Herb-Wife (Lord Alchemist Duology) (31 page)

"There's
a family relic in the sitting room. A rather uncomfortable couch.
It's the fitting place to sleep for a man who cannot keep his wife
happy, according to my father."

Now
Kessa lay upon that relic. It had coiled metal underneath, meant to
support the cushions but now lumped through the feathers to poke
anyone sitting on it. The cushions themselves must've once been plump
with down, but were now threadbare and flat.

With
a towel, a pillow from the lady's bed, and carefully angled position,
Kessa found the thing tolerable. The little table'd been easy to drag
over, and now held alchemy books.

It
gave her something under her hand when her eyes unfocused and her
mind wandered. Loria'd been in to ask if the wall fabric in the
lady's bedroom was to Kessa's tastes, and disinclined to accept
it's
fine
. Viala'd crept in to brush her hair. Tania'd left freshly
baked flat-cakes. And every half-hour or so, Dayn poked his head into
the sitting room just to look.

That
last was one reason why she'd not retreated to "her" room,
with the blue wall-fabric and green blankets. If it was supposed to
be a refuge, she didn't want someone constantly checking to see if
she'd passed out. And . . . the room still seemed
someone else's. Elera Kymus', perhaps, whose portraits were taken to
the barony estate when Iaren, her widower husband, had retired.
Kessa'd asked Loria if a small one might be sent for, so she could at
least give a face to the woman in her mind.

The
sitting room held little stamp of current or former owners. She
nearly felt at home on the crotchety couch.

Kessa
held the book (a large one, its pages nearly as long as her forearm)
against her as she rested her head on the bed-pillow. Warm, fed,
mostly comfortable . . . She nearly wished she could
bring in her brothers, and all of Tag's crèche. But they'd not think
it safe; chilly, hungry freedom was better than a comfortable prison.

But
if she was a barbarian sacrifice, she might as well be a warm,
well-fed one in a soft house-robe that covered her toes.

The
door opened again, behind the couch. She said, "I'm fine."

Iathor
leaned over the couch's back. "You should be on a bed."

"Bled
enough on one." She waved at the plate. "Flat-cake?"

He
came around to sit on the floor, his shoulder beside her feet.
"Kessa, where's your old dress? Did it get laundered?"

For
a moment, she couldn't think why he'd ask. Then she realized the men
must've talked; Iathor was following the same trail of logic Kessa'd
trod, fivedays ago.
For once, I'm not finding your footprints in
places I thought I discovered.
"It's folded and tucked under
the wardrobe in the room I was in, downstairs."

"
Under
it?"

"No
need to stink up the wardrobe." She held the book against her
like a shield. "Why?"

". . . They'd
alchemy," he said, finally. "Some bitter poison."

If
she'd not been so carefully arranged between the lumps and flats of
the couch, she'd have shoved herself upright instead of just staring.
"You
tasted
it already? How?"

He
shifted so his back was mostly towards her, and swung an arm up to
lie against her legs, fingers curled over her foot. "Thioso
found a jar lid in that alley, with a bit of ointment on it. He hid
it until he was sure
I'd
not hired the men to kidnap you –
for my cellar, or as a theater-play to save you."

For
once, someone else'd suspected him. Quietly, she said, "You'd
not've hired men to do what they intended. Especially not with
alchemy."

"You
knew." His shoulders slumped. His fingers pressed against her
foot. "You knew, and didn't tell me."

"I'd
no proof."

"
I'd
have believed you."

"You
think I'm hiding things."

"Hiding,
yes. Lying? Rarely. Kessa, is your family being threatened?"

"No.
I don't know anything that'd need threats to protect. Nor, before you
ask, has anyone asked me to find
your
secrets. I doubt it'll
become an issue." Dead women only spoke in theater plays.

"Then
if you knew they'd alchemy, why not say?"

"It
would've upset you." Her fingers traced on the book's cover. "It
wasn't important."

He
hunched his shoulders. "Not important? Kessa, do you know what
that stuff
is
?"

She
looked at the ceiling. "Deukael's ointment. I had to research
it." Better if he didn't waste that time himself.

"How
long, Kessa?
How long
have you known?" From the
restrained anger in his voice, she should've been frightened –
but he'd not clenched his fist around her foot. Only pressed his
knuckles.

"The
same day I found the conception potion's recipe at the hospice.
Deukael's ointment was in a book of men's maladies, from the old
empire." She recited, "Quickened by the seed of a true man.
Carried into the womb on that seed, it makes of the womb a man's
field."

"And . . .
you discerned its taste from the ingredients? Or is this something
your Maila taught you?"

Another
breath, to give herself time to think. Perhaps the alchemy of this
lie would be in what was left out. "No. There was some on my
dress, as you thought. Poison-bitter. Not an aphrodisiac. Not a
conception potion. Not a healing paste. I couldn't think what else it
might be, save to prevent conception – and why bother, unless
to deny you your son?"

"You
knew the taste from the recipe, or . . . Kessa, did
you hide its brewing, while you made the conception potion?" He
sounded urgent, pained.

Lie
and hurt him, thinking she'd lied about what she brewed. Tell the
truth and get Nicia into trouble. Neither choice was good. But
pretense concerning his own workroom would likely be uncovered
anyway. Better to protect Nicia with whatever good will she got from
quick truth. "No. I got Nicia to make a small amount, just
enough for me to sniff, and know it was the same or so close it made
no difference. Please don't be angry with her."

"You've
known. Known all this time, and never said." Iathor turned,
climbed to sit on the edge of the couch, and pulled the book from
her, wrapping his arms around her instead. "Blight it.
You
knew it couldn't be me. Why not
tell
me?"

