Herb-Wife (Lord Alchemist Duology) (36 page)

"No,
I believe you. I was investigating the workroom, and if that was the
unlabeled jar I wanted to analyze . . ." He
smiled wryly. "My brother's ire was misdirected. I'll inform
him."

"Oh."

"May
your day improve." Iathor left, Brague close behind.

Thioso
followed, locking the door and dropping the key off with instructions
regarding the scribe and possible guardians who could claim Lairn,
later.

The
watchman spoke little in the carriage, not even repeating his
theories of Iasen's involvement, to Iathor's relief. Iathor was
already angry enough about what his brother
had
done.

Once
at the watch-station, Jeck stopped the carriage behind a waiting
buggy, maneuvering close behind it to avoid the door opening out
above a pile of fresh manure. As Thioso went inside, Jeck coaxed the
horses backward. The buggy-driver lounged on his makeshift saddle,
ignoring the trouble.

Iathor
watched out the sliding hatch that allowed him to talk to his driver
from inside the compartment. "Should I just pay the man to move
his horse, Jeck?"

"Not
necessary, m'lord. We've good beasts. Hm? That watchman's back."

"Don't
make him step in the muck, if you can."

"Aye,
m'lord." Jeck backed the horses a few more steps, and halted
again.

Thioso
waited for Brague to open the door, and looked suspiciously mild.
"Sir Kymus, before you leave, could you tell me your thoughts on
this?" He held an opened letter, somewhat crumpled, that'd been
sealed with gray wax.

Iathor
took it, and managed not to add to the creases when he read it.
. . . corruption in the guild cannot be condoned,
even at the highest levels.
He took a breath as he handed it
back, lest he snarl or curse. "It's not my brother's usual hand,
if that's what you're asking. It's his style of writing, as you can
tell from what he sent me."

"And
having to put the matter before a judge would certainly keep you in
Aeston, defending your wife, mm?"

"Perhaps.
Or perhaps I could put off the trial till I fetched my brother back
for his own, at a meeting of the guild." He paused. "Is
Darul's sister calling for a judge, then?"

"No.
She says an anonymous note's not what she'd like to stake a trial on.
Just making an observation, that such a thing'd pin you down, whether
you suspected your brother of causing it or not."

"If
you hadn't said he'd left his home, I would've sent him letters . . .
Unless I'd not been shown that missive, till a trial was underway."
And, Iathor realized, the trial might've taken fivedays to schedule.

"There's
judges who'll spring such accusations at the last moment, to get a
better truth from expressions," Thioso said. "I think I'll
be talking to the Watch Commander. I take it you're not committing to
any local social events, Sir Kymus?"

Iathor
sighed heavily. "More likely, I'm going to Cym to drag my
brother back by the ear.
Blight
him and his childish
objections!"

"Mm.
May your day improve."

"And
yours," Iathor said, very dryly.

Thioso
strolled off as Brague closed the door. Iathor plotted petty
retaliations against his brother all the way back to his offices.
Sachets of herbs to
attract
fleas, perhaps, dropped down the
chimneys or sprinkled at the doors.

Planning
empty vengeance was better than brooding on what Iasen'd done, or
tried to do, or might've done if he'd been a gutter-bred thug.

Chapter
XXI

K
essa'd
not expected Iathor to return anything but late. She was mildly
surprised he wasn't so late she was already preparing for bed, but
only late enough that she'd finished dinner and been pondering
whether she should start some simple, useful potions, or read one of
his books, or perhaps merely sit and be warm.

While
Tania heated stew, after Iathor's plaintive claims of starvation,
Kessa leaned over the chair opposite his, at the lower end of the
dining nook's table. She felt nearly a shadow herself, and only
noticed he was talking to her, not calling comments to Tania, after
he'd repeated her name at least once.

"Hm?"

"I
asked if anything interesting happened today."

"Oh."
She thought about it. "Not really. You?"

He
heaved a sigh. "My brother's apparently gone off to be a vastly
inconvenient, biased, grudge-bearing idiot. I'm glad that hasn't
precipitated
here
, too. As it is, I'll need to leave for Cym
quickly."

"Didn't
you want him to leave Aeston?"

"He
went to great pains to conceal his absence from me, and possibly
embroil me in legal matters here. I think he'll try to talk the
Princeps into annulling my–
our
marriage. He might even
promise himself to some earl's daughter, to provide a tertiary heir
with political connections. If he did, the whole matter could be
hanging for
years
till our respective children could be
tested." His hands were fists on the table, white knuckles
bespeaking fury while his voice claimed only intense annoyance.

"And
if the immunities were strong enough," she said, distantly,
"this son would be a collateral line. A bastard whose own son
might inherit or might not, if the other line's immunities
failed . . . And if he were permitted training. His
cousin could deny it, as Guild Master."

Iathor
moved his hands, covering his face and resting his elbows on the
table. Muffled, he said, "Kessa, please don't think I'd turn you
out, even if my brother
did
manage to accomplish this idiocy.
Which I don't intend to allow. If I get there before he's found
himself an earlish ally,
I
am the Lord Alchemist, and
I
can get the ear of the Princeps long before he can. And that should
be that. Then I can drag him back to a guild trial for certain other
things, and let him go found collateral lines of his own or not, as
he pleases."

She
nearly hugged the chair-back, drooping over it. "How long would
you be gone?"

He
lowered his hands to tick off numbers on his fingers. "It's
roughly a fiveday to get there, if I'm traveling lightly and not
taking half my wardrobe as my brother usually does. I've fewer
servants, so it'd be easier to get seats. A fiveday to meet with the
Princeps and collect my brother. A fiveday to return. Less than a
month."

