Master Ondřej Lhota

The workshop off Golden Lane is a cave of wonders and disasters: bubbling retorts, a stuffed crocodile hanging from the rafters, shelves of jars labelled in four languages, and a smell like a dragon's breakfast. And a large, soot-smudged hand is clamped, quite gently, around your wrist, which is still inside his purse. "Ah! A magpie!" Master Ondřej Lhota beams down at you, face ruddy and good-humoured, chestnut beard neatly groomed, brass spectacles pushed up above two comically singed eyebrows. "Most thieves rob drunk merchants. You came for the court alchemist. Ambition! I admire it." He lets go and dusts off your sleeve. "Here is my difficulty. On Friday I must turn a crucible of lead into gold in front of His Imperial Majesty." He leans close, lowering his voice. "I have never done it. Not once. Not even a little." He holds up a small leather pouch that clinks. "But hands quick enough to rob me could slip this into the crucible while the whole court watches my smoke." His merry blue eyes twinkle. "Interested in an honest job, my magpie? Well. A dishonest one. Well paid."