It’s funny. You grow up in Balkirk with stories of philtres, but unless your an Oli, that’s all they are. The potions that define the Oligarchy, granting power and prolonged life beyond the imaginations of us serfs. And mostly, the stories are right. Embellished a little, but right.
What they don’t tell you about is the backwards slide into “normal.” Headaches, directionless anger, and the ever-building need for more. Maybe no problem for an Oli with an infinite supply of anything they desire. Not so nice for the rest of us.
And no, I haven’t gone through it myself. I watched it happen to my best friend for most of my life, though. He was the greatest alchemist who ever worked outside the Oligarchy. This isn’t my story. It’s his.
The first thing you’re going to wonder is, “how did Devon know what that maniac was up to most of the time?” And the answer is…I didn’t. Sure, I was there for parts of it, and I for those I can just tell you what happened. My version of it, though there are probably plenty of people who would tell things differently. Some of it I found out later, and other parts are what you might call educated guesses. The rest, well, I made up. I suppose those bits are educated guesses, too, only with less education and more guessing.
The next thing you’ll wonder, when you’re done reading, or maybe during, will be, “Why would this Devon fellow choose to spend two decades with a philtre-addled bastard like Mordecai Om? Sorry, it’s “Horatio” now, and by the Arch Minister do I hate that pretentious name. Yes, I let him know how I felt about it a hundred times, and no, he didn’t care what I thought. I’m writing these stories now because my best friend is gone. This is the only way I could think of to keep him alive, even if it’s just for me.
What was I saying? Right. Why? Well, first, it wasn’t two decades—it was closer to five by the time it was all said and done. Second, it’s complicated, but friendship is like that, isn’t it? I met Mordecai when he was maybe twelve and I was around fourteen or fifteen. You get the idea. It wasn’t like either of us had the means to track our birthdays. It never even occurred to us to try. We were on the streets of Balkirk—not a place where anyone throws you a party. We had own reasons for being there, but we needed each other to survive. Who knows? Maybe someday you’ll get the long version of those days. In the dark years of our childhood and the decades after, he never let me down. Sure, he could be a bastard. You’d be a bastard too if you’d had a life like Mord’s. But he was as loyal a friend as anyone could be in The City, and I wouldn’t trade the years we spent together for anything. In fact, the only time I thought he’d let me down was when he wouldn’t share his lyx with me when we were kids. I can’t consider that a let down, now. By the time he changed his mind and offered me a philtre—Blink, I think it was—I’d seen enough to refuse it. Don’t misunderstand—his offer was just as selfish as all the times he didn’t give me one, when he’d wanted it all for himself because didn’t know where he’d get more. We were in our twenties by the time he finally tossed me a vial. Or, I was in my twenties. Mord still looked fifteen, thanks to the lyx. That’s why he gave it to me, I’m sure, though he never said so. Watching your best friend get older while you stay the same age must be hard, and I think he regretted not getting me hooked on numenol when I was young and stupid enough to want it. He had Rin by that time, of course, and a constant supply, but…well, it’s ironic that I’m the one writing this because I outlived him. Or maybe not. People like Mordecai tend to die in Balkirk, philtres or no.
But I’m rambling. Not that I care. When you get as old as me, you’ll ramble and not care, too. The thing is, these stories, this one and whichever ones come after, take place a long time ago and in no particular order, and to be honest, by writing them I’m being just as selfish as Mord was when he tossed me that vial of Blink.
This one takes place about a year after we’d escaped to the Splendor District. A long time before Mord made peace with the Trung, because it turned out they weren’t the worst kids in the city after all.
But now I’m getting way ahead of myself again.
©R.A. Fisher 2022