Herb-Wife (Lord Alchemist Duology) (14 page)

"So
why not find a roof-rat who's old enough and good enough, and willing
to go legit, posing as a maid?" Kessa deliberately took a
Kellisan pose, slouching in her seat and putting one arm over the
chairback. "Ain't like th' old empire's th' only place you find
girls dressed as boys, y'know. An' some might think maidservanting'd
be better'n taking up th' barwench's trade."

"Blight
and blossom," he said as Tania came from the kitchen. "I'm
an idiot."

Tania
set plates with egg-crepes in front of them. "Should I be taking
away this fine breakfast, m'lord?"

He
put his hands on his plate's edges, quickly. "Not that kind of
idiot, Tania."

Kessa
collected herself, back straight and head only down enough to hide
her eyes. "Not this time," she said, and found herself
blinking away tears.

"Tania,"
Iathor said, before the cook left. "If you would, tell Brague
and Dayn that roof-rats sometimes have girls who might make
acceptable bodyguards?"

"Of
course, m'lord. A clever thought." She headed back to the
kitchen.

"And
not mine, which is why I'm an idiot. Blight. I actually
mistook
you for a man once, Kessa. Why didn't I think there might be others?"

"I'm
half-barbarian. I might do anything improper. Steal horses, slaughter
sheep, assault the shepherds and sacrifice them to my ancestors."
She shrugged and ate her egg-crepe.

"You'd
never be so wasteful. A healthy shepherd could provide any number of
alchemical components."

"
Legally
?"

"Well . . .
No." He took a bite as well, and continued around it, "But
if we're discussing delusions of perfidy, shouldn't we pick plausible
ones?"

"My
teacher was perfectly legitimate," Kessa said to her plate. "If
senile."

"Hmmm."
Iathor ate a bit longer, then set down his fork. "I think I
should tell you a story. Thus, if you're inclined to tell me how
accurate it was, you'll never worry the draught influenced you."

Kessa
eyed him through her hair, and remembered what he'd said once before:
"I think my parents cared deeply for each other, but it was a
political marriage; she never knew if she'd grown to love him, or if
it was the draught."
He'd seemed proud, that his dramswife
mother'd defeated the draught enough to argue with her lord husband.
"I suppose I can't stop you."

"You've
gone through enough. Whatever you decide to tell me . . ."
He sighed. "I should give you a chance, before you start
second-guessing your impulses."

She
added honey to her tea. "All right."

He
took his own tea, straight and bitter. "Once when castles flew
with dragon's blood, there was a little half-barbarian, growing up in
a fagin's crèche. And somehow, this black-haired girl found herself
serving a Shadow Guild herb-witch, who knew a bit of alchemy. Perhaps
one who'd lost vision in Shadow politics, or no longer had a steady
hand. This assistant helped her employer, but was never thought to be
terribly intelligent – considering how many biases there are
against black hair and dark skin and uncanny eyes, as I've been
reading in numerous letters recently." He snorted.

Tanas
brought me to Maila to fix my eyes and skin, for I was too obvious to
make a good pickpocket, no matter how nimble my fingers. When the
brew didn't work, she claimed me as disciple, and took Tanas as her
low-husband.
Kessa ate, and didn't correct him.

Iathor
continued, "The assistant learned far more than anyone realized,
fetching, carrying, perhaps reading books out loud for her
Shadow-witch, or perhaps merely measuring out ingredients and
following recipes. But when the Shadow-witch died, or was killed, the
assistant slipped away, unnoticed and disregarded, and found a senile
old woman in the country, Herbsman Chiftia, to be her alleged
teacher. After she'd filled in whatever gaps in her knowledge needed
filling, she came back to the city, and convinced Master Rom to grant
her journeyman status."

Tanas
died, taking too much of the joy-powder Maila brewed. Maila grew
careless, and someone poisoned her youth potion.
The rest
was . . . close. Very close. She'd stayed seasons with
Chiftia for the veneer of plausibility more than knowledge –
but she'd learned how to harvest herbs from the ground, rather than
relying on suppliers, and some farming preparations. She reached for
her tea again.

