Baccano! - Volume 15 - Chapter 1

CHAPTER 1

“ARE YOU INTERESTED IN IMMORTALITY?”

1707 The Avaro residence, Lotto Valentino

The Italian Peninsula, in the northwest area of the district that fell under the jurisdiction of the viceroy of Naples…

On the coast near the outskirts of the city, there was a certain town called Lotto Valentino, with a population of fifty thousand.

The land was very hilly, with rows of stone buildings overlooking the sea, but the vista wasn’t as impressive as that of other cities. The town led a quiet, unassuming existence.

This small city lay along one of the trade routes that led to Naples. The influence of the Mediterranean Sea gave it a relatively mild climate, and fruit was grown on the outskirts of town.

The Tyrrhenian Sea, part of the Mediterranean, was the same vivid blue as ever that day, giving each and every scene the atmosphere of a painting.

The streets looked like a condensed version of Naples, except for the lack of famous sights. Almost no one but traders entered or left the town.

In later days, its many libraries and stone buildings would be enough to lure in their fair share of tourists, but at this point in time, it was just a provincial city.

But even in that small city, the nightlife of the aristocracy was full of splendor and light.

It was a glorious evening.

The ornate chandelier would have been at home in a royal palace, illuminating the vast room with the warm light of nearly a hundred candles in its elaborate, brass fixtures.

Under its glow, several dozen men and women were engaged in pleasant conversation, and the grandly decorated hall had become the venue for a high-society social gathering.

The magnificence of the colors that filled the hall demonstrated the rank of the assembled guests.

Words—dozens of them, hundreds of them—traveled gently back and forth, and all of them suited the atmosphere of the occasion. Everyone present, man and woman, young and old, had stepped out of an aristocratic mold.

All except one, that is.

“I should never have come, and that’s the truth…,” he grumbled. He didn’t even try to hide his discomfort, but none of the people around him heard what he said.

The quality of his clothes was clearly a cut below the surrounding crowd’s. From time to time, the nobles would gaze at the young man quizzically, then move on.

Fully aware this was no place for him, the young man drew a deep breath, preparing for another sigh, but then—

“Well, well, Jean. You came.”

—someone had spoken to him without the refinement of the rest of the nobility, and he turned, still holding that breath.

A tall man with sharp eyes was standing there.

He was dressed like the other aristocrats in the hall, but the atmosphere he wore was somehow different. He exuded an intimidating air that didn’t match his years. It made him seem like a bandit chief, but the young man he’d called Jean—Jean-Pierre Accardo—let out the breath he’d been holding in a sigh of relief.

“Oh, good. I’m glad to see you here, Aile.”

“Well, my father is the one hosting this party… And you should call me Maiza here. People will think it’s strange if you call me by my nickname among my family.”

“I see. So you care about appearances, too, hmm? A few years ago, you would have asked me to do the opposite, simply to spite your family.”

The discomfort from a few moments ago had vanished. Jean-Pierre smiled in amusement, thumping the shoulder of the other man, who was a head taller than himself.

Maiza sighed with displeasure in his sharp eyes. “What does it matter? It’s true that I can’t stand having a name that sounds like the English word miser, but taking things out on my parents here isn’t going to change it.”

“Why not drive them to disown you? Abandon your family name and all the avarice it implies.”

“…There was a time when I gave that idea some serious thought.” Maiza cracked his neck audibly, then looked down at his friend. “And what about you? This is your first time at one of these society functions, and everyone can tell. You look pathetic; anybody would think you were about to be eaten by rats.”

“…Well, to be honest, I’m not exactly comfortable. If I hadn’t seen you, Maiza, I would be making my way home now.” Jean leaned back against the wall, gazing at the scene that spread before him. “People, people, people,” he murmured. “When you get right down to it, that’s all I see. The masses in the streets are full of vitality, while a funeral procession shows their melancholy plainly. Yet here, each person holds something close to their chest, testing, suspecting, and laying traps for the others… More or less. Were you expecting me to wax poetic like some charlatan just because I’m known to write in verse?”

Jean had abruptly shifted from his florid commentary back into conversational speech, and Maiza shook his head.

“Nobody expects much from your poems. You’re better with spoken words than a pen anyway… Although, your speed at reading and writing is truly incredible.”

“I was born in a town of libraries, after all. What a waste not to make the best use of what I’ve been given.”

Jean shrugged, and Maiza sighed again.

“However, for some unfathomable reason, your awful poems and plays have gained an audience, and thus, you’ve been summoned to a gathering you have no business attending… Is that about the size of it?”

“Enough with the self-pity. You have plenty of talent yourself. You’ve far more to offer the world than leading a band of young hooligans,” Jean-Pierre teased in a theatrically haughty voice.

Looking away from him into empty space, Maiza fell silent for a little while.

Maiza Avaro was a young man in his twenties who lived in Lotto Valentino.

Although he led a group of young, aristocratic ne’er-do-wells known as the Rotten Eggs, he was a proper aristocrat and the oldest son of the Avaros, a noble family with influence in the town. However, he had created the gang out of rebellion against his family’s status and the town itself and, in doing so, had made himself rather infamous locally.

