Herb-Wife (Lord Alchemist Duology) (45 page)

He
muttered and moved his arm in something between a childlike clutch
and a caress down her back. Her thoughts swirled between
He's
dreaming of someone pretty
and
He seems to like me in his
bed . . .
and the fast-following
Stupid,
girlish foolishness.
"I'm going to bite your shoulder."

"'M
told that's often a
good
sign." He yawned against her
hair.

"I
need the water-closet."

"Mmmrm."
He moved his arm to free her, though his fingers trailed over her
skin.

Kessa
peered through the bed-curtains, saw no one, and went to the bathing
room without looking for an undertunic. Afterwards, chilled, she
sought clothing. It took several seconds to realize Iathor'd drawn
back the bed-curtains so he could watch her. She froze and looked
away, torn between alarm at being
seen
,
naked
, and
feeling stupid for it.

"I
don't get to watch you enough," he said, as if this annoyed him.

She
tried to make her voice light, with what she thought Laita'd say.
"Too much, and there'll be servants asking if we're ready for
breakfast."

"And
at just the wrong time, like as not. Blight, you're correct."

"You'd
rather I was wrong?" She padded around the bed, hearing the
wooden rings click as he moved those curtains, too. Undertunics
draped side-by-side on the chair, and she tried to determine which
was hers, distracted by him
looking
.

"About
that
. About other things . . ." His voice
went serious. "I've no reason to wish poor judgment upon you."

She
found the smaller tunic. "You just think I've poor judgment
already."

"A
poor
temper
, perhaps!" That was exasperated or amused. Or
both. As she yanked the thin tunic over her head, he slipped off the
bed to stand behind her. Once she'd pulled it past her hips, he put
his arms around her shoulders and nuzzled her hair.

She
couldn't decide if she felt protected or smothered. Perhaps both. She
had a terrible, weak urge to turn and clutch him. To her disgust, her
indrawn breath sounded of tears.

"Kessa?"
He shifted her about, so it wasn't her fault she'd her cheek on his
chest. "What's wrong?"

"I
hate you?" Even after a fiveday of wretched sniping at each
other, the words lacked any firmness.

He
snorted, as the attempt deserved. "My Kellisan's been bearing up
too long, I think."

"What?"
That was properly grouchy, at least, if touched with whine.

Iathor
ran his fingertips against her scalp, combing through her hair and
raising goosebumps on her back – and chest. "Shall I tell
you a secret?"

"Secrets
are best kept by one person," she said, warily.

"This
one's better for sharing." He ducked his head to whisper, "I
believe a man may shed tears, when with his wife."

Unsettling.
Confusing. She hesitated. "So?"

"So,
my Kellisan, may a wife show occasional weakness with her husband,
and not fear he'll think less of her."

That
was unexpected, like looking down and seeing an arrow appearing from
one's gut. In her confusion, she said, "But what'll she think of
herself?"

"That
she's not alone? That for once, she can let someone else take care of
her when she needs it?"

Her
mouth might've had a months-delayed submission to the Tryth elixir
he'd first given her. "But who'll take care of you?"

"Well."
He paused a moment. "You're right, again. Perhaps we could take
care of each other?"

Like
family? But his bloodkin was her target, her only reason for wedding
him; Iathor'd hate her for the betrayal if he found out. When he
found out. She tried to put aside the ache. "I don't know."
When had she wrapped her arms around him so tightly? "Tell . . .
Tell me what to expect, at breakfast?"

Iathor's
steadying breath had a hint of frustration, but he answered. "I
can't guarantee Ietra will be there, though as lady of the house, she
should. If she's caught this wretched pale prejudice, she's the one
who can get out of breakfast most easily, being cousin by marriage
and not blood. If her husband – my mother's brother's son,
Daleus – doesn't show up, though, she'll have to. Jonie should
be there. Rather, Joniacae Dhaenoc, who married a second son of a
second son, cousin to Aeston's Earl Dhaenoc, but he died during a
spring illness before they'd been married more than a year. No
children. Jonie is Daleus' sister, so she came back here." He
thought. "It's possible Daleus and Ietra's children will be
here, though the eldest, Taleas, might be at the academy, and the
second boy, Talot, was apprenticed to a whitesmith, of all things,
and should be with his master."

Kessa
tried to catch the names, though her brain felt sluggish.
Pretend
they're a recipe,
she thought, and sorted them into ingredients.
What makes a family?
Husband, wife, sister. Children, one and
two. And three? "Any daughters?"

"Not
last letter they sent. They can afford enough Vigeur to space their
children, though. They may be thinking on one, now that the younger
son's apprenticed."

"Is
there anything I shouldn't say?"

He
sighed, tickling her ear; she scratched it. "I don't know. This
blighted mess with tribes . . ."

"I'll
just be quiet." She could do that, silent and patient. She
realized she was leaning against Iathor still, and he wore nothing at
all. She felt odd, with the
don't look
habits of tradesmaidens
crashing into propriety, curiosity, and the nagging suspicion that
wives saw naked husbands all the time and shouldn't be flustered by
them.

"Quiet.
Indeed." Perhaps be noticed her awkwardness, for he reached for
his own undertunic.

"Saying
I'm not quiet?" she asked, trying to be blithe and arch. And not
look, even when he'd the garment covering his head and not much of
the rest of him.

"That,"
he said as he got his head clear of fabric, "would be foolish of
me, don't you think?"

"I
don't know." She felt confused again and grouchy for it.

He
paused. "If I explain, you'll kick my ankle, and I'd likely
deserve it." He reached over to the chair again, coming up with
the green-sleeved dress she'd worn for the draught-testing, with long
V-stripes in green over gray. The cream cloak-shawl was beneath it,
to protect the gray of the dress's neckline from the dark of her
skin.

