"If we had stayed any longer the Inquisition would have come for us," said Monsieur Arlanc in a similarly hoarse and burnt voice.

"Yes—if for no other reason than the stench," put in Vrej Esphahnian. Of all of them, he had taken the most precautions—viz. wearing leather gloves that could be shaken off when his hands burst into flame spontaneously. So he was in a better state than the others.

"It is well that we had Mr. Foot with us," said Surendranath, "to bamboozle the Inquisitors into thinking that we pursued some sacred errand!" Surendranath had not spent all that much time among Christians, and his incredulous glee struck them all as just a bit unseemly.

"I'll take a share of the credit for that," said Padraig Tallow, who had lost his dominant eye, and all the hair on one side of his head. "For 'twas I who supplied Mr. Foot with all of his churchly clap-trap; he only spoke lines that I wrote."

"No one denies it," said Surendranath, "but even you must admit that the inexhaustible fount and ever-bubbling wellspring of nonsense, gibberish, and fraud was Ali Zaybak!"

"I cede the point gladly," said Padraig, and both men turned to see if Jack would respond to their baiting. But Jack had been distracted by an odor foul enough to register even on his raspy and inflamed olfactory. Van Hoek had got the bandage off his right hand. The tips of his three remaining fingers were swollen and weeping.

"I told you," said Jack, "you should have used this stuff." He gestured to the aloe-plant, or rather the stump of it, as Jack had just snapped off the last remaining branch. It was growing in a pot of damp dirt, which was carried on its own wee palanquin: a plank supported at each end by a boy. "The Portuguese brought it out of Africa," Jack explained.

"Truly you are thinking like an Alchemist, then," muttered van Hoek, staring morosely at his rotting digits. "Everyone knows that the only treatment for burns is butter. It is proof of how far gone you are in outlandish ways, that you would rather use some occult potion out of Africa!"

"When do you think you'll amputate?" Jack inquired.

"This evening," said van Hoek. "That way I shall have twenty-four hours to recuperate before the battle." He looked to Surendranath for confirmation.

"If our objective were to make time, and to cross the Narmada by day, we could do it tomorrow," said Surendranath. "But as our true purpose is to ‘fall behind schedule,' and reach the crossing too late, and be trapped against the river by the fall of night, we may proceed at a leisurely pace. This evening's camp would be a fine time and place to carry out a minor amputation. I shall make inquiries about getting you some syrup of poppies."

"More chymistry!" van Hoek scoffed, and dipped his hand into a pot of ghee. But he did not object to Surendranath's proposal. "I could have been a brewer," he mused. "In fact, I was!"

VAN HOEK HAD SURRENDERED his brewing-coppers to Jack and gone down to the harbor of Diu to see about hiring a dhow or something like it. Jack, spending Surendranath's capital, had set some local smiths to work beating the copper tuns into new shapes—shapes that Jack chalked out for them from his memories of Enoch Root's strange works in the Harz Mountains. Surendranath had sent messengers north to the kingdom of Dispenser of Mayhem, along with money to buy the freedom of Vrej Esphahnian and Monsieur Arlanc. Then the Banyan, somewhat against his better instincts, had set about turning himself into a urine mogul.

Some simple deals struck with the caste of night-soil-collectors and chamber-pot-emptiers caused jugs, barrels, and hogsheads of piss to come trundling into van Hoek's brewery-compound every morning. By and large these had been covered, to keep the stink down, but Jack insisted that the lids be taken off and the piss be allowed to stand open under the sun. Complaints from the neighbors—consisting largely of religious orders—had not been long in coming. And it was then that Mr. Foot had come into his own; for he'd been at work with needle and thread, converting his black Puritan get-up into a sort of Wizard's robe. His line of patter consisted half of Alchemy—which Jack had dictated—and half of Popery, which Padraig Tallow could and did rattle off in his sleep.

What Jack knew of Alchemy-talk came partly from the mountebanks who would stand along the Pont-Neuf peddling bits of the Philosopher's Stone; partly from Enoch Root; and partly from tales that he had been told, more recently, by Nyazi, who knew nothing of chymistry but was the last word on all matters to do with camels.

"Amon, or Amon-Ra, was the great god of the ancient peoples of al-Khem.

SEPTEMBER 1693

"ROGER, YOU ARE a great man now, and worth more than the Great Mogul."

"So I have heard, Daniel—but it is perfectly all right—I do not mind hearing it again."

"You are also educated, after a fashion."

"'Tis better to be educable—but pray continue in your flattery, which is so very unlike you."

"So then. What metaphysical significance do you attach to the fact that you are unable to pay for a cup of coffee?"

"Why, Daniel, I say that I just did pay, not for one, but two—unless that object on the table before you is a mirage."

"But you didn't, really, my lord. Coffee was brought forth and you incurred a debt, pricked down on Mrs. Bligh's ledger."

"Are you questioning my solvency, Daniel?"

"I am questioning the whole country's solvency! Empty out your coin-purse. Right there on the table. Let's have a look."

"Don't be vulgar, Daniel."

"Oh, now 'tis I who am vulgar."

"Ever since you had the stone cut out, you have seemingly regressed in age."

"I will bet you the whole contents of my purse that yours contains not a single piece of metal that could be exchanged for a bucket of cods' heads at Billingsgate."

"If your purse's contents were worth so much, you'd be Massachusetts-bound. Everyone knows that."

"You see? You are afraid to accept the wager."

"Why do you belabor me about the fact that England has no money?"

"Because you are a momentous fellow now, rumors career about you like gulls round a herring-boat, and I want you to do something about it, so that I can go to America…right. Very well, my lord, I shall give you a few minutes to bring your mirth under control. If you can hear what I am saying, wave at me—oh, very good. Roger Comstock, I say 'tis well enough for you that you have credit, and can buy cups of coffee, or houses, by simply asking for them. Many other men of power enjoy the same privilege—including our King, who appears to be financing his war through some kind of alchemy. But some of us are required actually to pay for what we buy, and we have nothing to pay with at the moment. They say that America is awash in Pieces of Eight, and that is a sight I would fain see—alas, ships' captains do not dispense credit, at least, not to Natural Philosophers…. Oh yes, my lord, do be entertained. I am here in Mrs. Bligh's coffee-house, in pied rags, solely as a Court Jester to Creditable Men, and request only that you throw a silver coin at me for every giggle and a gold one for each guffaw. Fresh out? What, no coins in the bank? Does your purse hang as flaccid as a gelding's scrotum? 'Tis a common condition, Roger, and this brings me round to another subject 'pon which I will briefly discourse while you blow your nose, and wipe the tears from your eyes, and that is: What if all debts, public and private, were to be called in? What if Mrs. Bligh were to march over to this cozy corner with her accompt-book resting open on her bosom like a Bible on a Lectern and say, Roger Comstock, you owe me your own weight in rubies, pay up straightaway!"

"But, Daniel, that never happens. Mrs. Bligh, if she wants coffee-beans, can go down to the docks and shew her book—or her Lectern, in a pinch—to a merchant and say, ‘Behold, every powerful man in London is in debt to me, I have collateral, lend me a ton of Mocha and you'll never be sorry!' "