assumption; just because a plant had an eye-shaped flower, for example, did not necessarily mean that it would be beneficial for ocular ailments. Of course, having studied Vernific—the subtle art of making potions based on sympathies and associations—he knew that such superficial similarities were often the first indicator of deeper affinities. All is not gold that glistereth, he’d read once. But sometimes it is gold, he added with a smirk. Which is why he’d thought to combine Vernific with Manusmij, the more scientific utilization of specific elements in discrete combinations, manipulated by precise diagrams and hand gestures; it was like designing a machine that would weave the cloth and tailor it to fit, all at once. And, like such a fantastical machine, he’d had so little luck in actually producing anything that he had often despaired.

Mayhap it would be better to cast this aside, he thought for the hundredth time. He could leverage his Vernific studies and his experience tending bar toward the creation of new liquors, settling for a small success with small alchemy, or he might pursue Manusmij further and publish esoteric papers filled with complicated diagrams and intricate calculations. Both paths might be considered successful, and neither held any appeal for Ulat Ulflump.

He had come across the vast Trade Waves from his homeland of Ioh, cabin boy on a merchant ship, in the hopes that the wild tales of wizards and witches were true.

They were not, but hidden within each fable was the kernel of reality he sought. So he’d stayed in this traders’ town, worked what jobs he might, and spent his money in pursuit of his childhood dream.

And would would Crenbon say about this? He’d found companionship with the cooper without meaning to, and discovered (much to his surprise) that evenings spent with the lithesome lung dragon were as pleasant as any alchemical discovery. A cooper and a bar-orc was not so unlikely a couple, and he could easily find himself setting aside his studies more and more often, as the mundanities of married life enfolded him. Ulat shook his head. He owed it to Crenbon Frie as much as to himself—and the world at large—to pursue his goal. How much better would things be if he met with the success he...

And there it was, right there on the page before him. He’d glanced away and then back, and the unguided pen had slipped in his hand, changing a single symbol of the complex formula, as simple as changing hot for cold. As is so often the case with great discoveries, a momentary mistake had thrown open the gates and lead him down a path he had never contemplated. Furiously, he copied it onto another page, working through the calculation with maddening slowness, frequently consulting one of the elemental compasses always ready to hand.

He’d convinced Mr. Ym to have the eight-point diagram emblazoned on each of the thin wood coasters that protected the tabletops from drink rings, and the jackal had agreed: after all, the eight elements and their interactions were the basis of everything, and an “Opened Strongbox” would not have anything to be filled with were it not for that esoteric chemistry. A tenuous connection, but it had set this inn apart from others, and Lucian Ym had been pleased with the slight uptick in customers; the orc, meanwhile, was glad that he could work out duets and trios on the engraved wooden squares without having to bring his precious tomes into the bar and risk them being spilled upon or stolen.

And now—but he daren’t hope. Daren’t breathe. Instead he plodded through double- and triple-checks of his suppositions, always reaching the same answer. The wide nostrils of his piggish nose vibrated with the effort it took to breathe slowly, and he closed the notebook, slipping it into a pocket.

Gently Ulat locked the inn’s front door and shuttered the windows, then coaxed the metal merchant into wakefulness, politely offering the mare his arm to escort her upstairs to her room. She took his arm and the shoulder as well, practically needing to be carried up each step, her hooves clopping unsteadily on the treads. Having already gone above and beyond his contracted duties, he let her flop fully-clothed on her bed and shut the door behind him.

It was all the orc could do to keep from dashing downstairs. A broken neck begets no discoveries, he cautioned himself, fighting to beat down his own eagerness with the flimsy rod of rationality. He opened his own room’s door and placed the notebook on his work table: he was at last ready to start.

First he kicked off his shoes, airing out feet weary from a day of standing behind the bar, immobile as any gateway guard, and flexed toes that relished the cool smooth floorboards. Lucian had allowed him this small ground-floor room—one of the half- dozen available for travelers to rent by day or week—with the understanding that his light always be lit and shadows moving, as a sign of habitation to any that might consider breaking in. This in exchange for a lessened rate, deducted from his wages, leaving enough for his experiments and a little food beyond the tavern scraps he didn’t mind scrounging.

The bed was barely a cot, with his old trunk open beneath it as an ersatz closet. Apart from a well-worn chair with a mended leg (also scrounged from the inn’s taproom), the rest of the space was given over wholly to the orc’s great work. Shelves held books and beakers, jars of fluids and caskets of minerals; sheets of parchment and paper had been fixed to the wall with dressmakers’ pins, written, scribbled, re-written, and diagrammed in a dozen colors of ink. In all this time, only Crenbon had been a guest in this room, and the red-and-yellow lung had proclaimed it to be a charming mess. “Just like you,” he’d added, giving Ulat a kiss. That had resulted in the discovery that his little bed could indeed hold two suitably-motivated men, though not for sleep.

