Herb-Witch (Lord Alchemist Duology) (13 page)

Flashes
of memory came to her. Laita coughing and coughing, unable even to
drink until Kessa found a mix of herbs whose boiled vapor soothed the
ragged itch. Burk asking,
Can't you brew something that'll make me
small again?
Laita burning with fever that'd laid even her
brother low. The little foundling baby who'd caught the red spots and
died before Kessa was more than the youngest roof-rat in Tanas' care.
"Yes. At times. They're useful."

"You're
a journeyman – you could get a master's permission, and read
the copies in the guild house. At least, Mother says she'll vouch for
me when I'm done with my apprenticeship." Nicia led the way back
upstairs.

"Who
is
your mother?" Kessa asked, keeping her tone friendly
so the younger girl would know it wasn't meant as insult.

"Oh!
I'm sorry, I forgot! Herbmaster Keli! Surely you've met her?"
Nicia held the upper door open for Kessa.

Master
Rom'd mentioned the title, saying he'd reported Kessa's rank and
shop. Kessa'd always assumed the Herbmaster was one of the rare
male
herb-witches, to have completed a masterwork and been elevated to the
ranks of guild officers. "No, Master Rom never said I should."
Kessa followed her guide through hallways, into a large hall with
chairs, small tables, and a podium at one end. There were a number of
bookshelves, but Nicia went through another door, near the podium,
into a smaller room entirely lined with shelves, with only a table
and chairs for furniture. The first room had windows in two of the
walls, but this only had a lamp with Incandescens Stones.

"What
sort of healing are you interested in?" Nicia asked, moving to
touch the leather-bound backs. Symbols and words were embossed,
painted, or gilt upon them.

Kessa
dared to look up and around. "General diseases. Some sort of
cure-all, if such exist." She remembered her manners. "If
it's not a trouble."

"Diseases
have an entire section . . . Here's a basic book,
Yeetl's Compendium of Curatives
. Isn't that Master Rom's
family name?" Nicia turned to look at her.

Kessa
dropped her eyes again, hoping she'd been fast enough despite the
distraction of all these books, all this information, a possible
golden recipe to give Laita the strength to throw off illness . . .
"Yes. Did he write it?"

"It's
a recent copying, but probably not, or it'd have his first name.
Perhaps his great-grandfather." Nicia set the book on the table.

Kessa
sat and opened the book to the front page. If it was a recent
copying . . . Yes, an index.
For Pox. For Spots.
For Warts and Growths. For Coughs.
She started flipping to that
one.

"Um . . .
Could I ask a question?" Nicia sat, boy-like, with her chest
against the back of her chair; her skirt was rucked up nearly around
her hips, revealing her hose had an in-expertly mended hole at the
knee.

"Mm?"
Kessa acknowledged distractedly. No, rot it, she knew this recipe;
it'd made Laita nigh unconscious for two days, terrifying everyone.
The cough'd gone afterwards, but she'd not
eaten
hardly
anything – and caught the very next dripping-nose disease to
come near.

"Are
you looking for something for yourself? Because of, um . . ."

She'd
seen Kessa's eyes. "Of?" she asked, blithe and merciless.

"Your . . .
Well . . . Um. You don't look at anyone."

Kessa
attempted to prove the girl wrong by glancing over, through her hair.
"It's a habit."

Nicia
was wringing her hands together, where they rested on the chair-back.
"There are . . . I know there are potions which
change people's hair, and skin, and eyes . . ."

That
was how she'd met Maila, when Kessa was just a brat who could put
nearly anything in her mouth without harm. Tanas had taken her to the
Shadow Guild's best herb-witch – and alchemist, really, for
Maila'd dabbled in that, too.
Change her eyes, at least. I'll pay,
he'd said. And he had, though not with coin; Maila'd found him
interesting enough to keep in low marriage, each faithful enough to
the other.

