Herb-Wife (Lord Alchemist Duology) (7 page)

There
were six: Mathus, Iasen, Keli, Iste, Coty, and Regeth. Iathor named
them for the record, and said, "Show of hands for those willing,
who cannot commit till they know the date."

That
was everyone else. The scribe's graphite stick flew over the paper.

Master
Dideu said, "Show of hands for those of us who insist on an
invitation to the wedding, should she prove immune?" He lifted
his own.

With
chuckles, the rest of the masters followed suit – save Iasen,
who sat with his arms crossed, scowling.

"I'll
inform everyone of the dates." Iathor let himself smile. "I'll
inform the entire city of Aeston of the wedding date, like as not."
That won laughter from most of the room. "However, to the other
matter. Not only was Kessa attacked, but someone burned her shop
while she was absent. I cannot think this was coincidence, no matter
what she believes. Any information pertaining to either crime should
land on my desk, and that of the city watch. They've been notified.
Are there any questions?"

Iasen
raised his hand.

It
wouldn't be worth disregarding him. "Master Iasen?"

"You
say the girl was attacked. Can you be sure whatever whelps she has
are yours, or will you wait to see if she shows?"

Iathor
closed his eyes and pictured the geometry forms of brine salt,
waterflame salts, emerald salts . . . The question,
though callous and crude, had some merit for those concerned with
true bloodlines. "Aside from her statement that she escaped such
harm, she took Purgatorie for the poison she'd used to win free of
her attackers. She bleeds."

Herbmaster
Keli added, in a flat, chill voice, "And while a quickened child
may remain within the womb, even after Purgatorie, any seed so
new-planted would be washed away. I think there will be no doubt as
to whose son she has."

"Oh,
really. Barbarians breed like rats," Iasen said. "I've seen
the camps near Cym. Filthy brats, filthy tents and huts. If she
is
immune, there'll be no way to tell whose pups she bears, either."

Master
Fantho raised his deep voice. "On the contrary, Master Iasen.
There are potions to render a woman barren to all save her husband's
seed."

"Will
they work on an immune woman, though?" Master Isio asked, his
golden brows furrowed.

Mathus
said, "They should. Family tales say the last Lord Iontele's
grandmother was both immune and notoriously . . . fond
of the servants. Both her middle sons
weren't
immune, merely
tolerant – and her husband'd been taking the potions for
daughters." He paused to let a few of the others chuckle. "After
she drank the potion, she bore only two more children, both immune
daughters, and at greater intervals than the first three boys."

Iathor
wondered what'd happened to the girls; he'd heard of Lord Alchemist
Iontele, of course, whose grandson hadn't been immune. His
granddaughter had married a Kymus, and so Iathor and Iasen's
great-grandfather, Assus Kymus, had been the immune man who became
Lord Alchemist and Guild Master.

Before
he could ask, though, Iasen said, "Perhaps she was just more
diligent in drinking her dry tea."

Mathus
leaned back in the chair, nearly smirking. "According to family
tales, dry tea doesn't
work
on immune women. Men's tea works
well enough, as I presume you know, but the immunities attack the
woman's stuff as they would any other potion to disturb the rhythms
of her body."

Iathor
asked, mildly, "Master Mathus, would you be so kind as to have
the pertinent information copied down? Any family recipes, perhaps?"

"Eventually,
I suppose," Mathus drawled, silvery eyes half-lidded. "
After
I've determined if the herb-witch in question is really interested in
marrying
you
. My wife could be persuaded to ignore a
concubine."

"She's
ugly
, Mathus," Iasen said. "Not to mention a
criminal."

"If
she's immune," their distant cousin said, low enough to force
the room to listen quietly, "it hardly matters what she looks
like or what she's done, so long as she bears a son."

And
so begin ambitions,
Iathor thought. His own voice quiet and firm,
he said, "She's agreed to marry
me
, and my dramsmen will
be watching over her. I trust anyone suggesting she change her mind
will keep from causing my servants any mistaken distress."