That said, most of the infamy came from the bad behavior of the other members; he didn’t actively lead them in committing crimes. One major reason he had ended up as their leader was his strength—particularly his strength as a fighter, which was said to be the best in town, and which he demonstrated through his technique with a dagger.

Jean-Pierre, his friend from the wrong crowd, as it were, was the son of a merchant trader who had made this port town his base of operations ages ago. Technically, Jean didn’t have the sort of social standing that would qualify him to attend an aristocratic gathering like this one.

However, he was the town’s only “poet.” Although he was still young, his works had earned modest acclaim from those around him, and his name was mildly well-known not just in Lotto Valentino, but in the nearby cities as well.

That said, the play scripts he wrote on the side had grown more popular than the poetry he saw as his main calling, a fact that left him a little unhappy—and had resulted in his invitation to this soiree as a playwright.

“I’m grateful that your father invited me, but honestly, I’d like to go home,” Jean-Pierre complained openly, and Maiza smiled.

“Don’t be like that. Won’t some experience in a place like this be helpful when you write your plays?”

“Sometimes, not knowing the reality makes your depictions richer. In this suffocating air, it’s no wonder you young, noble ‘eggs’ go rotten,” Jean-Pierre retorted sarcastically.

He was thinking he really should go home, when—

“Um… Might you be Master Jean-Pierre Accardo?”

A hesitant voice reached Jean’s ears.

When he and Maiza turned—a young man was standing there.

He was probably about their age. His long bangs hid his eyes, obscuring the details of his expression, but it was clear from his lips that he was smiling rather excitedly.

The clothes he wore set him apart from both the aristocrats and the townspeople; he resembled a scholar.

“I am, yes… Who are you?” Jean asked dubiously.

The young man blushed as if he felt he’d committed some faux pas.

“Oh, I beg your pardon. I forgot myself for a moment, seeing one of my idols in the flesh. I was the assistant to an alchemist with whom the Avaro family generously established cordial relations…”

With a breezy smile on his lips, the man bowed reverentially to Jean and Maiza.

“I am Lebreau… Lebreau Fermet Viralesque. It is a true pleasure to make your acquaintance.”

The Memoirs of Jean-Pierre Accardo

That was the first meeting between myself and that alchemist…or to be accurate, that apprentice to an alchemist.

He was a very personable man. The way his hair hid his eyes was oddly sinister, and yet one quickly ceased to notice it once he struck up a conversation. This may sound strange, but speaking with him was like speaking to a friend I had known all my life. To put it in simpler terms, he was easy to talk to.

In any case, he was the first one.

While it is embarrassing to admit, up till that point, I had never encountered any alchemists, nor had I particularly wished to.

My distrust was not toward alchemy itself; the reasons for my aversion were different.

While it is the shame of Lotto Valentino, I must confess one thing here. It is one of the reasons I must hide this letter so that it will remain undiscovered until as far in the future as possible.

Up until 1705, the circumstances of Lotto Valentino were rather peculiar. Alchemists had introduced a new drug and a kind of false gold, and the townspeople had taken exclusive control over the refinement process. With the profits, they had attempted to buy the town itself from the aristocrats.

It was during that time that a serial murderer known as the Mask Maker appeared and plunged everyone into chaos. As it is not my main topic, I’ll refrain from discussing the incident in detail here. The important part is…

…the sin.

Yes.

At that time, every single person in town was guilty.

While I was not directly involved in the creation of the drug or the false gold, I was aware that such things were occurring. I also knew that in creating it, children in dire circumstances were subjected to brutal treatment.

Even so, I did nothing.

Some thought this was the natural way of things; others believed it was wrong. Whatever maelstrom our differing opinions formed, none of it meant anything. We did nothing, and considering the results, each of us was just as guilty as the next. This one incident had rendered the whole town of Lotto Valentino to blame.

In 1705, the killer known as the Mask Maker laid that crime bare—but I shall not speak of it in these memoirs. After all, I do not know everything about that incident myself.

Although I imagine I will touch on the Mask Maker later, that is still a long ways off.

For a time, we attempted to lay the blame for that sin on the alchemists. While I knew false accusations were brewing, I again did nothing.

But like the Mask Maker, I will set that matter aside for the moment.

You may know the particulars of that incident in 1705, should fate deem it necessary. These memoirs of mine were not destined to serve that purpose. That is all it is.

To return to the subject at hand…

Due to my sense of guilt, I made no effort to actively involve myself with alchemists.

I was aware that Maiza’s family was on good terms with a group of alchemists in a neighboring city. Of these, a man named Begg Garrott was apparently an expert in the creation of pharmaceutical preparations, and it was he who had provided the town with the original form of the drug that I mentioned earlier.

But at the time, I had no way of knowing all that was happening in the shadows.

“…Oh, you’re Begg’s companion?” Maiza asked.

Lebreau bowed again. “Well, well. My fellow apprentice is constantly in your debt, sir.”

“Where is he?”

“In a meeting with your father, Master Maiza. Until he returns, I am watching this child for him.”

“Watching…?”

Jean and Maiza looked perplexed, and just then—

—a small boy slowly peeked out from behind Lebreau.

“Go on, Czes. You must greet him.”

