Herb-Witch (Lord Alchemist Duology) (57 page)

Kessa
said, "Now let us finish here. If we're fast and careful, we may
be done before dark."

Iathor
felt his eyes crinkle and realized he was smiling. "Then I'll do
as I'm bid." He dropped them a bow. Upon rising, with Kessa
eyeing him sidelong, he said, "Kessa, if there's
any
threat,
please
know my staff would welcome you . . ."

"Mm-hm."
Her expression shut down again, but she didn't glare. "If
there's trouble, like as not I'll seek out my sister and tell her of
Herbmaster Keli's offer."

"I've
guest rooms. She can come as well," Iathor offered. Laita was
logical and mercenary; she'd surely jump at dinner and a warm bed. He
added, "And . . . whoever else might follow. The
dogs could be brought in, and a stable loft left open."

That
won him a glare, which he tried to meet – and failed, more
quickly than he'd intended. Nicia had her head tilted curiously, but
didn't look particularly shocked.

With
as icy a voice as ever noble's daughter used on too-forward swains,
Kessa said, "I'll keep that in mind."

He
wanted to cry out,
I'm just worried about you!
Surely Laita'd
not meant he shouldn't offer aid when Kessa might be in true peril,
at some unknown enemy's whim? Iathor looked at Kessa again, as she
stood straight and proper, pulping something inside the mortar as if
it offended her.
Or perhaps Laita means exactly that.

Crèche
rats. Fagin-raised. The littlest and least of the Shadow Guild, with
whatever expectations of violence that might bring – and
Kessa, from what he'd overheard and seen of "Kellisan,"
most likely knocked around like any other runty urchin.

He
sighed. He'd have to think on how to apologize to an herb-witch with
a man's pride. "Good evening to you both, in case I leave before
you're done," he said, and made his escape.

Back
in his office, he went through more of Lairn's letters. Still no
incriminating missive from Iasen. No messages
at all
from
Iathor's brother to the journeyman. Iathor wondered if Iasen'd
entirely forgotten about his student while in Cym.

When
his secretary, Deocris, arrived – apprenticed son in tow –
they reviewed the guild finances, picking places to investigate so
the accountants were kept honest. (Deocris himself, Iathor suspected,
was kept honest by minor payments from the city-prince's spymaster.)

After
that, he listened to a stammering apprentice accuse the
half-barbarian in the workroom of taking the missing ingredients,
boiled the boy's arguments down to "she's half-savage, and
they're all thieves!" and wrote a note to the boy's master to
assign extra lessons in logic and observation. Then he sent the
apprentice off with instructions to think on matters of evidence
rather than bias – for Iathor'd be very interested if the boy
had
evidence. Especially evidence a truth potion could
confirm.

Last,
he reviewed the lesson he'd assigned with Master Iste, and asked,
mildly, that Iste not tease his dramsman about flirting with the
students. (Iste spluttered half an explanation about teasing the
student
, before accusing Iathor of developing a sense of
humor.) And finally . . .

"M'lord,"
Dayn said, as they returned to Iathor's office. "We risk being
late."

"Blight,"
Iathor muttered, and took his coat. At least he'd already said
farewell to Kessa and Nicia. "Let's go, then."

It
was still light outside, but the sun neared the horizon. Happily, the
weather was still mild enough for loose coats, and Iathor trotted for
the guild's carriage house.

His
brother was there, waiting as his dark-blond driver and the
red-haired Kelen prepared his carriage. He waved at Iathor. "Off
to get ready?"

"Just
as you are," Iathor said. Jeck'd already prepared
his
vehicle – including installing glass-paned windows from the
old empire – and had only to move it a few paces. "No
blue and mustard, I trust?"

Iasen
snorted. "Hardly. A very sensible gray and gold, with the latest
Cym
cut. It can take forever for fashions to get out here."

"All
of two or three months," Iathor agreed, as his carriage stopped
before him and Dayn opened the door with smooth haste. "I'll see
you at Earl Irilye's."

"Indeed!"
Iasen waved as the door closed on Iathor's carriage. Then there was
the rocking of Dayn hopping onto the footman's place, and Jeck
started the horses again.

