Herb-Witch (Lord Alchemist Duology) (23 page)

Nicia
delicately turned to a page headed with an ornate
7
. "This
needs . . . Everything moon-steeped. So we go . . .
to the basement."

"I
thought the moon-steeping room was upstairs."

"It
is! But if we get unsteeped ingredients first, we can replace what we
take from upstairs, and get to work," Nicia explained, carefully
picking up the book. "More stairs, less remembering to restock."

Kessa
followed Nicia out. "Just tell me what to do." The sooner
she had the potions, the sooner she could get them to Laita.

Chapter
XXIII

T
he
rain ended sometime after sundown, before Brague woke Iathor from his
nap. The night patrol clothes were laid out: warmer, thicker fabrics,
and hose beneath the pants. As he dressed, Iathor asked, "What
do
you
think of Kessa?"

"She
hides a lot, m'lord."

"Hides . . .
from other people, or hides secrets?"

Brague
chuckled. "Both, m'lord."

Iathor
took the dark gray tabard from his valet and pulled it over his head,
more for extra warmth than because tabards were polite fashion for
night patrols. "If you cared to expand on that, I'd like to hear
it."

"She
stands, mm." Brague thought a moment. "Like the youngest,
shortest fighter in a gang. Defensive. Expects she'll be picked on,
have to prove herself."

"I
don't understand."

His
dramsman shrugged. "She comes from the streets, I wager. She
knows I wasn't hired just for handing you clothes, m'lord. Only time
she wasn't skittish, in arm's length of me, was when she was raging."

"Yesterday
morning, with the extortionists."

"Aye,
m'lord. A bit of wind blowing all that smoke away like a curtain. And
her like some barbarian demon-queen, walking past the bodies."
He swept his arm around, as if trying to conjure a scene from a
theater play.

The
image was . . . impressive. "I'm surprised you
let her into my office." He'd have thought Brague's draught
would bind too tightly.

"Wasn't
easy, m'lord. But better not to interfere with your fights till she's
got a bodyguard, too. I'd do you no favors being there, unless she
meant to kill you."

"I'm
sure
I don't understand."

Brague
paused again. "You know where your father got me, m'lord."

"Yes."
The work-gangs, for those who'd been sentenced to pay their debts, or
crimes too serious for a fine – but not serious enough for
branding, maiming, or death. Iathor'd only asked that Brague not do
anything to put himself there again, if possible.

"Lot
of men . . . They'd hit a girl who screamed at 'em
like that. Sometimes she'd hit back, or start the hitting. But . . .
even girls who don't respect men who
won't
slap 'em? They'd
not respect one whose servant held 'em down."

Iathor
stared. "Brague, are you saying I should
hit
her?"

"That's
twixt you and her, m'lord. I'm saying . . . if I'd
stayed, she'd have thought it two to one, and no fair argument."
He shrugged. "I don't know how nobles fight in their high
marriages. Can't think it's with the servants holding one side or the
other."

"You
might be surprised," Iathor muttered. "But that's the
scandalous ones, and you're right, it's not respected."

"Here's
your scarf, m'lord, and your boots. Tania's set out a meal in the
nook."

"Is
my brother asleep?"

"He's
out at some invitation of Miss Irilye's. A party, from how he was
dressed."

"Ah,
late-evening winter parties. I suppose it keeps alchemists gainfully
employed making Incandescens and Fervefax Stones." And Earl
Irilye could afford such things. "In the meantime, we'll
continue to ruin my reputation."

"Tonight'll
be a long walk, m'lord," Brague said, as they headed
kitchenward.

He'd
set their patrol around the area the "gray watch" had been
in. "We might find trouble, if that 'Wolf' person is seeking
revenge."

"Yes,
m'lord."

He
had a feeling his dramsman was amused.

In
his dining nook were plates of bread and meat, still warm. They were
mostly finished eating when Jeck came in through the kitchen. "Ready,
m'lord?"