He patted down the front of his apron, batting aside the burgeoning erection and forcibly shifting his mind from the art of romance to the science of an alchemy that was neither Manusmij nor Vernific. Instead, he turned the image in his mind’s eye from the alluring distraction of the chubbily-muscular dragon’s naked body to the proud grin suffusing his long and be-whiskered snout when Ulat Ulflump reigned triumphant over this new science.

Suitably motivated, he opened his notebook—irrationally afraid that the ink would have smeared or bubbled away to nothing while he wasn’t looking—and gave the calculation one final check. Texts and tomes and sheafs of notes opened themselves like pale flowers on his bed; the cross-references validated his supposition: he would not be sleeping this night.

Shaking fingers fumbled with the knot of his work apron as he stepped out of the clean canvas with its order pad and pencil in the upper pocket. The hook behind the door took it in exchange for the battered and stained leather apron he’d bought secondhand from a retiring blacksmith, trusting in the decades’ worth of ground-in iron to protect him as much as the thick pebbleback hide. He tied a pair of thick-lensed goggles in place, ignoring the way they dug into his temples and blurred the edges of his vision—better that than the loss of sight to some caustic chemical or unpredicted reaction.

And then his heart and mind would brook no further delay, not even allowing the re-lacing of boots nor donning of gloves. Like a being possessed, he ran his hand along the larger elemental compass he’d scratched into the tabletop himself, lines incised so deep as to be indelible, a circle containing a star comprised of two squares at forty-five degrees to one another, each point of which bearing the symbol of one of the eightfold elements. It’s so simple, he thought, chortling and fingering the ingot of copper. It fit so neatly in his hand, a comforting palm-sized weight, and as cold as if someone had cut a chunk out of the sky. He gingerly placed it on the tray of the steelyard balance that dangled from the beams above, positioned precisely over the middle of the table’s diagram. Holding it with one hand, he slid the counterweight along the demarcated arm until the pivot’s pointer confirmed the scale’s balance.

The little ingot weighed precisely a tenth of a stone, just as the merchant had promised.

And now it sat—leaden with purpose and possibility—on the balance pan, a cup- shaped bronze tray plated in platinum. This least-reactive metal was also the rarest and most expensive, costing nearly as much as the rest of his equipment combined; Ulat had often considered that platinum, rather than gold, ought to be the target of his experiments, but the truth was he simply could not afford sufficient quantities upon which to do tests. And the metal’s aristocratic nature—standing aloof from such peasantly activities as tarnishing and rusting—left the orc wondering if his alchemical transmutations might not even have an effect. Well, if I succeed this night I’ll have gold aplenty, and can move on to more noble experiments.

Setting aside such lofty dreams, he turned his attention back to the task at hand: there could be no mistakes.

Taking a breath, he used a hair-thin length of glass pipe to place a drop of the solution he’d prepared before, a modified version of what the old texts had called royal water, on top of the ingot. It remained as red as the little oranges that grew in Bisect, and for the moment was motionless. Given time it would eat straight through the bar and the pan beneath, but this was merely the catalyst, the connection between the imprecision of Vernific and the exactitude of Manusmij...he hoped. Ulat moved swiftly now, confidently gliding his palm over the symbols of the compass, stopping at the three that formed the triad of Decay and Rust, but he ran them in reverse: water, then growth, and finally metal. The stocky fingers of his other hand pointed at the fire and lightning symbols, keeping their activation ready to hand if ever the reaction seemed to slacken. His lips chapped as water was drawn from the room’s air, leaving it dry as the dead desert where those ancient wizards had once lived, though there was also a chill that had nothing to do with the season outside. Soon the only warmth he felt was that emanating from the ingot.

At first the transmutation went easily enough, the weight of copper halving to create the silver, which then halved again to create the gold. Its shrinking had been enough to dislodge the drop of solution, which tipped down one side of the bar and pooled in the pan beneath; but it had done its job, and he ignored it. A stirring in his loins matched the fervid pulse throbbing at his temple, as though the as-yet-un-activated lightning were instead pulsing through his veins. He stared, immobile, at the finger-sized miniature ingot, gleaming preternaturally as though the highlights and shadows had been painted on it, too bright to be real.

