C Michael MacAlister
I Make Marks On Paper
Finished Manuscript, currently with agents and publishers. Stands at 280K words (I know, I know... really really long!)
Comments and feedback welcome!
Callum
Comments and feedback welcome!
Thanks!THE QUINTESSENCE MACHINE
By C. Michael MacAlister
PROLOGUE
January 8th 1583
The last rotare fitted into its socket with a satisfying click. Matteo Galdini sighed and leaned back on the tall stool, removing the magnifying lenses from his eyes and stretching his knotted muscles.
“It is done?” asked the dark-clad man behind him, and Galdini nodded, turning slightly towards the voice.
“Aye, sir,” he replied softly, shifting his attention back to the machina that glowed in the hissing alchemic lanterns that illuminated the workshop. He inhaled deeply, laying the small docking-tool down on the square of soft leather spread out on the ancient, chipped workbench, before raising his head to gaze upon the icon of Saint Leonardo da Vinci, whose ancient, angry stare glared out into the workshop. The little smelting pit flickered, its flame dying now, untended as Galdini had spent the few last hours fitting the final pieces of this device together. He crossed himself, muttering a swift prayer to the Patron Saint of Mechsmiths. He was surprised to hear the gentleman behind him echoing his words.
Outside Galdini’s workshop, the square was deserted; the winter chill and gathering darkness had forced the citizens of Florence from the streets. The air smelled of snow, sweeping in from the hazy, distant mountains, and piles of gray slush from yesterday’s storm still lay around the margins of the square in the heart of the old Fortezza de Basso. The merchants still plied their trade, even on the coldest days, but today had been quiet, affording him the opportunity to work on this device, a special commission the like of which he had not seen in all his years. Galdini smiled to himself; Florence was so alive these days. It was one of the reasons he had moved here from Siena, whose ascendancy had long since passed. Florence was the place where a mechsmith could build a thriving business, in amongst the new alchemists’ workshops, on the trade routes that had brought new alloys and new money flooding into the Italian States from France and Germany and the Holy Roman Empire.
Despite the Guild’s traditional proscription that warned against concerning oneself with the purpose of a commission, Galdini found himself intrigued by the device. The case was around eighteen inches square, and perhaps twelve inches in height, fitted with several hidden drawers containing yet more parts that could be exchanged for those already fitted within the intricate workings.
The tiered keyboard as one might find on a clavichord took up the front half of the device, twenty-six in all and marked with letters immaculately inlaid in gold upon each pale ivory face. Behind that lay the visible machinery; a spider’s web of fine rods and thick cylinders, the rotare, also marked with letters, above which was a metal tray on a toothed carriage, bearing a flat sheet of soft red wax. A tiny keyhole beneath allowed the elaborate clock-work of the mechanism to be wound. The oiled bronze and brass of the rotare gleamed in the yellow light.
Galdini closed the lid on the box, turning the catch. Even the case was beautiful, he realized now, no longer so distracted by the intricate construction of the device. He had commissioned it from one of the carpenters in the ancient Città Roma, and the man had truly surpassed himself, producing a stunning confection of walnut and ash, curling inlays of some pale New World wood contrasting with the parquet chessboard pattern on the lid. From the front jutted thirteen rounded bronze handles, like those found on a trinket-box drawer, which could be pulled out like barrel-stops, each connected to another set of smaller rotare beneath the three large upper ones by a fiendishly complex array of gears. The lock he had built himself, using an original da Vinci design, but supplemented with some new alchemy, as the client had requested, to thwart any casual lock-picker. The metal swam with an oily blue iridescence that pulled at the eyes.
Carefully, without turning, Galdini slid the box along the table, averting his gaze as the client approached; he caught a glimpse of black-gloved hands and some sort of robe or tunic, equally dark and edged in red, as the man reached out to open the box, gazing at its beauty and sophistication. Once more, Galdini felt a surge of pride, the pride only a master craftsman could feel upon beholding such a magnificent work as this.
“My thanks,” the man said, and once more, Galdini heard the slight Roman accent in his voice. It was of no import, of course. Rome was thriving now, and many a rich merchant with a taste for expensive trinkets hailed from that most ancient of cities.
