Herb-Witch (Lord Alchemist Duology) (35 page)

Chapter
XXXV

I
athor
came through from the sitting room in time to hear Kessa calling,
"One table's full of broken stuff, seems scorched like something
exploded. Another's got a huge pot on it, like should be bubbling
near a fire. I'm going to look."

"Careful!"
Nicia called.

Iathor,
coming up behind her, added, "Yes, be
careful
down
there."

Nicia
squeaked, jump-turning to look at him. He tried to smile
reassuringly, despite the miasma fuming up from the workroom.

Kessa,
half-hidden in the basement's dimness, called an oddly resigned, "I
will."

He
peered at the indistinct shadows she made, moving about with her
failing Incandescens Stone. He'd almost nerved himself to follow when
she reappeared at the base of the stairs. She seemed unsteady,
dragging herself up by the banister. "Cauldron," she gasped
at the top. (Iathor hoped she didn't see he was ready to catch her if
she swooned.) "Full of black
goo
. Smells horrible. Cold.
Not smoking – not anymore, at least."

"Come
sit near the fire." Iathor set his hand against her back,
steering her into the other room.

"Can
still walk," she complained.

"Humor
me."

"What
do I get for it?" she muttered, low enough that Nicia likely
didn't hear.

He
led her to the fireplace. "I'll think on that."

What
he could see of Kessa's expression was sour – but she sat on
the floor, leaning against the warming bricks. When the heated air
seemed to be reviving her, he moved closer to the doorway. His
distance would let Nicia chat with Kessa, which seemed to moderate
the older girl's temper.

Brague
hovered silently, letting him think. They needed warmth, and it
wouldn't hurt to cut the smell on two fronts. "Are there any
scented candles about?" Iathor asked. "Something the
servants tried, or some affectation of my brother's?"

"I'll
look," Brague said. "Don't go down there without me."

"You
at the top of the stairs. If I collapse, I can be dragged out. If you
do . . ."

His
dramsman grunted and moved off.

Iathor
wondered if Kessa's pride would send her down with him, or her
wariness keep her safely away. She was bolder with Nicia around.

Iathor
considered descending just a few steps while Brague was looking for
candles, but the fetid reek kept him from bending his word. He tried
the door into the apprentice's quarters, instead, and found it
unlocked.

The
rooms were chilly, and therefore foul. Out of sight, he pulled the
collar of his tunic over his nose.

His
Incandescens Stone was brighter than the guttering one on the desk.
Iathor glanced at the papers there, presumably left when the
apprentice fled the house. None were alchemical notes. Two seemed
letters with sums on them, and Iathor leaned on the desk to read what
he could without actually touching them.

There
were two piles, each several pages deep. The top of one held two
letters requesting monies owed: silver flowers and half-flowers. The
top of the other was an order for . . . Vigor?
Probably a misspelling of Vigeur. Not the easiest potion for a
student.
The would-be customer was a Tradesman Jonu.
Not
"Merchant"? Odd.
Vigeur was expensive.

Iathor
reached out – and paused. Two wrongs were never righteous, as
his mother'd frequently told her sons. And Iasen's student, the
unfortunate Lairn Ronan, hadn't read
Iathor's
mail. Though,
apparently, he'd been responsible for Iasen's letter-reading presence
at Iathor's house.

And . . .
I'd feel excessively stupid if, by coincidence, Lairn owed money
to Darul Reus, his name lost with the missing page.

Iathor
flipped through the pages, trying to memorize the names of those who
sought money or potions. Apparently Lairn dealt in something called
Lasiari
, and the consistently misspelled
Vigor
. (At
least, Iathor assumed it was the safest, most commonly requested
elixir that took years from a person's age.) Also apparently, Lairn
owed various people enough that the combined sum could be measured in
gold. Not an impossible debt to vanquish, but certainly irritating,
and especially troubling if one's workroom was unlivable –
explaining why Lairn'd written desperately to his teacher.

