Herb-Wife (Lord Alchemist Duology) (22 page)

Last
was the nod to current fashions: a lace-covered, puff-sleeved
over-dress found, ironically enough, in an attic trunk, presumably
belonging to some Kymus wife. They'd soaked it in a dilute cleaning
potion that – perhaps even more ironically – Kessa'd
sold Tania a few months previously. (Its cedar smell had sent Kessa
into the water-closet with another stupid sobbing fit; she'd at least
kept it quiet.)

As
if the layers of the lace overdress weren't enough, she had to be
strapped into a buff-colored, velvet vest. A matching open-skirt,
with a thin, three-quarters bustle, was fastened around Kessa's waist
with well-hidden buttons. Both were embroidered with pale green
flowers. Kessa wasn't sure where they'd come from. They could've been
brand-new, for all she knew.

The
simple white slippers and arm-long gloves certainly were, though the
fingerless, lace glovelets that went over them had been found in
another chest. They'd been dyed light green and Kessa feared the
color'd run if she spilled anything on them.

Once
everything was on, Nicia fetched Viala for Kessa's hair while Laita
got the dress layers arranged so Kessa could sit on a narrow stool
without wrinkling anything.

"I'll
wrinkle it when I sit in the carriage," Kessa said, settling
carefully onto the seat.

"We'll
arrange it so it won't be so bad," Laita said. "And after
you're wed, you're
expected
to wrinkle it."

Pushing
away such thoughts kept her to a small mewl of acknowledgment. Then
Viala arrived and got to work, putting Kessa's hair into a wretchedly
complex arrangement the girl'd been practicing nearly every day. A
vestigial remnant of Kessa's usual swoops of hair was left, going
from temple to just above her earlobe on either side, and the rest
was somehow braided tightly into a crownlet along the top and back of
her head. It served as an anchor for the only part Kessa was secretly
fond of: a veil-like arrangement of gold links and semi-precious
stones that might've been some forgotten fashion's necklace. She'd
reluctantly agreed that hanging it over her face, from forehead to
nose, looked too much like an unshorn sheep, but with suitable
pinning, it could swoop past her cheeks as her hair normally did.

Then
everyone helped her off the stool: Nicia held her hands, Viala tended
the skirts, and Laita tipped the seat sideways and slid it out from
under.

For
entrenched tradition, she'd not one, but two additional veils to ward
off ill luck from jealous or covetous wind spirits. The first was
lace, going over her head to brush her shoulders. The last, nearly
transparent, veil went down to her knees, with a split in the middle,
and seed pearls stitched to it in a regular pattern. Its "crown"
of fabric was pinned through to her braids again.

With
everyone taking one last look to make sure nothing'd been forgotten
or mussed, Kessa could glance at the mirror. The padding gave a vague
impression of hips beneath the veils, and the vest added a little
fabric thickness at her chest. She supposed she looked nearly like a
perfect bride for a high marriage ceremony – save where a bit
of her darker skin showed at upper arms and face, marking her as a
common pretender.

Being
kidnapped by a wind spirit might've been something to hope for, save
that no story ever had wind's children being kindly disposed to the
dark earth spirits – and tales of such creatures taking flesh
were stories for children. Kessa was more inclined to worry about
invisible, "coincidence" causing spirits.

Laita
made some comment about unwrapping birthday presents, but Kessa
didn't have enough concentration to even feint at her sister's
ankles. "Is everything ready?" she managed to say.

"Looks
to be, m'lady," Viala said.

Kessa
turned from the mirror. "Then let's get this theater performance
over with."

The
floor was fresh-swept along her path, so her shoes wouldn't be
dirtied. A set of rugs was laid from the front door to the waiting
carriage – a loan from Prince Tegar that Loria'd been pleased
to acquire. It came with a driver and three guards, as well as
dappled, gray horses suitable for the Lord Alchemist's wedding.

