Herb-Witch (Lord Alchemist Duology) (24 page)

Iathor
steadied her as they stood, then held her cloak so she could fasten
it. Then he stepped forward and wrapped his arms around her
shoulders. She stiffened, as he'd expected; something blunt poked his
side. (Some stick in a coat pocket?) Her hands were little fists
between their chests. Her shoulders shook.

Low,
level voice marred by chattering teeth, Kessa quavered, "What.
Are. You. Doing."

"Trying
to get you warmer," Iathor said. "And keep you from running
off."

"Blight,"
she muttered. "Let go. I want to go home."

"
I
want to know why you're wandering around at night, in this weather,
dressed as a boy!" he grumbled in her ear.

"Because
it's dangerous to dress like a girl, this late. Let go!" At
least she was keeping her voice down.

"Why
are you
out
this late?"

"There
are people . . . who need preparations," she told
his chest.

"Surely
they can come to your shop."

"No.
They can't. Leave be! This isn't your business."

"Isn't
it, Herbsman?"

Her
voice was ragged, from cold or emotion. "I'm doing nothing
wrong! Let go."

"Not
until you tell me what you're doing out so late."

"Going
home!"

"
Before
that!"
Were you thieving? Poisoning someone else?
. . . Visiting a lover?

Brague
stood quietly, watching for anyone skulking about, and pretended to
deafness.

"Delivering."
Her fists pushed against his chest. "A-a Lesant's Seven. And a
B-Balyn's Curative."

If
she pushed harder, she could likely break free, sending them both
sprawling. Iathor blinked at the names. "How does an herb-witch
know alchemy?!"

"Nicia
told me!" she hissed. "Ask her! She helped me at the
hospice. Let me go!"

"Who
were you delivering to?"

She
glared up at him, eyes blunted by darkness and the ointment. "That,"
she whispered, voice matching the icy air, "is not your
business. If it were less your business, it'd concern executioners in
the old empire, or barbarian shamans across the Vast River. It was
healing, done by the book, with a hospice worker's advice, and you've
no right to ask more."

"What
you sell to people, what you give to people, is within my right to
know. Poison or healing, it's my
job
to know what you do, that
may come to affect the guild."

"Then
it's not your business," she hissed, curling her neck so her
forehead pushed against his collarbone. "It won't affect the
guild."

"How
can I be sure, when you don't
tell
me anything?" Iathor
forced his voice to stay low. "Why you dosed that man! What you
know of the missing ledger page! Why you're delivering alchemy in the
night, dressed in men's clothes! How can I
trust
you like
this?"

She
shoved at him,
almost
hard enough to break free. Hampered,
perhaps, by Brague's guarding presence. "If you want trust, go
buy it from the Cat or Birch," she spat.

It
shocked him into loosening his grip; she pushed away, glancing about
as if assessing whether she could run again. "What?" he
asked, suddenly wondering if his indifference to rumors – and
choice of patrol end-points that his brother would
not
frequent – was causing true problems.

"Go
buy
their
trust." Kessa clawed her hood back over her
head. "Buy yourself some bastards while you're there. They might
even be
pretty
."

Iathor
couldn't tell if that last were insult to him, or to herself. The
rest . . . "I'll not have sons bound to me as
dramsmen. I'll not chance it. I'll leave the guild to
Iasen
before I risk the free will of children who must trust me as their
father."

He'd
expected some mockery, sneering at his resolve. Instead, she just
clutched her cloak about herself and looked silently at the ground.
When she did speak, she was tired, meek, and quiet. "Please let
me go home, Lord Alchemist. It's cold."

Titles,
he thought,
are probably a very bad sign.
He took a breath and
coughed from the icy air, ruining any dignity. "We'll walk you
back. I want to speak with you tomorrow."

"As
if I could run?" Her voice quavered, from chill or emotion.

He
had no answer; if Brague did, the dramsman didn't share it. They
returned to Kessa's shop in silence and stood in silence while she
unlocked the door. She opened it into darkness, stepped inside, and
closed it – in silence.

Though
Iathor waited for some moments, his ears were not so keen as his
nose. He couldn't hear anything.

He
reminded himself that Brague was cold, too, and might not complain on
his own behalf even if Iathor tried to stand there all night.

Iathor
whispered, "Let's finish the patrol and meet up with Jeck."

"Yes,
m'lord."

Chapter
XXIV

H
eat
was a thing that seeped from the ceiling, where the family above had
a stove. Heat was a precious thing, caught by blankets and coat and
cloak, all wrapped around her on the bed.

Kessa
needed to be making preparations. Fever reduction paste, so others
could boil it themselves. Healing ointments, the mildest flavored
with a bit of honey for cold-burned lips; stronger, mint-smelling,
for those with actual frostburn.

Some
mothers swore protection potions saved their children from coughs and
chills. Kessa'd never noted much difference when she fed them to
Laita, but she brewed the things for those who'd buy them. At the
least, warm drink wouldn't hurt.

She
wished she had something warm.

She
wondered if she'd get a breakfast basket today, or just an angry
alchemist.

Two
cold, sleepy fantasies danced in her mind. The first: taking her
sharp herb-knife and using it on her own wrists. She'd have to unlock
the door, so no one had to break it down.

The
second . . . just giving up. Let him take control of
her life. Trade everything for the hope of waking up somewhere warm,
with no more ugly choices.

She
couldn't do either. Laita'd been sicker when Kessa'd hurried there,
after picking up the basket poor Brague'd waited to give her. Kessa'd
had to make sure the first dose was working, that they knew what the
second little vial'd do and when it should be taken, and that Laita
ate enough so sleeping through most of the next day (today, now)
wouldn't weaken her worse.