But
Kessa's eyes wouldn't change. Burk's did. Kessa's . . .
No. Nor hair, nor skin. And Maila'd decreed that an adequate roof-rat
would become her disciple.

"They're
too expensive," Kessa said, and flipped back to the index.
Perhaps
For Fevers
would have something.

"But . . .
You know what a potion tastes like, when it's ready." Nicia
sounded puzzled. "That means you've probably got at least some
tolerances. If you told any master that, he'd want to train you in
true alchemy."

Kessa
reminded herself that
sounds like
didn't mean
was
. Even
a sheltered officer's daughter might know how to manipulate. "I
don't really have the time; my shop takes a lot of attention."

"But . . .
Journeyman Kessa . . . Didn't your teacher tell you
anything
about how important tolerances are?"

"Drink
it, half-breed. It shouldn't hurt you, no matter how it tastes. Tell
me what's in it. Tell me what it'd do to someone else."
She
frowned at the recipe on the page, puzzling out the ingredients; it
looked like another that'd send the patient into a near-coma. "Not
really."

"They're
rare
. You can't be an officer in the guild without at least
some, and the stronger, the better. And of course, only someone who's
entirely immune to the dramsman's potions – and all the others
that work on the mind and against the body – can be the Guild
Master." Nicia's words echoed the cadences of some unknown
lecturer.

Perhaps
apprentice alchemists learned about immunities along with their
geometries. (Maila'd only taught alchemy by rote. She'd explained
underlying uses for herbs, steepings, and earths. Moon for cycles.
Sun for steady fire. River-root for steady change.)

"I'd
gathered Master Kymus is immune." Kessa flipped pages again.
Would
For Chills
be useful? The metal-salts used were wickedly
expensive.

"I'm
probably not," Nicia said, morosely, and Kessa was startled
enough to glance up; the girl had her cheek down on her wrists, atop
the chair-back. "Father didn't have high tolerances, and
mother's not immune. So I'm not likely any better."

"I
suppose that's inconvenient for research."
Or being Guild
Master.
Kessa turned back to the book.

"I
hope I'm a good enough student, by the time I know for sure, that
Lord Kymus will keep me on."

Lord
Kymus? That'd been a truly morose mumble. "Why wouldn't he?"

"Mother
thinks he's looking for a wife."

He
is, silly girl.
Kessa paused. "
That
requires
immunities?"

"Mother
says he doesn't want a dramswife. That's why he's still not married.
That, and his heir'll have to take the draught to be qualified. She
thinks he doesn't want to risk that his son'd be his dramsman, and
either his brother or brother's heir take up the title, or the
position go from the Kymus family entirely."

"So
all he really needs is some immune woman? She might be a grandmother?
Or a madwoman?"
Even a criminal, poisoning, ugly half-breed?

"Not
if she's already married, of course." Nicia giggled. Then, more
thoughtfully, said, "Though I suppose something might be
arranged . . ."

"It's
that important
?" Maila, Tanas, and Tag were right; nobles
were crazy.

"How
can he have an heir, otherwise?"

Kessa
stared at her, and only remembered to avert her gaze when the younger
girl squeaked and flinched. "Sorry. That's just . . .
Ugh. I'm not sure I'd want to be immune."

"Aye . . .
I think about love-matches, too," Nicia admitted. "And
Mother said it'd be my choice, if I got that lucky, but . . .
He
is
brilliant."

And
rich. And a baron. And Lord Alchemist. What's not to want?
Slavery. Loss of her family. She said, "When will you find out?"

"Another
year, Mother says, and I can sample potions and see how I react. She
wants my body settled in its cycles first."

"Good
luck, then . . . Do you have paper and a graphite?
This looks interesting." She tapped a recipe that was supposed
to work against chills.

"Of
course, journeyman!" Nicia sprang up and trotted out.

Kessa
couldn't decide if the younger girl were annoyingly cheerful,
pathetically naive, or endearingly good-hearted. At the moment, she
was thinking "annoying." Alchemists apparently tended to
that.

