Herb-Witch (Lord Alchemist Duology) (51 page)

Laita
was taller; she looked down as she clutched the coat around her
shoulders, and let her knuckles rest on the shabby tabard, with its
Kymus designs. "Oh, my."

Kessa
growled, deep as she could manage, "Brague brought cast-offs.
Warm ones."

Laita
flashed a smile in the dramsman's direction. "Thank you."
He must've nodded silently; Laita said, "Shall we?"

Kessa
nodded, too, offered her arm with all the too-young male dignity she
could affect, and led her sister out. In the hallway, Kessa asked,
"Are you all right?"

"Better
for the leaves."

"Should've
waited for more."

"I
only confirmed what he's surely realized already. Nearly a silver
flower's more than enough . . . Are you angry with me?
For flirting?"

Kessa
frowned at the wall. "Why should I be?"

Laita
leaned close to whisper, "He
did
propose to you. But I
so
wondered . . ." She pulled away for a spate of
coughing.

"Wicked."
Kessa smiled. "Do I need to tell . . .
someone . . . you're staying?" No need to risk
anyone overhearing Jontho's name.

"No.
He didn't think you'd let me out once we'd gotten here. He'll arrange
something in the carriage-house."

"Good.
Come under the cloaks."

"Oooo,"
Laita cooed.

The
room now held a couple of men, under their cloaks on far-corner cots.
Kessa wrapped hers around Laita and pushed another cot close so she
wouldn't fall off. Then they squished under the cloaks together with
Kessa's chin on Laita's forehead and her sister's cheek against her
tabard. Kessa tried to will warmth and health into Laita's clammy
flesh until her sister drowsed, and she slept.

Chapter
LII

I
athor
brooded on the way home. Kessa and her sister (and whoever watched
over them, no doubt) had left before he'd woken.

Once
a solitary mystery, the herb-witch was now an enigma with companions.
If she doesn't like me, why would she let her sister proposition
me?
And why come on patrol a second time? Iathor forbore to groan
lest it worry Jeck, beside him.

After
they'd dropped off everyone else, Iathor resisted the temptation to
go offer Kessa breakfast. It would've been unfair to his dramsmen to
delay
their
meals.

As
they arrived home, a messenger on horseback was leaving the front
door, Earl Irilye's sigil on his coat . . . Iathor
slouched, calculating months. "Harvest celebrations?
Already
?"

Jeck
guided the horses around the curve to the back of the house, holding
them back lest they dash recklessly for their stable. "Like as
not, m'lord. Shall I get the boys and Dayn to help with the carriage
polishing, or will you be indisposed this year?"

"I'd
best go.
Iasen
will, and someone should be the responsible
brother." There'd undoubtedly be less than a fiveday till the
fete; those who cared about fashion had commissioned clothes long
ago, and everyone else (such as Iathor) had conservative outfits from
prior years.

Jeck
pulled the horses to a stop. "I'll have the carriage sorted,
m'lord."

"My
thanks." Iathor got down and found his bodyguard emerging from
the carriage. "Brague?"

"She
took her old clothes."

"Mm.
Hard to pattern new ones from them, then."

His
dramsman looked at him sharply. "You'd planned to, m'lord?"

"No,
just realized it'd be easier than altering old things." He'd
been bemused, finding Loria and her needle-skilled apprentices
rooting through old clothes (mostly
his
, oddly) and adjusting
them for a shorter, skinnier body. Loria'd castigated him for not
knowing how much taller he was than Kessa, nor where her waist was.

When
he got inside, Tania called over, "M'lord, how many for
breakfast?"

"Household
only, I fear. Jeck's in the stables."

"Blight,"
his cook swore, transferring cheese-filled egg-crepes to plates and
one covered dish for transport.

"I
suspect she's guests of her own." Iathor sidled over to make an
attempt upon the rolls a kitchen boy was taking from the oven.

"Why'd
you not bring them?" Tania frowned accusingly.