Encouraged by the young alchemist, the boy nodded, then timidly stuck his head out and murmured:

“U-um… I’m Czeslaw Meyer. It’s nice to meet you.”

He seemed to be about six years old and was staring up at Maiza in wide-eyed fright.

In spite of himself, Jean burst out laughing. “You’re scaring him, Maiza.”

Ignoring the teasing, Maiza bent down and set a hand lightly on the boy’s head.

“I’m Maiza. It’s good to meet you, too. Everyone calls me Aile.”

“And if they don’t, he gets cross.”

“This fool here is Jean-Pierre. Just ‘Jean’ is fine.”

Despite Maiza’s smile, he still had an intimidating face, and Czeslaw looked flustered; he glanced around uncertainly.

Covering for the boy, Lebreau apologized mildly. “I’m sorry; he’s terribly shy. He’s the only son of our master…”

“Yes, I’ve heard his name from Begg.”

As Maiza looked at Czeslaw, a complicated emotion nearly rose within him, but he suppressed it and spoke with some chagrin in his expression.

“Well, if you’re an alchemist, you’ll hardly lack for things to talk about. Relax and enjoy yourself.”

Then with a glance at Jean—

“Besides, it seems as though you’re a fan of the playwright as well.”

“Huh?”

Jean was stunned. Then he remembered that Lebreau had first greeted him, not Maiza. For his part, Lebreau smiled, then took Jean’s hand and spoke with the excitement of a child.

“Yes, yes! It really is a privilege to meet you, Mr. Jean-Pierre. I enjoyed your latest play, The Stone Pillar of the House of Durgo.”

“Stop, please. This is embarrassing.” Jean’s cheeks flushed at such frank praise.

He dreamed of finding success as a poet, but his plays were written to keep food on the table. His feelings toward their relative fame were rather mixed. He wasn’t angry; nothing but genuine embarrassment churned in his heart.

However, Lebreau stroked Czes’s hair and spoke as if he’d read Jean’s mind. “I’ve also had the privilege of reading the collection of poems that was your maiden work. They were truly ingenious, and while I hope you’ll excuse me, I really couldn’t believe it was your first effort.”

“Wha…?”

“I imagine the originality underpinning your work is what has allowed you to capture hearts in your new ventures into playwriting. I only came here for a simple pleasure trip, but I am truly honored to have met you.”

“Ha-ha. Eloquent fellow, aren’t you? Flattery won’t get you anywhere, you know.”

Even as he muttered, Jean’s lips trembled as if he was about to break out into a grin. After one look at his face, Maiza was convinced.

That Jean. He’s genuinely happy.

Lebreau continued to shower him with compliments for a while longer. Jean listened awkwardly, but he made no serious attempts to stop him, either.

Maiza wanted to roll his eyes, but he didn’t interrupt. Instead, he looked at the child hiding behind Lebreau.

So this is Czes, hmm?

Begg Garrott, his alchemist acquaintance, had told him about this boy.

If I remember correctly, the child’s parents died in an accident. So this Lebreau Fermet fellow and Begg are acting as his family? He’s still so young. Poor thing.

…No, at least he does still have family. It could be worse.

Maiza remembered some of the other local children and their particular situation.

After all, if things had gone badly for him, he might have gotten sold off, come to this town, and been forced to work there… That’s all settled now, but still.

Remembering an incident from a few years earlier, Maiza took another look at the boy’s face.

Czeslaw really did seem to be very shy; he was hanging onto Lebreau’s coattails, and it didn’t seem likely he’d let go anytime soon. Maiza, who was starting to feel at loose ends, decided to strike up a conversation with him.

“Czeslaw… Or I guess ‘Czes’ for short. Are you hungry, Czes? I can get you something.”

Czeslaw flinched, then looked up at him with a face like a kitten’s. Then, timidly, he replied, “…Sorbet.”

Hearing that, Lebreau interrupted his praise of Jean to scold Czes with a little smile.

“Now, now, Czes, none of that. You mustn’t be so spoiled.”

“…But it’s what I want, Fermet.”

Czes looked up at his guardian with pleading eyes, and Maiza laughed.

“Of course, I’ll get you some right now.”

“Are you certain? Really, you don’t need to trouble yourself. Sorbet is a luxury, you know.”

At the beginning of the 1700s, nothing that could be termed a “freezer” had been invented yet. Insulated boxes were one thing, but it would be a little while longer before the concept of a box that froze water came to be.

However, sorbet did exist already. Of course, people had been adding flavors to snow or natural ice since antiquity—but in this era, a slightly different method of making flavored ice was gaining currency.

When saltpeter was dissolved in water, it absorbed the surrounding heat. Once the phenomenon was discovered, the nobility—who could acquire saltpeter in large quantities—had begun to use the technique as a method for chilling wine. In the process, they had learned how to freeze juice and transform it into sorbet.

Naturally, though, it wasn’t easily accessible to commoners, and this luxury was one of the many that were widespread only among the aristocracy.

“My apologies. Czeslaw is really fond of flavored ice… When we went to a northern town a while ago, it was just terrible. He took sugar and honey out of our food stores, poured it over a drift of snow, and began to eat it!”

“But…it was…yummy…” Czes looked down, embarrassed.

Patting the boy’s head again, Maiza spoke.