Herself
included, like as not.

She
went back to the book. She could hope
For Female Irregularities
held something of use.

And
that Master Kymus didn't finish here until she was done . . .
nor abandon her to make her own way home.

Chapter
XII

O
f
all the places Iathor'd thought to find Kessa, his first guess was
not the hospice's library, copying healing recipes.

At
least she and Nicia seemed to be chatting politely – if
"polite chat" included Kessa suddenly exclaiming,
"Waterflame salts are hideously expensive! Who'd pay that when
it's cheaper to kill the people annoying you every month?" and
Nicia giggling.

Iathor
leaned into the room. "Should I ask?"

"Master
Kymus!" Nicia sprang up, awkwardly untangling herself from her
chair so her skirt and apron would cover her knees, and turning pink.

Kessa
glanced at the other girl and covered her mouth briefly. "He
didn't walk out of a vat of ingredients," she said, as if he
weren't there. "He's got to've seen it."

"Have
I?" Iathor tried to peer over her shoulder. She closed the book.
Yeetl's Compendium of Curatives
was painted onto the front
cover.

"Be
good," Kessa said, tart and chiding. "You're making Nicia
blush."

He
glanced over. The apprentice was still pink, hands clasped firmly
behind her back. Dryly, he said, "Pray forgive me, Miss . . .
Greenhands, isn't it?" He remembered Tiro Greenhands vaguely,
for the man'd died over a decade ago, only a few years after making
master-level. As a senior journeyman, he'd eccentrically taken his
wife's name; perhaps he'd had no good family name of his own.

"Yes,
Master Kymus. Mother says Father insisted."

Or
perhaps Tiro'd just been very much in love with a strong-willed,
eccentric woman. Iathor smiled. "Thank you. I hope you'll
forgive my impertinent curiosity."

If
anything, Nicia turned pinker. "Of . . . of
course, Master Kymus."

He
glanced down, to see if he might surprise a smirk on Kessa's part;
she had her mouth entirely covered by a hand, but her eyes, screened
by her hair, were on him, and thoughtful.

"I
conclude that this is women's discussion, and as I mustn't
tarry . . . Tradeswoman Kessa, do you wish to stay, or
would you accompany me to the guild offices? I can send you back to
your shop with Jeck, my driver."

Kessa
slithered out of the chair (for all he was about to hold it for her)
and picked up her paper. Her voice was entirely sociable, though.
"The latter, if you'd not mind, Master Kymus." She turned
slightly. "Thank you for your help, Nicia. It was good to meet
you."

"I–
I hope you visit again!" Nicia managed, her blush fading.

Kessa
gave the books a wistful look. "Me too."

"Good
day to you, Nicia." Iathor would've politely offered Kessa his
arm, save that she gave the apprentice a little wave and left first.

Iathor
snorted and rolled his eyes, even though Nicia could see. He
followed, hands in the pockets of his outer robe.

The
carriage had chilled. Kessa huddled inside her cloak like a
wingfluffed bird. Various questions flittered, birdlike, through
Iathor's mind.
Why did you lie about what you could smell? Why did
you lie about what you tasted in the tea?
were two.
Why did
you seem so odd outside the hospice?
was followed by,
What
recipe were you and Nicia discussing?

He
picked one she'd almost answered, earlier, and altered it. "What
do you
know
about your parents?" It was better than
inquiring if she'd been stolen, bought, given away, found exposed on
a hillside by a senile herb-witch . . . Unlikely that
his brother would frequent an establishment where an inadvertent
conception might happen, at least; surely such an accident would've
been brought to him . . .

The
half-breed in question flicked up her disturbing gaze; he focused on
her body-language and the set of her mouth, translating the
expression as thoughtful, not coldly murderous. She said, with a
voice that matched his guess, "One was barbarian, of course.
There are few barbarian travelers in Aeston, and I've only ever seen
male ones, so I presume my mother was local. Why?"