Herb-Wife (Lord Alchemist Duology) (21 page)

The
roiling in his gut was worse, but he managed to keep his calm facade.
"I've suspicions as to how much I'll not like it, your Grace."

"Well,
it came with Earl Irilye's seal on it – but his daughter's
hand, I think." Prince Tegar crossed his arms and gave the
impression of leaning casually against something while standing
halfway between door and hearth.

Iathor
was far too calm to groan. "Talien, the youngest daughter?"
The girl was a vixen of an entirely different sort than Kessa or her
sister.

"So
far as I could determine. She
is
who's been seeing your
brother? I don't suppose she's inclined to wed?"

"Your
Grace, I strongly suspect Talien Irilye will wed when she's ordered
to by yourself, and not a moment sooner. If you're planning to insist
she marry Iasen, I beg you'll delay the pronouncement till after my
own marriage."

"You
think she'll be jealous?" Prince Tegar actually sounded
startled.

"Only
as a matter of pride." He pinched the bridge of his nose. "You
think my brother had her claim I'm being blackmailed into marriage?"

"Mm."
The pause was awkward. "Blight. I hate to salt the fields,
Kymus, but you'll hear it from the Irilye girl, like as not. The
suggestion – hers or Iasen's, I don't know which – was
that to save your honor, I should decree it unlawful to enter into
marriage with any barbarian-blooded commoner who couldn't pass for an
immigrant from the old empire."

Iathor
pinched even harder. "High marriage, low marriage, or both?"

"Letter
didn't specify. Hard to stop priests from performing low marriages,
though."

"True."
He took a breath and bowed politely. "Thank you, your Grace."

"I'll
send someone to arrange things with your steward, Lord Alchemist."
The city-prince softened slightly. "I hope your day becomes
better."

He
smiled wryly. "And I."

All
three of Prince Tegar's men waited in the hallway; one held a small
bag of Tania's flat-cakes. Iathor was perplexed to see that of his
own people, he'd only Brague and a servant boy. He walked to the door
with the city-prince and said the appropriate formal farewells. After
the door closed, he turned and asked, "Where's Dayn?"

Brague
put a hand on the boy's shoulder. "Tursy here says a man came
looking for Miss Kessa – Burk, he claimed. Since Jeck didn't
say otherwise, likely all's well. But she asked that someone check
after a few minutes, in case, so Dayn went."

Reasonable.
Dayn's draught left him more flexible; Brague would've been more
upset, leaving his master surrounded by another's dramsmen. "I'll
follow, then." It would be a good diversion from thoughts of
fratricide or disinheriting.

Iathor
and Brague met Dayn in the back halls. The younger dramsman reported,
"It's Burk. Shall I see if anything's left in the kitchen?"

"If
you would." Iathor nodded as they passed, and continued on.

He
paused at the door into the carriage house, both uncomfortable with
eavesdropping on Kessa and her crèche-brother, and unwilling to
intrude on something not meant for a mere betrothed's presence.

He'd
not heard Burk speak much, but the rumbling voice seemed familiar. He
picked out a deep ". . . sister, Kess. I love you
anyway."

He
heard Kessa's reply more clearly. "Then don't break my heart by
offering up your
will
, too." Her voice dropped too much
to decipher the rest.

"You're
my
sister.
I'd not let you be hurt for anything, and mayhap
I'm no soldier, but . . ."

Kessa
interrupted. "No. That's . . . The thing is, the
draught's protection as well."

Iathor
pushed the door open quietly. Burk – the burly dockworker
who'd been with Laita when they first met, stubble-shaven, with blond
hair pulled into a queue behind his neck, and alchemically-green
eyes – sat at a small table, while Kessa leaned over, both
hands braced on it. She'd probably been glaring at him, but dropped
her gaze as she usually did when someone tried to meet her eyes.

Burk
sounded somewhere between amused and perplexed. "What, from the
city watch, if they catch me beating someone what threatened you?"

