Herb-Witch (Lord Alchemist Duology) (14 page)

A
faint fear that you might be my niece. Iasen is old enough . . .
No, that didn't bear repeating. "You'd not mentioned family.
Only a friend needing money. I . . ." He took a
breath and continued, ". . . wanted to know more
about you."

There
was a difference between flat regard that only
looked
murderous, and the glare that quite possibly was. Then Kessa focused
her gaze on her lap, swoops of hair falling forward to hide her eyes.
"I'm very simple. A half-barbarian trained by a senile
herb-witch. I learned enough to be allowed my own shop. I know people
with . . . little income. If someone gets sick, they
need help. That's all."

"Is
it?" he asked, braving the risk of a death-stare.

He
only got one's fringes before she glared at her knees. "We can't
all be cross-trained daughters of master herb-witches, Lord
Alchemist."

Iathor
winced on Nicia's behalf. "You didn't like her."

"She
seems very nice." Kessa added, entirely matter-of-fact, "She
thinks very highly of you."

And
is that condemnation of her, me, or some kind of praise?
He
muttered, "At least someone does."

From
the way her mouth twitched, Kessa was repressing
something
.
Laughter, perhaps. A tart retort. A quip about which girl he'd
proposed to. She'd not yet made any reply, nor asked anything, that
suggested she even remembered the incident.

Probably
he was expected to do the same, and repeat his proposal under more
congenial circumstances. He'd have to ask Loria . . .
when his brother wasn't around to overhear, nor Iasen's dramsmen. He
could nearly hear his brother say,
You proposed in a dungeon? I'd
thought you'd forsworn such diversions!

Out
loud, Iathor said, "I'm glad you got along. It would be
convenient, should–"

The
carriage came to a stop, and Jeck rapped on the panel. Iathor
twitched back the curtain to see the familiar multi-colored bricks of
the Alchemists' Guild offices. Of all the times to have a swift
ride . . . Of course, the hospice had been
conveniently placed when it was built.

"Should?"
Kessa's voice was more frost-laden than the autumn day outside.

Iathor
had no idea what she thought he was going to say, and suspected
nothing would find favor anyway. With as much dignity as possible, he
said, "I'll attempt to call upon you for dinner, and discuss the
matter then. For the moment, I'm concerned that if I continue, a
manifestation of Rain will open above me, complete with lightning,
and Earth shall part below my feet to swallow me up." He got
out, glancing back in time to see she'd covered her mouth, her eyes
squeezed tightly shut.

Nodding
in satisfaction – the girl
could
be surprised without
shouting at him – he asked Jeck, "Will you be all right,
taking Journeyman Kessa back to her shop?"

The
driver yawned. "Should be, m'lord. Catching a few naps here and
there."

"Catch
some lunch, if you want, on the way back."

"Aye,
m'lord. I'll be fine." Jeck waved vaguely before starting up the
horses.

Inside,
prior Guild Masters – Iathor's father among them – had
chosen wood paneling for most walls, and various hues of brick for
the rest. It did make the place seem warmer than the whitewashed
hospice, so he forgave the front hall's nose-tickling cedar. Iathor
could pick up the scents of everything in the basement, the upstairs
steeping rooms, and what people might have in their robes: a familiar
potpourri that was usually just strong, sometimes comfortable, and
occasionally vile if someone'd burned a potion. Beside him, Dayn
yawned and sneezed.

"Sorry,
m'lord," the dramsman mumbled.

"I'm
sorry I couldn't send for a hired carriage." Iathor'd offered,
but neither Dayn nor Jeck would hear of it.

"Your
office has a soft chair, m'lord," Dayn said with some cheer.

Iathor
smiled wryly. "All right, I'm beaten."

"Ah!
Master Kymus! There you are." Rounding a corner was the tall,
thin form of Iste Zertheluse, wearing gray indoor robes over a gray
tabard, over a darker gray tunic and hose – and clashing brown
boots. "What's this about Keli's girl?"

He
blinked in return. "I only
this morning
told Nicia I
desired a student when her other teachers permitted. I was going to
ask you to check with the journeyman tutoring her. What rumors are
going around?"

"That
you'd an
interest
in her. Been writing her mother, and Keli'd
not bid you take long walks off short piers."

Rolling
his eyes, Iathor continued toward his office; Iste fell into step
beside him. Iathor said, "The girl may have a trainable nose,
and could become a good alchemist. Her mother's against testing her
tolerances for another year. If Nicia turns out immune, then I'll
have an
interest
in her." He echoed the original emphasis
and added, "I'd have an
interest
in a barbarian savage
raised by plains-wolves, were she immune."

"Oh,
that's going a bit far," Iste said, taking him seriously.
"Besides, I've never heard of a barbarian immune. If you're
going to look outside Cymelia, surely you'd go to the old empire
first."

"What,
import a wife with
imperial
politics?" Iathor shuddered,
and turned the final corner. "That'd be no better than the guild
upheaval a change in descent would cause. At least a barbarian
wouldn't come complete with retinue and intrigue stretching back over
fifty generations. Why is my door open?" Not just the
outer-office door, but to his personal room beyond.

From
inside, Iasen's voice came, "Oh, Iathor, if you'd wanted a
barbarian girl, you should've written! I'd have brought one back."

That
explained the rumor; Keli's letter, left on his desk last night, had
been read by more than himself. Iathor asked his brother, "What
are
you
doing here? I haven't harassed you to come to a guild
meeting."