Nicia
and Viala got in first, with Laita and one of the guards to help
Kessa inside, and there was a great deal of fussing with her dress to
minimize the wrinkles and keep the edges out of the door.

Once
the carriage was in motion, Laita poked Kessa in the arm gently.
"Now, what shall we talk about till we get there?"

"Not
throwing up?" Kessa suggested, as the first thing that came to
mind.

Laita
squeaked in alarm. "In all this white?
Don't
. It'd give
the wrong impression."

"I've
eaten little, anyway."

Nicia
said, "Do you need anything? Fainting's bad, too."

"I
don't think I'll faint." Though it tempted.

Viala
offered, "Auntie Tania says one's supposed to tease the bride
and tell her anything she might need to know."

Laita's
grin was clear in her voice. "Oh, I could do
that 
. . ."

"No!"
Kessa took a breath, trying to calm herself. "No. I'll explain
later. It's important."

From
what little she could see through the veils, Nicia and Viala looked
mystified, across from her.

Laita
sat back, arms folded. "Whether or not you know more than a
sheltered noble-girl, you've bled not two fivedays ago."

True
enough. Kessa'd used a light dose of Purgatorie then, to bring on her
moon-flows and keep her body's cycles from deciding the best time for
that wretchedness would be in the middle of the ceremony itself.
Still . . . "That's not the point. I'll explain
after, Laita."

"All
right. I hope I get to give some advice
then
?"

Kessa
smiled wanly. "Probably." But for this . . .
She let herself think around the edges of it. Iasen'd claimed she was
no maiden; for her pride, if nothing else, she'd prove otherwise –
and without any suggestions that might lend credence to thoughts of
healing ointments and false maidens.

Laita
snorted. "I should've realized you'd be over-serious about this,
just like everything else."

For
a moment, she could hardly remember the last times she'd been
light-hearted. When she'd been a child, perhaps. Or a young woman
lying on summer-heated rocks by the stream near Chiftia's hut. Long
before Iathor'd found her, and found her immune. Long and long before
his brother'd decided she was a threat to be driven away.

She
didn't know what she felt about Iathor, but for Iasen? Easy, cold
fury. She could focus on that, and know the only sure way to hurt him
was to remove him as the Lord Alchemist's heir. Hatred was a shield,
revenge a mask, and when they finally arrived at the palace
entry . . .

She
waited for the clean rugs to be laid along her path, waited for Nicia
and Viala to exit, and left the carriage herself with her back and
shoulders straight, chin as high as any haughty noble's daughter.
Every step was as perfect as a grown roof-rat could make it. Every
movement as precise as a Shadow Guild alchemist's. In her mind and
memory, every breath was tinged with the green poison that killed its
taker soon or late, even as she took down enemies with a deadly bite.

Servant
girls led the way through a back hall and up a spiral staircase with
a guard of its own. The circular room at the top had another doorway
and arrow-slit windows. One guard stayed behind with the man outside
the room, and two went through the other doorway, into a hall beyond.
Kessa stood in the room's center while Nicia and the others peered
out the windows.

Laita
said, "We must be in the old keep. Look how thick the walls
are."

Nicia
added, "There are so many people down there! That must've been a
courtyard . . ."

Viala
bounced on her toes. "I see m'lord!"

"You
stay there, Kessa," Laita giggled. "If the wind-spirits
notice which man you're staring at, they might pull pranks on him."

She
nearly asked if anyone saw Iasen down there, but restrained herself
to a blithe, "As if they can't tell which one's dressed like a
groom?"

That
got other nervous giggles. Laita came over. "The priests look
like they're nearly ready. We're perfectly on time." She
squeezed Kessa's hand. "I wish I could come!"

Another
coup Loria'd won was securing attendants from the city-prince's
staff – so all her sewing girls had been altering the clothing
they'd found for Kessa, rather than scrabbling to fit something to
Laita, Nicia, or Viala.

It
kept the three of them out of harm's way if anyone tried to make a
scene about half-barbarians. "You'll have a better view up
here."

