Herb-Witch (Lord Alchemist Duology) (6 page)

"In
your basement? This sounds amusing." Iathor was glad he didn't
have full-time students underfoot, setting his workroom on fire. That
would be a drawback of an herb-witch wife. Still, the woman'd not
burnt down the firetrap she lived in . . .

"Oh,
I'm sure it's amusing, but I've not gotten the full story out of
Lairn – my student – yet." Iasen scowled and
slouched in his chair. "I'm nearly tempted to put the dramsman's
draught in his beer and hold his nose till he drinks it."

"Don't
joke about that."

His
brother scowled harder, focusing on him. "Bah. It's just us and
our dramsmen. Mine know better than to gossip."

"Well,
mine aren't so limited."
I attract enough stupid rumors
without upsetting my staff with "don't talk" orders.
He
took another bite of his roll, chewing till he could swallow his
irritation with his brother's so-called jokes. "Will you be
staying long, down here in Aeston, or are you headed back to Cym once
you sort out your student?"

Iasen
leaned his head against the back of the chair. "Oh, I hate
autumn travel. I probably hate it even more than I hate winter in
Aeston."

"It's
over more quickly than winter."

"Trying
to get rid of me already?" Iasen put a hand to his forehead in
mock pain. "Don't tell me you've fallen in love with a
chambermaid again! You and your filthy habits."

Iathor
sighed out through his teeth. He didn't say,
I was fifteen and you
only found out because you were trying to leave her flowers too.
Instead, he murmured, "No, I've not fallen in love with anyone."

"And
you can't be worried about this poisoning thing affecting me –
I've drunk at least half the things you have, and a few more you've
not. Got a concubine from one of those brothels you like so much?"

Iathor
avoided that topic with a flat, "No."

"So
why're you already chasing me out of the city, if you don't want
privacy for some deviant escapade?" Iasen grinned; an expression
young ladies found wickedly charming when they thought no one else
was listening.

"Guild
politics are going around," Iathor said vaguely. The Weavers'
Guild Master was touchy enough without adding Iasen's witty banter to
the city's social mixture.

"You
make it sound like the flu."

"The
flu, I could mix potions for. Politics . . . not so
much." Iathor grimaced.

"
I
could mix a potion for–"

Iathor
stood. "Absolutely not.
Aside
from the blackest
illegality of turning people into dramsmen unawares, it can be
useful
to leave others with
all
their free will. That joke, Iasen,
isn't funny and I'll not hear it in my house."

Iasen
sighed. "Of course, Lord Alchemist. I'm duly reminded you've no
sense of humor."

"Especially
on that topic. Now, if you'll excuse me, I must prepare for a meeting
with my officers, then with a representative of the Weavers' Guild.
And before that, I must send a message to Baron Rhaus, begging off
the dinner visit he wishes."

"Oh,
let me take care of Rhaus. He's got decent stories." Iasen
shoved himself straighter in the chair. "It's the least I can do
after arriving so unexpectedly. You closet yourself with tea and
headache and a tray of dinner from your fine, fine cook.
I'll
wine and dine Rhaus."

His
brother
did
enjoy social matters . . . Iathor
relented. "All right, but make no promises in my name, lest I
disinherit you and have you thrown in the River Eath."

"'Pon
my honor, brother." Iasen put his hand upon his chest, looking
fair and innocent of all malice.

"I'll
tell Loria you've volunteered." Iathor gave a casual wave, and
went to find his steward.

Chapter
VII

A
s
usual, Kessa woke to the hopeful pre-dawn calls of the nightsoil
cart, seeking chamberpot leavings for tanning or manure. As usual,
she pulled the blanket over her head. Dump enough clae in the pot and
one could sell the rest oneself.

Still,
soon there'd be light in the sky; time to chop and measure and simmer
her herbs into brews to sell. Tomorrow, one of the better
herb-farmers was likely to be at the market. Today . . .
She didn't feel like braving suspicious watchmen, and no one needed
deliveries. Perhaps she'd go out after the sun was high.

