British hegemon

Chapter 68 Alchemist's Gunpowder

Roger booked two rooms, one large and one small, for eight silver pence at a modest inn in the free market town outside the city. After tying up his horses and storing his goods, Roger led his black dog into the busiest square and free market in the town.

Compared to the crowded and cramped city center of Dublin, the market towns outside the city, although also quite cluttered, offer much more spaciousness.

Most of the houses in the town are low mud-brick houses with wooden frames, so the two-story hotel where we're staying tonight is considered a tall building.

By this time, it was already getting dark, and the small shops along the main road of the town were closing one after another, but several large bonfires were lit in the outer square, making it bright and lively.

The road leading to the free market was crowded with carts and people, walking on the potholed road surface and the muddy water formed by rainwater, which was mixed with various animal excrement, rotten vegetables, and all kinds of garbage left by thousands of visitors during the day.

Following the crowd into the free market, the open space was filled with unlicensed stalls, usually just a small table with some worthless trinkets on it.

In addition, there will be many itinerant vendors carrying trays and hawking their wares, including violinists performing on the street, beggars with missing arms, legs, or eyes, prostitutes flaunting their breasts, dancing bears, and wandering monks calling on the guilty to repentance.

During the day, market administrators would check licenses and collect taxes from each vendor. The small vendors, whose profits were meager, could only come out at night after the officials returned to the city and the curfew was imposed. This gradually became an unwritten rule.

Roger simply strolled around with the crowd; the junk on those stalls was really hard to look at.

But Blackie was different. It was as if he had opened up another world. He excitedly followed Roger's footsteps while moving around to buy cheap things, completely unlike the restraint he felt in the shops in the city during the day.

They sat down at a stall, ordered two beers, and Blackie placed two pairs of coarse cloth socks, an old, used beer bag, and half a horn comb on a corner of the broken table.

Seeing that the black-skinned dog was a cheap bargain, Roger couldn't help but ask curiously, "Black-skinned dog, you got quite a bit of money from the last bandit raid, why are you buying all this stuff?"

Black Dog tucked the things on the table into the corner and said awkwardly, "Well, last time we got quite a bit of money, a full eight shillings and sixteen pence."

"That won't do. You're eating and drinking for free now, and you're all alone. What are you being stingy about?"

The black-skinned dog forced an awkward smile. "Well, I'm thinking of saving up some money to find a woman as soon as possible."

Blackie is also a dog who pursues a happy life, especially after seeing that Bald Ponytail has taken his half-blind grandmother and maid sister to the Milk House Manor, this pursuit becomes even stronger.

"You can enjoy your little bit of money for a few days, but you're in such a hurry to marry a woman—isn't that a bit too little?" Roger knew that this black dog was a completely destitute loner. At least the bald man had a shabby shack in Brodick, but this guy truly had neither soil nor a roof over his head.

"I...I have a lover." The black dog was actually a little shy.

Roger racked his brains for a while, and it seemed that a widow from Gildonan had visited him while Blackie was recovering from his injury. Curious, he asked, "A lover? The same widow who brought her two sons to Milk House Manor and freeloaded two meals from me?"

The black dog nodded.

Roger was speechless. "You'd better think this through. You'll have to raise two sons for a dead man." He then picked up the relatively clean wooden cup on the table and took a big gulp.

She said the younger son was very likely mine.

Pfft! Roger sprayed the beer he hadn't swallowed yet all over the floor, choking and coughing.

Just as Roger was catching his breath and straightening up with a flushed face, a burst of fire suddenly erupted not far from the beer stall, causing the onlookers to gasp and retreat in surprise, followed by thunderous applause and cheers.

The circus troupe was putting on a fire-breathing performance. Roger turned around, intending to continue questioning Blackie about his glorious deeds, but his nose caught a strange smell.

I straightened my neck and sniffed again. Hmm, it smells like gunpowder. It's familiar.

"Smoke!" Roger was startled and immediately stood up, looking towards the circus troupe.

He tossed a silver penny to the black dog and said, "Take your things and come with me."

Thinking something terrible had happened, the black dog grabbed whatever was on the table and chased after Roger without saying a word.

Pushing through the crowded onlookers, the open space in the middle had been replaced by the short man throwing short bottles.

"Where's the person who was playing with fire?" Roger asked a snot-nosed boy next to him with wide eyes.

The snot bubble boy stared intently at the bottle spinning in the air, then casually pointed, "Over there."

Roger looked in the direction the boy was pointing and saw a thin, wiry old man sitting beside the circus's dilapidated carriage, drinking the cheapest beer from a clay pot. The beer foam covered his beard, which was blackened by the fire.

He also had a tattered leather belt slung over his shoulder, with a broken wooden box hanging from it.

Walk over and bow slightly.

"Old buddy, was that fireworks display your doing?" Roger tried to keep his tone as polite as possible.

The old man put down the earthenware pot, raised his dark and rough face, glanced at Roger, but didn't answer at all, and continued to drink from the pot.

"You old geezer." The black dog behind him made a move to go up and teach the withered old man a lesson.

"Gentleman, please forgive his rudeness. That old man always has such an annoying look." A man with a round face and a protruding belly walked over, seemingly the owner of the circus troupe.

