Herb-Wife (Lord Alchemist Duology) (2 page)

Clothes.
Wet fingers pushing up her skirts, reaching– She forced the memory
away. "My dress. It's not washed yet, is it?"

"No,
just set aside. M'lord keeps enough stray preparations in his pockets
that we know better than to just drop clothes in the tubs. And if
you've hideaway pockets like m'lord's robes . . .
Well, we'd not know where they were to empty them, now would we?"

A
speck of fortune amid the shambles, if that wetness had been the
preparation they'd had, if enough was still on her skirt. "Thank
you. I'll need to check them, yes."

"After
lunch, dear heart?" Loria bent for the dropped towel. Her hair,
in a bun pinned with simple wooden skewers, was the color of
fresh-split pine coated with light honey. "There've been
watchmen and messengers coming and going, but m'lord needn't talk to
them in the breakfast nook if you're there."

Kessa
supposed that with the undertunic, the robe was decorous enough.
And
I've agreed to marry him.
She refocused her mind again.
"Watchmen?"

Coldly,
Loria said, "M'lord does
not
approve of people attacking
guild members, nor burning down shops. He's already been to Watch
Commander Rothsam's very house, rousting him out in the early hours."
Her tone softened. "Dear heart, could you have him sit
still
,
and eat something?"

"Him,
sit at
my
bidding?" That was too harsh, tearing at her
poison-roughened throat. "I'll try."

"That's
all we could hope for. Now, where are those house slippers . . ."
Loria scraped a pair out from under the bed.

Obediently,
Kessa put them on (sheepskin, the wool left on the hide and turned
inwards) and followed the steward, through a hallway that was perhaps
narrow for guest rooms. As they emerged into the main hall, Loria
waved a hand to the right. "Those are the stairs to m'lord's
suite. The bath and water-closet's that first door we passed. It's
far from the kitchen, but there's a pump, and an alchemist's tub."

Kessa
remembered the tub, she thought, in the flashes after Iathor's
carriage delivered them, her guts cramping from Purgatorie-caused
purges. It had been large, double-hulled, its glazed inner basin
heated by Fervefax Stones in niches between the inner and outer tubs.

Kessa
combed her fingers through her hair. Clean, as it hadn't been for
fivedays . . . Months, really; weather and scarce coin
had combined to keep her from both public bathhouses and streams
outside the city. She usually tied it back, letting two black sweeps
of hair fall to hide her eyes but keep the ends out of whatever she
was brewing. She wanted her comb.

It'd
burned up in her shop, like everything else save, ironically, her
money-pouch.

At
least she didn't look too awful, or surely Loria would've offered a
comb.

She
paid attention to the steward's haphazard instruction: the guest wing
for visiting guild officers from other cities, and their retinues;
the Lord Alchemist's home office; the front hall with sitting rooms
and formal dining room. The archway, near the kitchen, into the
breakfast nook, where Loria stepped aside.

It
was a warm room: ivory plaster walls, light wood floor, a woven
carpet in pale gray, tan, and green underneath the table. Glass-paned
windows let in light, with the curtains drawn back.

Iathor
Kymus, Lord Alchemist, stood at the window, gazing out with his hands
clasped behind his back. It gave her a moment to look at him without
lowering her eyes.

He
was a bit short – enough to notice, but not unusually so –
with the slender build of a clerk. His neck-length hair was on the
darker side of blond, verging on brown; enough wave that it wasn't
straight, enough gray that it wasn't any distinct color. His skin was
as pale as any noble's, and unmarked as far as she knew, save for his
hands. Like hers, his bore faint stains and little marks where hot
brews'd spattered.

He
wore mostly gray – hose, tunic, and tabard – but his
boots were a dark earth-brown, and his tunic's sleeves had wide green
borders. Over it all, he favored a black robe, unbelted.

What
Kessa could see of the tabard suggested formality: intricate
embroidery of the geometric forms of alchemical metal-salts.

