Herb-Witch (Lord Alchemist Duology) (43 page)

The
alchemy of a secret was in the truth you added. She wondered that the
room didn't turn to a haze of bittersweet as she whispered, "I
don't know." Then, "May I please go home now?"

His
fingers slipped from her wrist, and he stood. "If you wish.
Yes."

Kessa
opened her eyes enough to see his offered hand.

She
took it, and he steadied her into standing . . . far
too close to him, with his hand lightly on her upper arm. He smelled
of preparations: tinges of bittersweet and prickles of metal-salts.
She stammered, "G-good evening to you, Master Kymus."

"Good
evening to you, Kessa," he replied, gently. "Brague, would
you escort her down?"

"Aye,
m'lord."

Kymus
opened his hands, as if letting a summer butterfly escape.

Kessa
felt more a broken-winged crow as she went with the dramsman.

Brague
was silent as they walked, but before he left her in the cold, he
squeezed her shoulder again.

She
set off for the public coach-house. Either she'd sleep there with her
brother, or they'd make their way back to her shop.

Chapter
XLV

I
athor's
carriage could fit down the street, but little space was left for
other vehicles. In his pocket was a letter in the hand of a hired
scribe:

It
was signed
Dilus Whitefeather, Scribe, Temple Hill.
A
reputable enough address, where scribes did go to read and write for
those who couldn't, or who did so poorly enough that they'd hire
someone for copper leaves. Moreover, Iathor'd stopped at Temple Hill
first, and paid Scribe Dilus for a description of the attractive
woman who'd dictated the missive.

The
carriage stopped; Dayn opened the door while Brague glowered at the
rest of the street. Jeck called down, "Seems well enough here
for me to wait."

Iathor
supposed he'd patrolled past the Sailor's Haunt occasionally, but it
looked unfamiliar in the chill daylight. Still, Brague and Dayn
should suffice to ward off random trouble, and specific trouble . . .
Iathor'd left word of his destination with both his secretary and
Master Iste.

Inside,
afternoon drinkers wore worker's pants and tunics, and gave
suspicious looks to Iathor's group in their upper-class hose and
tabards. The letter's author was immediately obvious: white-blonde
hair and eyes of smoky frost, that might lighten to blue in better
light. She sat with excellent posture, bracketed by two men vying for
her attention, and all but ignored both with an attractively cool
expression. Her patched, mended cloak was a sturdy clash with the
fourth-hand finery of the dress showing beneath. Areas of that were
stained; a splotch of paleness showed where someone'd tried bleaching
and gotten the dye as well. One hand held the top of her cloak
closed.

Iathor
headed for her table without hesitation, while her current companions
were off-balance. That, and Brague's peerless ability to loom,
worked; the pair glowered, but departed so Iathor could sit.

The
woman smiled at him. Her perfume, wafting over the tavern's general
alcohol odor, was the bittersweet of a mind-affecting preparation,
with a teasing hint of the spices he'd
like
to be smelling.
(In one of Tania's excellent stews, say. She'd not been pleased that
he'd
upset
Kessa, and he'd been consigned to blandness for
nearly a fiveday.)

"I've
a letter," Iathor said. "Would you be the one who sent it,
Miss . . . ?"

"I
hired Scribe Dilus, yes. Am I correct that Lairn Ronan is worth
something?"

"Indeed,
unfortunately." He let resignation into his voice. "How
much do you hope to cost me?"

She
lifted her other hand and snapped open a fan over her smile. "No
more than you can afford, I trust. Say, two silver trees?"

"Outrageous.
I've people looking for him already." Thioso, to start, as well
as recent memos to the rest of the guild.

"You're
not the only one," she murmured. "It's known you want him,
but that only slows the sharks, Master Kymus."

"You're
saying shadows close around him?" He kept his voice entirely
neutral. It wouldn't surprise him if elements of the Shadow Guild
were curious about a straying alchemist. Or if they wished to make
him renegade entirely.

"Not
quickly. Lairn's known as a loose cannon who ruined his patron's
house. But you want to find him soon, Lord Alchemist?" She
looked at him with her strikingly beautiful gray eyes.

"It
would be convenient. Perhaps two copper trees?" He could pay the
bartender a bit more for permission to search the Sailor's Haunt,
like as not, but Lairn might be elsewhere – and high-handed
searches might provoke indignant responses, or even troublesome
bar-brawls.

"I
can lead you to him immediately, for a silver tree."

"A
guide's fee is surely no more than a silver leaf." High-priced
guides, but she was attractive, and her part-concealed smile lent
charm to her unconcealed greed.

"The
costs of acquiring him weren't small, Lord Alchemist. Two silver
flowers should cover them."

"I'd
think two silver leaves would suffice."

She
dropped her eyes modestly, still smiling. "Ah, but a girl needs
to eat. A silver flower might keep me from the chill nights for a
time."

Her
gaze was nearly as distracting as Kessa's; now he saw past her
cosmetics and fan, to cheeks a trace hollow for true beauty, and thin
fingers and wrists. "A half-flower – and a meal."

That
reacquired her attention. "You tempt . . . But
I'd have more choice with the flower."

"There
are numerous taverns, shops, and street vendors selling decent food
for less than a copper flower. Half a silver one is ample and then
some."

She
folded the fan and laid it in her lap, her other hand drifting down
to join it. Her cloak opened to show her deep-plunging neckline and
white bosom. Her face was as blank and still as a doll's. "In
winter, the wind carries off flowers and leaves faster than you
think, Master Kymus."

Freelance
courtesan
, he guessed. One who kept her ears open, and pounced on
the merest scrap of luck. Though he'd have thought one so attractive
wouldn't be so hungry. "A silver half-flower, a leaf, and a
meal," he offered.

