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Old Baltazar came ‘round every Wednesday evening.

Didn’t matter what time of year it was, or whether it was sunny or raining or snowing. Come Wednesday, there he’d sit, fourth stool from the end of the right side of the bar—bartender’s right, that is—holding court. Can’t say as many folks listened to him most of the time. Can’t say as he even listened to himself. But that didn’t stop him from talking.

Of course, you spend time that close to a man who talks like old Baltazar, week after week, year after year, well, you pick up a few things. Ideas, like. Bits and bobs. Facts, maybe—some of ‘em anyway, but lore, too, and hard to say if it’s an art or a science in telling the difference. Maybe there isn’t any difference. Maybe it’s all the same.

You might say that was the point of the whole thing, The Alchemy Club. Started as a high-minded affair, rich old men telling other rich old men why they were right about this and that, and why everyone ought to listen to ‘em. Not many left as can remember those meetings first-hand, but those as do say they were all bluster. Only substance in those meetings is the same one that’s served at the Club today, and that’s a whole lot of alcohol.

It’s just a tavern now, really. Sure, the old Alchemy Club sign hangs out front and there’s a good bit of dusty paraphernalia cluttering up the shelves in between the bottles and glasses, these cucurbits and alembics and lutes and the like. But no more meetings, not even an official chapter. Not here, maybe not anywhere—not anymore. Still, the place tends to draw a certain type of folk, and old Baltazar, he was exactly that type of folk.

That’s not to say it’s all old men nowadays. Far from it. Lots of different folks—not just young and old, but men and women and people from all different places and backgrounds. The one thing that brings ‘em together, that binds ‘em all as sure as a round of whiskies after midnight, is that they all traffic in what they call “the arts.”

Science, most know it as now. A few old timers still call it magic. Whatever they call it, they use a lot of fancy words, the kind that are meant to make a man feel like he doesn’t belong if he doesn’t grok to it, you know? But underneath all those syllables, it’s not so complicated. They’re just trying to understand the world around them. Trying to explain why things happen, and maybe figure out how to make them happen. Same as any of us. Rest of us just don’t smell so much like brimstone, and thank all the gods that ever were or might be for that.

Every so often, some young gun, just out of school and high on the smell of vellum, comes around packing a bag of hoary old chestnuts. “Really, isn’t magic just science we don’t understand yet?” they’ll say as though they just up and invented the notion and it’s the freshest thing going. Old Baltazar, though, he has none of it. Never does.

“Bullshit!” he’ll yell. “Don’t be an idiot!” That knocks the young ones down a peg or two, especially the ones as are used to only being told how smart they are.

Sure, they try to save face. Get that smug little smile. I’ll just humor the senile old man, you can practically hear them thinking. “Then what is magic?” they’ll ask, every single one of ‘em, every time. Not looking for an answer, mind you—asking the question just to prove that they were right in the first place.

But old Baltazar, he gives ‘em an answer all right, and it’s just about as plain and blunt as the nose on his face. “Magic is magic,” he says, “and science is science.” He’ll give ‘em a good look up and down. “Any idiot with a book can do science. Even you, probably.” They’ll spit and sputter, but he doesn’t let ‘em get going. “Magic, though…that’s something different altogether. Not everyone can do magic. Sure as hell you can’t. You wouldn’t even know what it looks like.”

Of course, these young ones, they’re in it now, up to their fool necks and no way out but to grab hold of something, anything, and try to hold on tight. Flailing about, tossing out words like darts and hoping one of ‘em finds the board. The boldest ones, both the smartest and the stupidest, get to the same place right quick, and that’s to say, “Then show me some.”

And old Baltazar—that’ll set him to cackling, all right. Right on the edge of sanity, that laugh, and never in your life have you heard a sound so confident, or so tired. “Stand back,” he’ll mutter, climbing off his stool, pushing his drink aside, and rolling up the sleeves of his robe so his arms, all skin and bones and liver spots, can move freely.

What he does next—and I’ve seen it a hundred times if I’ve seen it once—it’s tough to put into words. Presses his palms together, interlaces his fingers, pulls his hands in against his chest, closes his eyes. Mumbles something down into that scraggly gray beard of his, bits of food stuck in it, and extends his hands out away from his body, fingers still locked together. And then…

Something happens.