“Not to worry. I’m sure we have more than enough on hand, given the number of children of guests here. I’ll go ask a server for it; just wait there.”

Maiza went away, leaving an odd combination behind: a poet, an alchemist, and a child. The flow of compliments had been broken, and before the conversation could truly stall, Jean began casting around for a topic.

What should I do? I couldn’t possibly follow a conversation about alchemy…

While he was thinking this, Lebreau spoke up, as if the alchemist had read his mind again.

“Do you know the Café Procope?”

“Huh?”

“I hear it’s a Parisian café founded by a Sicilian merchant, one François Procope. It seems they deal in sorbet and similar dainties as well. The establishment is popular with poets and playwrights such as yourself, as well as with painters and scholars. If you ever happen to be in Paris, you should stop by.”

This man really was treating him like an artist. Partly to hide his embarrassment, Jean replied rapidly. “Ha-ha! I have no plans to go to Paris. I’m sure I’ll stay in this town until I die in obscurity. I can feel it.”

“I see. If that is what you desire, then so it may well be.”

“…”

Lebreau’s remark was unexpectedly curt.

Jean realized that in the depths of his heart, he’d wanted him to say, That’s not true. Yours is a talent that should soar onto the global stage. He flushed an even deeper red.

But Lebreau said something that made his face burn like fire.

“But whatever your wishes are, the words you set down in your poems and scripts take on a will of their own to fly far and wide throughout the world. That is precisely how I learned your name, and how I have come to meet you here.”

“Stop, please, before you can mortify me any further. Never mind me, Mr. Lebreau; tell me about yourself.”

He’d replied without thinking, to hide his embarrassment, and immediately afterward, he thought, That’s torn it. I won’t understand anything about alchemy—

Hastily, he started trying to rephrase himself, but it was already too late: With a breezy smile, Lebreau had begun to speak.

“Ah, I beg your pardon… But a mere apprentice such as myself could never hope to adequately explain the depths of a topic so specific as alchemy…”

“If you put it that way, I’m a rank amateur who knows next to nothing. Even if you told me about its depths, I wouldn’t remember any of it. I thought it might serve as a reference for some future play or poem, that’s all.”

“A comedy, perhaps, about men possessed by the ludicrous desire to turn iron filings into gold?” Lebreau Fermet Viralesque laughed as he spoke, and Jean quickly shook his head.

“Perish the thought! I’d never show so much contempt for your craft…”

“Don’t worry. I think it’s ridiculous myself.”

“?”

Jean was dubious, and Lebreau went on, smiling.

“The philosopher’s stone, homunculi, chrysopoeia, unifying oneself with God through the magnum opus, the great work… If these destinations are your only focus, it truly is no more than an utterly risible jest. According to the original philosophy, the goal of refining gold isn’t to earn money. However, to a bystander in this day and age, one cannot prevent themself from being seen as a greedy, moneygrubbing failure of a scholar.”

“No, I wouldn’t go that far…”

“Oh, don’t misunderstand me. I’m not belittling my own field of study. After all, in the process of striving toward these absurd dreams, we have created practical science. To me, alchemy is deserving of respect.”

“I see.”

Jean had been able to understand that conversation. Thank goodness. In his relief, he was nodding along rather carelessly, but—

“However, one of our practices should be revered.”

—Lebreau suddenly said something strange.

“Huh?”

“Only a fraction of alchemists deal in it, but to a layman, it would seem to be not alchemy at all, but a form of magic that has soared beyond it… Does the idea not stimulate your creative mind?”

“Well… I don’t know. I tend to find irony in reality, after all. Besides, trying to make gold is no different from magic as far as I’m concerned.”

“I expect that’s true.” Lebreau’s gentle smile didn’t falter. He continued like a child who had thought up some mischief. “Although, you may have a different impression if you actually witness it for yourself, you know.”

“Are you going to show me gold being made? I’m astounded. I can practically see the price of gold falling and the market economy collapsing.”

His response was good-natured ribbing, but Lebreau slowly shook his head.

“If only that were the case… Although, to undiscerning individuals, the counterfeits created in this town are probably sufficient.”

“…Come now, it’s only natural for an alchemist to know about that, but it’s better not to talk about it at a gathering of aristocrats.”

Painfully conscious of their surroundings, Jean admonished the other man in a whisper.

He didn’t know the full circumstances, but the false gold was still indeed circulating here.

To the aristocrats, the fact that the people had once nearly purchased the town from them with that false gold was taboo and must not be mentioned.

Part of the reason Maiza had formed the Rotten Eggs was his disgust over the corruption that had resulted from the false gold and the drug. Jean was aware of this, and it had made him all the more sensitive about the subject.

“Ah, I beg your pardon. But this ‘pseudomagical phenomenon’… What would you say if you had the opportunity to see it with your own eyes?”

“Would you please just say what you mean? What is this pseudomagical phenomenon of yours?”

He was still wary of the people around them, and his casual response was more to keep the conversation going than anything, but—

—the word Lebreau whispered made Jean widen his eyes.

“Immortality.”

“…What?”

“If I told you that here in Lotto Valentino, there is an alchemist who has become immortal…what would you do?”

