Herb-Witch (Lord Alchemist Duology) (59 page)

"I
know! Bad as mother . . ."

Kessa
smirked. "
That's
no insult. Your mother's the
Herbmaster!"

Nicia
muttered, "Well, blight."

Kessa
laughed, glanced over to see Nicia's shy, self-conscious grin, and
cackled enough to get odd looks from a pair of journeymen exiting the
Flask, across the courtyard.

Nicia
started for the guild's carriage house. "Let's see if mother's
buggy is ready. Would you like to come with us?"

Alone
amidst someone else's family . . . "My thanks,
but I'll likely go to my sister's."

"All
right. There'll be another party with Father's family. You could both
come?"

But
what'd we do with our brothers?
"Mayhap. Ah!" Kessa
skipped back, not quite necessarily, as a one-horse carriage
clattered out in front of her. It bore Iasen's crest.
Good thing I
wasn't here before he left. I suppose he gets away with being late to
parties.

From
behind, Herbmaster Keli called, "Nicia! There you are!"

"Mother!
I thought you'd be in the buggy."

Keli
trotted up. "Some masters are long-winded. Kessa, are you coming
with us?"

She
dipped an abbreviated curtsey. "My thanks, but no. I need to
tell Laita of your offer."

"All
right. Good evening to you." Keli all but dragged her daughter
along, Nicia calling
good evening!
over her shoulder.

Kessa
followed more slowly, amused, as Herbmaster and daughter bundled
themselves into their buggy and left, waving. Then she looked for her
own, which meant going to the hired drivers in their common room and
asking which waited for Master Kymus' fare.

"Eh,
that'd be Gren," one older man said, glancing up from his card
game. "But he took th' younger Kymus some half-hour back, whose
rig had a bad wheel."

"But . . .
I just saw Master Iasen's carriage . . ."
He
took my buggy? Out of spite? Or just because it was already paid for
by his brother?

"Aye,
they were working on it, his driver and groom. Must've finished."
The man looked back down and played a card.

"But . . ."
How do I get home?
She took a breath. "Can anyone take me
down near Lesser Broadstreet? I believe I've the price."

There
was a pause. Then the head-shaking started: one still waiting for an
alchemist, one too busy winning the card game, another knowing if he
weren't there when his hire wanted, he'd be dismissed from the
Drivers' Guild. Three just didn't look at her. The last muttered that
she'd not have enough to make him run off and back again.

Which
would likely be what the missing driver thought; he'd taken someone,
as Kymus'd paid him for, and no reason to return and see if his
half-breed fare waited.

I
should've taken Nicia and Keli's offer.
Bad luck all around. A
little earlier, and she'd have found her buggy missing in time to go
with her . . . friend. (Odd thought. She set it aside
for later.) A lot earlier, and she'd have had her buggy. Enough
later, and she might've begged a ride from Master Iste.

She
leaned in the doorway, ignored by the drivers.
No reason to bother
Master Iste as if I deserved his time. I've feet. My boots aren't
rags. It's not bitterly cold yet.
She had her defensive
preparation, too, and perhaps she'd find a buggy to hire on the
streets.

The
sooner she started, the less after dark she'd get home. Jaw set, she
walked. Perhaps she'd pass the turn from Lesser Broadstreet, and go
talk to Laita.
Or will there be a dramsman waiting with the
basket?
If so, perhaps she'd be found along the way. Would Kymus
take both Brague and Dayn to the party? The more servants, the more
status? Or send a hired buggy down with Tania herself?

She
could endure being looked for, if it kept her from trudging the whole
way in the chill twilight. She hoped no one lingered alone; that
might be dangerous if someone were skulking around her shop.

As
she walked out of the courtyard, she passed a small, chariot-style
buggy with a glowing cargo. The driver was atop a ladder leaning
against a lamppost, swapping a dim Incandescens Stone for a fresh
one. Kessa paused, then went on. Light might be welcome, but even if
she could beg the old Stone off the man, it'd illuminate her more
than anyone else, and ruin her dark-vision.

Buggies
rattled past her in the dusk, lanterns hanging from their sides, but
they all had passengers. One private carriage had Incandescens Stones
set into the horse's harness. Kessa wondered how long it took to
train horses not to shy at the shadows. People moved on foot, here
and there, heading for their homes as she was.

By
the time the stars were coming out, the west horizon gone
salmon-tinged blue, Kessa thought someone was following her.

At
first, she told herself it was paranoia. Wolf was the likely source
of rodent skulls, and
wasn't
likely to venture even this far
from the slums where he undoubtedly hid. There were too many
lampposts, Stones casting their light on the corners.

But
Kessa'd grown up in slums. Paranoia was life when it was just you and
footsteps in the dark. She started looking for places to climb to the
roofs.

She'd
not found any by the time she made out the cart slowly clopping along
ahead of her, coming closer. It carried two men, one driving, the
other sitting on the low wall of the cart. Its horse drifted towards
the center of the street, closer to her.

Decorum
and good faith be blighted. Kessa dug in her belt-pouch and pulled
out the paper-wrapped mixture.

The
wad was poison-bitter as she stuck it in her cheek. If matters came
to naught, she could spit it out and ride out the effects.

If
not . . . She had an herbal Purgatorie, for after.

Footsteps
behind her, not quite masked by the cart's squeaking wheels, sped up.

Kessa
grabbed her skirts and bolted, letting the preparation's paper
flutter away. Roof-rats fled when they could. Roof-rats darted into
alleys, and over someone's discarded rubbish.

Roof-rats
didn't wear skirts; Kessa fell on her side, almost choking on the
preparation. As she got up, she heard low calls. Men's voices.

Blight.
Again she pulled her skirts up and ran, looking for a way to escape
before the alley dead-ended. There was enough light in the sky above
to show where buildings were and weren't.

