Herb-Wife (Lord Alchemist Duology) (47 page)

Chapter
XXIX

T
he
next day continued overcast, with just enough snow to make everyone
watch windows lest the weather strand them. Iathor left after
breakfast, to go pace in the palace in case the Princeps had a free
moment. The walls of the guest bedroom seemed to press in. Kessa
drifted about, Dayn following, and looked out windows until
Joniacae – out of politeness, boredom, or perhaps determined
resolve to make the best of her cousin's wife – caught up with
them and declared they'd go on errands.

Bynae
had no cloak. Though she might've stayed in their servants' room,
Kessa handed over her cloak and took her "Kellisan" coat
instead. It wouldn't clash with her blue-gray dress, at least.
(Though her own skin turned dirty-grayish in contrast, and the dress
was cut to reveal curves Kessa didn't have . . . The
fabric was quality.)

Looking
in the bathing room's mirror showed that a lady's dress and a man's
coat together was unusual, but not entirely
bad
. Not the best
choice in Cym, where dark skin alone made people assume the worst.
But back in Aeston, it . . .

Might
look rather like the over-robes, open at the front, that alchemists
often wore.

Blight,
she thought, collecting Dayn and Bynae.
I'm getting too used to
thinking I'm . . .
someone.

Though
Joniacae murmured
oh, dear
, her second, firmer comment was:
"Well, if anyone remarks, we'll say it's Aeston fashion."
Then Joniacae bundled everyone to the carriage house, where Dayn
asked if he might ride inside the compartment, because of his
"too-thin Aeston clothes."

Kessa'd
been dreading being alone with someone who was very possibly being
polite only for Iathor's sake, and someone who thought she was a
night-monster; she flashed him a close-eyed smile when Joniacae
wasn't looking.

With
Dayn inside, it was a bit crowded, but the Chemstone carriage had
windows of glass, so Kessa could look out while they slowly moved
through the snowy streets. Cym looked much like Aeston . . .
almost. Houses were slightly bigger in some ways, or smaller in
others, and she wasn't sure where one district left off and another
began. There seemed to be more three-story buildings, with narrow,
shadowed alleys between them, but a few places abutted carefully
designed gardens where cloaked people strolled. There were definitely
more statues, including one, Joniacae explained, that'd once been
entirely an Incandescens Stone, glowing softly for the better part of
a year.

The
trip was an awkward mixture of tour and shopping. Joniacae visited
two stores for supplies: smooth, rounded riverstones at one, and
metal-salts in the other. Then they browsed on foot for a stretch.
Kessa glimpsed odd looks from shop-keepers and the few other
browsers, but kept her head down. Between that, deferring to
Joniacae, and her odd, quality clothing, no one spoke insult. No one
talked to her at all, save Dayn and Joniacae; Bynae herself was
silent, save when the other two addressed her, and Kessa refused to
force the poor girl to talk with a dreaded night-monster. (Despite
her late-night waking urge, the evening before, to sneak into the
servants' room and growl quietly.)

They
went past a bonesetter's privately-run hospice, stopped to order
paper from a small storefront with only a nameplate on the door, went
past the alchemists' academy . . .

Kessa
wished Iathor were there to tell stories of his youth. Then she
wished she were completely alone so she could slap herself for
foolishness. Old Herbsman Chiftia, closest to a midwife her little
village had, sometimes'd said pregnant women lost all sense, but
surely that took longer?

Finding
Bynae a cloak was the last errand. In between pointing out warehouses
of notable shippers, and consulting their driver, Joniacae directed
the carriage down various roads. The buildings shifted unpredictably
from block to block. Here, lower-class dockworkers' neighborhoods
that Kessa'd expected at the river's end where the barges stopped.
There, not-quite-poor areas such as her own shop'd been in. Around a
corner, solidly merchant-class stores that could've rubbed elbows
with Herbmaster Keli's shop in Aeston.