The Memoirs of Jean-Pierre Accardo

When I first heard of it, I thought it a joke in very poor taste. And yet even after so brief a conversation, he did not strike me as the sort of fellow who would tell childish lies.

When I asked for further details, he mentioned one of the town’s myriad libraries. Its director, a man called Dalton, acted as its head librarian while instructing young people in alchemy. Lebreau explained to me that this man had once summoned a demon and had gained immortality. Dalton was an old acquaintance, and half the reason Lebreau had come to town that day was to pay him a visit.

Should I wish to witness Dalton’s power of immortality, he said, he would arrange it.

Why me? I asked him, and Lebreau smiled.

You are a man who sees the world through clear eyes. That is why I want you to know the truth, he said.

I was taken in by these extremely simple words. Taken in willingly.

After all, had I said I was not intrigued, it would have been a lie.

No doubt you’ll think this worthless drivel.

The moment you see the word demon, you may return these memoirs to their box.

In fact, I believe I would appreciate it if you were kind enough to do so.

After all, as I write them, I myself… Even now, years upon years after I first saw it, I still have not truly accepted it.

Now then, given you have continued to read, may I assume you still have an interest in my memoirs?

Perhaps you have discerned a suggestion of truth in my writings. Perhaps you merely wish to know the next bit of nonsense. I care not which it is. I will simply respect the fact that you have seen its continuation on these pages.

The future is in no way guaranteed, but I shall take the various possibilities into consideration and continue to write.

Despite my doubts, I slipped out of the party and went to meet that fellow, Dalton.

But I was not the only fool interested in immortality.

“You didn’t have to join us, Maiza.”

“Call me Aile.”

“One step out of the house, and you’re a different person. Lord, what a spoiled child you are. If you came along because you were worried about me, might you consider giving me a little freedom?”

“I’m not worried about you at all, and if I was, I’d be even less likely to let you run free… I was interested in this Dalton, too, that’s all.”

Next to Maiza were Fermet, Czes, and one other alchemist who’d joined them later—Begg Garrott. They all walked through the dark town.

Ordinarily, an aristocrat’s son like Maiza shouldn’t have been out at night in such company, but he was the ringleader of the Rotten Eggs, and neither he nor the people around him seemed particularly concerned.

He spoke to Jean in a whisper so that the alchemists, who were walking a little ahead of them, wouldn’t hear.

“Dalton’s a real mystery. I hear he’s got connections to that lecherous lord. No idea what kind of connections, but even so.”

“Lecherous… You mean Lord Boroñal? Give the lord of your own town a little respect, would you?”

“My opinion of him did improve somewhat when he quelled that riot in town the year before last. Somewhat. If only my brother could fight back as well as that womanizer, his life would be a lot easier.”

“Oh, now that you mention it, your brother’s fallen for a serving girl, hasn’t he? Her name was Sylvie? Your father doesn’t know about it yet, does he? If word got out, I imagine something would happen to the girl before they disowned him. I could include it in a play, but it would be a bit too cliché.”

Glaring at Jean for his tactless joke, Maiza steered the conversation back to the original topic.

“Anyway, my point is that the count’s connection to this alchemist is the same as the one my father has with Begg over there.” As Maiza walked along, he cracked his neck audibly and narrowed his already sharp eyes. “And now I hear the alchemist is ‘immortal.’ You know that lecher. I wouldn’t put it past him to research immortality in the name of keeping women with eternal youth at his side.”

“What do you suppose Mr. Lebreau means by all this, though? To think he’d even invite you…”

“…But inviting you was a matter of course?”

“He asked me to come because he had confidence in my good sense, you see. If an uncivilized fellow like you witnessed such a miracle, I question whether you’d even understand half of it.”

Jean bantered carelessly with a man who would have frightened anyone else.

Maiza smacked him upside the head just as Lebreau turned to look back at them.

“Oh, it’s simple. Maiza is unlike ordinary nobles. As such, I thought it would be worth showing you one of the town’s hidden oddities, that’s all. Both for your sake, and for Dalton’s.”

So he heard us.

Maiza and Jean thought the same thing at the exact same time, with some awkwardness.

Maiza sighed—perhaps in an attempt to disguise his chagrin, or perhaps not—then took on his usual sullen expression.

“I don’t know what you mean by ‘for both our sakes.’ And will this Dalton show outsiders proof that he’s immortal?”

“I hear he doesn’t attempt to hide it. Even if rumors of his immortality began to circulate, what would you think if you saw someone honestly trying to sell you the story?”

“…I’d worry he’d had a bit too much, either of drink or drugs.”

“Exactly. When truth is stranger than fiction, then fiction it becomes in the minds of others, whether one hides it or not. Such is human nature… Ah, we’ve arrived. How does it look, Begg?”

The alchemist named Begg reacted to Lebreau’s question.

He was unshaven and wore a turban, but not even the most generous individual would have found him handsome.

Jean wasn’t sure to make of him, but Czes was holding his hand and seemed to find it reassuring, even though he was out on the road at night. At the very least, the boy apparently trusted him.

Having come to that conclusion, Jean didn’t ask too many questions about the alchemist. Plus, the man was an acquaintance of Maiza’s as well.

Begg was oddly garrulous; if he recalled correctly, the man had been talking to Czes the whole time they were walking. Perhaps Lebreau had tired of it and chosen to listen in on their conversation instead.