Kessa
dragged herself from under the blanket and shook the clae dusting
from her second shirt before donning it and her only smock. Dressed,
she darted outside to open her shutters, rolled up her sleeves, and
got to work.

Halfway
to noon, a carriage rolled up in front of her shop. Even through the
distortion of the glass, she could tell the colors on the door. Gray.
Brown. Green.

She
groaned to herself and focused on the nearly-dried river-root in her
mortar. Grind too late, and get a choking powder. Grind too early,
and get mush. She had a good rhythm going. Grind, circle, push,
circle, mash a little, grind again . . .

How
long can I ignore him tapping on my door?
Not long; the decorous
rap became a sharper knock.

Pretending
she didn't see his carriage, she called, "Just a moment!"

If
she'd been Laita, she'd have put a smile of surprised pleasure on her
face. She wasn't. She twisted the inside key and returned to her
counter. "Door's open!"

It
was worth a glance through her drape of hair: the Lord Alchemist,
reduced to opening his own doors, had his brows furrowed in
annoyance. He also had another basket in the crook of his far arm.

With
feigned distraction, Kessa said, "Can I help–? Oh. Master
Kymus." She set down her tools and dipped a curtsey, careful as
if she balanced the mortar atop her head.

"Tradeswoman
Kessa. I'm glad to see you well, this morning." His hands and
arms weren't expressive, showing only the stiffness of consternation.

"Nearly
noon, Master Kymus," she said, taking up the pestle again.

"This
nearly-noon, then. I trust you
are
well?"

"I'm
not frozen to death. Nor taken back to prison." Her rhythm
faltered.

Her
Guild Master set his basket on the counter's edge. "Both good
things," he said mildly. "I think I dreamt that second one,
last night."

She
shot him a glance. If that was a threat, he deserved it.

He
was quick to flinch from her direct gaze. But his expression'd been
more intent than cold, she thought. She looked down again, lips
thinned, and set the mortar aside. Her grinding had become over-light
anyway.

He
put his hands on her counter, careful to avoid the herbs, saucers,
and cups there. "Are you . . . Have you eaten
yet?"

That's
no business of yours!
she wanted to snap. Old memories, of
showing gratitude, kept her from it.

She
mirrored him across the counter, hands flat against the wood, placed
so the herbs were undisturbed – though she couldn't match his
long-fingered span. She forced her voice to cool courtesy. "Thank
you for getting me out of prison," she said, and lifted her eyes
to meet his blue ones.

He'd
been looking at her hands, only glancing up at her movement; he
covered his revulsion well, looking down to her wrists. Then he
surprised her, forcing himself to meet her gaze. "You've not had
breakfast,
have
you."

She'd
been grateful. Now she could be annoyed. "Does it matter? The
guild says what I can and cannot sell, what prices I cannot cross,
but I was never told what I
ate
was mandated, too!"

He
blinked. Perhaps he'd thought she'd always bite back her words. "This
isn't about the
guild.
It's about whether or not you
starve
."

"I'm
hardly starving!" She remembered winters when she had been –
when everyone's food went to Laita, save iffy bits that might've made
her sicker. So Kessa'd not eaten today; she'd had plenty of the man's
bread yesterday, and the memory still rankled.

"You're
too thin. How will you keep a steady hand if you don't eat?" He
lifted one of his to gesture at her counter's contents.

"How
will I keep a steady hand when people interrupt me, trying to control
my
life
?" she snapped, jerking her chin up instead of
digging her nails into the table. She might get splinters.

He
pushed himself straight, one hand pointing at her. "
You
shall eat something." He swept that hand to point at the basket.
"There's food in
that
. I'll return to collect the
empty
basket this evening."

While
she gasped in air, he turned and stalked out of her shop, outer robe
fluttering in his wake.

