Herb-Witch (Lord Alchemist Duology) (3 page)

"Yes,
m'lord," his driver said cheerfully.

Turning
back, Iathor caught a glimpse of Kessa's startled face before the
herb-witch looked down again. She muttered, "You don't . . .
I've no money with me."

Iathor
frowned. "The guards didn't take it, did they?"

"No.
I'd forgotten the purse, and turned back for it just when they came
to arrest me." Her lips curled slightly, wry. "I didn't
fuss, considering."

Considering.
Expecting a senior herb-witch or her local guild officer to
investigate. Iathor'd only been there because a Potters' watchman
heard the Weavers' men had "lost" an herb-witch, and
potters and glassblowers preferred to be on good terms with
alchemists. "I'm glad I needn't investigate outright theft by
the city watch."

"No.
They're not malicious."

Just
deliberately negligent.
"I still disapprove of them letting
this 'gray watch' harass shopkeepers. Have you skill to draw a
picture?"

"Not
really. I can describe them."

"I
suppose I shouldn't ask you to point them out," Iathor mused.
"Not until I've arranged . . ."

"Arranged
what?" she asked flatly, lifting her eyes.

Their
color was . . . unfortunate. A medium shade, mottled
between dirty yellow and a brown the hue of rotting herbs. Her face
went cold and flat in a barbaric sneer. He dropped
his
gaze,
to her mouth and pointed chin, and thought perhaps she was only
politely chill.

"Protections,"
he said, which wasn't what he'd been thinking.

"Mm."
Kessa was demurely downcast again.

Adept
at hiding those eyes. Must've been born with . . . Of
course she was. Immune.
Potions that changed bodies, to curse or
cure, couldn't work. A political hindrance, but not insurmountable;
she already compensated.

It
crossed his mind that she might have a suitor, though she'd not
mentioned such. (All right, he'd been sudden enough to surprise
himself
. He was hardly some drunken, itinerant, dragon-oil
peddler, to be mockingly dismissed.) He began, "Have you–"

Outside,
Jeck called "whoa," and rapped on the panel. "Found a
bread-stand, m'lord!"

Tightly,
Kessa repeated, "I've no money with me."

Iathor
sighed through his nose, and swung open the carriage door. "Dayn,
get enough bread for all of us, please. Even the
horses
, if
Jeck wishes." He sat back against the seat, crossed his arms,
and waited.

Only
after Dayn brought a cheap basket of rolls did Kessa say, low and
resigned, "Thank you."

"You're
welcome." Iathor took a warm roll for himself; his breakfast had
been rushed and small. "Now eat."

From
her determined daintiness, she'd have refused if she'd eaten before
being hauled into prison and darkness. Iathor congratulated himself
on feeding the poor girl, then realized only a rude knave discussed
unpleasantries at a meal, and he doubted any obvious topic qualified
as pleasant.

Chapter
III

K
essa
ate bread with someone she suspected she'd hate
very soon now.
He
sat
smugly; she could tell by how he crossed his legs in
that metal-gray hose. And, blight it, she
was
too hungry to
throw the bread in his face, even if he weren't her Guild Master and
the Lord Alchemist, the highest rank of the most potent guild,
inherited just as noble titles were.

She
finished the roll and stubbornly didn't take another, though several
remained. Perhaps the horses would be hungry. She'd eaten . . .
sometime yesterday. She didn't need another warm lump of debt.

Iathor
Kymus, Lord Alchemist, Guild Master, and apparently her bane,
finished his bread, sighed, took another from the basket, and took
her hand. As she looked up in outrage, he turned her palm upwards and
dropped the second roll into it without meeting her glare. He took
bread of his own again, his gaze sliding quickly past to leave him
looking out the window.

Kessa
refused to fling
this
food, either. Little merchant girls
wouldn't, for all that roof-rats would. She'd not let her temper
betray her.

So
she watched him, between sharp, neat bites. His black outer robe hung
the way a dangerous bodyguard's would, and she'd already scented
mingled hints of at least a dozen preparations. She'd wager half an
apothecary shop lay against his chest, each vial in its own pocket.
There were hints of proper green shirt-sleeves at the ends of the
robe's cuffs, and brown showing at the collar, above the embroidered
gray of his formal tabard.

His
face and neck were as fair-skinned as any noble's. (Undoubtedly her
hands would look too dark, strangling him.) Pale brown hair, with
just enough wave that you couldn't call it straight, just enough gray
that you couldn't call him young. Not enough wrinkles to seem old,
but potions could fix that. Medium-blue eyes. Face a bit narrow, but
not so sharp as hers. If not wearing the colors of alchemists, in the
fabrics of wealth, he'd have been as nondescript a clerk as any who
scurried through the streets, heads full of numbers and accounts.

He
had alchemist hands, though: faint stains, faint scars, long and
precise fingers holding his roll with the instinctive care one
learned if one made dangerous potions – and wanted to keep
having feet, or at least floor.

No
rings, of course. Nor in his ears, thankfully, for that would've
added more confusion.

Why'd
you propose to me?
He'd wealth, power, wasn't ugly . . .
She opened her mouth to demand an answer.

A
memory slapped her mind.
"Show gratitude to the man who feeds
you."

She
looked down. It shouldn't matter. He'd likely abandoned his mad idea
once he saw her outside. So she'd be a proper guild member:
journeyman herb-witch with a little shop, loyally reporting to Master
Rom, the alchemist responsible for her area. She'd sweetly rat out
the gray watch. She'd point at the local city watch's favorite
tavern. And once the Guild Master found some other reason for
wretched Darul's accident, he'd leave her be. Indeed, he might leave
everything to Master Rom, once he dropped her off.

That
cheering thought made her look out the window to see how close they
were.