Understated
animation returned to her expression. "Will I have a say in the
meal?"

"Yes."

She
thought a moment. "Done, then. The leaf now, perhaps?"

Iathor'd
carried the money-pouch this time, so Dayn'd not be distracted. He
pulled out the oval coin. "If I ask how you found the man, that
would cost extra?"

She
giggled as she accepted it. "I might simply not answer."

He
sighed. "I become used to that."

"Oh,
dear. I suppose . . . Mm." She stood.

An
odd reaction. "Might I ask your name, instead?" He offered
his arm.

She
took it, smiling at him. "Laita. The stairs here, if you would?"

So
either Lairn'd been here all along, or it was a trap. "A
pleasure to meet you, Laita."

"And
fascinating to finally meet you, Master Kymus."

Also
an odd phrase. He tried to look past her attractiveness. Her posture.
Her precise walk. He remembered how Kessa'd walked out of the
prison . . . "You're not in the habit of
wandering about at night, dressed in men's clothes, are you?"

She
snapped open her fan with her free hand, hiding her smile. "Night
air's not good for me, Lord Alchemist. I'm already lucky to've
avoided the wet cough so long."

"Mm."
Iathor wished they'd more time to fence with questions, but they were
at the stairs.

Brague
went up first; Dayn guarded the rear. At the top was a narrow hall,
and at its end . . . an open door, with a tall,
broad-chested man leaning beside it. His hair was sun-bleached dark
blond, hues mingled in the horse-tail tied behind his neck. While his
tan was only a shade lighter than Kessa's skin, his sunburned ears
and nose were peeling slightly. From his ill-fitted, rough clothing,
he seemed a dock-hand for the river-ships. His eyes were an
unnaturally pure green. His good-natured grin was broad, showing he'd
all his teeth.

"Hey,
you brought him." He gave Iathor a thorough up-and-down look
first, then Brague and finally Dayn.

Laita's
face lit in a genuine smile. "Silver half-flower, leaf, and a
meal. How's our rabbit, Burk?"

"Sleeping
soundly." The man ambled over to kiss the top of Laita's head.
To Iathor, he said, "I'll be by the stairs, if you need a hand
with the rabbit." Then he strolled to the stairway, and down.

Brague
split his attention between Laita's vanished compatriot and whatever
was in the room. Iathor sighed and walked to the doorway so his
dramsman would be less distracted.

Once
he saw the sleeping man – wearing torn and dirty hose, with
tunic and tabard beside him on the bed – Iathor understood the
rabbit
. His nose was long, his front teeth a bit prominent,
and his chin weak under days of patchy stubble. His hair was more
dirty than blond, and dark purple half-moons were beneath his eyes.
The skin on his chest and face, though, was as pale as any clerk's.
Or alchemist's.

When
Iathor stepped forward, leaving Laita at the door, he smelled not
only unwashed human, but something bittersweet and . . .
green
. Mint and green, with herbs. Iathor sniffed, trying to
catch metal-salts, but . . . no, that was too faint
and rotten besides, like Iasen's basement. When he shook the
purported Lairn, the man only shifted in his sleep.

Iathor
glanced sharply at Laita. She fanned herself delicately. "He was
very tired when I found him."

And
he's very dosed with some sleeping mix now.
Iathor turned away to
count through the vials nestled against his chest. The restorative
was a small alchemy, enhancing an already strong and pungent vapor.
He took a deep breath (smelly man was better than the vapor) and
briefly uncorked the vial to wave under the man's nose.

The
"rabbit" coughed and stirred, opening bleary, water-pale
eyes. "Wh-wha'?"

"What
is your name?" Iathor asked, leaning down.

"L-Lairn . . .
Who?"

"I'm
Iathor Kymus. I'm taking you to . . . a safe place."

"Blight,"
Lairn whispered. "M'lord . . . didn't mean . . ."

Iathor
sighed. "Later. Brague, Dayn? Would you help Lairn with his
clothes?"

He
handed the vial of restorative vapors to Dayn, and fished in his
money-pouch as he returned to where Laita waited in the hall. "The
half-flower, and a meal. Where do you intend to spend my coin, for
the latter?"

"Well.
Let me think." Her fan fluttered. "You'll take Lairn to
your home, yes?"

"It
seems expedient. I'm under the impression he owes enough money to
make him hide in dubious inns rather than return to his alleged
teacher."

"Then
perhaps I should ask
you
for a meal. I'm told you've a good
cook. Perhaps I can take a basket home." Her fan hid all but her
eyes, the corner of her smile, and her dimple.

His
own eyes went narrow. "A basket.
Who
told you about my
cook?"

Laita's
fan now concealed everything but her artfully wicked eyes. "And
would I gain any leaves from that answer?"

"Would
any leaves be
enough
?" Enough to fend off an angry,
spectacularly ugly glare . . . Enough to buy something
besides a defeated slump of dark shoulders . . .

The
gray eyes before him – perfect and beautiful – softened
in what could've been sadness. "Perhaps not. But better than
nothing."

Iathor
pointed in the vague direction of the inn's common room. "And
does
he
go about at night?"

"Mayhap,
if there's need. Why?"

He
took her by the shoulders, careful to be gentle, wary of an attack
from her feet or knees. He couldn't soften his voice from an intense
growl. "How do you know her?"

Moving
slowly, Laita folded her fan and tapped his nose with it. Her mouth
was a rosebud pout. "Wrong question. You should ask why she's
not mentioned
me
, despite hinting you'd be a suitable patron."

"I
should ask," Iathor breathed, "why you're defying her
apparent wishes."

The
fan went back between them. "That will do. Because I want to
know your intentions toward my sister."