With
smothered fury and terror loosed, Kessa felt light-headed and sat on
the floor.

On
the good side,
she supposed,
he didn't make a single threat.

Eventually,
curiosity and hunger made her investigate the basket. Wasting
food . . . was for those who had it to waste.

There
was fresh bread, little pots of jam and honey, even butter. An apple.
An
orange
, imported from the southern frontier.

Citrus
was supposed to fight sickness. Kessa set it aside for Laita.

There
were little baked and cooled yams, that might keep overnight. There
was a covered, thick stoneware bowl that held still-warm soup; corn
and squash made it as cheerful a color as the turning maples.

On
top of it all . . . a felt blanket in alchemist's
gray. Kessa wasn't sure if it was a picnic groundcloth or something
else.

Jam.
Honey, fruit, and not a hint of bittersweet. The soup was savory, and
warm, and nothing but
soup.

Would
he know she'd crouched behind her counter, holding the blanket,
trying not to weep? She hoped not. Why couldn't he've ignored her
till he solved the mystery of whose alchemy'd mixed with hers?

Show
some gratitude to the man who feeds you.
But what would
this
man ask of her?
Marriage? Why?
She knew what Tanas'd asked,
but he was dead nearly six years, and Maila gone before Kessa went to
the guild. What Darul'd asked, she was free of. If only someone else
hadn't wanted to poison him.

She
ground herbs into paste, wishing they were the bones of Darul, of
whoever'd told the guard about her, of the watchmen, and of Iathor
Kymus while she was at it.
That'd
be a mix to make flesh fall
to powder . . .

Someone
knocked; as there were no carriages visible, she went to the door
without stalling.

The
lad wore the tunic and hose of a cold apprentice alchemist;
goosebumps made his exposed wrists bristle with strawberry blond
hairs, and he clutched a ledger book in his arms. Though he was as
tall as Kessa herself, she gestured him in briskly. "Come out of
the wind."

"T-thanks,"
he said, voice cracking.

She
pulled the felt blanket off the basket and slung it over his
shoulders. "You're here to ask questions?"

"Yes,"
the young man said, one hand holding the impromptu cloak. "Master
Rom sent me. About a gray watch? You weren't here yesterday," he
added crankily.

"I'd
errands. Sorry." She pulled up a stool for him and tidied a
corner of the counter for his book. "I'm here now. Have you a
name? I'd feel awful saying 'Apprentice You-There.'"

"Criz
Saltson. You're Kessa Herbsman, yes?"

"Aye."
She stood with her hip lightly brushing her counter. "You'll be
wanting descriptions?"

Criz
opened his book, taking up a ribbon-wrapped stick of graphite that
was attached like a bookmark. "Aye."

Kessa
took a breath. "It was the middle of last month. Three men in
workman's clothes: pants and tunics, worn boots, shabby hats. They
gave no names, just said they were the gray watch." She watched
Criz take notes with the speed of someone who'd had tutors since
before his voice started changing. "The leader had horse-dark
hair. Nearly black. Shoulder-length, straight. Skin a little paler
than mine . . . No, less copper, but about as dark.
Ice-green eyes. Very striking."

When
he'd leaned on her counter, murmuring of advantages to joining the
gray watch, she'd dared to look up. He'd flinched away. Perhaps he'd
expected someone as pretty as he'd thought himself.

She'd
taken a quick look at the others before watching their belts and
knees again. "The other two had braided, blond hair. One wore a
wooden marriage ring. The other had a burn scar on his jaw, up near
his hair. I didn't see their eyes. Blue, probably. They all
stood . . . Hm."

She
walked to the door and touched a spot on the frame. "About this
tall. The dark-haired one was shorter, but not so much to think him
small."

Criz's
graphite stick skittered along the paper, and the apprentice got up
and measured up the doorframe with his hand, then recorded the
number. (She kept her eyes closed when he might've looked.) "You've
a good memory."