Don't
go. Send a messenger. Prince Tegar should provide one.
She let
her head sink lower, chin against her neck. Everything would be nigh
meaningless if Iasen kept the title of
heir
for himself, and
his line.

Iathor
said, as Tania brought out his food, "While it'd be
irresponsible to drag my pregnant wife along . . . I
understand there's a hardy young man who might be interested in
accompanying me. Name of Kellisan?"

It
was her turn to make her knuckles pale, gripping the back of the
chair. "What good would I be there?"

"For
one, I'd not be fretting over leaving you behind. For another, I
should introduce you to my mother's family before they decide I'm
slighting them. For a third . . . You might want to
go." He took up a spoon.

"I'm
an ugly impediment if there's anything
social
to be done."
Her skin, though she'd spent more time indoors than out recently, was
still darker than the wood of the chair she leaned over.

"At
worst, I could send you back with Dayn. Most likely, you'd wander
about the city with him and spend money, as is traditional for
visitors. At best, if there was need, I know you can play a timid,
devoted wife." His voice shifted to something bitter. "No
matter what you truly feel."

"Nobles
are like other people, but with more power. It's better for me to
keep my head down."

"It's
the other word I question more," he said quietly.

"It
was a high marriage. I don't think 'concubine' is the right term."

"No.
Though a concubine would at least share my bed occasionally. And not
avoid me."

She
hunched her shoulders.
It hurt. You scared me.
The words
warred with others, even less bearable to say.
I'm afraid you'll
find a way into my heart, like family. I'm afraid you'll hate me. I'm
afraid you'll be hurt when I die.

He
ate another few bites, mechanically, then pushed the bowl away. "I
didn't want to do . . . what I did."

"You
did as I asked," she said, because it was true, and somewhere in
the dawn she'd only been able to be sad for it, not angry with him.

"And
perhaps I shouldn't have. I knew better." He stood, stepping
around the table towards her.

She
dropped her gaze to the table's edge. "It was . . .
what I wanted."

His
voice was possibly quiet enough not to carry to the kitchen. "To
get my heir? In the most brutal way possible?"

She
didn't have enough slack in her shoulders to flinch; only to slowly
huddle into herself. "I thought you wanted a child."

"I
do! But I find myself . . . wanting a wife."

If
she said,
You have one,
that might tear through the snowy
chill around her heart, and let out a storm of weeping. "That'd
likely fade in time, no matter what I did."

"Kessa!"
Iathor nearly grabbed her arm, but stopped himself and just rested
his clenched fist against her shoulder.

"Truly,
it's none of my business if you find sport elsewhere. I know what I
am." Ugly. Half-breed. Thin and bony. Maila'd told her fagin,
"Give her to me. She's too distinctive to stay a thief, and
she'll never be a courtesan like the other."

She'd
forgotten that.

"You're
my wife!" His fist pressed against her arm. "Save you don't
seem to want that."

She
pushed away from the chair, her hands clenched at its top. "In
all the stories . . . When castles flew and dragons
lived in them . . . It's the blonde and fire-haired
girls who've the happy endings. The plain, common brunettes get the
blind princes at best – and only if they sing. And there's no
place for half-breeds at all."

"Kessa . . ."

She
pulled her hands from the chair, wrapping them in her skirts. "I
know my place. I know the ending." She turned and walked away,
before she said something that let him know her heart.

Up
in her room, she pumped water for a bath. Enough physical labor to
focus on. Not so much to fret for what it'd do to her body. Was the
seed planted already? Did it work like that? Grow like a bean,
splitting its skin with delicate leaves and roots, tiny hands and
feet? Or was there already a miniature baby nestled inside her,
growing as children did?

Perhaps
it was like a vine, and the babe a fruit that kicked itself loose
when it quickened.

She
soaked for a while, then washed her hair, bending over the tub.
Afterwards, she pulled the lead plug so the water could drain into
the waste cistern, and took the Fervefax Stones from the outer hull's
shelves with tongs, putting them back into niches in the brick wall.
That was the back of the sitting room's hearth; she wondered if
keeping the Stones warm meant they lost their own heat more slowly,
or if it was only a good place for hot things.

Wrapped
in her robe, she went into the main bedchamber and sat at the
dressing table. It was dark wood, large and heavy like a short
wardrobe, and supported a mirror smoother and finer than the one in
her prior bedroom here. The paints and ointments from the wedding
were tucked into the table's drawers, but she wasn't sure how to wear
them. Even if she'd wanted to, experimenting would've meant looking
at her own reflection.

So
she sat, not-quite looking at the mirror, combing her hair until it
stopped dripping on the towel around her shoulders. The motion was
soothing, if not so luxurious a pleasure as when her sibs'd done it.

Or
when Iathor had, once, when she'd been too crippled by moon-flow
cramps to object. He probably shouldn't have been in her shop's
bedroom at all while she was sitting on a basin to catch the blood,
but her skirts'd covered everything, and she'd hurt too much to think
of anything save that if he
wanted
to stay in the blood-stench
and play with her grubby, coarse, barbarian hair . . .

Someone
tapped on the door; it swung inwards slightly. She'd not closed it
tightly enough, she supposed. "Yes?"

From
the sitting room, Iathor said, "I wanted to apologize. Upon
consideration, I may've been . . . less than
informative of my own preferences."

Kessa
rested her hands on the comb in her lap. "I'll tell Tania not to
chide you. It's not your fault."

From
the throat-clearing, she'd guessed well. "Nevertheless, it was
pointed out I may've assumed something was obvious, when it was only
obvious to me." More peevishly, he added, "Though I think
Darul's sister, here, counts as 'something interesting.'"