"Understood,
Master Kymus," Mathus said, in good humor.

"Now,
are there any
relevant
questions?" Iathor looked around.

Iasen
said, "Her criminal actions, brother?"

"The
accusation against her is irrelevant at this time." Iathor gave
the room a glare. No one else raised hand or voice. "Very well.
You may all trail into my outer office and leave notes when you think
of them. The priority, however, is to inform all the other masters,
journeymen, and apprentices –
and suppliers
 –
that I want those men involved in the attack. Indeed, I value their
living hides at a gold flower each, so long as they're capable of
speaking coherently."

Amid
low, impressed whistles, Iasen burst out, "A gold flower? Surely
a silver leaf at most!"

"A
member of the guild was attacked. My
intended wife
was
attacked." Iathor realized . . . the first made
him icily angry enough, yes, but it was the second that made him want
to stalk through the streets with a bucket of the dramsman's draught.
And if she was attacked because of my interest . . .
How bitter and ironic. She wanted little to do with me, before.
"A gold flower, for those who attacked her and burned her shop."

Again,
he looked around. "If there's nothing else, this meeting is
complete and ends."

As
the various masters stood, talking amongst themselves, the scribe,
Issny, stepped to Iathor's side. "Congratulations, Lord
Alchemist. Have you given thought to the heir's education?"

Even
then, there was a moment of confusion in his mind, wondering what
education
Iasen
needed. "Your point is noted. My
herb-witch seems to read tolerably well, but her script is lacking.
I'll keep the matter in mind, Miss Lenerus."

She
gave him the barest curtsey and moved away as Fantho, Jonen, and
Dideu jostled over to offer their congratulations and ask nosy,
irrelevant questions.

Chapter
V

W
hen
Kessa woke again, she felt both better, and mind-fogged from too much
sleep. She changed her padding in the water-closet room; it did seem
a lighter flow than usual, but only somewhat. Then she went
wandering, holding her borrowed robe closed.

Iathor's
home wasn't
that
huge, though it seemed to have been built in
two separate stages, which put a few doorways into odd nooks. Those,
she discovered, led to servants' halls. When she'd visited in a
pouring storm, she'd taken the servants' path from the carriage house
(dryer that way) and found it . . . comfortably
shabby. Not dilapidated, not dirty. Simply well-used. These other
corridors were equally lived-in, with occasional scrapes on the
walls, unfashionable rugs, or a tarnished lantern ledge.

None
of the light came from actual lanterns. Incandescens Stones glowed
without heat or smoke.

She
passed a few young servants: girls barely past their first
moon-flows, if that, and boys little older. She looked at them
through the screen of her hair and nodded politely. They bobbed their
heads and stared back silently, perhaps intimidated by her dark,
half-barbarian looks.

Perhaps
uncertain how to treat their employer's intended wife.

Perhaps
she was still dreaming.

Eventually,
though, she found her way through the pantry-like door into the
kitchen. And Tania, the cook, knew exactly how to treat her.

"Kessa!
Sit! Eat something. What would you like?"

"Ah . . ."
Her head almost spun, thinking of what she might ask for. She quashed
the dragon-tale impulse to request some impossible thing. "A bit
of bread?"

"Oh,
that's easy enough. Jam? Butter?"

I
could have jam and butter whenever I wanted.
She blinked her eyes
rapidly, looking down at her slippered feet and the floor beneath,
polished by years of wear. "Both?"

"Just
a moment to cut the bread, then. Sit!"

Kessa
went to the bench and sat. The kitchen was warm. After a few moments,
she had bread with jam and butter on the long table, and a cup of tea
with honey. She lifted her head, eyes mostly closed, to say, "Please,
don't go to any trouble . . ."

"I
wouldn't have taken the job as cook if I didn't like to do it."
Tania sounded cheerfully content.