He was about to reach up and touch it, to confirm the report of his eyes with the avowal of other senses. Then his nostrils flared, scenting neither the blood tinge of copper nor the sharp tang of brass, but rather an un-aroma that was like the flavor of air above a mountain peak or the color of darkness within a closed tomb: somehow, he could smell the gold. His fingernail neared the ingot’s looking glass surface, reflected perfectly as though there were another Ulat inside it, stretching out to make contact with his twin, but a shimmer in that mirror made him withdraw, staring through his goggles as nothing happened. The gold bar was motionless, un-rippled, as solid as the steelyard’s cup in which it quiescently sat.

But even as he watched, the lump of gold on his scale grew soft around the edges, not melting so much as expanding, the way bread dough rises into a full and fluffy loaf. This, however, was no airy pastry, and the platinum-plated pan that held the growing mass began to tip, then crumple beneath its weight and heat. The ingot had become a fat frog, pressing against the chains that connected cup to balance, then straining even the solid beam of the scale, stretching and melting the delicate chains until they were little more than a single wire, bowing out around its bulk as the pan crept down to touch the table.

Light flashed in his eyes as he beheld the swelling soufflé, even as the table creaked under the increasing bulk of precious metal: not only had he found a way to create gold from copper, but he’d found a way to triple, quadruple, quintuple the amount. “I’ll call it quintessence,” he crowed triumphantly, the voice rasping in his dry throat, thinking of how marvelous—how lucrative—it would be to sell a vial with a tiny drop of his solution and instructions for a few simple hand movements, which combined were guaranteed to turn an amount of copper into five times its weight in gold. He would be rich!

But the gold continued to grow, consuming his equipment, softening glass and charring wood with the heat of its expansion. He’d spent his life looking at patterns, and now he saw another one: gold was valuable not in itself, but because it was valued, and scarcity is as certain a cause of value as any. Time rolled forward in his mind, and he saw a future wherein every clark, every farmer, every laborer in the mines had a vial of his quintessence, and every scrap of copper had been converted to gold. There would be gold enough to pave roads, to build cities, to clothe every meanest beggar in woven sunlight...and the smallest copper coin, a single dross, might then be rare enough—sufficiently valued enough—to buy the whole of it.

The scales fell from his eyes as the table crashed to the floor, its strength undone by the still-growing golden blob. There was another future now unspooling before his vision, one in which his reaction continued, unhindered, until it had swallowed the whole planet, turning Jorth into the orb atop the gods’ scepter, crushing it into itself with its own weight, a metal marble rolling amid the stars, as dead as it was dense.

And just when his despairing mind had begun to shake off its chains of what might be to even consider what might be done, he realized that he was trapped. The table’s wreckage and the mass atop it were now between him and the door to the east, and between him and the room’s little window to the west. He’d aligned the compass on the tabletop to the compass, as dictated by the most basic precepts of Manusmij, which meant that his back was to the southern wall, with nothing but his scant few shelves of books and equipment between him and plastered lath. He doubted he could claw his way through before the splotch crushed him against it. There was a creak as it pressed his bed against the north wall, sliding the cot’s frame a finger span across the floorboards until it too lit up against plaster.

Like a sailor watching the tide creep past the gunwales of his sinking ship and up the stairs to lap at the poop deck, he clambered up the shelves, trying futilely to put as much space between himself and the rising mass. Then, when he could retreat no farther, the gold touched the sole of his bare foot: it was as cold as ice, as hot as frostbite, and as insubstantial as thistledown. The thick nail of his thumb toe prodded the skin of the gold lump that enfolded it, again reminding him of swelling bread dough. The nail stretched the gold, then pierced it.

Before he had time to do aught but reflexively close his eyes behind the goggles, the mound burst as though it were only a single oversized soap bubble.

There came a ticklish sensation, like he was being dusted with powder or a midsummer drizzle, but still he waited a moment before opening his eyes. When he finally did, it was like an iridescent beetle had been turned inside out and stretched to cover every surface of his room. Mica-like flakes glistered and winked, even in the steady light of his glow lamp; the only thing that didn’t have its spangle of gold was his skin, which seemed even greener amid the monochromatic yellow brilliance

Overhead, there was a scream and a terrified whinny of “Jorthquake!” but by the time he’d pulled off his gold-misted goggles and dusted off sufficient of the telltale flakes to not drizzle them along the corridor like boot mud, the merchant had slipped back into marula-flavored sleep. With luck she would count it all a drunken dream, if she even remembered the scare come morning.