He
seemed focused on nothing in particular, in quarter-profile. From the
times she'd met his eyes, glaring at him in irritation or outrage,
she knew they were a medium blue. His nose was a little long, his
face a little sharp to be more than average in repose. No beard,
though beards were currently fashionable. Some frown-lines, but
despite his graying hair, he'd taken enough youth potions not to
wrinkle. Distantly, Kessa realized he'd been master of the
Alchemists' Guild for as long as she'd ever known. Possibly as long
as she'd been alive.

And
now she'd agreed to marry him, as he'd asked nearly two months ago in
a dark prison cell, after the watch arrested her for a poisoning
she'd been half-guilty of. That barely mattered to him; alchemist's
immunity was that important, and that rare.

Kessa
watched him, holding her robe closed and steadying herself on a
chair-back, and tried to think what she should feel. Tool of her
vengeance. Master of her guild. Irritating, high-handed, arrogant,
prone to lecturing. Patron of the more shocking courtesans' houses –
but only to sleep, he claimed, after the half-vigilante,
half-sanctioned night patrol he sponsored.

Iathor
took a breath and closed his eyes before he turned. She took the hint
and looked to the table instead. Blown-glass tumblers with water,
white ceramic mugs next to a tea-pot whose spout steamed gently,
silverware of perhaps two different patterns, and even placemats and
napkins, palest tan and only slightly stained. It was a table set for
family, not formality. She felt oddly disconnected.

"Kessa,"
he said, neutrally.

In
the dark hours past midnight when she'd told him
yes
, he'd
held her like a fragile seedling, and kissed her fingers before
sending her back to bed. "I've not changed my answer," she
said.

Whatever
he'd meant to say, that perhaps silenced him as he came to her. She
looked at her hand, darker than the back of the chair she leaned on.
Iathor hesitated before stroking the side of his finger lightly down
the edge of her hair. Her own breathing, her own shiver, moved the
dark strands more than his touch.

Quietly
he said, "I don't understand why."

Truths
and lies tangled in her throat.

"You've
always paid your dues. You could gain a new shop, new stock, by your
right as journeyman."

"I
know."

"Then
why'd you tell me
yes
?"

She
wondered if it was an effort to keep his voice so neutral, or if it'd
been the effort, on other occasions, to put seeming pain
in
.
"Are you trying to change my mind?"

"No!"
Fast enough, she believed it was honest panic flaring. He took a
breath and brought his emotions back to a concealed simmer. "I
merely . . . don't understand."

She
forced a laugh, shaky and rough, then forced herself not to keep on
or cry. Perhaps it was her lack of dinner or breakfast. "It was
becoming inevitable," she said, instead. "Why make the
guild pay for a new shop?"

"Still . . ."

If
Kessa'd been her beautiful crèche-sister, courtesan-trained and
elegant, she'd have turned and put her head against Iathor's chest.
But she wasn't. So she stood miserably silent, biting her lower lip
so she'd not snap at him. If
he'd
somehow changed his
mind . . . Kessa didn't know what she'd do, but it
wouldn't be good.

From
the kitchen door behind, a voice not quite like Loria's said,
"M'lord, are you badgering her before she's had food?"

He
straightened. "Ah. Tania. Ah . . ."

"If
I'd not made up this lunch, and you skipping breakfast, m'lord . . ."
The cook let the threat trail off. "Well, here's food for you
both. Let the poor girl eat!"

"Yes,
of course." He actually sounded abashed as he went to pull out
the chair next to his own at the head of the table.

Chapter
II

I
t
must be lack of sleep. I should know better.
Iathor'd arrived in
time to save Kessa from her poison
because
he'd forgotten to
send the food basket that evening.