Her
store was in a part of the city that was . . . better
than lower-class. The streets were brick and dirt, level enough for
carts but bumpy beneath the carriage. Most of the buildings were
brick on the first floor, but wood inside and above. Apartments went
above Kessa's shop, and to the side till the end of that block. The
weaver on her other side had looms for rugs, tapestries, and bedding,
and several ill-paid apprentices to work them. A tavern with some
sleeping rooms (more used with the serving girls) ended the block to
that side. Across the street was a baker, with bread inferior to what
she'd been fed, and more apartments, built of just enough brick to
look proper. The stores had at least one wide window with thick
chunks of glass; the tavern and apartments just had shutters. Those
living here were either on the way down, clawing desperately for some
rescue rope, or on the way up, inch by determined inch.

Kessa
was among the latter.

The
carriage halted, and the servant opened the door. Kessa slid out,
murmuring thanks as the young man helped her down.

She
turned, to explain she'd go immediately to Master Rom's office and
give the information he'd asked, and found herself closer to the
Guild Master's chest than intended.
Oh, he can't mean to come in!

He
held the basket of rolls.

He
probably did.

With
a deep breath, she walked to her door. Her key was still strung
around her neck, happily. Picking that lock wouldn't be hard, even
for her, but she'd no tools and it might raise suspicions.

Chapter
IV

I
athor
waited patiently as Kessa fumbled with her key. This wasn't a
prosperous area, but adequate for a journeyman herb-witch who'd been
granted permission to manage a shop. Master Rom was likely satisfied
with her work.

Kessa
unlocked her door and entered, leaving it open. Iathor followed.

It
was dark inside, though Kessa pulled back the curtains, letting light
leak past the shutters. Iathor leaned out and asked, "Dayn,
could you open the shutters?"

"Of
course, m'lord."

The
resulting light undoubtedly saved Iathor from ignominiously stubbing
his toes on the heavy worktable in the middle of the room. He set the
basket with the remaining rolls upon that table and prowled, using
his nose as much as his eyes. The herbs hanging from the support
rafters smelled of exactly what they looked like, concealing neither
other ingredients nor mold. The moon-rack, covered in thick, black
fabric, was in the window ledge where Kessa leaned, arms folded.
Iathor was careful to only sniff that; prodding might let sunlight
in, ruining nights or even months of moon-steeping. The shelves,
nailed to the walls in slightly erratic levels, held jars and
sachets – all with identifying marks, and all smelling as they
should.

One
shelf, set high for his reach, held unmarked jars and vials. Most
looked or smelled familiar: the golden tincture that went into
curatives, a nose-biting paste to relieve congestion, carriers for
sunburn-balms, the mint oil that could lower a lip-blister . . .
One jar, striped in red, defied identification with eyes or nose.
Iathor frowned at it and set the jar on the counter, pulling his
white-glazed spoon from a pocket to get a light dusting of powder
into his hand. Then he licked it up.

There
was a muffled noise from the herb-witch. He wondered, as he sorted
the powder's ingredients by taste, if she'd been about to warn him
against unwary sampling.
How else would I command a guild full of
eccentric alchemists?
Without the immunities, there'd be scheming
ranging from practical jokes by apprentices and journeymen, to lust
and loyalty potions, to poisoning. The first were a nuisance to be
quashed patiently. The middle could be mitigated by a dramsman bound
to the city-prince or the Princeps. The last . . .
required immunity.

The
powder's taste was still odd, though with the bittersweet of a
quickened preparation. He lapped a slightly larger sample out of his
hand. Earth-water edge . . . Almost-numbness of the
tongue . . . He glanced over; Kessa dropped her gaze
before her eyes could be seen. "What is this?" he asked.
"It's somewhat like
clae
, but you've added river-root."

She
took came and put the lid back on the pot. "It's for beer. It
takes away what makes people drunk. Only for a glass or two, though.
Any more and you . . . And most people'd get queasy.
It might work on wine, but beer's cheaper to test."

"Hm.
Why not–"
–use a Vinkest's pill?
he didn't finish.
Vinkest's sobriety pills were popular at the alchemical school in Cym
that Iathor and his brother'd attended as journeymen. They were,
however, pure alchemy. This concoction . . . was pure
herb-witchery. "You developed this recipe yourself?"

She
went on tiptoes to put the jar away. "Yes," she said,
sounding oddly resigned.

"Fascinating.
How much is a dose?"

"For
a single glass? One, mayhap two of your spoonfuls there."

"And
its cost?"

"For
the pot or the dose?" she asked. Her tone held mystification at
the edges.

He
folded his arms. "What you're selling it for." Not that she
should
be selling any, unless Master Rom'd approved it, but he
tasted no harm in the thing.

"Copper
half-flower a dose. Two more leaves for two. And only to those who've
been warned what happens if they take too much."

"Mm."
He went to the door, obtained money from Dayn (who was better
equipped to fend off cutpurses), and returned with a copper tree,
flower, and leaf. "Ten doses?"

Kessa
took the coins, weighing them in her hand; he nearly thought she'd
taste them to see if they were real. Then she nodded and fetched her
own spoon and paper squares (apprentice-work, from their uneven hue
and texture) to measure out the doses with as steady and smooth a
hand as Iathor's own mother had ever displayed, when he was eye-high
to tables and watching in fascination.

That
train of thought could only lead to more suddenness; he'd already
startled Kessa overmuch. He went prowling again, to investigate her
storeroom. "What else are you working on?" he asked,
pushing aside the curtain.

She
didn't answer, but he hardly noticed. Instead of a storeroom . . .
Light slanted over a low cot with threadbare blankets. A stool sat
beside it, and a chamberpot was in the corner. Shelves with jars,
baskets, and bundles of herbs covered the walls, including a
nailed-shut door to the expected stairway leading up to personal
rooms.