Iathor
indulged in a larger-than-appropriate bite, said, "Mmph,"
and stood.

Outside,
he took the seat beside Jeck as usual, to encourage assumptions that
he was no one special, while Brague took the back. It was bitterly
cold. Iathor made a mental note to make Fervefax Stones for his
pockets. Mayhap everyone's pockets, if he got both Kessa and Nicia as
students. It would be good practice. If they made enough, Kessa could
keep a few. Her shop might even become livable through the winter.

If
she agrees,
he reminded himself, and wondered how to get along
with someone
before
marriage.
Father, you'd plentiful
advice for after the wedding, but my education on courtship
seems . . . incomplete.

At
his night patrol's usual gathering point, a pair of rooms built
against a smithy, Iathor spread out the map and indicated the area to
be covered: a long, curving rectangle of town. "We'll end at the
Emerald Cat tonight. Jeck will drop half of us
here
, take the
rest to this tavern at the halfway point, and wait for the first
group. Anyone who wants to warm up and continue can, but I'll be
catching a ride to the Cat's spare beds, myself. Watch for suspicious
gatherings; some extortionists were captured recently, but at least
one's still loose. Dark haired, pale eyed, probably some barbarian
blood, and likely angry." He looked up and around. "Everyone
sorted?"

"I
need the chamberpot before we leave," one younger man said,
sheepishly.

"Better
use it now than freeze anything off later. Those who don't need it,
let's head for the carriage."

The
darkness outside was transformed by the catseye ointment. Glittering
star-specks fell from a starless sky. Brague looked up and muttered.

"It
won't stick," Iathor murmured. "It's barely snow at all."

"It'll
be deep soon enough. And cold."

"At
least it's not windy anymore." Iathor didn't say,
I wish
you'd take Vigeur.
Brague accepted the minor ointments, but only
a direct order would force him to drink potions. Iathor'd given that
order a half-dozen times, when plague or near-plague swept through
the city, with herb-witches and alchemists doing what they could to
brew palliatives or cures.

Iathor
didn't know why Brague'd chosen the dramsman's draught over finishing
his time in the work-gangs. He'd said he'd listen if Brague ever
wanted to tell him.

Should
Kessa agree to his proposal . . . He'd have to provide
a bodyguard. A maid. A nanny or wet-nurse, if Kessa didn't like
children. Two maids, if she turned fashion-conscious. Three if she
became vain, but perhaps the young maidservants would be sufficient,
rather than full dramsmen. They'd have to rearrange the servants'
quarters, converting store-rooms to the bedrooms they'd been when
Iathor and Iasen were children.

Iathor'd
not been in his mother's bedroom for years, for all it was across the
sitting room from his own, part of the suite that'd belonged to his
parents. The blue fabric walls might be faded or worse. The rugs,
threadbare above the wooden floors. The side of the sitting room's
fireplace, that added warmth to both bedrooms, was probably dusty.
The heating stove had been removed some years back. The bathing room
likely stored cleaning equipment, with the double-hulled alchemist's
tub tarnished.

He
could only hope that despite the stress of his brother's extended
visit, his staff had made progress in taming the wilderness in those
rooms.

Likewise,
he could only hope his night patrolmen got lucky, and found Wolf
before he caused harm.

He,
Brague, and four other men were left at the market square not far
from Kessa's shop. Exchanging nods, each pair took their arranged
paths.

Naturally,
Iathor and Brague's route led past Kessa's shop. It was dark and
quiet. Iathor rested his mittened fingertips on the shutter-bar, and
hoped the herb-witch was sleeping warmly. Perhaps he should send more
blankets.

Brague
asked, softly, "You like her, m'lord?" It seemed to carry
loudly in the icy stillness.

Iathor
walked on. "I want to. She makes it hard." Her secrets. Her
temper. He further disliked his inability to find information about
"Tagget's Tonic"; he'd given up that afternoon and sent a
letter to Herbmaster Keli, asking
her
advice.