"I
presume," Iathor said, "you needed money for your
storefront and stock, though Rom should've provided much of the stock
and simply had you pay him back. Perhaps Herbsman Chiftia was too
senile after all, and you were buying lessons from other
herb-witches. Perhaps buying metal-salts for true alchemy. In any
case, you wound up borrowing money from Darul Reus, as did your
sister, probably because of her frequent illness. And from his
extortionist ways . . . Well." He made a little
gesture that seemed to stir her, him, and their surroundings into one
bowl.

I
had to buy the paper and signature that Chiftia'd taught me, for she
was too wandering and cranky to sign it herself, and I'd not been
there so long as the paper claimed. I bought no metal-salts for true
alchemy, but only took a few jars of healing salve when I left
Maila's workroom.
The rest was exactly right.

He
was close. Close enough that her hands shook.

His
chair scraped across the rug, quietly, as he pushed it back so he
could come bend over her. He put his hand under her cup, likely
worried she might drop it. Gently, he asked, "Is the story
true?"

For
three years, she'd tried so hard to be a proper herb-witch, keeping
her head down, never causing trouble. Never doing anything that might
make the city guards look at her, or worse, at her brothers and
sister. All her instincts wanted to say,
No, of course not.

All
her hopes wanted to say,
Some.

All
her dreams wanted to tell him the truth. She strangled them quietly
in the back of her mind.
Dragon-oil tales don't happen. Especially
not to ugly roof-rats. Nobility doesn't come make everything all
right. Blight-eyed mongrels don't get happy endings. Truth . . .
can only make him hate you, half-breed.

He
still waited for an answer. Kessa didn't think she could leave the
question hanging for fivedays and months, as she had his proposal.
She took a sip of tea and said, "It will do." She set down
the cup. "I should get dressed. The testing will be close to
noon, yes?"

"No
one'll get anything done for some time after, so they might as well
have their celebrations or rants during the lunch hour." He bent
again and nuzzled the top of her head before holding her chair for
her. "I'll have Loria send someone to help."

"Thank
you. The buttons are . . . very small." Even
nimble roof-rat fingers, steady herb-witch hands, had trouble when
they went the length of her spine.

The
girl who came was Viala, who showed signs of turning into a sturdy,
plump-cheeked beauty once she stopped growing. Taking her "lady's
maid" duties seriously, she insisted on brushing out Kessa's
hair as well, focusing on her task enough for Kessa to watch her in
the mirror. It was finely-made; she could see Viala's concentration,
the tip of her tongue pressing her upper lip against her teeth.

I
was offering suggestions about a . . . dramsman,
Kessa realized, far belatedly. Not just a maid, which she had to
admit fancy clothing required. Not just a bodyguard, which she
probably did need. A dramsman, whose will could be subjugated by an
incautious word.

That
Iathor himself, who'd reputedly needed badgering to take Dayn on,
wasn't flinching . . . Either his reputation was
different from reality, or he was truly concerned for Kessa's safety.

That
didn't make her feel better. She managed to thank Viala as the girl
settled the cream shawl around Kessa's shoulders. The dress below was
pale gray with long, V-shaped strips of deep green cloth from
shoulders to waist, and hips to hem.

She
gave a final look at her reflection, through her hair to avoid seeing
her own eyes, and wrapped her cloak around herself.

Fear
whispered. Curiosity waited. Hubris anticipated.

Her
new boots were stiff, but not painful. Breakfast was heavy in her
belly as she walked through Iathor's house to the carriage.

He
was waiting, of course, with his dramsmen. He'd changed from his
simple tunic and pants to more formal ones. His coat was the gray of
storm clouds, hanging open to show his black under-robe and the
alchemist-gray, green-embroidered tabard beneath. The tunic's sleeves
were brown within the coat-sleeves. He wore gray hose, though the
fashion was becoming impractical in the chill weather.