It
seemed as good a time as any to make himself known. Spying on her
would only make her
more
secretive, like as not. "That
also. But that's not what she means – is it, Kessa?"

She
didn't startle, though Burk snapped his head around. Dully, she said,
"No. There was a chapter in that book you were having Nicia and
me read, that burned up in my shop. The draught protects from any
future draughts, till the master's death." She put a hand over
Burk's, on the table, and continued with pain tainting her words. "If
you
weren't
protected, and someone gave you a loyalty
potion . . . You could be made to hurt me. You're
bigger than me, and you know how I fight. Iathor takes risks already,
with all these apprentice servants running around unbound, but
they're not bodyguards."

Her
crèche-brother sighed hugely, covering her hand with his. "Just
like you, Kess, to get yourself in a spot where you can't keep us
close by."

"I
never try to," she said, barely audible.

Her
brother replied, "I know."

Though
she nodded, Iathor'd had enough experience with Kessa to suspect what
followed was a miserable silence. (Not that she'd ever admit to
misery.) He cleared his throat. "There's an absence of
city-prince in the house, and more comfortable chairs, if you've time
to visit, Burk. Or a warm workroom, if Kessa's still busy with her
mystery brew."

Burk
grunted an acknowledgment, studying Kessa. "I'd like that.
Kess?"

She
lifted her head, eyes closed, to smile. "If you've the time."

"No
one's expecting me dockside till evening, Kessacat."

Firmly
reminding himself that eavesdropping on Kessa had no good outcome,
Iathor pushed the door fully open for them and strode ahead, half
leading them to the kitchen. Brague trailed after.

In
the kitchen, Tania already had the remaining flat-cakes on a platter.
Iathor smiled and lifted them from her hands. "I know exactly
where these should go. Tell Kessa I'm luring her to the inner sitting
room, if you would? She should be close behind, with her brother,
Burk."

His
cook laughed and flipped her apron at him. "Go set the lure,
m'lord."

The
inner sitting room was between the dining nook and the outer, more
formal chamber where they'd received the city-prince. Iathor set the
platter of flat-cakes on the low table the three couches circled, and
claimed a cake for himself before he retreated to wait by the hearth.

Once,
he'd asked Kessa to visit after she finished taking food to her
then-unknown companions, and though he'd fallen asleep waiting . . .
She'd come, eaten, and left behind the leather thong she'd used to
tie back her hair as "Kellisan." A confusing symbol . . .
Unsurprising, considering Kessa herself.

On
night patrols, he could believe she actually liked him. Other times,
she was wary, like a stray cat. Mouse often enough. Occasionally prim
and proper tradeswoman: at the cell when he'd first seen her; when
she'd taken the tea tray earlier.

When
she'd accepted his proposal.

No
way to know her true feelings, save when she'd shouted at him for
endangering her with the "gray watch" extortionists –
that'd been too raw to be false. He nibbled on the flat-cake, rather
than keep turning it in his hands.

Iathor
wanted, suddenly, to watch her with her crèche-brother. And yet,
knowing herself observed, she'd change, like a theater performer
changing cloaks and tabards to play different parts.

He'd
never discovered a brew that truly cared whether it was watched while
it boiled. For all the intricacies of alchemy, all the times a
frustrated researcher flung his hands in the air and shouted, "I
know not why the sand must be filtered only in moonlight, but it
works that way and no other!" – potions were a simplicity
compared to the woman he'd found.

Kessa
trailed in, warily, carrying a refreshed tea tray. Burk followed,
looking around with open curiosity; Iathor wondered if the room
seemed finery with Incandescens Stones in lanterns on fabric-covered
walls, or shabby from the wear of the couches that, along with the
curtains, were in styles and patterns from at least a decade ago. The
other man dusted off his workman's pants before he sat, and reached
for a flat-cake.

Kessa
perched on the edge of that couch and knotted her fingers together.

