Herb-Witch (Lord Alchemist Duology) (17 page)

"Freelancers,
pfft." The roof-rat spat like a cat, all short noise and no wet.
"Sure. Keep th' cheese till I get back."

Kessa
blew out the rushlight as Tych got to the door. "All right."

Waiting
in the darkness was always worse than moving in it. Is your partner
caught? Stuck? In trouble? Or just moving carefully and waiting to
toss dosed meat to the guard dog?

Without
the rushlight to measure time by, it seemed too short, and too long,
when careful scratching came at the door. Kessa called, "Yes?"

"S'me.
Got th' cheese?"

She
cracked the door open and handed the food to the urchin. "Nothing
there?"

"Not
now, anyways. Mighta been earlier. It's chillin' down." Tych
stowed the cheese under its jacket.

"Get
on home where it's warm," Kessa said, gently. "Tag'll
fret."

"Aye.
Softie." Tych vanished into the night.

Kessa
closed and locked the door. Tag was soft-hearted, yes. Cared too much
about his crèche. She hoped it wouldn't be the death of him.

And
she hoped the watcher wouldn't be there in the morning.

Chapter
XVI

K
essa
woke with a dull headache and spent several minutes rubbing the back
of her neck. No point in using anti-pain salves; even less in mixing
up a potion. Immune meant immune to brews that told the mind there
was no pain.

A
treacherous part of her whispered,
You could be waking in fine,
soft sheets, someone stoking the fire before you set toe from 'neath
the blankets.
She hissed back,
Or waking stiff and cold in a
basement dungeon, playing slave girl.

But
he doesn't go to the truly vile places . . .
She
ignored that, too. Perhaps Kymus didn't move like bullies who had
henchmen hold their victims. Perhaps he looked more like a clerk than
a sadist. Looks meant nothing, and actions? You could only be sure
when they thought they weren't watched. He might simply be too smart
to risk blackmail.

When
Kessa stepped into the chilly morning, back in cloak and boots, she
saw the watcher was in his lurking-spot again. It irked her. She'd
gotten up before breakfast-that-might-appear (her stomach grumbled),
and the wretch'd already shown up. She hoped he was hungrier than she
was, watching whatever he watched. Probably her patterns, if they'd
decided she'd betrayed them. Bad. She'd have to have Tag send
roof-rats only after they scouted around. Mayhap she could evade this
lurker and get to Jontho unseen.

(Could
a roof-rat spy on Kymus? A thought.)

She
bought yesterday's bread from the baker across the way, and gnawed on
it as she shopped. Willow bark. Mint leaves and dried yellowcap
flowers. River-root, fresh dug from the banks . . .
perhaps three days ago. She haggled that one down.

Some
asked after preparations in turn. The river-root's seller wound up
with a pair of salves, healing and sun-shade, and her purse was the
happier.

Kessa
was nearly home when she saw the gray watch: scarred blond, the one
with the marriage ring, and the dark-haired man who might've been
some distant blood-cousin.

Her
deadliest preparation was still steeping in her shop, out of reach
and unfinished besides. She was in public, where it was no good idea
to betray her skills. She wanted to cry. She wanted to bite something
and taste blood.

She
tucked her head down, hair swinging into concealing curves beside her
face, and started to walk by.

"Herb-witch,"
the savage-blooded leader said, catching her by the upper arm.
"How've you been?"

Kessa
stared at his hand, keeping his henchmen at the edges of her sight.
"Not so well," she murmured, and tried a recipe of
deception. "The city guard thinks to link me to a poisoning. I'm
on probation with my guild."

"Oh?
Too bad. But you're still practicing . . ." He
poked at her basket, trying to flip up the lid.

The
apprentice-made basket didn't yield to mere prods. "Under their
watchful eye. Hadn't you heard?"

"Not
at all."

"I'm
surprised." If the watcher wasn't
theirs
, then whose?