They
didn't make good time. Adding to the usual delays of the farmers and
merchants who broke down their market stands early, a visiting
baron's coach had lost a wheel on the best road to Iathor's house,
and its trunks were spilled into the street; it was close enough to
the noble-class hostel that the coach's owners hadn't bothered to
gather their luggage, but were waiting for the hostel's porters.
Iathor held the horses (hopefully showing less wariness toward the
beasts than he felt) while Jeck and Dayn cleared enough of a path to
get his carriage through.

By
the time they finally got to Iathor's house, Brague was waiting at
the front door. Iathor abandoned hope of a half-way leisurely change
of clothes, and took the bundle his dramsman gave him. Donning the
formal tunic and tabard inside the carriage was hard enough, in the
rapidly dimming light, that he was glad he'd worn acceptable hose
under his winter pants. His open formal-robe had the simplified vial
arrangement: paralytics in the left inner pockets, healing,
antidotes, and various others in the right ones. He transferred the
dramsman's draught; the others, he'd duplicated.

His
indoor-boots were far too low-cut for even the mild weather, and his
robe too high-cut, which meant his shins were distractingly chilled
by the time they neared Irilye's estate. Jeck pulled over long enough
for Brague to perform his valet's duties, making sure Iathor was
presentable. Then he urged the horses into a fast trot.

Earl
Irilye was
not
impoverished; his Aeston house was more like a
country manor that just happened to be on palace lands. Through the
imperial window-glass, Iathor could see when the carriage went
through the still-functional gate. Ceremonial guards with torches –
soldiers borrowed from the army troops stationed in Aeston –
were there to block obvious intruders. The house itself was another
few minutes away, rising up in white-painted brick, and illuminated
by huge Incandescens Stones in reflective metal hoods that were set
into the ground by the house's foundation. The windows were a
combination of colored and clear glass that would glitter
impressively after sunset.

The
family quarters were in one wing of the house, and Iathor suspected
there were at least three perfectly acceptable side doors for social
visits of descending formality. The front, and the large rooms
beyond, were for entertaining; Earl Irilye sometimes hosted parties
for political allies, as well as his own balls.

Jeck
brought the carriage to the front, where other only-slightly-late
vehicles waited to let their passengers out. It would've been faster
to walk, but there was enough chill to dissuade Iathor. And likely
too much manure, no matter how fast Irilye's servants scurried with
brooms and shovels.

When
their turn finally came, Brague opened the door. The more socially
comfortable Dayn, son of a footman and maid, stepped into the proper
servant's place behind Iathor. Brague went with the carriage; he'd
come to the house occasionally to make sure no message went astray
when Iathor wished to return home.

Aside
from the usual servants on the steps (murmuring greetings, opening
doors, taking winter-weight coats and cloaks), the Earl's butler was
on the entry dais, to make the announcements. Iathor paused beside
the man and surveyed the large room below. A number of gowns were
present; over half of them on young women whose perfumes already
clashed distantly. Iasen would've called them leftovers of the
spring, "unplucked blossoms" still husband-hunting. Iathor
had more fine-grade rankings, starting with "unfortunate"
and ending at "too predatory to wed."

Iathor
murmured, "You'll have to introduce me?"

The
man didn't quite twitch from his formal expression. "If I may,
Lord Alchemist."

He
sighed. "If you must, then you must." He fixed an
appropriately mild, pleasant expression on his face.

The
butler announced, "The Lord Alchemist, Baron Kymus." There
was some small stir as Iathor descended the curving, shallow steps,
with hopeful mothers and daughters recognizing an adequate title to
pursue.

Or
perhaps they're merely curious about the Lord Alchemist,
he
reminded himself, and looked for the party's hosts. The Earl and Lady
Irilye held their small court to one side of the large ballroom,
conveniently for their guests.

The
Earl'd been handsome in his youth, and was still charismatic with his
hair gone white; Vigeur elixirs kept wrinkles at bay. His lovely,
silver-blonde wife wore a low-cut gown, nearly the same shade as her
hair. (Once when Iathor'd been pressed into an overnight visit, and
the other men'd enjoyed more wine than they remembered in the
morning, he'd seen the woman kissing someone not her husband. He'd
politely slipped away.)