Taken
the job?
Kessa sipped tea and ate fresh bread (with jam, and
butter), and wondered at the thought of "taking a job" that
just happened to include the dramsman's draught. She could understand
Brague, who'd been found by Iathor's father and given a choice
between the work-gangs for killing a man in a bar fight, or being the
young heir's bodyguard. She wasn't sure she understood doing it for
money alone.

Blight.
I'd not have married him, for money alone.
It ate at her. But
between Wolf and Iasen? There was no other safety than this, or
perhaps walking back to the Shadow Guild and the politics that'd
killed her teacher, Maila.

With
the bread finished and plate pushed aside, Kessa laid her head on the
table next to her mostly-empty mug.

Tania
sat behind her. "Is there anything I can do?"

"Wind
up time back on the spindle?" Kessa asked. "Two months, or
three?"

The
cook snorted. "I'm sorry. I've no recipe for that."

"'Sall
right." She'd have married Iathor's
household
in an
instant, once she started talking to them. "I should go find
whoever's supposed to take me to my . . . shop."
That still hurt to think about.

"Well,
my sister first, for she's the one taking in m'lord's mother's old
clothes."

In
a very small voice, Kessa said, "I'd like something of my own,
sometime. Fewer ghosts." She'd left every scrap of Maila's
clothing behind, even cloaks that might've fit. She hoped it'd be
easier to wear something from someone she'd never known, who'd
probably been dead before Kessa was born.

"I'll
make sure Loria doesn't go into a spree of saving money, then,"
Tania said. "Here, let me take you to the sewing room."

Kessa
was allowed to set the plate and cup by the wash-basin –
another pump connected to some underground well, it seemed. Then
Tania guided her along the servants' halls, giving better
descriptions of where turns and doors led than her sister had, until
they reached a second-floor room with windows in two of the walls to
catch the light.

Loria
was there with several girls and a cowed-looking boy, supervising
work on three dresses. Kessa looked out a window, curiously; there
were gardens out back, past the carriage house and stable, with
bushes covered over for the winter. Foodstuffs and herbs both, she
thought, and a few small fruit trees. Beyond them, at the edge of the
wall, she made out a small cottage. Above it, the skies were clouding
over, threatening snow.

Loria
and Tania spoke in low tones in a corner of the room. Kessa tilted
her head and asked one of the servant-girls, "Who lives in the
little house out there?"

The
girl looked, the top of her head golden in the light. "That was
the gardener's house, m . . . miss?"

Don't
ask me. I've no idea what you call me before I've wed the man.
"And now?"

"The
driver's, miss. Jeck stays there, and Dayn takes the groom's quarters
in the carriage house and helps with those duties. So does Zeth, and
Tursy – Turseus, my aunt's son. He likes horses."

From
the corner, one of the sisters (Loria, Kessa thought) said, "But
her wedding dress? Wasn't that passed down?"

I
hope he's not scheduled that for tomorrow.
Iathor probably had
something
planned, with no time to change her mind. To the
girl, she said, "Thank you."

Loria
said, from the corner, "Well, I've the first dress ready –
I sent it to be laid out for her."

Tania
replied, "I'll show her the way and fetch Brague and Jeck. The
weather'll not be fit if we dally."

"Ah?"
Kessa raised her hand. "Could I . . . Are there
any bits of string? For my hair?"

"Oh,
of course, dear heart!" Loria said, bustling over with a wicker
basket. It held ribbons and strips of lace, as well as bits of fabric
that might be used for patching or quilting.

"Thank
you." Kessa found a few ribbons long enough to suffice, in
russet, brown, and greens.

She
fussed with a green one on the way back to her room, listening to
Tania play guide. She supposed that, as noble houses went, Iathor's
was tiny. From her point of view . . . She couldn't
figure out what most of the rooms were
for
. The ones where his
staff lived, those made sense. The kitchen. A room big enough for
people to eat in it. But the size of them! The various storage rooms!
She conceded the need for a laundry when they passed it, but . . .
an entire room for storing linens? Why not just keep a clean extra
under the mattress or the bed? Out loud, she said, "There are a
lot of rooms."