"I'm
just full of surprises." That was a smirk if ever she'd heard
one. "What surprises have you for us?"

"If
I give away my stock, how'll I pay my guild dues?"

"Oh,
we don't want it all, little ravenwing. Just a little to make sure
we're in good health. Wouldn't want us to be sick, should vandals
come calling." He didn't bother to drop his voice. No one on the
street deigned to notice, of course.

Kessa
yanked her arm and basket out of range, though she didn't step back.
"I'll see what spares I might have," she said, as cold and
clear as she could, rummaging on the top layer.

"There's
my good girl."

She
looked up, thinking of how his pretty eyes would burst with red
around the ice-green, if only she'd the equipment and metal-salts for
that rote-learned poison. (She shouldn't have gone to that shop. Not
been out as Kellisan. Not remembered she was Maila's apprentice
first.)

"I'm
not yours," she hissed, and slapped a jar of sunshade salve
against his chest. It didn't break or even open against the coarse
weave of his tunic. Clearly, she added, "I normally charge a
silver half-flower for this, but since you're
watchmen 
. . ."

One
of his hands took the jar as she pulled away. His other lifted, and
the nearer, scarred henchman moved to grab her – hold her
while their leader slapped her, no doubt. Nobody'd interfere in an
argument between barbarian-blooded commoners.

Kessa
ducked and sidestepped, trying to keep one of them between her and
the others, hoping they'd trip over each other. She brushed her hair
back on one side, tucking it behind her ear so she could see. So they
could see her blighted eyes. Civil conversation was utterly lost.
"Once, I can ignore," she snarled. "Twice, if you'd
been polite."

She
wasn't sure what she'd have said next, weaving backwards to keep them
from spreading out to corner her. She glared at their leader, hating
his pretty, pretty eyes. Behind them . . . a shout,
shrill wooden whistle blasts, movement she couldn't pay attention
to . . .

Something
shattered in the middle of the trio. A choking cloud of smoke burst
out, masking the two blond thugs.

Their
leader covered his mouth with his arm and dashed past without even
trying to strike her. Behind him, his men gagged and fell. The wind
blew smoke at her; she coughed as the bittersweet hit the back of her
nose and mouth.

Goatweed
,
she thought, belatedly raising her own arm to shield her face,
blinking away the stinging smoke.
Moon-steeped sweetflower.
Essence of pepper. Metal-salts.

There
were more shouts, laughter as the smoke dispersed. She wiped her
watering eyes and saw guardsmen with Alchemists' Guild badges on
their tabards, warning each other not to go into the smoke.

Behind
them . . . Brague, on his horse, a new food-basket in
hand.

She
stalked past the fallen gray watchmen, bittersweet alchemy clogging
the back of her throat. She stalked past the guardsmen, too busy
congratulating themselves to notice she neither fell nor thanked
them. She looked up at Brague. "Your master arranged this. I
want to talk to him. Take me there."

For
a moment, the dramsman stared. Then his gaze slid from her face to
her shoulder. "Ah . . . Aye," he whispered,
and held out his hand.

Chapter
XVII

I
've
got to send someone to investigate Herbsman Chiftia,
Iathor
thought, signing various papers dictating the guild would do various
things, fulfill various obligations, and request money of various
masters whose dues were inexplicably in arrears. Including Iasen's,
of course.

Iathor
would've gone and pounded on his brother's door, but Iasen'd not
appeared for breakfast. This might've worried Iathor, considering how
late Iasen'd kept him last night, but he'd been told which guests
Iasen's dramsman had "intercepted" yesterday: a journeyman
alchemist, and one of Earl Irilye's servants with a letter.

The
letter's perfume had been strong enough to detect from outside the
guest bedroom, and whatever nobles called the scent, it was plainly a
"come hither" message.

His
office door slammed open. Iathor looked up and jerked straight, hand
instinctively going to his robe's inner pockets.