A
right-hand turn opened up; she plunged down it, sucking bittersweet
air through her teeth. The wad was breaking up in her cheek. A left
turn dead-ended; she reversed, went left again.

The
alley emptied onto the street. A horse passed – and a creaking
cart stopped, someone jumping out. Kessa turned again, dashing for
that dead-end.

Her
nails broke as she scrabbled at the bricks, seeking cracks to haul
herself up by fingertips and toes. The dress tangled her feet and she
fell. Up again, kick the skirts away, and up, and kick, and–
someone grabbed her leg. She kicked harder, roof-shingles under her
hand. If she could only get to the roof, she'd be lighter and faster.

She'd
no leverage. The best she could do was try to land with her knees on
the blighted wretch pulling her down. They both sprawled. She gulped
the herbs so she could scream and hope the city watch was around.

"Get
her!" someone snarled. "Get her mouth!"

Her
shriek was cut off as someone yanked her hair and put a hand over her
mouth. She shook her head enough to get her teeth into the hand,
heard, "Ow! She bit me!" She flailed with arms and elbows,
tangled in her cloak, and kicked. One man staggered away, grunting.
She couldn't tell how many there were. Three. Four, perhaps.

"Kicks,
too," observed someone's light voice from the side.

"Blight!
Start helping, bastard."

She
raked her ragged nails upwards, trying for the eyes of the man
holding her hair. He snarled, "Blight and rot! Get her hands!"

"Get
her
legs
," another said.

She
thrashed enough to get her mouth clear, tried screaming again as her
poison's smell filled her nose and mouth.

"Don't
let go!" the light-voiced one yelped, throwing himself across
her. She coughed and gasped for breath, head saved from being cracked
on the pavement only by one of their boots underneath. Before she
could get air into her, someone knelt, a hand over her mouth again.

"Can't
get her legs. She's fighting too much." She'd kicked him; she
arched, trying to get the other off so she could kick again.

"Let's
just do it," said someone else. "Give me the jar."

"That
safe?" asked the one above her. She aimed for his eyes, driving
up her thumbs so they'd have the strength of her forearms behind
them. He swore, fending her off with his other hand.

"Ain't
nothing gonna fall off, coward," one mocked. "Now hold her
still, blight it!"

The
light-voiced one rolled with her, then off quickly. Hands gripped her
ankle. "Got her leg!"

Someone
got her other knee. She writhed more, clawing and thrashing her head
to bite.

Her
skirts were shoved up. "Blight, a knife! Get her arms!"

"Got
'em," said the one above her. Not both, but she couldn't curl
around to get at the hilt before someone grabbed that wrist.

Four
of them.
Some small part of her wondered if that included the
cart driver.

"Rot,
that's cold," said one above her hips. His hand, wet from
something, slid up her inner thigh. His voice moved closer to her
face. "Now, savage, let's see what's under these skirts."

Panic –
for herself, for Laita's dry tea – peaked beyond even the sick
poison filling her mouth and lungs and blood. She bit down.

The
man above her screamed. "My hand! It's burning!"

"Don't
let go!" snapped the one between her legs as she slipped a hand
free and got her elbow under her. "Don–
agh!
" he
yelled as she spat in his face, flinging himself back.

"Ow!"
yelped the one holding her other wrist, as she yanked that arm close
and bit. His grasp loosened. "Blight! She's getting away!"

"Hang
on, rot it!" The light-voiced one clung to her ankle.

Her
other leg was free. The one between her legs moaned, "My face!"

Kessa
shoved herself sitting, grabbing for her knife's hilt – easy
to find, skirt shoved to her waist. Someone pulled at her cloak,
choking her; she yanked it, slipped free. Sharp, bitter green filled
her mouth. She wouldn't swallow, and knew she was frothing like a
rabid thing now.

Light-voice
loosed her ankle to throw himself atop her again. She spat and bit
down on the side of his head. He screamed in her ear, rolling away.
"My eyes,
my eyes
!"

She
rolled after him, then to her feet. The last one (there'd been four,
yes) grabbed at her dress. She spun with her knife out, felt it
connect in an awkward stab before he grunted and flung her into the
wall. He snarled, "Dog-filth!"

He
was between her and escape. She remembered to pull her skirt up and
lunged, shriek strangled to a furious hiss by the poison coating her
throat.

He'd
expected her to go to one side. Instead, she jumped for him, knees in
his belly, slavering jaws at his throat. She thought she might've
grazed his neck before he whirled and threw her off.

Off
was out of that trap. She ran again, past the driverless horse and
its cart, past the street, into another alley and darkness.

She
found a decorative wall low enough to climb. From there, she got onto
something's roof. Poison dripped down her chin. She pawed in her belt
pouch. Empty, save for the thin bag of coins she'd knotted inside.
She'd have to get to her shop, take a Purgatorie before the
preparation left her cold and dissolving – or pray her
immunity would keep her only
wishing
she were dead.

Her
dress was torn, she realized; the chill wasn't all poison. From
shoulder to somewhere around her waist. She tried to hold it up, for
what little warmth it gave.

Time
went swimming and vague. She got lost twice or thrice on unfamiliar
rooftops and – when her knees wouldn't hold her at times –
unfamiliar streets. She nearly cried to find the alley behind the
bakery. She staggered along, making the turn, knowing that even dizzy
and dying, she could take someone with her if he got close.

There
was shouting. There'd
been
shouting. She could see her hand on
the wall. She looked up.

Across
the street from the bakery, from where Kessa stood, a building
burned. The bucket brigade'd formed, more concerned with wetting down
the adjacent apartments and store than trying to put out the fire,
hampered by fleeing families and the apprentices trying to pull rugs
and loom-bits from the weaver's workroom.