Going quietly back down the stairs, Ulat tried to restore some semblance of order to his room. The table and much of the equipment on it were a loss, and after removing some of the debris he saw what might have been the cause of his experiment’s failure. The platinum-plated balance pan had cracked beneath the weight it was not designed to carry, and a tiny seam of the bronze beneath had been exposed to the lingering royal water as well as the transmuting gold itself. Bronze being, if he remembered aright, seven-eighths copper, and one-eighth of tin and other metals, the copper had attracted the effect of his alchemy as though it were another ingot to be transmuted, and the impurities had tainted the process. He suspected he now knew how to fix the flaw, how to proceed with greater success—a solid platinum pan, a well cut into the copper bar to contain the solution, and a smaller volume of fluid might each or all go far to bring about his goal—but he also knew how futile such an attempt would be: a waste of time and energy if he failed, and a ravagement of the world’s fortunes if he succeeded.

Maybe that’s why the knowledge was lost in the first place, he thought with despair as he shook the tantalizing flakes from his bedspread. A knowledge too powerful for mere mortals, a genie’s twisted wish. Too bone-tired to go to the baths—especially this late at night after the holidays—he simply wiped his face and neck with a warm damp rag, thankful that Mr. Ym had seen fit to install a hot-water cistern powered by a Manusmij-activated rock; such a simple luxury befitted an inn across the square from the Market House, center of the Mueh’s business and home of its empire- standard weights and measures. Lucian had aspirations of making his inn a standard as well, of the sort of dependable comfort traveling merchants would swear by and long for on their travels. Thus far he had been unsuccessful in attaining this aim, but Ulat had always hoped to set aside some of his gold, once he was able to make as much as he liked, to reward the old jackal for his patience. Now that that’s not going to happen, maybe I should give more attention to my job, said a sour voice sulking in the back of his head.

He slept fitfully, dreaming of a golden lichen that rose over the world like a cresting wave, until it had completely covered him in its overlapping stony scales.

The mare checked out early that morning, swaying a bit on her hooves but avowing that she needed to get over the mountains before winter set in. Mumbling something about the iron foundries of Bayard, she hefted her trunk and sample box with ease and left. Ulat could see a shudder ripple her mane as she crossed the threshold, as though shaking off the memory of a bad night. Your fault, the sour voice pointed out, reiterating this assertion as he shuttered the blinds and locked the door behind him.

Cobbles and pavers were mostly bare, with only the hardiest souls bearing both the early winter gusts and the post-fete hangovers most were surely nursing. Though the sky was clear and the bluish-white of frozen steel, it seemed as though the few other folks he passed in his trek northwards had grey clouds looming above their brows; or perhaps it was just his own mental storm clouding his view of the world. A goldless world, or, more accurately, a world containing only the gold with which it had been created. He sniffed and ran a sleeve across his upturned nose: the orc was not crying as such, but frustration seemed to leak from eye and nostril regardless of his feelings.

The city gate was open, and the warehouses built into the banks of the B’runtung River were bustling. Here, at least, things seemed to be business as usual. He strode to one of the out-thrust bartizans of the Pomposa Bridge, ignoring the lantern-holding statues’ haughty gaze as he watched stevedores unloading sacks of grain, the result of harvests from farms and fields both upriver and down the coast. A lodesman poling his boat along the river glanced up at the lone orc on the bridge, face momentarily hopeful that he might be lost and needing a guide, but Ulat shook his head and the pole speared through the icy water as the boat slid beneath one of the bridge’s arches.

But he could only watch the burly laborers earning their wages for so long before he began to feel his own shortcomings. Like his father, he tended toward fat, and only his ascetic habits had kept him from growing soft and round; he didn’t have the muscle to become a payuq dance-wrestler like the older orc. Nor had his dedication been to the ways of the body: he’d never seen the point of lifting great weights repeatedly, or running in circles in the yard by the baths like his more athletic fellows. He had always hoped to win fame and fortune by the efforts of his mind, thus obviating such gross exertions, but now that the river’s cold breezes had eased the ache of his brow, he realized that the walk across the city had left him weary and breathless.

Or perhaps it was because he hadn’t eaten since the previous afternoon’s tea eggs. His stomach took that moment to voice its opinion on the matter, and he clutched his arms around his coat, as though that could stifle the loud grumbling. “It’s a good thing I’m meeting Crenny for lunch,” he mumbled as he turned back towards the city. The clocktowers were just striking the fifth hour when he stepped through the door of the Golden Apples Tavern.

It seemed any mention of the accursed metal was enough to raise his ire after the previous night’s failure, and the large menu placards didn’t help: Golden Ale, Gold- Crust Pasty, and the special, a berry crisp topped with the eponymous golden apples, were just a sample of the auric-themed selections. He was about to spin on his boot heel and leave when he caught a glimpse of fiery red amid the golden yellow of the tavern’s decor. He felt his frustration cool as though it had been plunged into the deep blue-green of the ocean, and gratefully joined Crenbon Frie at the little two- seat table.