Perhaps
Laita and Jontho could "get by" without Kessa. And perhaps
her sister'd die, without the brews Kessa made.

She
couldn't give up and betray her family.

So
she dragged herself out of bed, dressed (pants under the skirt for
warmth), and scrubbed potion-stains off her cheek with a clae paste
till they were too faint to show. Then she opened her shutters and
started grinding herbs.

When
the carriage finally arrived, Kessa was slicing up a reed, soft from
its soaking, with her sharp knife. It was closer to lunch than
breakfast, and Kessa's ill anticipation mixed with a dizzy dullness
inside her head. Someone knocked on the door. She set the knife down.
"It's open."

Brague
entered, carrying a basket. (She was angry at her surge of relief.)
Brague's master followed; Kessa dropped her sidelong gaze, sliding
off the fur-trimmed long coat, and past the fur-lined, knee-high
boots. The coat was earth-brown, now. The boots were a dark gray,
matching pants tucked into them.

His
dramsman swapped the basket for the empty one on the deep window
ledge, and headed for the door.

"Brague?"
Her voice was a soppy whimper. When he paused, she pushed her sharp
knife to the edge of the counter.

She
couldn't see if they exchanged glances or shrugs. She was too busy
looking at her lap, as she perched on the stool.

In
the end, Brague took the blade with him. She wasn't sure whether to
be upset that he thought her dangerous, or darkly pleased that he
respected her possible threat. She clenched her fingers together and
shoved them into her lap.
Meek? Angry?
Something that wouldn't
turn into tears; she wasn't sure what that would be.

Timid.
It was easier to unleash anger than rein it in. She tried to sit
small upon the stool. It'd never worked when they'd all hoped to be
overlooked by Tanas for the poor haul they'd gotten. They'd tried
anyway, huddled and silent, but Tanas always remembered each one, to
direct angry words or slaps.

From
the frustrated sigh in front of her, it worked even worse when she
was bigger, and the only target. "Kessa."

She
flinched, instinctively. Shamefully. She curled her fingernails
against her palm, tight and hurting.

Kymus
sighed again. "Kessa . . . Are you paying dues to
the Shadow Guild?"

"No!"
Her startled glance got as high as his shoulders. Should she've
pretended not to understand? Too late.

"But . . .
you know of the Shadow Guild."

Definitely
too late. She concentrated on the feel of her fingernails dug into
her flesh. "Everyone's heard things."

"Has
the Shadow-master heard of
you
?"

If
it's the same one.
She couldn't say that.

"Or,"
he continued before she could gather enough truth for an answer,
"when Dayn returns, will he say Herbsman Chiftia doesn't
remember you?"

She
looked up, eyes barely veiled by the sweep of her hair. "If she
doesn't, the townsfolk will. I
was there
, Kymus. I was her
student."

It
took him aback. Perhaps he'd thought she
was
fool enough to
walk into Master Rom's office with only a forged signature. Perhaps
he just recoiled from her eyes. (But he'd seen her in the night, as
if he'd been able to see in darkness . . . and not
recoiled at all.)

Her
nails cut a line across her palms. "Or are you so used to
denying the Cat and Birch that you think I'd deny where
I
spent my time?"
Blight it, half-breed,
she scolded.
Temper. You can be quiet. Do it!

"I . . .
don't deny I use those end-points on night patrols." His voice
was at least wary. "They've rooms with cots for people to rest.
The men are less likely to exhaust themselves than in taverns, or
conventional brothels."

"And
that's all." She forced a neutral tone. "Of course."

"Who
told you otherwise?"

She'd
implicate no one. "I forget."

"
Rot
it!" he exclaimed, and she flinched again. "You are
infuriating!
Why won't you speak truth?!"

She
snapped back, "You're
shouting
at me! Why should I talk
to you at all?"
Blight, I'm glaring.
The discussion'd
been going to salted fields anyway.

"I'd
not be so
exasperated
if you'd stop evading!" He glanced
away, then back with his own eyes sharp. But he took a breath as if
calming himself.

Kessa
looked down and unfolded her hands, seeing the crescent indentations
from her nails.
Pain as focus . . . Ugliness as
focus?
The thought twisted inside her.

She
realized Kymus was standing there
breathing
 – he'd
closed his eyes, turning his head side to side. She looked away as he
opened his eyes and said, "You've not had any food yet. Again."

I
hate your nose.
At least he hadn't scented her defensive
preparation, not yet decanted from its steeping jar. "It's too
cold to go out. I wasn't hungry."

"Is
this how you lived before I found you? It's not healthy for you to
starve yourself!"

I
wouldn't if I'd not had to give Tag coin to investigate you!
She
throttled her indignant outrage, hands on the counter edge,
concentrating on
not
digging chunks of wood out with her
nails.

In
the tight tones of someone trying to be sensible in the face of
stupidity, Kymus went on, "If you're so short of coin that you
cannot get yourself even bread–"

Maila's
voice rang in her head.
"If you're such an idiot as to think
you can support yourself as a mere herb-witch, then by all means!
Walk away! See how far the Shadow-master lets you run before he
snuffs out your squeamish, cowardly life. See how long your sister
lives, without the potions to cure her."

Kessa
might've been looking at him. She could barely see for the memory.
Her voice was strangled to a whisper. "Then take the basket and
go. I don't need it. I don't need you."

"Are
you starving yourself just to spite me?" he demanded. "Or
to– to make it not
your
responsibility when you collapse and
wind up in the hospice? Do you
want
me visiting your sickbed?"