Herb-Witch (Lord Alchemist Duology) (56 page)

"Bringing
any guests?" There was a touch of acid beneath that cheer.

"No."
He should arrange for dancing and deportment lessons before taking
Kessa around nobles and their offspring, who'd years of training and
judged others by skill in social games. "I rarely do."

Iasen
muttered something that might've been "
some
sense."
Iathor chose to ignore it, saying, "As to what I'm wearing,
update father's wardrobe slightly and add a touch more green
embroidery. Unless you're going in mustard and purple, I doubt we'll
clash."

"If
I wore mustard and purple," Iasen said, curling his lip, "I'd
clash alone in a whitewashed room. That's disgusting."

"You're
the one who claimed blue codpieces went with
anything
 . . ."

"That
was twenty-five years ago!"

And
a truly awful combination of blue and dusky yellow. Iathor smiled
slightly. "I've a long memory."

Iasen
peered at him, then drew back. "Careful, brother. I'll think
you've a sense of humor."

"Earth
forbid. I've students to teach, Iasen."

"Good
morn to you, then." Iasen strode past. One of his dramsmen, with
dark red hair, followed.

Iathor
went into the basement, hoping his brother was coming to terms with
the situation. Iasen rarely avoided causing scenes in front of anyone
but attractive young women. While Nicia counted, Iasen hadn't boiled
over even after she'd left earshot.

As
Iathor got to the half-closed door, he heard Kessa's low, ". . . just
being irritating. Nothing I can't handle."

Me?
My brother? The unknown skull-depositor?
Though Iathor suspected
Wolf of that. Part barbarian himself, perhaps he knew tales Kessa
didn't.

A
wretched thing, if a violent criminal knew more of his blood-kin than
Kessa. No wonder she clung fiercely to her crèche-family.

He
opened the door fully and walked in. "I hope this morning finds
you well, Nicia?"

That
smile was a touch strained. "Quite, Master Kymus! I've not
finished the chapter, though."

"
I
couldn't make root nor branch of it," Kessa said. "Fire and
heat are changers or purifiers, and cold-mixed potions rarely work
because the impurities aren't purged, but why should star positions
matter for something that's not even moon-steeped? They're not
warmth, nor even much light."

Iathor
smiled. "As many of my teachers said, I'm glad the question was
asked. And, like them, I'll gladly hear myself expound upon it.
However, I hope to wax slightly less obscure. In essence, everything
is moon-steeped and sun-steeped, and not all stars are mere
stars
."

Nicia
said, "Yes, the far-sight ointment reveals details that show the
wandering stars as moons!"

"As
do the finer telescopes. When we get a clear, warmer night, we'll
make some far-sight ointment and use it." Iathor'd have to use
catseye paste in one eye, to watch their expressions. "In any
case, just as the obvious moon refracts and diffuses the sun's light,
so do the farther moons. While there's been no success steeping
anything in
just
their light, some of the most subtle effects
can only be quickened by their influence. Or so certain teachers
said."

"It
doesn't work?" Kessa asked.

"It's
ambiguous. However . . ." He leaned on the table
with both hands. "We've an opportunity. As you know, the immune
may taste a potion and determine whether it's quickened. I want you
to find far-moon potions in the library, determine which have a
chance of working, and prepare three different brews: one that should
quicken relatively soon, if the theory's right; one that will take at
least a fiveday; and one that shouldn't work at all this season.
We'll set them to simmering, and I'll taste them daily. We record
when, or if, they quicken, then attempt to follow the recipe exactly
once again, for the same duration of simmering."

Kessa
said, "So the wandering stars – far-moons –
should've wandered out of position. If it works, the potion doesn't
need them, and only needs enough time. If it doesn't . . .
We figure out if it's something else, like impure ingredients. One
has to boil cat-grass till the scent's gone, for rat-bane, and that
depends on how dry it is."

Nicia
nodded. "And if it's too old to have a good scent, you need
extra to bring it to the right starting point."