“You look a sorry state,” the lung dragon chuckled, his long mustaches wafting in a nonexistent breeze, golden eyes sparkling merrily.

Ulat couldn’t bear to meet them, his own lavender gaze tracing the worn grain of the tabletop. “It’s been a long day. Several days. Life’s work,” he added with slumped shoulders.

“As bad as all that? And here I thought you’d just been out carousing without me. I know how wild you are.” But the crimson-scaled hand dropped gently on his own, and he finally looked at the long face of the man he’d come to care for. “Whatever it is,” Crenbon said with a soft purr of sincerity, “we’ll face it together.”

Then a centaur in a yellow apron clopped up with a smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. The lung ordered for both of them—two ciders and two pasties—and Ulat found himself eagerly awaiting their arrival.

“I’d considered canceling,” he admitted as the waiter’s handsome rump retreated, “but since that would have meant finding a messenger or going to find you myself, it was just easier to come. And I haven’t eaten since yesterday,” he added when his stomach again made its presence known.

“So I can hear,” the lung chuckled ruefully, leaning close. His eyes flicked up. “You have gold in your eyebrows. Is this some new trend amongst fashionable barkeeps?” He lifted a talon to dust it off, but Ulat brushed him aside, still stinging with the ludicrousness of his defeat. And, though he didn’t realize it, remembering the touch of lichen in his dream.

It had all seemed so certain…

“Look,” Crenbon continued, once they’d started in on their lunch, “your boss is still in Gulporte, right? And mine is in bed with a hangover, so why don’t we go to the baths and get you properly clean? It’ll help you relax,” he coaxed in that singsong wheedling voice that made Ulat want to hug him and push him away at the same time.

“All right, you win,” he chuckled despite himself. After all, what good would remaining dour accomplish? And perhaps they might talk about his future, once the water had soothed away his cares. But then their food arrived and they were too intent on eating to talk further. And when they did talk, it was Crenbon who did most of the work, going on about the difference between cask sizes he was learning about, the different shapes and woods that were more suitable for this or that type of fluid.

“Cider like this,” he said, swirling his glass so the last swallow of gold fluid, “is best in maple, or oak.” The lung pointed at the bar where several barrelheads poked through holes in the wall. “Did you know they have to finish off the cask within a few days of breaching it, or the cider will spoil? It’s because of the air vent on the top: without the vent, air can’t flow in to replace the fluid that’s poured out, but the longer it’s exposed to the air, the worse it tastes.”

“Better finish it off, then,” Ulat said with a grin despite himself, swallowing the last of his own drink. The mild alcohol seemed to taste stronger, with more of a bright apple essence and hints of pear; he could even distinguish the woody notes of the oak in which it had been stored. He shrugged it off, everyone knew that hunger was the best seasoning, and his lunch had tasted better than anything he’d had in days. So he dropped a few square silver coins on the table, then added a handful of bronze to tip their waiter for his speedy and quiet service, and followed Crenbon back out into the cold and quiet of the city’s central square.

Beyond the stilted Market House, the shuttered windows of The Opened Strongbox seemed to glare at him, but the lung was tugging his arm, pulling him across the square and toward the baths. The large structure was in the south, near the towered Iohnian enclave. It was also within smelling distance of the dustfields beyond the wall where the city disposed of its rubbish, and Ulat sometimes disposed of his more volatile failed experiments. At least this one just resulted in crushed equipment, he thought as he followed the lung’s swishing tail, remembering less mundane failures: one of his earlier attempts had left a hole in his room’s floorboards, hidden now beneath his bookshelves. In retrospect, he was grateful it hadn’t given way beneath him when he was scuttling away from the growing golden bubble.

Shaking off a shudder at the memory—or perhaps a chill from the early winter wind gusting through the locker room door—he stripped and placed his clothes in a locker beside Crenbon’s. This first room was like the clasp of a beaded necklace, with the first pool to the left and the last to the right, each bead in the chain was a round room with a single pool, and a little rivulet connecting them, allowing bathers to swim from one to the next if they didn’t wish to haul themselves out to walk along the edge. Being in the Iohnian style, the baths were series of round rooms topped with low domes, each one of a different temperature, perfect for traveling merchants to wash the mud of foreign parts off their more-domestic parts before reentering their homes.

The form was familiar to Ulat, but the trappings here were far nicer and newer than the old one he barely remembered from his childhood village, which had been little more than a few mud and wood huts, always leaking plaster into the water. Here in Mueh, wealthy Iohnian expats had built their ideal idea of these baths from marble, with light threading through their seemingly solid quartz domes. Statues and mosaics decorated nearly every surface, dripping and always looking freshly- scrubbed.