"They
left before I could! Ow." He dropped the roll and shook his
fingers to cool them. "Even if I'd invited Kessa and her
sister . . . They'd someone else nearby, whom they
didn't wish to introduce."

Tania
sighed, shoulders slumping. "Poor girl."

"Poor
family. Brague called them crèche rats." Iathor waved at his
dramsman, who held a plate and waited for a cooler roll.

"Crèche
rats?" Tania asked.

"Children
kept and raised by a fagin," Brague said.

As
he'd already had this conversation earlier, Iathor continued,
"Apparently could be as many as six."

Brague
added, "Biggest I've heard of was nine."

"Well!"
Tania looked taken aback. "That would be a lot to feed."

"I'm
hoping hers is smaller. Four . . . isn't bad."
Iathor obtained both egg-crepe and roll, and settled onto a bench at
the servants' table, alongside the now even wider-eyed youngsters.
"Boo," he said, then ignored them. If they gossiped
unwisely, being dismissed was the least that would happen; they were
Loria and Tania's cousins (and possibly one grandchild), and that
pair could request appropriately terrifying punishments.

"Four . . ."
Tania added a second roll to Brague's plate. "Be easier on the
food expenses, at least. So there'll be a basket?"

Iathor
took a bite of warm, cheesy bliss. "Yes. And naught else. I'll
try
not to push her in the winter, by her sister's
suggestion."

"Absence
makes the heart yearn, some say," Tania allowed, handing a plate
to Loria as she entered.

"She's
still taking lessons, and perhaps volunteered for patrol."
Iathor raised an eyebrow at his steward and the sealed letter she
held. "A message?"

"Invitation
from Earl Irilye, m'lord. Annual harvest ball, season's first, wake
of summer, welcome to winter, and so on."

He
cracked its seal and unfolded the letter. "Hmph. Four days
notice? I thought mine was delivered only a day before, so I'd not
arrange prior commitments."

"Will
you invite Kessa?" Loria asked, going back for a roll.

"I
suppose. There's the usual 'and guest.' I doubt she'll accept."

"No
harm either way."

Either
way? But what would she wear, on such short notice?
Iathor ate
his food, puzzled. Then he realized Loria'd know where his mother's
dresses were stored.

He
thought about sending a note with the breakfast basket, inviting
Kessa to dinner, but . . .
"Be patient through
the winter, perhaps?"
Laita'd said, while her sister slept.

So,
instead, he set himself to morning work in his office –
starting with the acceptance of the invitation. Earl Irilye wasn't to
be slighted, even if his youngest daughter was a golden vixen.

Some
time later, Dayn knocked and slipped inside. The dramsman looked
perplexed.

"Is
something wrong?" Iathor asked.

Dayn
held up a small bundle of cheap cheesecloth. "Kessa sent this,
m'lord. Someone hung the contents from a peg on her door, early
enough that the snow held no prints when she arrived."

Iathor
picked the knot open. A mouse's skull stared at him. After peering
back blankly, he looked at Dayn.

Dayn
shrugged. "She guesses it's some barbarian curse, but wouldn't
know, not being raised by barbarians. Nor are mouse ghosts haunting
her shelves."

Iathor
poked the skull with the end of his paper-wrapped graphite. It tipped
over. He used a bit of cheesecloth to lift it; no tiny runes were
painted on the inside. It smelled like plain, boiled bone. "If
someone went to the trouble of putting it on her door, it's not to be
discounted, but . . . a mouse?"

"She
said she'll take it more seriously if tonight brings a rat, but as
threats go . . ." Dayn shrugged. "She seemed
exasperated."

He
set it back down. "Quite. Well . . . If you'd put
it in my workroom? I suppose it might provide some clue. I'll draft a
note to the watch and inform Rom when we get to the offices."

"Of
course, m'lord." Dayn wrapped the cheesecloth around the tiny
skull before carrying it off.

Superstitious
barbarian curses . . . seemed a petty thing for Iasen
to try, if he even knew any. But the escaped leader of the "gray
watch," Wolf, was dark-haired, perhaps a quarter barbarian
himself.