Oddly
numb, she let him help her into the carriage. The rear cushion was
still missing – probably deliberately, whether by his order or
the servants' own initiative. The woven-wood shields for the windows
had been replaced with glass panes again. She supposed it was all
meant to make a statement about the power of the Lord Alchemist, and
felt more like a bedraggled rat in the eagle's claws.

Iathor
sat beside her, and she still didn't know if she wanted to keep her
spine straight, or lean against him.

The
window let her watch as they passed the walls of other minor
nobility's or major merchant's estates: functional or decorative
lines of brick, metal, or wood. The road was brick, with slight jolts
as the carriage passed over mended areas or from one person's
responsibility to another. Most of the houses were like Iathor's, two
stories high with steep roofs, set forward and only a few
carriage-widths from their front fences. Behind would be stables,
carriage houses, perhaps servants' quarters, and likely gardens:
functional to help feed the household, decorative for entertainment.
Unlike Iathor's amber brick, most were washed white or cream.

They
passed into the more tightly-packed part of the city, where merchants
kept buggies in mews behind the houses, and gardens were reduced to
sparse patches beside paths to the front door. For a time, it'd been
fashionable to have stone walls; those homes still stood like
shrunken castles.

The
guild offices were in a similar area, though with more businesses.
Kessa supposed they'd be there soon enough.

Fear.
Curiosity. Hubris.

"I
was terrified," Iathor said, as if answering some casual
question.

She
turned her head, so close she could nearly rest her chin against his
shoulder, and kept her eyes lowered. His hands were clasped in his
lap as he added, "You'd think I'd not've been. I'd been tasting
potions since I was a child. Father said I could probably've derived
half the ingredients of the draught by taste alone, if not the method
of preparation."

Maila
gave me brews. Snapped I should know what the tastes meant. Pinched
my arms when I guessed wrong too many times.
"Was . . .
your father frightened?"

"When
he took the draught from my grandfather? He never said. He told me to
be brave. Nothing would go wrong." Iathor paused. "I think
he was at least nervous. If I'd not been immune, he'd have had to
test Iasen next, and mother . . . didn't want that.
She and father fought about us, sometimes. That he didn't allow his
children lives outside the duty of the Lord Alchemist's sons. That
she coddled us overmuch."

"Your
brother's never taken the draught, then?"

"If
he has, he'd have brewed it himself and done it in secret. A tricky
thing. It requires special equipment, and . . ."
He rubbed his left forearm. "A volunteer, in the case of an
immune brewer."

Mayhap
Iasen would've been pleased if his brother'd found some pale bride.
For if he coveted the position of Lord Alchemist, wouldn't he've
insisted his own immunities be confirmed? Unless he was torn between
ambition and fear . . . Nothing she could ask. "What
was the draught like?"

"Well,
it's a mind-affecting brew, so what would that be?"

She
nearly smiled. "Sweet. With enhancers, I presume . . .
and those would be hot or cold." Not true heat, nor true cold,
but there were no good words for the tingle of different metal-salts
on the tongue.

"And
if it had body-affecting ingredients?"

"Then
there'd be the . . .
red
tastes. The boiling
ones." Like the beat of blood in the vein, or roiling bubbles in
a flask.

"And
poisons?"

"Bitter,
sour, smoke . . . Something nasty."

He
settled against the seat-back and she heard smugness in his voice.
"So you can tell me what's in it when you've tasted it, and I'll
not bias you further."

Why,
you . . .
"Blighted cunning bastard,"
she said, curiosity and hubris strengthened.

"I'll
take the middle, but the last isn't true, and the first? I certainly
hope not."

Not
blighted, but fertile . . . That gave an entirely new
set of mixed emotions: fear, curiosity, cold determination, and
something that warmed her cheeks for no reason she understood. It
nearly made the draught seem of minor concern.