A
cheaper, second-hand shop was visited first; after a quick, murmured
discussion of funds with Dayn, Kessa declared she'd not have a Kymus
servant in anything as patched as the available clothes. Perhaps it
wouldn't win Bynae's regard, but it turned Kessa's stomach to think
of treating the girl as coldly as Ietra'd apparently done.

The
next place was down a side-street, too snow-piled for the carriage.
They all got out and trooped along, skirting higher drifts. While
Dayn helped Joniacae and Bynae across an icy patch, from someone's
used wash-water, Kessa stretched her shoulders, looking around while
everyone was too distracted to notice her eyes. The buildings
could've been shabbily comfortable merchant-class, or clawing betwixt
that and poverty, and it was very nearly familiar. She felt the pain
of losing her shop, like a dull ache behind her forehead, threatening
to clog her eyes and nose.

She
turned to look out at the street, lest anyone see her expression. The
back of the carriage showed, where the driver waited with his
blanket-wearing horse. A few other carriages and miserable buggies
plodded along the street, and there were even some people walking.
One man, hatless, strode past with the air of someone too cold to
saunter. Snow speckled his dark hair.

She
watched him, almost hungry to see how someone else fared who didn't
bleach his hair, though his skin was lighter than hers. He glanced
down the side-street where they were, with a wary twitch of his head
like some predator sizing up the hunting grounds and whether there
were hounds or not. Even at that distance, his eyes were a pale, icy
green.

Oh,
it
can't
be!
she thought, frozen as if by
cold.
Not that blighted "gray watch" leader, looking for
someone else to pay him to "protect their valuable wares."
Not Wolf. Not the rotted bastard who . . .
She
clenched her teeth.
Who. Burnt. Down. My. Shop.

She
might've let him pass on, convincing herself it was just dark hair
and perhaps an alchemy-recipe for eye-color. But he paused as well,
perhaps noticing
her
black hair (she remembered Wolf trying to
flirt: pushy, till he saw her eyes). He frowned, as if trying to
remember something.

Rage
was a physical thing, filling her like fumes. Her hand went into her
coat, seeking the herb-witchery sleeping powder, and she started
forwards.

He
must've made out her eyes, too, for she saw his expression go
shocked, heard him bite out, "
Rot!
" Then he bolted.

She
grabbed up her skirts and ran after, wary on the snow. Behind her,
Dayn yelped, "M'lady!" but she neither stopped nor could
hear if he followed for noise of her own footfalls.

Around
the corner, seeing Wolf glance over his shoulder as he ran. He faced
front once he saw her and dived down the next turning. Even
light-headed with fury, Kessa wasn't fool enough to make that same
turn close to the building. She looked to the side for carriages and
swung wide, into the street.

He
was where he could've grabbed her if she'd chased blindly. She nearly
laughed. "Blighted wretch," she panted. "Your fault
too, isn't it . . ."

"Crazy
dung-eyed vixen," he snapped back. "How'd you find me?!"

"Wind's
own justice." She gripped the vial to uncap it.

"
I'll
have justice, dog-eyes," Wolf snarled, and started for her,
hands raised.

Dayn
slammed into him, tumbling them to the ground, just as Kessa got the
vial open. She mostly halted her wrist-flick, but some of the powder
floated in a fine mist. The man closer to her as they scrambled
up . . . was Dayn.

"Blight!
Don't breathe!" Kessa shouted, but the dramsman wobbled even as
he clapped a hand to his mouth.

Wolf
covered his mouth, too, but looked between them with a vicious gleam,
perhaps thinking Kessa had no more powder, or wouldn't dare use it
where she might be dosed. He shifted his weight threateningly. Kessa
readied the vial.

Then
Joniacae's voice came. "Kessa! Blight it . . . Go
after them, Criz! I'll hold the horse!"

Wolf
looked past Kessa. Before she could step forwards and send sleeping
powder into his face, he turned and ran again.

Dayn
thumped to his knees, wheezing, "M'lady, no."

She
shoved the stopper back home and went to keep Dayn from falling into
the muddy snow again. "I nearly had him, you know," she
complained.

He
leaned against her leg. "Not . . . entirely the
point."