She
pushed against the cushions, trying to make their positions less
awkward. "No proof. Not worth upsetting you."

He
was shivering, as if he'd forgotten his coat outside. Kessa wrapped
an arm around his back, but he didn't feel chilled. His grasp was
tight. "Why won't you
trust
me? You'll tell Nicia . . ."

"Nicia's
not the Guild Master. She's not obliged to do something about it –
or obliged to dismiss the idea because there's no proof
I
didn't do it just to accuse someone." She sighed and let her arm
slide down his back limply. "There's still no proof. Unless
they've confessed."

"They
have." That was a fierce whisper. "They fear I'll give them
to you, and would rather pray they can offer a better target in the
man who hired them. Horse-dark hair, they said. Pale."

Kessa
remembered when Iasen'd come to her shop, with his dark-haired
servant. But that was no proof to sunder brother from brother. Wolf
had dark hair. As many as one in ten common workers might have
sun-faded chestnut or true-black hair, all "horse-dark" in
common speech.

Into
her silence, Iathor asked, "Do you want them? I'll brew the
draught."

She
flinched, hunching her shoulders. "No! Why would I want blighted
nightmares so close?"

"Chained
ones," he murmured into her hair.

She
took guilty, stolen comfort in his embrace. "I'd not object to
binding them, but not to me."

"The
one who hired them, or his master?"

She
shook her head. "No." No point to binding someone else's
dramsman, and less in feeding the draught to an immune.

Iathor
gave a breathy chuckle. "I'd have thought you'd want bloody
vengeance."

I
do.
It was too nice to be held. She made herself push at him
gently. "That's not the same as binding."

He
sat up, letting her settle back against her pillow, though his hand
still rested on her elbow. "True.
Fitting
 . . ."

She
half-lidded her eyes, watching his lap and chest. "Oh? They
intended . . . ?" She thought she knew, and
it made her ill. But she could set the thought aside, as she set
aside her own likely death, as something separate from a couch with a
metal coil poking her hip, a warm hearth, flat-cakes, and a confusing
husband who by turns irritated her, frightened her, and broke her
heart with kindness. When he hesitated, she moved her other hand to
cover his.

He
turned his palm and took her hand between his, still silent. Then he
huffed out air. "Kellisan. Very well."

She
might've asked why her
boy
name, but he didn't wait. She
listened to his report of Thioso's questioning, and tried not to feel
more afraid, hearing the hints between words he couldn't manage to
say. She'd escaped. She'd not been taken to a riverside warehouse.

After
Iathor's voice wound down from a lecture he'd clearly not enjoyed,
Kessa said, distantly, "I wonder . . . If a
Purgatorie was administered in time, followed by a healing potion, do
you think it might cure such damage?"

"I
don't know." He took a breath and released it. "I never
want to have to try."

"No . . .
And it shouldn't be likely now, either. The penalties for attacking a
noble's wife aren't much lighter than killing her entirely, and death
is more certain."

"Kessa!"
Iathor pulled her into his arms again. "Don't. Please."

She
squirmed and patted his back. "I'll not go places alone. And the
couch is poking me."

"Ah."
He let loose for her to re-settle, then stroked her hair, brushing it
away from her left earlobe, where the piercing wire still hung.

It
was as if he feared she'd vanish away if he weren't touching her.
Nearly irritating, save it kept
her
from spiraling into
nightmare. Still, she shouldn't get used to his touch. That'd only
lead to missing it, when he found some properly rounded blonde after
his fascination with
marriage
wore off.

Kessa
only hoped she'd like the lass, so she'd feel happy for them rather
than annoyed he'd not chosen Laita.

She
tried to banish the thought, and her irritation with herself, by
snagging his fingers with her hands. She wanted to look up at him
like a hungry puppy, but that was one tactic of Laita's she couldn't
try. "Promise you'll not get Nicia in trouble, Iathor? It's
nothing meant for using. Only so I'd
know
."

"Does
she still have it?" he asked, his voice a Guild Master's.

"I
believe so. But I asked her to make it."

He
sighed, and answered as
Kymus
alone. "I'll confiscate the
ointment and have a discussion about illegal and unethical brews, to
ensure she doesn't make preparations for
other
people . . .
but nothing worse. Sufficient, my lady wife?"

Kessa
couldn't stop the smile from catching at her lips. "Might do
better simply to give her a list of illegal potions, so she'll know
what's truly forbidden instead of merely disapproved of."

"Mayhap.
I still want to talk to Keli about certain matters. Perhaps a dinner?
When you're, ah, not inconvenienced to sit?" Embarrassment and
guilt lurked in his voice.

"A
day or two, and I should be all right." She remembered the
morning's conversation. "Wait! Don't yell at the Herbmaster,
either!"

He
pulled away. "Why not?"

"Because
she's not to blame." Kessa tried to think of a better diversion.

"You
said she was blackmailing you into marriage!"

He
was being infuriating again. "What? No!"

"Perhaps
she didn't think it such, but . . . You'd not have
anyone
made dramsman."

"Neither
would you! That's why it was a bad idea."

He
looked away. Darkly, he said, "I'd rather you'd not married me
only to save your friend."

A
better option than the true reason, but she couldn't tell him so.
Instead, she curled around – despite the twinge of pain from
her groin – and shoved him off the couch with her feet. "You
are
impossible
, Kymus!"

He
sprawled on the floor, blinking at her with outrage or astonishment;
she didn't glare long enough to tell which, for she wasn't angry
enough at
him
to give it proper force. And he, blight him,
might realize that. Instead, she shoved herself up, took a flat-cake,
and strode to the lady's bedroom as quickly as she could. At the
door, she said, "You may tell me when dinner's ready." Then
she stepped inside and closed it.