Walton - Quintessence

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Acknowledgments

Writing is a solitary business. Novels are generally written by one person, spending many hours alone with his own imagination. Its a delight, therefore, when other people add their various insights and skills to bring a book to its final form.

Many thanks to my beta-readers, whose critiques were invaluable: Karen Walton, Mike Shultz, John Brown, Nancy Fulda, Chad and Jill Wilson, and David Cantine. Thanks as well to the many members of the Codex writers group for all their support and good advice, particularly Matt Rotundo, Christine Amsden, and Jessica Otis for her insights on sixteenth-century period details.

You probably picked the book off the shelf in the first place because of the beautiful cover art from Kekai Kotaki. And you would not be holding this book in your hand without the efforts of my stellar agent, Eleanor Wood, or without the faith and hard work of the editors at Tor: David Hartwell, Stacy Hague-Hill, and Marco Palmieri. Thanks to all of you.

Contents

B Y the time Lord Chelseys ship reached the mouth of the Thames, only thirteen men were still alive.

Chelsey stood at the bow of the Western Star, staring mutely at the familiar stretch of English coastline. The coal fire in North Forelands octagonal lighthouse tower burned, just as it had when theyd left, guiding ships into the sheltered estuary. The silted islands were the same, with the same sailboats, dinghies, and barges wending through the maze of sandbanks, carrying trade goods between Essex and Kent. After seeing the great Western Ocean crashing headlong over the edge of the world, it seemed impossible that these familiar sights should remain. As if nothing had changed.

Nearly home, said the first mate, the eighth young man to hold that post since leaving London three years before. He was seventeen years old.

Chelsey didnt answer. He didnt insult the boy by promising a joyous reunion with family and friends. They would see London again, but they wouldnt be permitted to step ashore. It was almost worse than failure, this tantalizing view of home, where life stumbled on in ignorance and peace.

But he hadnt failed. He had campaigned for years to convince King Henry there were treasures to be found at the Western Edge, and he had been right. The barrels and chests that crammed the ships hold should be proof of that, at least. Treasures beyond even his imagining, not just gold and cinnamon and cloves, but precious materials never before seen, animals so strange they could hardly be described, and best of all, the miraculous water. Oh, yes, he had been right. At least he would be remembered for that.

Black-headed gulls screamed and dove around them. Through the morning mist, Chelsey spotted the seawalls of the Essex shoreline, only miles from Rochford, where hed been raised.

He shifted painfully from one leg to the other. It wouldnt be long for him. Hed witnessed it enough by now to know. Once the elbows and knees stiffened, the wrists and fingers would lock soon after, followed by the jaw, making eating impossible. One by one, they had turned into statues. And the painthe pain was beyond description.

They sailed on. Marshlands gave way to the endless hamlets and islands and tributaries of the twisting Thames, the river increasingly choked with traffic. At last they circled the Isle of Dogs and came into sight of London Bridge and the Tower of London, beyond which sprawled the greatest city in the world.

Admiral? It was the first mate. Youd best come down, sir. Its a terrible thing.

Chelsey wondered what could possibly be described as terrible that hadnt already happened. He followed the mate down into the hold, gritting his teeth as he tried to bend joints that felt as if they might snap. Two other sailors were there already. They had pried open several of the chests and spilled their contents. Where there should have been fistfuls of gold and diamonds and fragrant sacks of spices, there were only rocks and sand.

His mind didnt want to believe it. It wasnt fair. He had traveled to the ends of the earth and found the fruit of the Garden of Paradise. God couldnt take it away from him, not now.

Are all of them like this?

We dont know.

Open them!

They hurried to obey, and Chelsey joined in the effort. Wood splintered; bent nails screeched free. They found no treasure. Only sand and dirt, rocks and seawater. He ran his fingers through an open crate, furrowing the coarse sand inside. It was not possible. All this distance, and so many deadit couldnt be for nothing.

What happened to it? he whispered.

No one answered.

He had failed after all. Soon he would die like all the others, and no one would remember his name.

He tried to kick the crate, but his leg cramped, turning the defiant gesture into something weak and pitiful. God would not allow him even that much. Lord Robert Chelsey, Admiral of the Western Seas, collapsed in agony on the stained wooden floor. He had lost everything. Worse, he would never know why.

Chapter One

T HERE was something wrong with the body. There was no smell, for one thing. Stephen Parris had been around enough corpses to know the aroma well. Its limbs were stiff, its joints were locked, and the eyes were shrunken in their socketsall evidence of death at least a day oldbut the skin looked as fresh as if the man had died an hour ago, and the flesh was still firm. As if the body had refused to decay.

Parris felt a thrill in his gut. An anomaly in a corpse meant something new to learn. Perhaps a particular imbalance of the humors caused this effect, or a shock, or an unknown disease. Parris was physic to King Edward VI of England, master of all his profession had to teach, but for all his education and experience, the human body was still a mystery. His best attempts to heal still felt like trying to piece together a broken vase in the dark without knowing what it had looked like in the first place.

Most people in London, even his colleagues, would find the idea of cutting up a dead person shocking. He didnt care. The only way to find out how the body worked was to look inside.

Where did you get him? Parris asked the squat man who had dropped the body on his table like a sack of grain.

Special, aint he? said the man, whose name was Felbrigg, revealing teeth with more decay than the corpse. From the Mad Admirals boat, that one is.

You took this from the Western Star ? Parris was genuinely surprised and took a step back from the table.

Now then, I never knew you for a superstitious man, Felbrigg said. Hes in good shape, just what you pay me for. Heavy as an ox, too.

The Western Star had returned to London three days before with only thirteen men still alive on a ship littered with corpses. Quite mad, Lord Chelsey seemed to think he had brought an immense treasure back from the fabled Island of Columbus, but the chests were filled with dirt and stones. He also claimed to have found a survivor from the Santa Maria on the island, still alive and young sixty years after his ship had plummeted over the edge of the world. But whatever they had found out there, it wasnt the Fountain of Youth. Less than a day after they had arrived in London, Chelsey and his twelve sailors were all dead.