He waited for space to clear, then leapt into the first pool, suppressing a gasp at the cool water’s embrace, the bubbles of his dive caressing leg and buttock and belly. It was also uncomfortably similar to the way the gold had felt as it pressed around his foot, solid yet soft, cold but bubbling with energy. Yellow light seemed to flash outside his closed eyelids, but when he surfaced it was just the scales of Crenbon’s chest. He let the lung lead him through the rooms, warm, then hot, then cool, then warm again. They passed other bathers, some reclining with damp washcloths over their foreheads—sure sign of post-revel hangover cures—others whispering in little knots or tossing around small pumice balls.

And speaking of balls, Ulat thought, glancing up at an older man walking by on the stone pavement that lined each pool and connected the rooms. The horse had clearly been a stevedore, or perhaps a cart-puller, with the corded muscles and wrinkled flesh that spoke of a great strength not yet fled. His shaft was nestled in its sheath, but his balls dangled low, gleaming like polished ebony in the misty air. The drafter caught the orc’s gaze and winked broadly, but Ulat merely smiled and shook his head, as though to say, “No thanks, I’m just window-shopping,” then followed Crenbon to the next room. Still, he caught a glimpse of the horse’s shaft beginning to emerge from its sheath as they passed. I wonder what that feels like, he thought.

They’d reached a fork in the downward flow, with the left branch continuing the loop of room-pools. The right branch, guarded by a hippo in the terrycloth tunic and braes of bath employees, lead to the pool in the middle of the circle. Seeing them, she glanced down to confirm that both were of age and neither was coercing the other, then waved them through. Unlike the other spaces, this was low and dark, lit only by glows in obsidian lanterns, which turned the water’s steam into campfire smoke. It was quieter too, apart from whispers and stifled moans and rhythmic sloshings. Like any bather, he knew that this pool was a place adults could go into for sex, then still have the last two rooms to clean off in. He also knew that non- Iohnians had started the practice of going backwards to the hotter rooms, wanting to more-fully relax after their exertions. Ulat had often wanted to try this himself, but his family’s teachings had thus far held him firm. But this day something in his mind seemed different, as though he could see things from a greater height, see the practical reason behind the tradition: the goal was to keep each tub cleaner than the last, like an artist’s graduated brush wash cups; but he could also see how the modern Manusmij-driven filters excluded anything that wasn’t water from the water, obviating the need for such fastidious habits.

Unable to see the abstracted look on his boyfriend’s face, Crenbon had pulled him over to one of the smooth-worn marble couches where the lung reclined. A further tug and the pair were belly-to-belly, with the dragon’s tail flicking between Ulat’s thighs in the shallow water. Getting the hint, Ulat ground his hips against the Crenny’s, leaning forward to kiss the long snout. A hand, sliding between skin and scales, found their shafts, squeezing them and rubbing each against the other. The orc’s finger ran gently along underneath his foreskin, heart thrumming with the sensation and the warm water, muscles tensed by disappointment finally starting to unbind.

Perhaps this time, he thought, he might shake off his hidebound tradition and join the trickle of bathers going back upstream. There was a bottle of oil floating by, kept upright in the water by a little collar of cork around the neck; he snagged it and poured a viscous splash over his hand and cock, letting more dribble on the yellow- scaled hole before him. Sliding in beneath the dragon’s balls, straddling his tail, Ulat thrust slowly. He’d often thought that their size difference—Crenbon was a full cubit taller than the orc—had its benefits as well as its downsides, one of which being that the bigger man’s tailhole all the more readily welcomed him in. It was an easy fit, and one made familiar by long practice.

With the intensity of his recent focus, it had been a while since he’d last allowed himself a release like this, and it had been well before the holiday since the two had been able to spend time together. He found it surprisingly easy to let his thoughts slip away, to be enfolded by the physical sensations, the welcome hole that was wrapped around him, the claws that gripped him, pulling him close, the breath that moaned in his ear, echoing the grunts and groans of a half dozen other couples in the darkness around them.

It was a pleasant way to spend an afternoon.

Only, after he had cum, after Crenbon had flogged himself to finish as well, Ulat found his body protesting more than it had before. It was hard to straighten back up, as though his hips weren’t designed for a bipedal stance, and the limp cock that slithered out of the lung dragon’s drooling hole didn’t dangle sloppily against his thigh or even bob in the water: instead he felt it sucked up seemingly into to his belly. He reached down and found why it had felt like it was being turned inside out, for his cock now nestled within a plump-skinned sheath affixed firmly to his abdomen; to add insult to injury, his belly button had vanished as well.