It
probably emphasized her darkness too much, but charcoal gray was
inappropriate for a new wife, and they'd not found many dresses in
the deep browns and greens that looked better on her. (Loria'd
mentioned seamstresses, but Kessa'd said . . .
Later.
)

She
needed Iathor's help to button the dress in back. Then she sat in the
opposite chair, brushing her hair without a mirror, while he went to
the bathroom to shave, more thoroughly than he'd managed on the whole
trip.

His
stubble had come in slowly, a mixed white-blond with gray and silver,
paler than the hair on his head – so he'd not been as
disreputable-looking as his dramsmen. Kessa'd been glad of the men's
need to shave their cheeks, giving extra time for
her
privy-matters, as a "young man" with a too-thin beard.

For
some reason, that called Wolf to mind. He'd been dark enough, despite
his ice-green eyes, to be quarter-barbarian himself. And he'd been
clean-shaven, without even dark stubble.
Perhaps barbarian men
don't grow full beards? A good thing your father dislikes them,
she told the seed within her.

Oddly,
that thought sent her into the bathroom shortly after, pathetically
asking, "Will you help with my hair?"

"My
pleasure." Iathor set to the task. It let her peek at his
reflection in the mirror: intent, and oddly pleased. She wanted to
keep watching that expression, as if it fed her empty belly; yet
another reason to feel irritated at how his emotions could lead hers
along as if the blighted draught'd worked after all.

Afterwards,
Brague came and helped Iathor with his clothing – a needless
formality, but perhaps reassuring to the dramsman. He did seem calmer
and more relaxed than the constant, steady tension he'd had during
the journey.

Brague'd
had the older draught, filling his soul with
Iathor Kymus
.

Second-guessing
her emotions was a wretched thing, and Kessa wondered if she
understood the shade of Iathor's mother.
I'm immune. Whatever I
feel, only the fringes might be influenced by the potion. The rest is
just me, blight it.
She could've waited in the sitting room, but
it seemed just as stupid to be alone in there as to hover moodily
while Iathor accepted help with his over-robe.

A
Chemstone servant led them to a formal breakfast room. Kessa clutched
Iathor's arm, refusing to feel stupid for her entirely reasonable
terror.

The
whole family was there. The woman who'd met them in the evening,
Jonie. The wife, Ietra.
Two
men: one young enough to be the
supposedly academy-housed son, and the other undoubtedly his father,
Daleus. Finally, a boy, probably a year or two into his
apprenticeship, and thus Talot. The sons were arguing over some
alchemical technique, with occasional interjections from their
father, while Ietra and Joniacae chatted more softly. Kessa didn't do
more than glance once, carefully; they were all fair of hair and
skin, and while Joniacae and Daleus shared a leaner build, Ietra had
a cushioned attractiveness. The sons were too young to tell which
parent they'd take after; the elder, Taleas, was in a raw-boned
growth spurt, and the younger's heavier build might've been the
prelude to a similar stage as much as a sign of his future.

"Good
morning to you all," Iathor said in his Guild Master voice,
serene and a touch distant.

The
others gave greetings, and Kessa kept her eyes down so they could
stare at her. Iathor held her seat, and she took it, grateful the
chair to her right waited for him and only realizing Joniacae was on
her left when the woman
tsk
ed and said, "Such fine hands.
I should've realized you were no boy."

Kessa
managed a surprised
ah?
, and looked at her hands. Thin, small,
with little nicks and tiny burn-spots from the occasional spatter of
a hot brew. And so very dark, beside the ivory tablecloth.

Joniacae's
own hands were pale, their only burn-scars years old, or possibly a
trick of Kessa's eyes.

As
the food was served, Daleus asked Iathor about the trip, and his
reply quickly became an indignant litany against the wretchedness of
the inns, the inconvenience of fellow passengers, and the vagaries of
horses.

"But
don't
you
keep horses?" Ietra asked.

"They're
not
my
horses," he explained. "They're my driver's
horses. I just pay for them and occasionally brew something if he
tells me they're 'ailing.' For all I know, they'd drop dead in the
harness if not for constant attention, because of some strange horsey
affliction."

His
baffled tone made Kessa smile faintly.

They
got nearly through the meal before Daleus asked, "Iathor, does
your wife
ever
speak?"

"Not
if she can avoid it," Iathor said, and moved his feet away. He
learned far too quickly, sometimes; her side-long glare was wasted on
his ostentatious indifference.

"You
enjoy speaking more, my lord husband," she said, her voice as
soft and cowed as she could make it.

Joniacae
laughed. The elder boy coughed into his cloth napkin. Iathor winced.
"Or if I annoy her sufficiently."

"Mm-hm."
From his tone, Daleus was unimpressed; Kessa strove to be even meeker
and more silent as the household's master suggested they leave the
table to the boys' second helpings and retire to a sitting room with
a fine view of the garden.

The
praised view was an expanse of whiteness beyond the clear glass
windowpanes, framed on both sides by the house's ivory brick, with
tall trees masking the back of their carriage house and barn. Last
night's snow had continued, turning thick and heavy. Flakes still
sifted past the lamps that rested on poles or hung from the brick
walls.

"Blight,"
Iathor swore absently, as he escorted Kessa to a seat. "That's
going to close down the palace, isn't it?

Joniacae
took a rocking chair. "Oh, that's right, you need an
audience . . . Well, if we send a message quickly, it
should get to the palace today."

Iathor
sat in the chair beside Kessa. "I'd thought to carry it myself
and hope there might be a few minutes the Princeps would be willing
to spare. Does it snow like this often? It seemed it never got deep
enough to close the academy when I was there."

"It
can." Ietra lowered herself into the comfortable looking couch
to Kessa's left. Her perfume was a delicate floral scent. "If it
keeps up, you might be stranded at the palace."