Herb-Witch (Lord Alchemist Duology) (5 page)

"I'll
have to talk to her," Iathor sighed. "Would you like to be
present when I examine the man, Master Peran, or shall I conscript
Nicia as my guide?"

"I'd
be interested in watching your examination. Everyone has their own
techniques." The bonesetter stuck his hands in his robe's
pockets.

"Quite
true. I'll be equally interested in your assessment." Iathor
smiled, in the way that sometimes smoothed ruffled feathers of
experts. "I'm not familiar with healing, and might miss
something."

Peran's
expression suggested he grasped Iathor's tactic, but wasn't averse to
being soothed. "Mm. This way." He strode down the hallway,
dark green robes rippling.

Iathor
followed, Nicia trotting just behind. The building had the faint odor
of strong soap diluted by many rinses; a spilled potion could cause
havoc if not cleaned up properly, and spilling something on even old
body-dirt or blood might make other potions activate badly. The
basement leaked whiffs of herbs, salts, and simmering preparations.

He
glanced at the girl. Where Peran wore the greens and reds of
bonesetters, she was in brown and green, with a gray apron. "Been
here long, Apprentice Nicia?"

"No,
m'lord," she said, managing to bob another curtsey. "Mother
said I was good enough to work here, three months ago."

Likely
an herb-witch's daughter, then. "Your mother is . . . ?"

"Herbmaster
Keli, m'lord." Again, the girl bobbed nervously.

Iathor
well knew Keli. Few herb-witches sought official master-status within
the Alchemists' Guild, instead staying "senior journeymen"
and taking apprentices via blind-signed permission of their nominal
master alchemist. The Herbmaster championed herb-witches, which meant
she visited his office frequently and with determination. Usually, he
agreed with her goals, if not their means. Keli was short, but had a
great deal of presence to go with her long plaits of dark brown hair.
Her daughter had hair a shade lighter, almost honey-blonde, her
mother's stature, and wide blue eyes that suggested an air of
constant alarm. (Or perhaps it was just his presence.) He said, "I
trust her judgment in herb-witchery. You're training further, in true
alchemy?"

Nicia
nodded, and
didn't
try to curtsey. "Yes, m'lord! Mother
says I've the fine hands for the measuring, and patience for the
brewing."

"And
a tolerance for the brews?"

"A
bit, m'lord. I don't faint from the fumes of a sleeping potion,
anyway." The apprentice seemed pleased to be asked.

"Very
good. It's embarrassing to wake up in the middle of your equipment."
It'd only happened once, after staying up three days straight, trying
to concoct a stimulant potion that'd
work
on him, but it'd
been extremely ignominious.

She
didn't giggle, but her eyes got even rounder.

He
made a mental note to ask the girl's mother how high she believed
Nicia's tolerances were, then they arrived.

The
clean, whitewashed room was small, with a high window. The shutters
swung inward, flat against the wall, to let in light and fresh air.
Less flat were the wings of the framework that held chunks of
window-glass; the room could have light in winter. The bonesetter
apprentice was in the only chair; the muscled young man hurriedly
stood.

Iathor
took a breath (outside air, with horses and burning leaves; soap and
little else) and stepped forward to look down at the madman.

Lying
on the bed, wearing a long robe, Darul Reus was the thin, pinched
sort of moneylender. His fine mane of blond hair was going to early
silver, handsomely, without transitioning through dirty gray. His
eyes were a plain medium-blue, though, and his lax face full of
frown-lines. Iathor bent and sniffed the man's breath. It would've
been a long time, but . . .

Under
the smell of corn porridge . . . was something
sharper. One of the metal-salts, perhaps, to've lasted so long in the
man's body. "Do you know if his sister gave him anything?"
he asked.

"Food
and cheap wine," Peran answered. "Wine made him even more
docile, apparently."