"You
do?" Iathor asked. "Fascinating. I've only worked with the
dried ingredients."

Kessa
shrugged. "It's a forgiving brew. It just won't work as long or
as well, with poor cat-grass." She paused, and leaned forward to
add, "Don't swallow any. After a few hours, the taste on the
back of the tongue is
disgusting
."

Equally
quietly, Iathor said, "I managed to avoid that . . .
because my brother tried it first."

Nicia
giggled. "And mother says
I
put things in my mouth as a
baby. But I always thought rat-bane smelled strange. Especially after
it wasn't fresh-brewed."

"Huh,"
Kessa said. "So'd I."

"You
tasted it anyway?" the younger girl asked.

Kessa
looked at her hands. "It was . . . a dare."

Iathor
scented a lie, as present and diffuse as the whiffs of sharp green
when Kessa'd been under her cloak with Laita. The same drifting scent
he detected now, as some chilled pouch-contents warmed.

It
didn't smell like anything he'd want to taste. Perhaps the morning's
rat-skull had alarmed her more than she'd admitted. He'd have to
write a dispensation for whatever half-legal (or worse) preparation
she'd made, for self-defense. Hopefully it'd leave its victim alive
to question.

Iathor
straightened. "Well, vermin-bane's not the assigned preparation.
If you're ready, I'll escort you to the library."

Kessa
asked, "Will Dayn keep an eye on us again?"

"Do
you want him to? I'll need him when I leave to prepare for the Earl's
harvest fete."

"It's
nice to have people around to vouch I'm not stealing salts."
Kessa shrugged. "I'll stick with Nicia."

Iathor
frowned, and wanted to deny she'd be accused . . . But
with a reward unclaimed, some might even
believe
they'd seen
her pocket a jar, simply because of her coloration. "Sadly,
wise."

With
them ensconced in the library, he took himself to his office, where
Dayn triaged Lairn's papers. They weren't
quite
odiferous
enough to drive a man from the room . . .

It
was astonishing, how many people seemed desperate for Lairn's "Vigor"
and "Lasiari." Nearly as astonishing as how many
moneylenders he owed. Still, nothing explained why the journeyman so
unconvincingly, yet steadfastly, claimed full blame for the
unauthorized potions.

Iathor
recorded the names, so someone could visit and discover what Lairn'd
told them about his new brews. Perhaps Thioso'd want that job.

Iathor
didn't know what he'd do if he found evidence incriminating his
brother. Keeping guild business inside the guild was preferable; the
city watch had better things to do than enforce guild laws, save when
absolutely necessary. But as Iathor's heir, Iasen's behavior had more
weight than any other alchemist's.

Kessa,
I need you.
As did Iasen, though he didn't realize it. It was
usually thus with his brother: pushing the borders of acceptability
until something snapped back upon him. As the only other immune
Kymus, those borders had slowly moved until no one in the guild
questioned that Iasen would be late with his dues, or an erratic
teacher, or a master alchemist who spent much of his time in
diversions with the nobles and their progeny.

Summer.
Iathor could wait till summer. Or spring, perhaps, when it was warm
enough to view the far-moons.

Far
too quickly, the smell of Lairn's papers became too overpowering.
Iathor re-wrapped them, and attended to other guild business.

By
lunchtime, he was talking to Master Coty in a booth at the Smoking
Flask. Kessa and Nicia came in, talking about something that made the
younger girl giggle and blush, and ate at one of the communal tables.
Dayn sat with them a while, but when Iasen's red-haired dramsman
arrived, Dayn went to talk to the other man.

I
hope he discovers if my brother's ready to make peace,
Iathor
thought, and returned his attention to the discussion: whether one of
Coty's journeymen would have his hospice costs covered by the guild.
The man paid his dues well enough, but if his illness came from
injudicious potion-quaffing, it would cause unrest.