Forgetting entirely his intention of a long and leisurely soak back in the hotter pools, he fairly raced through the last two, letting the colder water sluice the sweat and oil from his body, keeping his body hidden beneath the water as he dragged Crenny along. On reaching the steps of the last pool, he hastily snagged a towel to wrap around his altered nudity; lying about an in-progress experiment he’d forgotten about, he threw on his clothes and gave the dragon a perfunctory kiss on the snout. He barely heard Crenbon’s promise to take him to dinner, nor realized that his grunt could have been considered agreement. Leaving behind a mystified boyfriend, he rushed back to the inn, so quickly in fact that he forgot to lock the little side door behind him.

Back in his room, and in solid light of a glowstone—for he didn’t dare open the shutters—Ulat Ulflump stripped nude to examine his body. The sheath was still there, with the head of his dick hidden in its depths, just as he’d feared. Unlike the jet-sheathed horse he’d seen in the baths, however, his groin was yellow, shading to the plain green skin he’d been born with. Sure enough, his navel was nowhere to be found; more worrying was the lack of nipples and body hair. He ran his hands down the too-smooth torso, as though the lapping of the baths’ waters had been an ocean wearing away at a stone statue. But the touch was too much, preternaturally intense, like little bolts of lightning between finger and skin, and he felt his shaft stirring again.

He looked down past the yellowing belly—the hue spreading, leeching the blue hue from his skin—to watch his cock emerge. Its familiar roundness had been sharpened into points, an arrowhead tip and ridged shaft that felt firm when he gripped it. It looked, he couldn’t help but think, similar to Crenbon’s. His toes flexed with pleasure, digging furrows in the floorboards as he explored his altered organ, similarly-sharp fingernails scratching against its surface harmlessly.

A metallic click drew his eye back down: his fingertips were bulbous, his nails more like bronzed talons, and his shaft was, impossibly, gold. He gripped it again, watching the sheen shift as its surface bent beneath the pressure of his clawlike hand, felt the heat and slickness of its surface. It was like a lewd gold statue had been brought to life without altering its substance...like the golems he’d read about.

Golems, another lost art of ancient Nordant. Perhaps the two magics were connected, perhaps not, but yet here he was, with a changing body and a golden spear ensheathed between his thighs.

He barely noticed that his balls seemed to have vanished, drawn up inside his body where they were safer, even as his hips widened and his back ached. He dropped writhing onto his bed—which creaked ominously—as he felt his spine lengthen. Eyes screwed shut, it seemed as though he were watching through his body as the new vertebrae were formed one by one, bone coalescing from nothingness in a matter of heartbeats.

Opening an eye, he saw the tapered tail waving before him, undulating slowly, hypnotically; it took a moment to realize that his neck had lengthened as well, and that his stretched-out head was bobbing along with it. Ulat sighted along the new snout like a crossbow’s bolt, seeing raised nostrils flare as he scented the room, smelling his old orcish aroma as well as the new, spicier, earthier musk, threaded throughout with the non-smell of pure gold.

He drank this in, letting his mouth hang open so his tongue could flick out and add its sense to the mix. A dollop of viscous dampness formed at the tip of his shaft, squeezed as it was by his growing hand, and the scents were multiplied fivefold in intensity and complexity. Ulat’s vision blurred, and his entaloned hand stroked the bumps and flexible spikes of his inhuman shaft, gripping and squeezing, pressing clawtips against the pliant metallic flesh as his breath became shorter, more ragged, deeper.

The sound of a door creaking brought to mind a treasure chest, its lid unopened for centuries, its rust-spangled hinges protesting before revealing the bounty piled within. In his mind’s eye he was surrounded by dozens of these caskets, each one opening, each one pouring its riches upon him in a glittering cascade of coins and chains and crowns, jewel-encrusted tomes and gilded flowers, nuggets and ingots and a dusting of flakes, until he was awash in a golden hoard. With a bellow that shook plaster from the walls, he came.

Pearly cum spattered his chest and chin, spattering wetly on the wall and floor behind him, and his cot finally gave up, collapsing beneath his grown bulk. Sticky, breathless, and disoriented, his neck swung around lazily to see a familiar red face, one eye closed beneath a gobbet of semen, the other golden orb staring fixedly. The lung’s mouth was open, and more cum dangled from his upper lip; even as Ulat watched, the tongue flicked out to sample it, as though acting of its own accord.

“Hello Crenny,” Ulat said...or tried to say; instead it came out as an unintelligible rumble, like an earthquake had a mouthful of giants’ marbles. He tried again, putting all his focus into moving unfamiliar lips and tongue. “Hrrrrello Currrrnny,” he finally managed.