"If
I'd a better
dress
, I'd be down there," Laita said, and
brushed her own skirts where a thigh-scabbarded knife would go.

"There
won't be trouble." Kessa made her voice confident. "The
city-prince wouldn't allow it."

Laita
wiped at her eyes with the heel of her hand. "Of course not."

Kessa
swallowed hard, and squeezed her sister's hand.

Viala
said, "A messenger's gone to the city-prince's niche . . .
He's coming back. Just a few minutes."

One
heartbeat. One breath. One step. At a time.
Every second was a
second closer to rain's own vengeance, silent and flowing. "I'll
be fine," she said, and if they thought it was for her own sake
as much as theirs . . . Perhaps.

Nicia
was talking to Viala, pointing out some of the nobles and guild
masters. The titles and names didn't stay in Kessa's mind, and she
was almost concerned. It could be important. She focused herself, and
caught
Iontele
 – and then there was knocking at the
door.

Laita
opened it, and didn't open it further, as Kessa'd expected. From
beyond, a young voice said, "I've a letter from Master Iasen,
for the bride."

Laita
glanced over her shoulder. "Miss Kessa?"

Ultimatum?
Threat? Blackmail?
She wouldn't know unless she took it. But if
she took it, she
would
know. Clearly, she said, "Please
inform Master Iasen that I cannot read, and return his letter to
him."

Nicia
and Viala both stared – Nicia knowing full well that Kessa was
a slow but competent reader, and Viala likely confused – but
Laita turned back without pause. "I'm sorry. She'll not accept
the letter. Please return to him now. It's ill-luck for a bride to
deal with such matters on her wedding day."

The
unseen messenger said, "I . . . I'm supposed to
give . . ."

Laita
leaned out the door a bit more. "Guardsman, if you please, Miss
Kessa shouldn't be troubled just before her wedding with a private
missive which she'd have to ask one of us to read to her."

A
man's voice, deep and rough, said, "The woman's right. Off with
you, lad, unless you're from Prince Tegar himself."

"G-good
day," the boy stammered. Laita closed the door and leaned
against it.

Viala
said, faintly, "Can't read?"

"Everyone
knows savages can't read," Kessa said. "As I was clearly
raised beyond the frontier, only yesterday arriving to practice my
barbaric attempts at herb-witchery,
I
mustn't be able to read
either."

Laita
said, "Clearly."

Nicia
said, "Oh." She looked over her shoulder, through the
window. "I don't see Master Iasen just now, but I'll try to
watch for him. See who he talks to."

With
a surprising show of irritation, Viala said, "Look for Miss
Talien Irilye, too. When he was staying at m'lord's house, he invited
her to the dinner party – without m'lord knowing there was
going to
be
one – and went to visit her plenty of
times."

Kessa
wondered if this was what
having
a crèche was like, for
fagins. Mayhap Tag'd be brave enough to visit, or she'd be able to
find him and ask. Quietly, she said, "Thank you."

There
was another knock. This time Laita smiled and opened the door.

The
two young girls, barely even shoulder-high to Kessa, were dressed in
veils that were close matches to her own – to confuse
trickster spirits, perhaps, or just to harmonize – with pale
gold dresses underneath; Kessa wished she could've had that color,
but white made a statement, and for a high marriage, traditions and
statements were more important than whether one looked out of place
in a given color. The buff of her vest and half-skirt were enough.

The
girls curtseyed. "Is Miss Kessa ready?" one asked.

"I
am," she said, and took a step.

The
other three murmured
good luck
behind her, and Laita caught
her hand for one last, brief squeeze as she passed through the door.

Then
she was walking down the hall, led by the girls, with a guard
following. The rugs were soft underfoot – enough to be
potentially treacherous if she tried to dart off them and wound up
kicking them against walls. Not that she could do that easily; her
skirt allowed little more freedom than her careful mince betrayed.