Kessa
sighed, letting the rage seep out, unfulfilled. The vial went back
into its coat-pocket. "I suppose not. Next time, please stay out
of the cloud?"

The
dramsman wheezed a laugh, slumping in her grip. It took both her and
the Chemstone's driver to get him to the carriage, where Joniacae
indeed held the horse. Bynae stood nearby, confused and shocked. As
the driver helped Dayn into the compartment, Joniacae said, sharply,
"Kessa, what, by Earth and Rain, was all
that
about?!"

"I
saw the man who burned down my shop." Kessa wrapped her arms
around herself so she'd not shiver from rage. "I wanted to have
a chat with him."

"As
I'm sure Iathor would, but really, that's the watch's job! You don't
run after criminals like that!"

Kessa
took in lungfuls of cold air and coughed as it burned her throat and
chest.
If Iathor questions him . . . Wolf had
naught to do with the attack on me. If Iathor realizes that, realizes
what all the signs point to . . .
Perhaps it was
better Wolf'd escaped. Perhaps he'd be spooked enough to run to
another town. She got control of her breathing again. "I suppose
you're right."

Chapter
XXX

T
hree
days after arriving in Cym, and the promised second day after he'd
petitioned, Iathor was escorted to a private room in the palace. Two
guards stood outside, and Iathor left the stoically unhappy Brague
opposite them while he passed into the presence of the Princeps, Eas
Cymeli.

The
waiting rooms in the palace held various books of history, genealogy,
and protocol. Iathor'd been perusing them in the past two days; he
went to not just one knee, but both, and bowed over his precisely
crossed hands.

The
Princeps sighed. "Rise, Baron Kymus, Lord Alchemist, and meet my
eyes."

Iathor
did so. Eas Cymeli was an old man, and though the Vigeur elixir
hadn't failed him, it couldn't restore color to his once-reddish hair
nor pull the wrinkles from his face and hands. But his eyes were a
crisp, clear blue-green, and his expression was only fatigued from a
long day of petitioners and the day-to-day decisions that maintained
Cymelia. As he wasn't, apparently, seeing anyone in full ceremony
today, his robes were black and charcoal, trimmed with the royal
twists of multiple colors and edged in gold thread. His sleeves were
embroidered with abstract symbols of all four elements, in brown,
white, red, and blue. There might've been hidden meanings, but Iathor
wasn't inclined to assume any, and was glad his own alchemist grays –
even with herb-witch browns and greens stitched into the tabard –
didn't lend themselves to subtext.

The
Princeps said, "You've been reading the older protocol books, I
see. Sit. Tell me what you want."

Iathor
sat across the small table from the ruler, ignoring the guards who
pretended they were merely deadly furniture against the walls. "Have
I your Imperial Majesty's permission to speak without preamble?"

"The
very
old protocol books. Yes, Lord Alchemist, you do. What is
it you want, that you are using the most formal manners you can
unearth?" Left unsaid was that Iathor'd been much more casual,
barely out of his teens, when he'd first been presented to the
Princeps.

"Your
Majesty, I've recently married a woman possessing full alchemist's
immunity. It's come to my attention that my brother may petition that
this marriage be annulled by your word and hand. I wish to ask that
you not pledge your breath to his aim, and instead permit me to drag
my brother back to Aeston for guild trial, as he's breached guild
rules in ways that become unforgivable." All of this should've
been in the letter Prince Tegar'd written and sent in Thioso's care,
but protocol required he not assume overmuch.

"To
the point, as Barons Kymus ever were. Your brother seeks your place?"

My
brother's a biased idiot.
Iathor said, "Your Majesty . . .
I no longer know. For these many years, in word and deed, he's never
expressed such desire. However, he dislikes my wife intensely, never
speaking of her without slur or insult. I don't know if it's personal
or if . . ." He paused, both for effect and to
gauge the Princeps' reaction: as blank and alert as if he watched a
play. "Or if it's because my wife is a half-breed, dark of skin
and hair, and sadly disfigured by eyes considered tainted even among
the barbarians. Perhaps both."