“What have you done with Ulat?” Crenbon Frie said in a flat voice, gaze flicking down at the golden belly, as though expecting the monster to say he’d eaten the orc. Or perhaps his attention was captivated by the shaft that was slowly slipping back into its sheath.

Ulat realized he could smell his boyfriend’s mingled fear and arousal, could sense aspects of the other man’s health, as well as lingering flavors of their lunch and bath and the everpresent sawdust smell one might expect from a cooper’s journeyman. He craned his neck forward, snout-to-snout with the other, smaller dragon, watching until he was sure that Crenbon had seen the too-familiar lavender irises before he spoke. “I ahrrrrm Uullt,” he rumbled.

Then his tongue flicked out to lick his seed from the smaller man’s face with a tenderness that finally melted the red lung’s shock.

It was well into evening before he had managed to explain everything, gaining more vocal dexterity as he told of the experiment, its failure, his realization of the futility of his work, and his suspicion that it had everything to do with his current form.

They now sat on the wreckage of his cot, his legs and tail curled around the smaller dragon, and the immense stomach rumbled its hunger, an octave lower than it had sounded behind an orc’s belly. Crenbon went to fetch food and ended up spending the night, both men sleeping deeply after several hours spent exploring Ulat’s changed body.

The next morning found Lucian Ym pounding on the door, wanting to know why his inn was shuttered and empty of customers. After a worried glance at the feral gold dragon and a rueful smile beneath those lavender eyes, Crenbon threw on his trousers and opened the door a crack. He half-bowed to the shorter jackal and told him all would be revealed, if he promised not to shout or run away. Ulat could smell the canine’s concern and tried to pull himself into as small a knot as possible.

Crenbon ushered the jackal in, eyes obediently closed, then shut the door behind him.

“Hrrrloo, Mrrrrstr Eeym,” Ulat said as softly as he could manage, watching his employer’s eyes snap open and his jaw drop. He was rewarded with a little barking yelp as the jackal’s hackles rose, but then Crenbon stepped in to placate and explain.

“I knew ye were courtin’ trouble,” Mr. Ym said once he understood.. “What will the town council say when they find out I’ve a beast like ye in my tavern?”

“Wrllll,” Ulat said after a moment’s consideration, “at lrrst I can strlll guarrd.”

The jackal stroked his scruffy chin, “Aye, that you can.”

The months fell away and the harvest festival came and went twice more. Crenbon heated his brand to “sign” another finished and primed cask, then rolled it along the flagstones to where one of the newly-hired workers filled it from the spigot built into the spirit safe at the head end of the gooseneck still. A bloom of fruit and flower scent filled the room with the scent of one of Ulat’s more popular concoctions.

Crenbon inhaled deeply, then checked the timepiece in his apron pocket: it was an hour past midday, so the lunch rush should have thinned enough for the dragons to be able to take their own meal.

On light feet he crossed the small courtyard that connected the kitchen and distillery to the inn proper, passing servers with the inn’s new symbol embroidered on their aprons: a strongbox with its lid open to reveal an ouroboros-girdled elemental compass. It had been Ulat’s idea, after all. In the large and boisterous taproom, more waiters and waitresses bounded from bar to table and back, ferrying drinks and food and money, while a knot of nervous-looking folk—obviously tourists—stood at the bar itself and sipped their drinks without taking their eyes off the personage behind it.

A blue scarf and green vest (also embroidered with the inn’s mark in gold thread) were all Ulat Ulflump wore as he worked, sometimes using his tail to grab a bottle, sometimes sitting on his haunches to free up both forepaws. Crenbon could feel the subtle vibrations in the floorboards as the dragon moved, big as a pebbleback and just as heavy, but with a precision and delicacy that belied his strength.

The lung waved at his boyfriend, grinning at the way the tourists flinched when Ulat waved back. Truly he was like some monster from ancient tales brought to life—especially given his role as nightly guarddragon—but the draw for customers wanting to see the famed feral dragon bartender was more than enough to justify the expense of expansion, the conversion of the inn’s kitchen into the dragon’s new chamber and workshop, and the purchase of the neighboring building. This had become the inn’s new kitchen and storeroom, as well as the office for what was rapidly becoming a tidy little alcohol manufactory.

Not content to just be an oversized burglar alarm, Ulat had shifted his alchemy into distillery. Utilizing his heightened sense of smell to mix new and exciting liquors didn’t hurt business in the slightest, and his decoctions and infusions were toasted both in the Opened Strongbox Inn and across the whole of the country. For the failed experiment had not failed: in its own way, it made Ulat Ulflump more gold than he could ever want.

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