“All right, we’ve arrived, and Mr. Dalton seems to be where he usually is, but that is a surprise, yes, I was astonished when Fermet suggested bringing people here—he doesn’t have many friends—and I even wondered if he’d eaten something bad at the soiree, and I’d never have believed one of the visitors would be Maiza. On top of that, the other’s the author of the collection of poems my fellow alchemist was reading so avidly; what manner of coincidence is this?”

Speaking so rapidly one wondered when he managed to breathe, Begg proceeded through the gate to the library.

As he did so, a small group passed them on their way out.

They seemed to be either townspeople who’d been using the library, or pupils who attended the alchemy school it housed.

Several of the town’s libraries were privately owned by the alchemists—and Jean, who’d steered clear of alchemists up till now, considered these facilities the ones to avoid.

Jean tried to pass the group without making eye contact, but—

—a boy abruptly stopped and called to them.

“Huh? Aile!”

“?”

Everyone present turned to look at Maiza and the boy.

The group leaving the library was a trio.

One was a black-haired boy with icy, gold-colored eyes. The second was a girl with long, blond hair who stood close to the first youth, her cheeks flushed.

The one who’d spoken to Maiza was a blond-haired, blue-eyed boy whose features seemed vaguely Northern European. He wasn’t particularly handsome, but he wasn’t ugly, either. He was an extremely normal youth, and his childlike smile suited him.

All three were probably around sixteen or seventeen.

They certainly didn’t appear to be members of the Rotten Eggs; in fact, they didn’t appear to be nobles at all. Curious about how they knew each other, Jean watched Maiza, waiting for his reaction.

“…Hello, Elmer. It’s been a while. You’ve still got that lukewarm smile.”

Maiza responded impassively, showing no particular delight or revulsion at their reunion.

The kid he’d called Elmer replied fearlessly to the tall, delinquent aristocrat.

“And you need to smile more, Aile.”

A few minutes later On the avenue

“…Elmer. That man back there was the leader of the Rotten Eggs, wasn’t he?”

“Hmm? Sure he was. That’s Aile.”

In the dark streets, the young trio who’d passed Jean and Maiza were talking.

“What was he doing there?”

“No idea. Probably wanted to do some reading.”

“…Do you know the people who were with him?” the dark-haired boy asked.

Elmer thought for a little while, then waved a hand, laughing.

“I don’t remember them at all. Why? What’s got you so curious?”

“The one with the long hair in front of his face… When he saw me, he looked startled for a moment.”

“Really? You should have just asked him, then.”

“I’m not you, remember?” the dark-haired boy retorted. He looked even more sullen than the leader of the Rotten Eggs, and the girl who was beside him patted him on the shoulder.

“Huey, I bet it was because he thought you were a girl! He couldn’t help but stare!”

“Enough with the nauseating fantasies.”

Before he could imagine anything further, the black-haired boy put the group out of his mind. As far as he was concerned, after all, it didn’t matter whether he’d met that man before or not.

At least, it didn’t matter to him then.

If, during that fateful meeting, he’d tried harder to remember the man with the long bangs—if the encounter had put him even a little more on guard—this story would have ended very differently.

They wouldn’t realize this until later—just a few years later.

Meanwhile In the Third Library

The many libraries of Lotto Valentino had been constructed by the respective houses of long-ago nobles. Wealth had been liberally poured into the buildings, as if the aristocrats had been attempting to boast of their own knowledge.

One of these was a structure that, while not overly ornate, did appear rather more seasoned than the others.

Commonly known as the Third Library, it was a unique facility: It received its support not from one of the town’s aristocrats, but from a family that lived on an island in the north of the Kingdom of Prussia.

A motley group of five was walking quickly through that library.

Lanterns were still lit in the corridors here and there, suggesting others were still in the building.

“Who was that kid back there? The one who just said hello and left.”

“Well… I don’t really know, either. We run into each other in town every once in a while, and occasionally, I talk to him a bit, to kill time.”

“If he’s striking up casual conversation with a fellow as scary as you, he’s an odd one.”

“Maybe almost as odd as you.”

Their banter did them no favors as they advanced through the library’s stone halls, but it did no harm, either.

There were no other people around them, and the only sound in the cold air came from their footsteps.

“…I’m scared, Begg.”

“What is there to be scared of? Most nights are like this, more or less, and I’d say our town is much, much darker, Czes. This is the first time you’ve been here, and you just aren’t used to it yet, that’s all, and besides, if this is enough to frighten you, when you meet Mr. Dalton, your knees will—”

As Begg smiled at the frightened boy, a light flickered farther down the hall—and a shadow welled up around a corner.

The enormous shape had a smooth curve to it, like a jet-black snake.

“Eeeeeeeeek!”

With a high-pitched scream, Czes clung to Begg’s leg.

Startled by the shriek more than anything else, Jean flinched, but—

“…Do be quiet. The books aren’t fond of all this noise.”

—what had appeared from the depths of the corridor was a dull, curved, silver hook about the size of an apple.

As Jean stared, the face of a white-haired, elderly man followed the hook into view.

The hook was attached to the man’s right wrist in place of his hand, apparently a prosthetic.