It
took her voice, snarling, "
Master Kymus,
" before his
mind could think
Kessa!
, and let his eyes notice Brague
hovering anxiously – the dramsman torn between watching her,
and watching the hallway.
His
pupils were large, but not
dangerously so.

"Ah,"
Iathor managed, trying to consciously analyze the woman's
body-language aside from her murderous eyes, and seeing
incandescent
fury
anyway.

"Are
you
trying
to make me beg for safety or am I just
disposable
?"
she demanded. Before he could even ask,
What?
she went on
acidly, "Or was your spy just lucky enough to be there at the
right time?"

"What
are you
talking
about?"

She
dropped her basket by her feet, stalked forward (his fingers twitched
toward his vial pockets again), and smacked her hands on the edge of
his desk. "Your
spy
, Kymus! The one who's been
lurking
for days, watching who comes and goes from my shop, watching what I
do. I'm
not
your property! You've no right to spy upon me! If
you don't trust me, then lock me up instead of pretending otherwise!"

"That–
that's not–"
–what the watchman was assigned to do.

"Isn't
it? Or did you think me too
stupid
to notice someone in the
alley across from my own shop?!"

He
could've believed she'd taken some legendary potion to turn into a
fanged, clawed beast and leap over his desk at him. But that was
impossible for an immune. Iathor wrapped his hands around his chair's
arms and glanced at Brague. "Can
you
explain what's going
on?"

Kessa
lowered her head, seeming even more a predator, and snarled, "Don't
ignore me, Kymus."

Brague
looked at her and at him. "Don't think so, m'lord. Not safe."
His pupils flared, once, from inner conflict with the draught.

"Ah . . ."
Iathor looked at Kessa again, and at her hands on his desk. No, the
nails weren't talons to rake the wood. "Are you thinking of
murdering me?"

"Death's
too good for you," she spat. "I'm not the idiot you think
me! Or have you decided I'm
expendable
?"

Craning
his neck, Iathor said, plaintively, "Brague . . .
The hallway?"

Despite
the dramsman's worried expression and dark pupils, Brague slipped out
and closed the door.

Iathor
almost reconsidered Brague's assignment as Kessa bent low, not far
from climbing over the desk. There was nowhere to look besides her
face, unless he turned his head away. It was highly distracting. He
took a breath, overrode his instincts, and closed his eyes. "Please
tell me what happened."

"What
happened? Your fool spies and picked men were so busy playing with
alchemical
toys
that they
let one go
! You can't be an
idiot, thinking he'll not add alchemy and herb-witches and get
guild
trap
. Did you think I'd come crawling to you for protection?"

"The
assigned guard," he said levelly, not opening his eyes, "was
supposed to apprehend those extortionists before they entered your
shop."

"The
'assigned guard,'" Kessa sneered, "was off in an alley when
the gray watch grabbed my arm in the street – me thinking
they'd found they'd been ratted out and were spying on me
themselves
."

"Wait,
what?" He blinked his eyes open and regretted it.

"Someone's
been in that alley for days. The only people I could think of who'd
do that were the gray watch, because
you
couldn't be bothered
to tell me there was a guard!"

"Surely
I . . ." . . . had
meant
to
tell her, he realized. "It appears there was an oversight. I
assure you, the guard was for your protection, to apprehend the
extortionists. I'd not intended you to be involved, and I wasn't
spying
on you."

"No?
Someone watching my shop isn't
spying
?" Her cold tone was
a blunt dagger in the ear. The desk creaked as she shoved off it.

"Of
course not. They were only looking for the 'gray watch.'"

"Do.
You. Think. I'm.
Stupid
?"

He
opened his eyes. At least she'd backed up slightly, though she looked
ready to slam her hands back onto his desk. He stood as well, and
leaned his own hands on it first, hoping he could keep his gaze at
least
near
her eyes. "No. Underfed, paranoid, and
difficult
, but not stupid. Now tell me what happened!"