That
answers that.
Iathor went and leaned down. "Kessa . . ."
It was hard to find words that might reach her, past her fears for
her family. "I know you and Laita are protecting someone else,
some sibling I've not been told of."

He
watched Burk; his expression was a study in bovine disinterest.
Iathor continued, "You'll likely want to talk about
all
your family. So . . . I'll absent myself. It's not
terribly easy to hear anyone from the hallway, which is where Brague
or Dayn will likely settle."

Burk
put his flat-cake in his mouth and gave Iathor a salute that was
somehow both informal and grave.

Iathor
nodded in return. "If I don't see you before you leave, good day
to you, Burk. I'm glad you could visit. I'm sure arrangements for
more frequent visits could be made . . . even if they
had to be secret." If imperial agents
were
involved, with
unknown alchemies at their disposal, the best protection for Kessa's
family was indeed the secrecy she'd nurtured so desperately.

"We'll
hold you to that." Burk grinned at him, apparently oblivious to
Kessa's sharp stare.

"Hm."
Promising signs, both the reply and her reaction to it, so like her
occasional reactions to Iathor himself. He found himself smiling as
he left.

Chapter
XIII

K
essa
sat in her room, ignoring the mirror while Laita worked on her hair,
and tried not to think that it might be the last time this was
her
room.

I'm
getting married.
The thought slammed itself against the truth of
half-breeds don't get happy endings,
gnawing at the numb cold
in her chest. She half-babbled, "Laita, I know he's been
visiting you, and you know I'd not be upset–"

"Shush.
Kessacat, how many times've I visited you, this past month?"

"Four."
With Nicia, who guarded the door now, and Herbmaster Keli, so they
not been able to talk freely. A good thing; Laita'd been hampered in
questioning
her
.

"And
how many times has your betrothed been there?"

"Ah,
four." And strangely smug each time.

Nicia
giggled. Laita ignored her. "And how many times has Burk dropped
in?"

"Twice."
The first time, the day the city-prince'd visited. The second, in the
stables at dark of the night, and she'd carefully drugged the hounds
to sleep (the brew gotten from Laita from her blood-kin brother,
Jontho). Burk'd brought Jontho, his fair hair dyed chestnut and his
face streaked with a chimney-sweep's soot. Tag hadn't been there; her
nervous fagin brother had the excellent excuse of caring for ten
little roof-rats.

"And
was your betrothed there?"

"Yessssss."
Kessa tightened her mouth. In a house-robe, that second time. He'd
looked in, nodded to Burk,
perhaps
seen Jontho in the shadows,
and bid everyone a good evening.

"Well,
then. We all think that even if I tried for him, I'd have no chance."
Laita seemed unreasonably cheerful.

"Which
makes no sense! You're the pretty one–"

"And
you're the one who goes on his night patrols, which'd have me ill for
fivedays from too much night air. Look this way so I can do your
face."

Kessa
closed her eyes and tilted her head up for her sister. She couldn't
decide if thinking about night patrols made her feel steadier or more
adrift. They'd managed two more, before wedding preparations ate
Iathor's time; yearning for that fragile camaraderie was probably
dangerous.

Laita
finished brushing powders and ointments onto Kessa's face. "There.
Nicia, what do you think?"

Kessa
kept her eyes closed. Nicia clapped her hands. "Oh, that's nice.
You were right about how dark I needed to mix the reds."

"Good.
Kessa, bite this and press your lips on it. We don't want the groom
wearing it at the end."

Kessa
mouthed fabric. No need to think about kissing. Just one breath at a
time, one heartbeat at a time, one step at a time.

One
bit of clothing at a time. The stockings were pale green, tied to a
white, flat, lacey belt that went on under everything else.

One
dress at a time. A pale linen undershift, with flat, slick ribbons
that did some complicated thing in back from neck to waist, and
another that closed in front from the ankle-length hem to her waist.
A white, sleeveless shell of imperial silk, imported from the old
empire who knew how many decades ago; it'd been taken in at least
once before. Tiny buttons ran from its hem to the high collar.