Herb-Witch (Lord Alchemist Duology) (2 page)

At
least he wasn't a smirking villain. Not that most villains were, but
it gave some small hope.

She
gulped the too-sweet, too-bitter tea all in one go, before she could
think about what it might do. (A mint essence. Roses. Some
metal-salts, sliding at the edge of her tongue.) Then she lowered the
cup to her lap, head tipped back against the stone wall. Her hair
fell away from her face, so she kept her eyes closed.

Clothing
rustled. The bench creaked. She scented hints of alchemy and its
ingredients. The Guild Master said, quietly, "It's not a loyalty
potion."

Kessa
blinked her eyes open briefly before remembering to keep them closed,
and didn't move to betray her relief.

The
sound of his clothing warned her, so she didn't startle when he put
his hand on her forehead. His palm was warm. She remembered to
breathe, as he pressed his fingers against her wrist for a few
heartbeats.

Even
more softly, he said, "You've an alchemist's immunity."

Well.
And is that what it's called?
How strange, that it had a name.
How strange, that others might have it. Her world spun, her secret
somehow smaller and greater at the same time.

As
if he spoke of the weather, he added, "That's a proposal."

The
words didn't make sense. Perhaps the dosed tea
had
dropped her
into an alchemical daze. Perhaps darker rumors (suggested of every
guild's master) were true, and he did hire poisoners when daytime
politics failed.

"A . . .
proposal." Her tongue and lips seemed to work, at least. If this
was an herb-dream, it was most realistic.

"You're
not already married, are you?" He moved her hair to see her
unpierced left earlobe, where herb-witches and alchemists wore
wedding rings to keep them away from brews.

Not
a business proposal?
"You're not
serious
!" She
squinched her eyes tight-closed lest she stare. That rarely
helped
a discussion.

"I'm
usually serious."

"But . . .
I–" He
couldn't
be. "You expect me to believe–"

"Would
I
lie
about such a matter?"

"You
think I'd–" She bit off her sneering outrage, both recalling
his title, and because she couldn't find words to finish.

Her
snarl got an answering snap. "You'd rather stay and argue with a
judge about using illegal potions to drive a man mad?"

The
discussion clearly couldn't be helped. She turned her head sharply,
knowing the light would shine without forgiveness onto eyes the color
of dead leaves and yellow vomit. "It'd be less insult to offer
money," she hissed.

The
Guild Master drew back. His own eyes were some pale color. "It
was a
question
, not a threat."

"So
says the gray watch, when they ask if it'd be
troublesome
if
they stumbled into the moon-steeping racks!" Perhaps the dosed
tea had loosed the giddy outrage she knew better than to show.
Perhaps she was merely too shocked to contain her words.

He
frowned, eyes sliding away from her face. "Someone's done that
recently?"

"Last
month. Mid-moon." She waved a hand, dismissing the incident, and
realized he'd changed the subject and reined in his temper, both.
Kessa shook her hair back into place and reminded herself to steady,
steady, and think of word-recipes that might yet slip her free. Her
fingernails dug into her palms, her skin blurring into her skirts in
the shadows.

From
his voice, he still frowned. "Did you report them?"

"No.
I gave them bruise-salves." She sighed. "The true
watch . . . have little use for me."

"What
badge do they carry?"

"Carvers,
Weavers, Whitesmiths . . ." She shrugged. It
could've been guild conflicts, the guards siding with whichever guild
paid their stipend, but more likely it was her pale-copper skin and
dirty eyes.

"I'll
have someone look into the situation."

Kessa
nearly asked
why
, before recalling her dues bought more than
lack of harassment; insult to an herb-witch could spread to the whole
guild.
But what of harassment within the guild?
She looked
away, her hair sliding comfortingly against her cheek.

The
Guild Master paused, then took a breath and released it. "Did
you poison the man?"

This
was at least close to what she'd rehearsed in the darkness. "You'd
made your mind up when you dosed the tea. Whatever I say won't
matter."

"
Someone
poisoned him. If not you, then some other herb-witch or alchemist,
and I must discover who."

"He'd
few friends. Many people owed him money. And he charged fees, should
one pay him back early." Pure truth.

"You
suggest he tripped and had a brain-fever from the blow?"

She
wound her hands into her skirts. "What I brewed shouldn't have
done that," she muttered, and tried to remember if truth potions
were fantasy or forbidden. It wasn't a compulsion, but definitely an
urge. Mayhap just outrage. "If another'd added to his tea,
though . . ."

"You'd
be unaffected, yes," he said. "But you should've detected
it. And you didn't warn him."

She
kept her face turned away. Kept her hands still. "I didn't taste
anything else in the tea," she said, relieved at the calm lie.

"Then
other doses would've been from another source. A candle, incense,
something else he ate. Oil on his skin."

"I
wouldn't know. I left as quickly as I could." More planned
words, easy in her mouth.

"What
was your potion intended to do?"

"Make
him sleepy," she whispered.
And suggestible,
she didn't.

Again
the clothing's rustle warned her, so she didn't twitch when his voice
was far too close to her ear. "Why?"

Truth . . .
always mix enough truth with the lies. The alchemy of a lie was in
how little one used. Still, the words dragged at her throat. She
wanted to spit them out like poison. "He'd offer to 'forgive'
interest, in return for favors." She couldn't keep the
bitterness out of her half-choked laugh. "Some favors, one might
rather risk a sleeping draught."

"And
you owed him money."

"Not
after yesterday." Truth was a potent herb. "I'd even
covered the 'early payment' fees."

"Then
why," the Guild Master asked, so quiet and close that his breath
warmed her ear, "did you dose him?"

"He
claimed I'd not enough after all."