"It's
a rare woman who makes it easy, m'lord."

Iathor
grunted, and didn't ask.

They'd
gone three blocks more when Brague put out a hand and pressed them
both against a wall, dark-on-darker shadows to any without the
catseye ointment. Iathor pulled his hat down and scarf up, then
peered around his taller dramsman's shoulder.

Someone
walked, quiet and wary, up the street on the opposite side: a small
man in pants, with the double flutter of a cloak over a long coat.
The cloak's hood shadowed his face, but . . .

The
man looked around. There was no flash of paler hair to match the
flash of eyes.

Iathor
felt his own eyes widen, and his pulse thud in his throat. He
exchanged a nod with Brague. Then his bodyguard slipped away, moving
more quietly and faster than Iathor could.

Iathor
pulled off his mitten and felt out a vial in his coat, watching
Brague's progress. When he was in position . . .

Bare,
vial-holding hand covered by his dark-mittened one for warmth, Iathor
walked across to be in front of their target. The other man paused,
turning and looking behind. The hood fell away to reveal more
darkness for hair, tied back in a horse-tail, and a thin, almost
familiar face; there wasn't enough light for more details.

Iathor
tensed, ready to use the paralytic. "A moment of your time,
stranger."

The
other man straightened, hesitated, then turned and bolted back the
way he'd come.

Brague,
already half across the street, broke into a sprint. Iathor trotted
after as quickly as he dared on the brick and dirt.
Brague's not
drawn his stick?
But then, he'd not yet been offered violence.

His
dramsman's legs were longer; Brague reached out and yanked the
shoulder of the stranger's cloak, pulling him off balance. The
smaller man yelped – a high, cut-off noise – and
stumbled into Brague's grasp.

"Ha!"
His dramsman swung the man around as Iathor approached.

Their
captive got his feet under him . . . and those wide
eyes vanished as somehow Brague's arm was shoved
up
while the
stranger went
down
, leaving the cloak behind.

Though
he tried to avoid Iathor . . . Iathor snapped out his
wrist as he practiced in summer with water-vials, so the contents
would spatter on the stranger's face. Once it soaked in, perhaps two
or three heartbeats . . .

The
man kept running. Iathor gaped. Brague charged past and tackled the
stranger – the
immune
stranger – around the
waist, trusting his own coat and gloves to protect him from the
paralytic. The smaller man curled into a ball, protecting his head as
they both went down onto the road.

Iathor
realized that while the stranger was struggling to escape . . .
He wasn't attacking. Or speaking.

What
blighted idiocy . . . ?
Iathor couldn't
finish the thought. He landed on his knees and yanked the stranger up
by the shoulders.

The
ointment that let Iathor see in darkness like a cat . . .
was kinder to ugly eyes, but the mottled, streaked pattern of light
on dark was distinctive. "
Kessa?
" he hissed in
not-quite-disbelief.

"Thought
that felt like girl." Brague picked himself up and went to
retrieve her cloak.

After
two shuddering gasps, her bare hands clutching Iathor's sleeves, the
cross-dressed herb-witch demanded, "What're you
doing
here?"

"That's
what I want to know!" Iathor growled.

"Running
from strangers in the dark!"

"Only
after I spoke!"

That
gave her only a moment's pause. "Were you
looking
for me?
I'd thought kidnapping beneath you!"

"I'm
patrolling!" he snapped quietly.

"You
c-claim!" Her teeth chattered; her hands shook with cold.

Brague
bent to wrap her cloak around her shoulders. "We're looking for
that 'Wolf.' Figured he might be lurking 'round here," the
dramsman said. "There's other men, too, this end of the patrol
area."

Kessa
transferred her frozen grip from Iathor's sleeves to her returned
cloak. "Lemme up," she muttered. "Ground's c-cold."