But
a mouse skull, boiled clean?

Perhaps
it
was
his brother's sense of humor.

Perhaps
it was meant as some dread curse.

Or,
more troubling, perhaps it was calculated to make someone discount a
true threat.

Iathor
listed all three possibilities for both Master Rom and the watch, and
reminded them of Wolf. He hoped it was his brother's doing, though;
if not, then Iathor indeed put Kessa at risk for an oversight.
Unconscionable.

Chapter
LIII

A
s
I will be attending Earl Irilye's harvest ball on our class day, and
was unable to provide preparations for study last class, I ask if you
would be willing to have a lesson tomorrow evening,
yesterday's
letter read. Kessa would've crumpled it and stuffed it in the next
basket out, but it continued,
Herbmaster Keli has agreed to be
present, wherever you choose. While my home is private, we could meet
at the hospice, or the guild workrooms, at a convenient day.

He'd
added that he'd no word from the guard about the mouse-skull, and the
closing'd been simply,
My regards, Iathor.

The
Herbmaster wasn't the unbiased – or herb-witch biased –
chaperone that Kymus assumed. But so long as they weren't conspiring
behind her back . . .

If
Kessa could live with Laita conspiring to her face, she could live
with Herbmaster Keli's dubious chaperonage. And the chance of a true
cure for her sister? She'd walk through fire.

A
carriage ride that evening, with a blanket and wrapped Fervefax
Stone, was more comfortable than firewalking. Gusts of rain
splattered against the carriage, and Kessa would've guiltily shared
the driver's bench with Jeck if she'd had any suitable clothes.
However, such fairness would've earned a near-forced warm bath (she
was sure Kymus'd insist) and borrowed robe – not to mention
she'd already be fending off offers to stay till the rain
stopped . . .

Slats
protected the carriage windows; she caught glimpses of lit windows as
the carriage turned tightly. They stopped, sensibly, in the dry
carriage house.

Dayn
opened the door. Kessa said, "Please tell Jeck I'm so
sorry
he had to come out. I thought Master Kymus would cancel!"

From
the other side of the carriage, Jeck called, "Eh, it's a warmer
rain than it's been lately. I'll get dry and cozy quick enough."

"We
don't catch many sneezing chills," Dayn added, leading her to
the door that connected to the house. "Sorry about the servants'
halls."

"Don't
be. They're warm." Warm, and comfortably shabby rather than
rigidly perfect or sadly decrepit. Kessa still felt an outsider, but
less uncomfortable than in the elegant front hallway.

They
made a turn, went past several shelves, and came into the kitchen
through a door she'd thought a pantry. Kymus wasn't there, but Tania
sent a kitchen helper to notify him.

Dayn
took Kessa's cloak with mostly-proper manners, save for a quiet,
"Best not linger, or he'll come looking."

"Thanks,"
she muttered back sourly. "The dining nook?"

"Aye,
m-Miss."

She
muffled a sigh. Of course Kymus' dramsmen were sure he'd get his way.
So of
course
she'd be "m'lady" . . .
She tugged her dress straight, pulled her shoulders back, and tried
to glide with more dignity than awkward nerves.

Keeping
her gaze lowered meant she saw more of the floor. Polished but worn
wood in the kitchen; over the threshold, the better-kept, pale wood
of the dining nook. Expensive southern beech, perhaps. A woven carpet
in pale alchemy colors – gray, tan, green – was
underneath the chairs and table. At the head of the table . . .
Feet. Kymus', from the gray hose and ankle-high, indoor boots. Kessa
slid her gaze up to see Herbmaster Keli's hands (her sleeves a deep
green), even as the woman said, "Kessa! You did come!"

Kessa
dipped a curtsey, trying not to wince at the grass stains on her
skirt. She'd at least rubbed her clothes in clae, so she'd not offend
Kymus' sensitive nose (nor her own), but . . .
I
don't fit here.