By
the end of lunch (long lunch, as Master Coty so often took) they'd
agreed the guild would cover part of the expenses, but the remainder
would be a loan. Iathor made his way back across the courtyard and
enjoyed the sun, warm enough that he left his coat open.

Something
about the satisfaction of the moment reminded him of Iasen's
unexpected mildness that morning. He asked Dayn, "Did my
brother's man say anything I should hear?"

"Your
brother doesn't like gossiping servants, apparently." Dayn
sounded pensive. "Kelen's not the usual footman, and m'lord,
I . . ."

"Mm?"
Iathor stopped to wait for his dramsman to finish.

"Your
pardon for saying so, but I'm not sure Kelen took the newer draught.
He acts more like Brague, though he's closer to my age." Dayn
frowned, uncomfortable. "Or he's just hemmed in more, and I'd be
the same with similar orders."

"Not
an experiment I'd like to make, Dayn." Iathor tried to shake off
the chill thought. The autumn sun was warmer than that. "Did he
seem different than at my house? Ill-treated?"

"No,
not really. But close-mouthed, and acting . . . Mayhap
like I would, if ordered to silence."

Iathor
said, "Silence would be an imposition?" Dayn was usually as
quiet as a shadow.

Dayn
grinned briefly. "When I was off-duty, m'lord, it'd be
punishment indeed."

Iathor
chuckled. "I'll bear that in mind." More soberly, he said,
"And I'll see if I can discover which brew Iasen's using. Thank
you."

Dayn
shrugged. "I was hoping to find if your brother was having Miss
Kessa followed. I failed."

"Thank
you for trying. And, speaking of Kessa, I'd best check on them . . ."

In
the basement, the door was cracked open; Iathor paused on the last
step, listening to Nicia's high, light voice and Kessa's deeper one.
The words were indistinct, save when Nicia protested, "Oh, she's
still
telling that story? I was only seven!"

By
the time he got to the door, Nicia'd asked, "Have you any
stories from when you were a little girl?"

Iathor
tried to stop himself from opening the door (too late, his hand
already in motion) as Kessa replied, "Oh, I was never a little
girl." She turned her head sharply. "Ah. Master Kymus."

"I
thought I'd see how the brewing went." He glanced around the
room. The geometry analyzer had clearly been used, with numerous
forms sketched on the chalkboard. The table held three books –
one weighted open with the others – and enough vials, jars,
bowls, and alembics to convince him the pair were deep in the throes
of alchemy.

"Quite
well, Master Kymus," Nicia said. "We found three
interesting ones, that should be useful, too. This one's–"

"Shh!"
Kessa waved a hand at the younger girl. "Don't give it away,
lest he second-guess his tongue for when it
should
quicken."

"Oh!
I'm sorry, m'lord." Nicia bobbed a curtsey.

"An
understandable precaution. I'll try not to research it from taste,
either."

Without
looking up from the paste she mashed with her pestle, Kessa said,
"Body, enhancement, pause for bread, mind, poison. Separating
the poisons from the enhancements, lest the few true dangers be
inadvertently created. The enhancements'd be safer if they affected
the body rather than the mind, too."

"You
remembered." He hoped his approving tone didn't sound too
familiar.

"One
of the books mentioned emerald salts." Kessa shrugged, enough of
a smile visible that Iathor thought she was pleased.

Nicia
asked, bewildered, "What?"

"Last
evening, when your mother visited, he had me tasting salts as he'd
promised. They were grouped by what they were most used for: body,
mind, enhancement of other ingredients, and poisons. Ugh. He said
he'd ask why he ordered them as he did."

"And
she pre-empted me."

Nicia
looked enlightened. Then she asked, "Have you found why
everything was so low, Master Kymus? The ingredients, I mean, from
the other day."

He
shook his head. "I've a note posted, offering a silver leaf for
information. No one's come forward, but I think no one's filched more
ingredients, either. I'm glad you two noticed it."

Nicia
looked openly pleased. "Thank you, m'lord!"