The
Guild Master was silent a time. Kessa thought,
If you aren't going
to trust me, why, by Earth and Rain, did you propose?

Finally,
he said, "I will attempt to cure the man. Should this fail –
likely, with unknown, mixed potions – I will pay a suitable
consolation to his heirs. Perhaps call it a brain-fever, if I must."
His tone was intimate, but the words . . . matter of
fact. Slightly irked.

Kessa
managed a sharp, jerking nod.

"I
will escort you to your shop. You shall tell me about the 'gray
watch' members. If you vanish, I will assume you've been abducted,
and I will find you."

She
couldn't help stiffening her shoulders, though she stopped herself
from staring at him again. And yet, he'd not repeated his mystifying
proposal. "I see."

He
stood, and held out a hand. "Shall we depart?"

Kessa
looked at his hand (little spots and tiny scars, as any experienced
alchemist might have) and let go her breath.
You want to stay
here, half-breed? Risk your crèche-sibs putting themselves in danger
for you? Choose.

She
took his hand. Standing, she took his offered arm.

They
walked out of the cell; she kept her eyes downcast and didn't cling
to him with knee-shaken relief. Only with politeness.

Chapter
II

I
mmune.

The
girl (
Kessa
, Iathor corrected himself) moved with as stiff a
spine as any a deportment instructor might wish. Her pace was perhaps
rougher than that of a city-prince's daughter, but prison floors
weren't as even as a ballroom's, either.

Immune.

He'd
have to arrange proper dance tutoring.

Immune.
He pushed the reverberating thought away, focusing on the minute
pieces. The trivia. There was a chance she
wasn't
immune to
the dramsman's draught . . . But it was slight indeed.
Her alleged tongue-blindness? Unlikely; Tryth hadn't forced honesty.

Immune!
Thinking of alchemical formulae only spun off into giddy, swirling
patterns of immunity and its implications. He forced himself to
darker thoughts. Anyone with alchemist's immunity,
knowing
she
had it, needed to be watched, for her own possible excesses, and
watched over, lest some other family seek to breed immunity with
blackmail, threat, or force. Her half-barbarian features worked
against that, but the thought of taking the title of Lord Alchemist
for one's own lineage might make someone . . . less
squeamish.

And
there was the Shadow Guild, where illegality was taken for granted.

Immune
,
his thoughts still whispered.
And accused of disminding a man
,
he forced himself to remember. She'd have to be cleared (impossible
without irritating lies or cover-ups, as she'd admitted partial
blame) or persuaded to confess and accept a judge's sentence. If they
could find the other alchemist whose preparation had mixed with hers,
however, there might be guilt to go around. If that other brew's
intent had been more hostile, concealing her part would hardly roil
Iathor's conscience.

This,
he could focus on. Protect his guild member; protect the city
from
his guild member; find the other ingredients to the mysterious brew,
metaphorically and literally. So he spoke calmly: arranging
air-purifying clae and a fresh Incandescens Stone for the guards in
the underground prison, recovering the herb-witch's basket of wares,
asking for paper and graphite to send messages (none important enough
for ink) and leave one for Watch Commander Rothsam that he'd taken
the herb-witch. Giving the guards his word that her behavior wouldn't
land her back in prison.

Kessa's
hands didn't tighten on his arm, but she held her breath a moment. It
was gratifying that she understood what he'd pledged.

He
needed a better way to secure her cooperation than intimidation,
though. He shouldn't have lost his temper, even briefly. Perhaps the
location'd reminded her of the unfortunate Darul. She wasn't an
exotic beauty, but some people had a taste for power. (If the
moneylender
was
a corrupt man; other clients would have to be
questioned.) What hold had Darul had on her, that she'd rather risk
illegal herb-witchery than ask her guild for aid? Iathor hoped he was
wrong; if the man
could
be cured, he could be interrogated.

He
sent his footman, Dayn, to the carriage with Kessa while he wrote the
necessary messages (including notes to himself) at the Watch
Commander's own desk. Then he removed himself in deliberate good
humor, leaving behind the alchemy-smoothed stone of the prison and
the red brick of the watch station above it.

Kessa
waited in the carriage, stiffly upright, basket beside her on the
rear cushion. In the better light, dirt stains showed at the hem of
her mended, brown smock, and grass stains where knees would be when
picking herbs. Her shirt's sleeves had wrinkles from being rolled up
frequently, and spots where sweat and potion-spatters hadn't washed
out. No bonnet, understandably. Her hair was true-black, not merely
horse-dark. Her eyes . . . were downcast, so he
couldn't tell if it'd been the Incandescens Stone's light that'd made
them such a sickly color.

Properly,
herb-witch colors were brown and green, for earth and plants. Green
dye was expensive; for symbology, grass stains sufficed.

Iathor
sat opposite, while Dayn closed the door. The carriage creaked as the
footman took his position on the outside perch. Jeck, the driver,
started the horses, and Iathor's passenger swayed. Her sandaled feet
peeked from under the skirt, grubby toes pressing against the floor
to steady herself. Her hands remained firmly in her lap.

Her
silence and downcast gaze let Iathor study her: posture that wouldn't
have shamed a noble's daughter, which fought the lack of height and
thin fingers and wrists that made her seem barely a woman at all.
More like an underfed child, hiding painfully sharp ribs beneath her
clothes. He frowned at the hollows of her cheeks. "Have you
eaten today?"

Kessa's
eyebrows drew in, visible between the twin sweeps of her hair. "No."
Her tone suggested tense bafflement.

"Hmph."
He twisted to slide back the panel that let him tell Jeck, "Stop
by the first food-seller who seems acceptable, please. Our guest
hasn't had breakfast."