At
the time, he'd been ill with guilt at forgetting in the rush.
Admittedly, it'd been a good excuse to leave Earl Irilye's harvest
ball. The evening's festivities had included dodging the earl's
predatory youngest daughter, avoiding Iathor's irritated brother, and
hearing the city-prince's private mandate that Iathor find a wife in
a year or have one found
for
him. That last, he'd wondered if
he should tell Kessa; it'd given him sympathy for her startled,
indignant
ignoring
of his proposal, but to know of Prince
Tegar's attention might've sent her into hiding.

Seeing
the orange light of a building on fire, through the carriage's
imported glass windowpane . . . He'd known it was
Kessa's shop. He'd felt it in his bones, though he'd tried to dismiss
it as paranoia. Then he'd seen
her
, staring into the fire,
clothing torn. He'd nearly tripped over his robe, scrambling out of
the carriage as his dramsmen jumped to help with the bucket-line.
She'd turned to him, froth upon her lips, and her breath – her
entire body – smelling of acrid, green poison.

He'd
given her Purgatorie and held her hair as she retched beside his
carriage. (He'd covered his own face as well; a sensitive nose helped
in the workroom, but . . .) He'd brought her home,
gotten her tended to, and started sending messages to the city watch,
the guild offices, and his own night patrollers.

Iathor
still felt cold, sick,
burning
fury. That one of his guild's
members had been attacked, her shop torched . . . It
would not happen again. It
would not
. He'd find those
responsible, and perhaps he'd offer the choice of the dramsman's
draught, binding them to the woman they'd wronged.

The
herb-witch in question sat meekly. Her straight, black hair hung
loose, hiding her eyes even more than usual. Sitting in his own
chair, Iathor could barely make out her sharp features.

He
restrained the impulse to reach out and tuck one shining screen
behind her ear. He well knew Kessa's mottled eyes could make the
least frown of annoyance seem a stare of deadly threat.

Tania
herself served lunch, rather than sending one of her apprenticed
cousins. It was egg-crepes with meat and cheese, and fresh, buttered
rolls alongside pots of jam.

Iathor
mistrusted Kessa's mouse-like thanks, and her initial nibbles at the
food. When the girl was eating more enthusiastically, he felt
slightly better.
Perhaps she's trying to spare her voice. I
should've done this to begin with: brought her home, fed her, and
proposed in comfort rather than blurting it out in that dark cell.

Of
course, if he'd done that, they'd have run into his brother's
ill-timed arrival from the capital, Cym, and matters would've become
unexpectedly unpleasant. Bad enough Iasen'd shown up last night, to
commiserate about the city-prince's involvement in their private
lives (for Iasen'd also been bid to marry or produce immune
bastards), and exploded to find Iathor'd given sanctuary to his
"barbarian dog."

Iathor
brooded. He'd managed to order his brother out before throwing him
out, but it'd been a near thing after Iasen's barely-coherent
insults.
Even if she'd been a courtesan, all that matters is the
heir's immunity. A veritable procession of lovers would be
acceptable, so long as some discretion were maintained, and all
children properly fathered.

"Is
the food to your liking?" he asked Kessa, hoping to distract
himself.

She
nodded quietly, not looking up. Her form of politeness; those eyes
were quite startling.

"Would
you prefer anything else to drink?"

She
shook her head.

There'd
been times when Iathor's parents had eaten meals in near-icy silence,
only speaking to chide two rowdy boys. Sometimes, after the adults
left the table, there'd been slammed doors in the suite. Sometimes
tearful embraces. Sometimes quieter arguments, or apologies, or going
on as if nothing'd been the matter after all.

She
said yes.
Churlishly, he wished it'd been attended by
significantly less peril, conspiracy, and arson.
Perhaps she's
just hungry, and when she's eaten and feels better, she'll give me
answers I can understand.

And
just perhaps, if he closed his eyes and picked random ingredients off
his shelf, he could brew a potion to turn himself into a dragon.

Plaintively,
he asked, "Is there anything I could say that qualifies as
suitable for meals?"

Kessa
hesitated. Her voice, normally deep for her size, seemed a raspy
mirror of his own. "I don't know."