Docile.
And metal-salts.
Iathor straightened, ruing that he'd not
investigated the jars in Kessa's storage-bedroom.
Metal-salts are
true alchemy . . . The combination could trigger any
number of continuing effects.
Iathor asked, "Does he know
his name?"

"No,
m'lord," the male apprentice answered. "Not so's you'd
notice."

Iathor
went to one knee and moved a hand across Darul's field of vision. The
madman tracked the motion, pupils constricting as he looked more
toward the window. He wasn't drooling or babbling, though Iathor
suspected he might've when the potions (or potion, singular . . .)
took effect. When Iathor took the man's hands, they were chill and
blue under the fingernails. No signs in the whites of his eyes,
though, or at his lips.

Iathor
sat back on his heels. "Master Peran, do you know if he's passed
blood in his chamberpot?"

"No,
seems normal enough, if scant. He's cold, though, and you see the
blue nails."

"His
breath smells off, too. Like some metal-salt."

"Oh?"
Peran crouched to sniff at the madman's breath. "Feh, can't
smell it."

"I've
a good nose. A minor advantage of the bloodline."

"Mm."
The other man looked over his shoulder. "Nicia, come have a
sniff."

Obediently,
the apprentice did so. Darul blinked at them all with vague interest.
After several thoughtful breaths, eyes closed and nose deliberately
unwrinkled, she sat back. "Something besides old food, I think.
But you said so, Master Kymus, so I might be imagining it."

"Have
someone wave ingredients under your nose, while your eyes are
closed," Iathor said. "Being able to identify something
from smell can be very useful."

She
nodded and stood to move back to the doorway.

"Diagnosis,
Master Kymus?" Peran asked.

"Alchemical
poisoning, Master Peran. Deliberate or accidental . . .
I won't know till I find what was used. I'll have his place
searched."

"And
treatment?"

"What
would you do, Master Peran?"

The
bonesetter snorted. "Keep him calm, warm, and fed. See if he can
be trained to use the chamberpot, feed himself, dress himself, or at
least come when called. If not . . . Try some of the
mindbright potions after a few months. Not much else to do with him."

Iathor
nodded thoughtfully. "Except I scent metal-salts, and those can
sometimes be purged from the body."

"Aye,"
Peran mused. "So treat it like early poisoning, dosing with
Purgatorie?"

Iathor
tipped his hand, in lieu of the hat he wasn't wearing. "It's
worth a try. At the least, Purgatorie can't
hurt
."

"The
apprentices'll disagree, but we'll do it out back and sluice down the
street when he's done." The bonesetter managed to look both
maliciously amused and sympathetic.

Iathor
winced. "Keep names, and I'll add something to the hospice
stipends, this coming month."

"Pfft."
Peran waved a hand. "It's their job. I'll give them an extra
light-work day, perhaps."

"I
yield to the master in residence." Iathor levered himself up,
and remembered to offer a hand to Peran, who took it without
self-consciousness.

Peran
dusted off the knees of his hose. "Well, we've a plan. Aught
else you need here?"

Iathor
shook his head. "I thank you for your help, Master Peran."

"Always
good to learn something new, Master Kymus," the bonesetter said
agreeably. "I'll set Nicia to exercising her nose tomorrow."

Iathor
approved of the muted interest on the apprentice girl's face. "Good
luck to us all, then. And good day to you all." He nodded to
them, shook hands again with Peran, and left.

Outside,
as Dayn held open the carriage door, Iathor asked, "Any hope the
rest of the day will go smoothly?"

The
young dramsman grinned. "There's always hope, m'lord."

"
Not
reassuring," he muttered as the door closed. "Home, Jeck,"
he called through the panel, and the carriage started into motion.

Iathor
leaned back against the cushion and idly wished that the first immune
woman he'd ever found hadn't been in a jail cell, nor had a mystery
attached, nor been at least half-guilty of destroying a man's mind.
While he was at it, he wished it hadn't all happened on his
light-work day. Rescheduling would've been a blighted nuisance, but
his secretary would've been present for swifter delegation.