Iathor
paid his respects, clasping the Earl's long hand and matching
pleased
you could come
with
pleased to be here
before bowing over
Lady Irilye's bored wrist. He'd not gotten five steps away before
Talien Irilye attached herself to his arm. Dayn faded back to allow a
semblance of private conversation.

Iathor
looked at the white gown Talien wore: nearly twin in cut to her
mother's, with embroidered geometry forms of the explosive potions.
He snorted. "Iasen's not arrived yet, Miss Irilye?"

"No,
he's not." The young woman pouted prettily, steering him along.
"Perhaps he's ashamed to show his face."

Iathor
didn't groan. It wouldn't do. "What's my feckless brother done
now, Miss Irilye?"

"Oh,
really, call me Talien as Iasen does. And he's lost the bet he was so
keen to make, is what!"

"That
I'd not arrive?"

"No,
no, that you'd show up with some copper-leaf courtesan on your arm.
He was offering a silver flower! But I've seen you at enough of
these . . ."

"Miss
Irilye–"

"Talien!"
she insisted.

He
compromised. "Miss Talien. Surely you've not seen me so often.
You've hardly had your spring blossoming yourself."

"Oh,
but I always snuck out and watched. See up there, to the right? The
curtains are ideal for a little girl to hide."

Talien
didn't point, but Iathor followed her gaze to the small corner
balcony overlooking the ballroom; three others topped the room's
other quarters. "I see."

She
went on tiptoes to murmur in his ear, "They're ideal for other
concealments, too."

"I'm
sure my brother shall be fascinated."

"I've
not told him." Her smile was as innocent as a budding flower.
Her tone was more knowing than Laita's. "I like to pick
something special, for each . . . special person."

Iathor
paused, resisting being steered any further toward sitting rooms and
privacy, and turned to take her hands in his. "Talien. You're so
far beyond my poor skills that I cannot hope to live up to your
expectations. I pray you'll understand that my brother's far more
accomplished in such things, and you'd be disappointed in me."
He bowed over her hands, released them to step back and bow again,
and escaped, walking fast enough that Miss Irilye wouldn't catch up,
without fleeing heedlessly.

Fortunately,
he spotted Baron Usth, and was soon deep in a discussion of
horse-breeding. With luck, the man's enthusiasm for race-horses would
keep anyone from "rescuing" Iathor. He'd rather be slightly
glaze-eyed in a whirl of mare and stallion names, than fending off
pointed hints about his bachelor status by match-making mothers or
desperate daughters.

The
ones hardest to endure were the girls who truly needed rescue: from
family debts, from family scorn, from the anguish of being gawky and
plain . . . While Iathor'd brewed small potions to
lighten hair or remove freckles, his personal funds were only a
middling baron's, and he could barely feign enough interest to stave
off disappointment for a while.

Baron
Usth monopolized Iathor for two glasses of politely-sipped wine. His
views on "fresh, new blood" in a line of horses was perhaps
relevant. Iathor pondered his own thin frame, wondering if alchemical
immunities would be tied to flaws with too much inbreeding.
Discussion of inbreeding, encouraged by a few questions, was
fascinating; when the baron paused mid-sentence, Iathor knew it
hadn't been due to wandering attention. He turned, then went to one
knee, as did all the able-bodied men below the title of earl, while
the women curtseyed deeply.

Aeston's
city-prince was, as preferred, a collateral line of the Cymeli
family; a Cymeli daughter had married the Marchlord's son a few
generations before, putting the proper bloodline in the city's
palace. Roan-haired and bearded, Tegar Aeslird showed his Marchlord
heritage (
breeding
, Iathor thought before cleansing horsey
terms from his mind), being broader of shoulder than many nobles. His
legs were muscled enough that Iathor suspected him of setting the
trend for hose as formal fashion, and he wore a sword with sufficient
ease that his two dramsman bodyguards were nearly afterthoughts.