His mustache and beard were long, and he wore a broad-brimmed hat. He looked more like a military man or a merchant than an alchemist, and with the hook, he could easily have passed for a marauder in the Caribbean.

At the sight of the old man, Czes trembled in even greater fear, and cold sweat trickled down Jean’s back as well.

However, Lebreau walked up to the man, bowed respectfully, and offered a brisk greeting.

“Well, well, Maestro Dalton. It’s been a long time, sir.”

“Hmph… You’ve brought a lot of guests with you for a social visit.”

“Why are you wearing a hook today? What’s happened to your usual wooden hand?”

“It’s been in need of some repairs. The craftsman I usually take it to is restoring it…but one of my students kept pestering me to experiment with wearing a hook instead.”

Dalton pushed up the brim of his hat with the hook, turning his gaze to Jean and Maiza.

“Oho… Rare guests indeed. The House of Avaro’s oldest son, and the town’s one and only poet, hmm? I hadn’t heard you were studying alchemy… Are you interested in immortality?”

An old man with one prosthetic hand and white hair talking about immortality made for a strange picture.

Jean and Maiza exchanged glances.

Well, if I imagine him as a god of Grecian myth or a mountain wizard of the Orient, he isn’t too divorced from the image, I suppose, Jean thought vaguely.

Meanwhile, Maiza sharpened his gaze, as if he was determined to appear more intimidating than the other man.

“You know us, old man? I can see why you might know a poet, but why would you need to remember a pampered, noble brat like me?”

Meeting Maiza’s keen eyes calmly, Dalton made no change to his expression. “It’s quite simple. Alchemists have connections with other alchemists. Noble, townsman, or criminal—I consider all men equal in the presence of this peculiar science. If you wish to learn, I’ll teach you all I know.”

The old man appeared to assume Maiza had come to become his apprentice. Maiza clicked his tongue in disgust.

“Don’t make me laugh. I’m only here to see what sort of fraud is working with that womanizing lord.”

It was clearly an attempt to provoke the man, and Dalton acquired an expression for the first time. Not anger, but a thin smile.

“A fraud, hmm? I see. Well said. Unless you can completely share your sensations with others, you can never convey to another the exact shade of the blue sky you saw. In that sense, telling another person anything at all is fraud. Despite your best efforts, after all, the truth exists only inside you.”

“…What are you going on about? Enough with the smoke and mirrors, you damn old fool.”

“I’ll accept any pupil, but you should mend that filthy mouth. People already tend to consider alchemists frauds, as you put it, so their speech at least should be clean. Yes, for your first lesson, let’s teach you how to speak. Start by being silent.”

“What are you babbling abo—?”

“Hey, calm down, Mai— Er…Aile.” Jean tried to calm Maiza, whose frustration was growing.

However, the situation took a very odd turn.

“Begg. Cover that boy’s eyes. No doubt this will be a little too much for a child.”

Even before Dalton had finished muttering, Begg put his palms over Czes’s eyes.

“Ah! B-Begg! What’s the matter?!” Czes cried out uneasily.

In almost the same moment, Dalton raised his hook.

“Now, just a—!”

That hook was going to slash through someone. Jean imagined the sight, but he couldn’t even break into a run to stop it. He just stood there, shivering from head to toe.

Maiza must have imagined the same sight, but he started sprinting toward Dalton.

But he didn’t make it in time.

With a speed that didn’t seem to belong to an old man, the hook raced through the air.

A gout of fresh blood blotted out the glow of the lantern.

It didn’t belong to Czes or Maiza or anyone in their group.

Dalton had slashed his own throat with the hook, and his blood poured into the dark, library corridor.

Jean and Maiza froze. Neither of them understood what had happened.

Begg was also staring, shocked and wide-eyed. Czes knew nothing about what was happening, and he hung onto the tail of Begg’s coat, trembling.

Only one person, Lebreau, seemed undisturbed, but Jean, Maiza, and Begg didn’t notice this. Dalton gazed at Lebreau with some disgust, while blood was still spurting from his neck.

Silence.

The sound of gushing blood soon stopped, and the overwhelming silence bore down on everyone in that hall.

Start by being silent.

As Dalton had ordered a moment earlier, Maiza stayed speechless, his whole body tense.

As he stared at the ghastly sight before him, he seemed ready to burst out shouting. What in the hell is this damn old man thinking?!

Jean, who’d known him for ages, could almost hear Maiza’s scream a few seconds in the future.

However, what truly silenced them was what happened immediately after.

The blood… It began to writhe.

Somewhere along the way, the flow of blood from Dalton’s throat had stopped, and the red liquid that clung to the stone floor and the walls began moving instead.

Each individual drop of blood that slicked the corridor, beads even smaller than drops, began crawling out of the cracks in the stonework like eerie, living creatures with minds of their own.

As if a colony of red slime mold was creeping at several hundred times its normal speed, the drops of blood tangled together without slowing or stopping.

Then, like a crowd headed home, the writhing swarm of blood began to seep up Dalton’s legs, making for his throat.

The motion clearly ignored the laws of physics, and both Jean and Maiza doubted their eyes, wondering if what they were seeing was a dream or some sort of magic trick.