And
Kessa could've been
slightly
grateful for the rescue. He was
glad she'd avoided dramatic tears and clutching of robes, but
thinking back, he didn't recall so much as a "thank you"
from the journeyman till he'd fed her.

He
sighed and stretched out in the carriage, since no one could see him
being less than upright. He'd get lunch (excellent, excellent lunch)
from his cook, see his officers, see the Weavers' Guild's
representative, and perhaps send Baron Rhaus off early.
That
was ostensibly a social call, after all.

Traffic
was no more unkind than usual. He made a few mental notes when the
carriage lurched overmuch. It never hurt to gather good will by
offering funds for road-repair.

Upon
reaching home, he called to Jeck, "Kitchen door, please."
That let him stroll through the back door – and into organized
chaos.

Iathor
blinked mildly as his household staff dashed about, the youngest
babbling around his steward, while his cook directed her minions to
focus on food instead of distractions.

Of
the sisters, Tania, the cook, had fewer underlings to wrangle. Iathor
sidled over. "Why's Loria so busy?" he asked, reaching for
a small loaf, destined to be part of a tiny sandwich.

Tania
mock-swatted his hand. "Your brother's home from Cym, all
unexpected. His own house isn't prepared, what with his servants off
with
him, so we're opening the guest rooms till he gets his
home aired out."

"Iasen's
back from the capital already?" Iathor slipped around Tania and
captured a bread-roll. "Did he say why?"

"Of
course not, m'lord." Tania rolled her eyes. "We're just
dramsmen. Why should
we
need to know?"

"To
brief me, I'd hope. I'll kick him in the shins for you."

"Good
of you, m'lord." His cook patted his cheek maternally. "Now
off with you, before you get underfoot."

"Yes,
your ladyship!" he said, and retreated in good order, glad his
household coped so well with the unexpected guests.

While
some of his brother's dramsmen would be off getting Iasen's house
ready, and others would be rearranging the servants' quarters with
Iathor's staff, his
brother
would likely be in the family
sitting room that linked the two largest bedrooms together.

The
sitting room door was open, and a fire crackled in the hearth,
ensuring the light autumn chill wasn't just burned off by the sun,
but given an exiling kick of
and don't come back
. Iasen'd
taken the most comfortable chair, as always. He looked well in his
mostly-gray clothes, also as usual; he'd gotten more of their
mother's good looks, with lighter hair and eyes, and their father's
taller build, though neither brother was anything except slender.
(Iathor still muttered "Scrawny" at himself in the bath, as
he'd done since he was a journeyman.) Iasen'd grown a small,
fashionable beard, luckily matching his hair instead of going redder
or darker.

"Iasen,
why
are
you back?" Iathor said as he walked in. "I
thought you were wintering in Cym."

Iasen
waved a hand at his older brother. "And greetings to you, too.
My student here was having some problem, and I came to sort it out. I
thought today was your light-work day, but you're already off
visiting people, so there was nothing to do but wait for you to get
back. Was she pretty?"

"What?"
Iathor blinked, sorting between annoying herb-witch and promising
apprentice before he realized this was an entirely hypothetical
"she."

Too
late. Iasen continued the baiting. "All right, was
he
pretty? Really, must I ask about livestock next, brother?"

Iathor
sat – restraining himself from an undignified flop – in
the second-most comfortable chair, across from Iasen. "I've been
investigating an alchemical poisoning, if you must know." He
reached out his toe and shoved his brother's leg. "That's for
not telling my staff why you're here."

"Pfft,
what do
they
care? I'm here, I need a room while my place gets
cleaned up; that's all that matters. Got a bread-roll for me?"

"No."
Iathor took a bite. "You annoy my cook, you get cold porridge
for dinner. What's wrong with your house?"

Iasen
rolled his eyes. "My student had a problem involving smoke."