"You can come to me with any questions." The round-faced man took off his felt hat and bowed slightly to Roger. Those who could go out with guards were either rich or noble, and the round-faced man had that much sense.

Roger waved away the black dog. "I just want to see the fireworks display again. Would it be possible to trouble this gentleman?" He gestured for the old man to enter.

"Gentleman, the fireworks display is over, this..." The round-faced man glanced at Roger's money pouch at his waist.

"Of course." Roger untied the belt of his purse and pulled out five silver pennies.

"Gentleman, his fireworks display is a magical art, but this amount of money is probably too much." The round-faced man with rotten teeth forced out an ugly smile.

Roger then took out three more silver pennies from his wallet. The eight pennies jingled crisply in his hand, a particularly pleasant sound.

"Old Black Sheep, stop drinking and quickly perform another fire magic for this gentleman." The round-faced man turned around and gave the dry-faced old man the order in his British-accented French.

The old man's rough face was full of displeasure as he retorted, "It was agreed that it would only be released once a day, I'm not doing it!"

The round-faced man was getting impatient. Behind the two of them, he kept giving the dry-faced old man meaningful glances, indicating that Roger had a large amount of silver coins in his hand.

The withered old man remained unmoved. "Winking won't do any good. We've used up all the materials for today. Do you think Black Magic Powder is so easy to make?"

"You've used it all up? Didn't you make any more?"

The dry-faced old man ignored the round-faced man completely.

The man with the round face had no choice but to turn around and lead Roger a little further away. Staring at Roger's clenched hands, he shook his head with frustration and regret. "Gentleman, there's nothing I can do. He's run out of his secret black magic powder. Perhaps you can come earlier tomorrow, and I'll have him perform for you again."

"Or you could tell me your residence, and I'll bring him here tomorrow to perform just for you." The round face was full of flattery.

"Who is he? How does he know how to make the secret black magic powder? I want to hear the truth," Roger asked curiously.

A hint of surprise appeared on the round face, but he remained silent, staring intently at Roger's right hand.

Roger understood, opened his hand, picked up a silver coin, and tossed it to the round-faced man.

The fat man caught the silver coin. "His name is Nicolas Freeman, we all call him Old Black Sheep, a Frenchman who claims to be an alchemist. He tricked a nobleman into believing he could refine gold, but he didn't even manage to refine a piece of dog shit, and was beaten and driven away by the nobleman."

"That old man has a very strange temper. If he didn't know some dark magic, who would want to keep him around?"

"He really knows how to make that kind of black magic powder," Roger pressed.

The round-faced man fell silent again, his eyes fixed on Roger's right hand.

Roger took out another silver coin and threw it over.

The round-faced man grinned and took the bait, continuing, "He's really something. His shabby box is full of bottles, jars, and all sorts of random things. He hides away every day to make some black magic powder and lives off it by eating and drinking at my place."

Roger understood.

"Go tell him I'm an alchemist too, and I'd like to invite him over for a few beers, and maybe we can discuss alchemy." Roger tossed the third silver coin to the round-faced man, pointing to the stall where he had just been drinking.

"You're an alchemist too?" the round-faced man asked skeptically. "You don't seem like those charlatans."

But he obediently complied because of the silver coins.

"Blackie, invite him over for drinks. Be polite to him; he's a top talent."

Blackie had no idea what "top talent" meant; he just thought it wasn't worth it to exchange three silver pennies for three sentences.

Sure enough, the withered old man's attitude changed immediately after he heard that the gentleman from before was also an alchemist. He immediately carried the wooden box and followed the black dog to the stall.

Roger had already instructed the stall owner to bring out a large can of beer and two plates of stew.

"Are you also an alchemist?" The gaunt old man took the initiative to sit down and greet Roger in Gaelic with a strong French accent, his attitude completely changed. "This is the first time I've ever seen such a young sorcerer."

"Which faction of sorcerer are you?"

"The Albert Faction?"

"The Thomas faction?"

"The Arnold School?"

Seeing Roger's lack of reaction, the dry-faced old man said disappointedly, "Are you a Raymondus? That guy is hardly a sage. What Philosopher's Stone, the Fifth Element? That's utter nonsense."

"I'm a Roger fan," Roger mumbled in broken French.

Roger's ramblings startled the old man who was about to take a sip of his drink.

"Roger Bacon? That wizard heretic! Good heavens, keep your voice down." The bald old man half-stood up, put his index finger to his lips, and cautiously glanced around. Seeing that no one was paying attention in the noisy surroundings, he patted his chest and sat down. "Don't go around talking about this anymore, or you'll be burned at the stake."

Roger was completely dumbfounded; he had no idea such a person actually existed.

"Mr. Nicolas, it's really not convenient to talk here. May I invite you to my hotel where I'm staying to discuss this?" Roger took the opportunity to try and lure this old treasure away.

The old man smacked his lips and glanced at the untouched wine and stew.

"Blackie, tell the boss to quickly make two more meat dishes and send them to the hotel along with the beer."

"Mr. Nikolai, please." Roger stood up and respectfully greeted the dry-faced old man.