The man tapped hesitantly at the keys; there was a subtle tick as the rotare slid into place, and the wax plate slid from left to right; small embossed hammers, attached to the rotare by means of the intricate, sealed gearbox, and driven by the clock-work, imprinted themselves upon the wax. The man nodded, grunting in satisfaction.
Galdini looked across to the yellowed, cracking papers of the plans he had worked from, recognizing the spidery crawl of the Great Saint’s hand upon them. He cleared his throat softly.
“Might I ask, sir,” he began, and the man turned to look at him, his shadowed face stern, warning. Galdini pressed on. “From where did you procure this document, sir? I believed all of da Vinci’s writings were known.”
“I came upon it at auction in Amboise,” the man said slowly. Galdini nodded; the Saint had spent his final years in Amboise, in service to the French King. Even now, eighty years later, some small items related to the great man still appeared in amongst the detritus left behind when the King had moved his court back to Paris, although he had not heard of anything as important as a full design appearing within the last several decades. He pushed himself back from the workbench, stretching the knots from his shoulders.
“When might I receive the final payment, sir?” Galdini enquired delicately. He heard the softest of exhalations behind him, although whether it was a sigh or muted exclamation of annoyance, he could not say. He was certainly a little surprised by it, whatever its origin; the man had shown not the least hint of emotion since he had first come to him with this commission, so many months before.
There was a strange sensation at the base of his skull, a pinching, as though he had been bitten by an ant, and Galdini frowned. He tried to lift his hand to the spot, but found that it would not obey him. A moment later, there was a feeling of wetness, a trickle, and Galdini realized that it was blood. How interesting, he thought, and he felt himself falling, as if he had slipped from a great peak and was plummeting down to a shadowed and distant Earth. His vision narrowed to a pinpoint, and he found himself idly wondering what would happen next.
Galdini fell forward onto the table, and the dark man pulled the long slim knife from the back of his neck.
“Mea culpa,” he intoned softly. “Mea maxima culpa.” His gaze lifted to the icon of Saint da Vinci, and he genuflected, bowing his head and reciting the Mechsmith’s Prayer once more.
“Holy God,
Grant thy servant the wisdom to use the gift thou hast given me;
Shape me, as I shape this device,
That what I create may be put to thy Holy Work
That we may come to know thee through thine own divine Machinæ.
I ask this through Christ, Our Lord,
Amen.”
The man crossed himself, and muttered a benediction over Galdini’s still form, before turning and heading out of the workshop and into the dark and deserted square, where a carriage waited drawn by two stamping bays and attended by four figures clad in black silks. The driver was hunched down upon the bench atop the carriage, his collar drawn up against the cold wind that blew around the tiny square.
The man nodded briskly, and the four others slipped into the workshop as he climbed aboard the waiting carriage, closing the door behind him and settling back onto the red leather seats, clutching the box to him like a talisman. A few moments later there was a muffled thump from within the building, and the men filed out, climbing back onto the footplates of the carriage. The driver snapped his whip and the carriage departed with an echoing rumble of hooves, heading around the edge of the market square, and down the narrow cobbled street towards the north gate.
Behind them, the workshop of the late Matteo Galdini began to smoke, until thick plumes of it wafted out into the street. Someone eventually noticed, and cried out, but by the time the civil reserve had arrived to deal with the flames, it was burning fiercely, fueled by the strange substances that lay on shelves and in bins around the shop. By the time they were able to deal with the fire, Galdini was unrecognizable, and no-one could recall seeing anyone else in the workshop prior to the blaze.
Florence’s Magistrate-General ultimately ruled Galdini’s death an accident, caused by intemperate use of untested alloys, and their proximity to his smelting furnace. His family buried him in the tomb of his ancestors, after journeying from Siena to retrieve the body, and his funeral was attended by weeping nieces, nephews, brothers and sisters; eventually, a small statue was erected in the grounds of the family home on the outskirts of the city.
Galdini’s portrait was retired to the Mechsmith’s Guildhouse Hall of Remembrance, to be paraded through the streets of Florence every Saint da Vinci’s Day, along with the portraits of the many others who had laid down their lives in pursuit of the First Mechsmith’s dream of perfection.
Thus Matteo Galdini lived on, after a fashion.
Callum