The clothes, the floor, the walls, the ceiling: All of them should have been stained with blood, and yet they were changing back to their original colors as if nothing had happened.

The red procession moved as if time itself were rewinding.

What on earth was going on?

Before they could understand it, before they could even try—

—all of Dalton’s shed blood had returned to his neck, and finally, the wound vanished without a trace.

“No matter how often I see it, it never gets easier to believe.”

“I’d heard the rumors, but it’s really astonishing when you witness it in person. I just assumed I’d overindulged in the drugs I made and was hallucinating.”

“S-say, what happened? Begg, I can’t see.”

While the alchemists were speaking—

“……”

“……”

—Jean and Maiza, suddenly confronted with this overwhelming proof of immortality, couldn’t so much as scream.

They were no longer sure whether they were truly experiencing reality, or whether there was a floor under their feet.

“Good. We’ll say you’ve passed the ‘silence’ assignment.”

Cracking his neck, Dalton turned to face Maiza and Jean again.

“Now then, I’ve done away with the roundabout theories and confronted you with the unvarnished results. Let me ask you again: It isn’t as wonderful as it sounds, and you may be called heretics who have strayed from the way of alchemy, but…

“…are you interested…in immortality?”

The Memoirs of Jean-Pierre Accardo

Maiza became Dalton’s apprentice on the spot.

I was quite nonplussed. After all, while Maiza was an incorrigible delinquent, I had not thought he aspired to anything so vulgar as immortality. No one who wished for long life would live for the moment as he did, or so I believed.

In retrospect, however, he may have wished for power—a tool he could use to dispel the stagnant cloud hanging over his town after the counterfeits and drugs wrought their havoc.

Yet he was little more than a noble’s pampered son, and what power he held was insufficient to do anything about that. Or so I assume he was thinking. Thus, the power he chanced upon was the power of immortality Dalton had shown him, something that was not quite alchemy or magic.

Conversely, Maiza’s behavior convinced me not to submit myself to Dalton after all.

To be honest, I wanted to grab hold of Dalton that very instant and scream, Make me immortal, too! The reason was for that was simple: a desire for long life. Nothing more, nothing less.

Meanwhile, Maiza had chosen to do so for a loftier goal, for an honest sort of zeal. That may have been why I admired him so in that moment. Mind you, this occurs to me only now, as I think back.

Yes… When I reflect on it now, after many years have gone by, I think it is best that I escaped with my mortality back then.

I would doubtless not have received an immortal body so easily, but if I had then, I would assuredly have degenerated into something like a rock, eternally stagnant.

No, even a rock changes shape as it tumbles along through this world. I would have become less than stone, an abomination with no right to exist. If one could be freed from death and yet retain his creativity, very well, but would immortality not have rendered me incapable of writing poems or drafting plays from the moment I acquired it? I am very nearly certain that is so.

But that fateful instant—

I do not believe the shock I received upon seeing immortality with my own eyes was in vain.

After all, that event, that image, became a central cog turning the machinery of my life.

In all honesty, I had already been stagnant up until that day, that moment.

In that town, breathing its stale air, I had been unable to depict anything except my own cynicism toward a hopeless reality, and then I felt as if I had been transformed, had transcended.

Of course, that was merely an illusion. I had only “seen,” nothing more. No matter how great the miracle I had witnessed, I was only that—a witness.

But the event did indeed change my fate.

To be clear, I am not immortal now as I write these memoirs. I am no immortal. I am a mere human.

No, less than that. A coward.

That event served as the impetus that led me to pen a certain script.

The story was about a man who had obtained eternal life—a tragedy depicting the pathos and irony of everlasting life, and the people, cities, and nations that were destroyed by their quest for that man’s power.

By chance, it was well received, and half a year later, my rank as a playwright had risen.

At the time, we were in the midst of the War of the Spanish Succession. The city of Naples was occupied by the Austrian army, and the Italian Peninsula was plunged into the chaos of war. With so much going on around me, my rank was more precarious than a rotting chair.

Even so, I continued to sit. The chair was a comfortable one, after all.

This, although I had only borrowed an impetus and depicted it. I had not ventured into that world, as Maiza had done. I had simply reconfigured my own impulse into the shape of a story and used it.

I am a coward who lined my own pockets without exposing myself to danger.

Once, when I worried about this fact, Lebreau told me, Your task is to share your own impulses with the people of the world. There is no need for you to worry. Quite the contrary; you ought to be proud.

I took his words to heart. Or I pretended so, at least.

Had I not done so, it felt as though I would have broken.

Telling myself that I must not waste Lebreau’s favor, I accepted that honeyed excuse. As a matter of fact, most other creators probably do take pride in that.

Not I, however. I am not so impressive.

At that point in time, I may already have been broken. I am sure that I was.

By encountering the truth of immortality, I had managed to leave the doldrums. In exchange, I could no longer stop.

Like a fish that keeps swimming with eyes that cannot close, I could now only keep running, unable to look away.

For that reason…

For that very reason, I committed a certain act.

And in the end, I cursed myself and resolved to leave these memoirs.

They are an atonement for the crime I committed a few years later.

I do not imagine I will be forgiven, but at the very least, I shall believe that because you have read these memoirs, she will be saved.