None
of the letters were from Darul Reus; Iathor felt vaguely guilty and
disappointed.

He'd
not yet checked the desk's drawers.

Reading
opened letters upon a desk was one thing. Searching a man's personal
correspondence and accounts was possibly another – especially
when he wasn't there.

Going
through someone's alchemical accounts, on the other hand . . .

He'd
done it to Kessa, albeit when she was nearby.

Dayn's
voice came from the other room. "M'lord? I sent the message you
asked. Are you all right?"

"In
here," Iathor called back, pulling his makeshift mask down, and
glad his footman had gotten the message delivered; Loria'd send
Iasen's dramsmen to come build up the fires. Iathor paused, and
decided he should hardly intrude
more
upon his potential bride
than upon a careless journeyman. "Dayn, I need you to collect
some material and take it to the carriage."

Dayn
ventured in, dismayed. "Alchemical, m'lord?"

"No.
Hopefully it can be pressed with Fervefax Stones to purge the smell."
Iathor waved at the desk. "Iasen's student has troubling debts,
and perplexing commissions. I want to examine them where I can
breathe. If you would, check the rest of the desk, put the papers in
the carriage, and I'll read them once they've been heated enough to
break up the scent."

His
footman might've sighed, but the air wasn't clear enough. Instead, he
tucked his own tabard over his nose and began gathering the papers.

Iathor
said, "Meanwhile, I'll venture into the basement once Brague
brings a suitable candle."

From
the way Dayn's eyes crinkled, the dramsman was relieved to be staying
out of there.

Iathor
left the Incandescens Stone and retreated to the sitting room; Kessa
was still on the floor, leaning on the hearth-ledge, while Nicia sat
beside her shoulder. Listening provided a few moments of nauseating
fascination as Kessa elaborated on the exact nature and tonality of
the stench from the ooze-filled cauldron in the workroom. Then Nicia
glanced over and clapped her gloved hands together. "Oh! Master
Kymus! Um!"

Kessa's
instant blandness, face turned away, was fascinating.

Iathor
said, "Yes?"

"The,
um, clae. It's all black. That's because it's bound the smell to
itself, yes?"

"Indeed."

"Then . . .
Someone who could taste a potion safely could taste the clae?"

Iathor
wondered if Kessa'd been prompting Nicia behind his back. "Not
all potions are safe, even for me. But . . ." He
sighed. "You've a point. If I fall over, foaming at the mouth, I
expect someone to administer a Purgatorie."

"If
we find it in time," Kessa said.

"Mm."
He took the Purgatorie from its inner pocket and held the vial in one
hand. Locating a dish of fume-blackened clae was easy. Less easy was
nerving himself to taste a few grains, but Kessa wasn't the only one
with a touch of pride.

It
didn't taste
quite
as bad as it smelled. Gritty. Putrid. But
notes of . . . smoky bittersweet. Something sharp.
Something that hinted at sweet. Something . . . He
spat into the fireplace. "What was that blighted idiot
making
?"

"What
did it taste like?" Kessa asked.

He
frowned, spat into the fire again, and sat on the hearth-ledge.
"Primarily, like burnt clae. Some of that could be smoke from a
fire, but some of it was the
clae
. And some of it . . ."
Sweet.

"Some
of it?" Nicia asked.

"Inappropriate,"
he said, trying to analyze the memory of the taste.

Kessa
scowled at him; the firelight turned her feral eyes to muddy gold.
"We can't learn if you don't teach us, Master Kymus," she
said, tone so mild that he kept staring, trying to reconcile her
savage mien with her civilized voice, until she dropped her gaze as
if he'd out-stared a cat.