Iasen –
in the comfortable chair Dayn'd mentioned – waved a hand
airily. "Your dramsmen won't let me in your workroom, and mine's
not livable. I came to borrow a corner of the guild's. Should I send
for a barbarian lass? You can get them in Cym, you know."

"No,
I don't know. Since when's the Princeps allowing slavery? That's an
imperial vice." Iathor headed for his desk and gave Dayn an
apologetic glance as his footman took a not-terribly-comfortable
stool. Iste leaned in the inner doorway, eavesdropping shamelessly.

Iasen
said, "Oh, one doesn't actually
buy
the girls. Well, some
brothels might not explain that they're free to go . . .
But one might as well take custody of them, or else they'll be
exposed out on the hills or wind up with their throats cut somewhere.
Ghastly custom."

"Custom?"
Master Iste asked, unwisely drawn into Iasen's tale.

"Apparently,"
Iathor's brother elaborated, "when some barbarian family –
you know there've been settlements near Cym, yes? – when
they've too many children to feed, they take a surplus girl and sell
her off. If they can't find a buyer, they just leave her, exiled from
the huts. Or kill her. I suppose to spare her being eaten by animals
while alive. Savages. Does mean it's easy to find servants when
there's poor hunting or a drought, though."

"Barbaric,"
Iste said, shaking his head.

"Well,
naturally!" Iasen replied.

Iathor
sat. "Iasen, if you've something brewing, go tend it yourself
instead of usurping someone's apprentice. Your own student smoked out
your workroom, so I hope
he's
not minding your preparations. I
can hardly provide room and board for the entire guild while their
offices are clae-dusted."

"Is
that
what happened?" Iste asked. "You didn't say,
Master Iasen."

"I
was trying not to share my misery." Iasen stood with offended
dignity. "However, my brother apparently feels it's appropriate
to tattle on me as if we were children, so I'll take my leave."

As
he did, Iathor gathered papers from his desk. Hopefully they'd been
too boring for Iasen to read and disarrange. "Dayn, if you're
still awake, get into the comfortable chair before you fall asleep."

With
a groggy chuckle, the footman did so.

Iathor
looked up. "Master Iste . . ." No, it
wouldn't do to say Iasen was spinning a tapestry of rumor from a
thread of truth, regarding Nicia Greenhands. Iste'd surely realize it
now. Iathor continued, "If you could tell Master Coty and the
others that I'm here, I can start taking care of business instead of
gossiping about unofficial slavery in the capital."

Iste
laughed, and left.

Iathor
sighed. With his brother at the offices, it boded to be a long day.
He hoped he wouldn't end it by sending someone to Kessa with a basket
of food and his apologies for being unable to make it.

Chapter
XIII

I
n
the evening, after fielding the day's complaints that she'd not been
open at her usual times ("My Guild Master insisted. What could I
do?"), Kessa tidied, restlessly. She swept the floor, then did
it again; the twilight brought wind, blowing cold past her door as
she chased out bits of herb and dirt with her broom.

She'd
just lit a rushlight when someone knocked. She cracked the door open
and frowned at the man beyond, who held a basket in one hand and a
horse's reins in the other. He said, "I'm Brague, Master Kymus'
man. There's a letter for you in the basket, and his apologies for
being held over by guild business."

Kessa
considered Brague, knowing the backlighting would make it hard to see
her face. His hair was a perfectly non-descript brownish-blond, she
thought, and his eyes likewise an unremarkable pale. His nose wasn't
broken, but had a size and shape that tempted it. He wore a good,
thick coat in light gray, buttoned high in front over a white shirt,
and split behind to cover his legs on horseback. His boots were
darker, and the wind showed his equally dark pants.

In
truth, even though he was taller than the usual man, she'd not've
been so nervous if he'd not been standing like a bodyguard –
though not one currently guarding a body.

Master
Kymus had mentioned Brague, she remembered. There was no poison or
alchemy in the glancing breezes of warm bread and meat. She opened
the door. "Will you be staying?"

In
the warmer light, Brague's hair held traces of gray and his ears were
a chilled pink. He gave up the basket easily. "My place is at
m'lord's house. Especially with his brother's men around." He
scowled.

Was
that draught-made concern, or did he have reason to worry? No way to
ask. "Thank you for the delivery. You're sure you won't want a–
a roll or something?" The basket felt heavy enough to have
plenty to share.

Brague
shook his head. "Had one before going, and there's dinner
waiting." He ducked his head, stepped back, and got onto the
horse.

Kessa
called, "If you have to do this again, don't forget your hat!"

He
gave a half-turned sort of salute, tugging the imaginary brim of his
absent headgear, and rode off.

As
Kessa stepped back inside, she thought she caught a glimpse of
someone across the street, in the gap between apartments and the
baker. In the chancy light, she couldn't tell if it was a shadow, or
someone pulling back into the shadows.

She
set the basket on the floor, darted out to close and bar her
shutters, and fled back into the warmth of her shop, latching the
door behind her.

No
blanket in this basket, at least, though the contents were wrapped in
cloth to preserve warmth despite the chilly air. Most of that warmth
came from the stew in its stoneware pot, but there was still a faint
core of heat in the long loaves of bread that flanked it. On top of
the pot's lid were . . . a metal spoon and a letter.

The
letter, sealed with alchemist-gray wax, bore her name. The text, in
sharp graphite, was neither a messy scrawl nor some elegant swirl of
letters, but clear-formed despite being a mix of script and printing.

There
was something rubbed out on the next line. It seemed to be an
If,
by some
, before he'd thought better of it. Kessa didn't try to
decipher it by the rushlight's flame.