He
drew his mind to her words. "Ah. I suppose not. Well.
Preparations that alter the mind are uniformly sweet, to my tastes."
The dramsman's draught had been like pure honey on his tongue. And
he'd never met an aphrodisiac any further from that than tartness. "I
don't advise experimenting to find whether you think them such, and
not all sweet potions are mind-affecting. Sometimes honey crystals
are part of the preparation, or an inert ingredient to mask the
taste."

Nicia
said, "And this was sweet-tasting?"

"Beneath
the rotten and the burnt clae, there were sweet notes."

Kessa
stared into the fire, hair draped to conceal her face. "Why
would this be
inappropriate
?"

Iathor
was silent for a few moments, tapping his fingers against the brick.
"Aphrodisiacs – commonly known as lust-potions –
affect the mind and body together. They are, therefore, sweetish. And
an inappropriate topic." Also, sadly, the most likely cause of
the taste, in Iasen's home.

Nicia
looked predictably pink and embarrassed in the firelight. Kessa just
tilted her head to look at him through her hair.

For
a brief moment, Iathor wished this were a fireplace in
his
home, and Nicia returned to her mother.

Dayn
emerged from the other room, arms full of letters and a journal. He
passed through, but said something indistinct in the next room.
Brague's voice replied, and the older dramsman entered the room,
bearing several candles. He handed one, as thick as his wrist, to
Iathor. "M'lord. This one's got the strongest scent."

Iathor
sniffed it. Sweetish, but with alchemical notes suggesting it would
smell . . .

Not
just pleasant, but
intriguing
and
suggestive
. Better
than the stench, though, and the combination was unlikely to appeal.
"My thanks, Brague." Iathor took a kindling twig to
transfer flame from fireplace to candle. "Now I'll examine the
dreadful cauldron myself, while Brague waits to rescue me if I'm
overcome. Would either of my enthusiastic students care to accompany
me?"

"Um."
Nicia shifted uncomfortably. "If you want . . ."

"I'll
go," Kessa said, pushing herself up. "Nicia can think about
ways to warm this place enough to breathe. Right?"

"Yes!"
the other girl said, relieved.

Brague
handed Kessa a taper, which she dipped into the fire. Cinnamon
tickled Iathor's nose. Kessa said, "I'm ready."

"That
makes one of us." Iathor led the way.

The
carpeted stairs were sound, though the Stone-holders were dark.
Iathor gingerly sniffed for smoke, but the general stink drowned out
lesser notes. He was forced to rely on what the flickering
candlelight revealed.

Which
was a sloppy workroom indeed, though well-stocked with cabinets and
luxurious strips of carpets. Aside from the table with broken
equipment and spilled ingredients, aside from the cauldron that
should've been at the hearth . . . Jars, some
uncapped, were left out on the numerous tables. Bowls sat abandoned,
streaked with powder and dried paste. An alembic lay on its side, a
greenish trail running the length of its tube. Dark stains made
abstract patterns on another table's surface. Grit crunched
underfoot, when not on the rugs.

The
cauldron waited, dark and threatening.

From
the other side of the room, Kessa said, voice muffled, "Seems
like someone started a half-dozen potions . . . and
just left them. Forgot to keep them from boiling dry, or rotting in
the mixing bowls."

"What's
my brother
teaching
?"

"Nothing,
if he's in Cym all the time."

That
sounded oddly venomous. Iathor looked over.

Kessa
was rattling the basement fireplace's flue, expression entirely
obscured with her collar pulled over her nose. The hearth itself was
filled with ash, a single log upon the andirons.

If
the basement weren't so noxious . . . Iathor glared at
his candle. Even through his immunity, the preparation
suggested
 –
and he was continually dosed with that suggestion in air-borne,
flame-heated gas. "He should've at least taught proper workroom
techniques."

"Not
mine to say." She paced away from the fireplace. Her collar
slipped from her face.

For
a moment, she looked like a barbarian shaman: face starkly lit and
shadowed, hair like night behind her. Iathor blinked and strode
toward the cauldron as an antidote to his brother's pernicious
candle.