Herb-Witch (Lord Alchemist Duology) (7 page)

"Thank
you. Is there anything else you need?"

"Um . . .
Did they take anything?"

"A
few salves, for healing bruises or sunburn. A hair-bleach. The last
of my henna. I've not seen them since. They may not want to come
back." An angry herb-witch might put all manner of things in a
salve.

"Still,
it's a description for the city guards. If they're brought in, we'll
be told." Criz closed the book and added, with apprenticely
malice, "Then we can suggest additions to their cell."

Kessa
snickered. "Will you be warm enough, going back? You've no
cloak."

"I'll
live." He had an air of doubt.

She
hesitated, sighed, and said, "Take the blanket. No harm in it,
so long as it finds its way back to Master Kymus."

"Master
Kymus?!" The boy's voice was startled.

"It's
his. But you need it, and it's gray enough that, folded right, no
one'll notice it's a blanket." She went behind Criz to tug it
cloak-shaped.

"But . . .
how . . ."

"I'll
not second-guess the man. You can ask him yourself."

"Er."
The apprentice seemed unenthusiastic. "You're sure it's all
right?"

"You
need it more. Now, back to Master Rom's before the wind picks up."
She opened her door. "You don't want to be late for your lunch."

"No . . .
Thank
you, journeyman!" He bobbed what might've been a
bow, and darted off through the chilly breeze.

Don't
thank me. I didn't offer to share the jam.
She walked back to the
table, to tidy up and have her own lunch. If she had to be grateful
to her blighted Guild Master, she might as well benefit from the
gift.

And
it was such good jam.

Chapter
VIII

"
B
arring
pillow-licking, I think we've finished the first pass." Iathor
stretched, hands at the back of his waist. The various tagged items
from Darul Reus' home, brought to see if there was alchemy in them,
lay upon tables in Master Rom's basement workroom. Before Iathor were
tea canisters from the kitchen, one set of leaves adulterated with an
aphrodisiac and the other with some probable youth-potion, and a red
cloth sachet full of a more potent lust-powder, found in Darul's
bedroom. All contained metal-salts. Nothing else had proven
alchemically active – and he'd sniffed naught but
herb-witchery in Kessa's shop. (But he'd not examined the shelves in
her sleeping room. The thought niggled at him.)

He'd
have to do it this evening. It would still be embarrassing, but if
she gave permission, that would make it acceptable. "Did you
find anything, Rom?"

"Naught
that you hadn't found first." The tall, thoroughly-padded
alchemist was making a credible attempt to touch his toes.
"Fascinating bit of work. Almost makes me wish there'd be an
alchemical mystery now and then."

"We
don't get enough intermediate work," Iathor said. "Either
it's standard recipes for ourselves, or frustrating research."

"Or
teaching," Rom said. "You hardly take on students. How long
since the last one? Half a year?"

"True.
That may change." Even if Nicia wasn't immune, it might be
politically astute and socially useful to take her as a student after
he'd gained Kessa's cooperation, if the two got along. Women did
better with a sister or friend – or so Loria and Tania assured
him, whenever they brought in cousins for "practice in a good
household."

"Ah,
right, the herb-witch. Test that so-called masterwork yet?"

"Yes,
actually. Early this morning." He handed a sachet of his own to
Rom. "A sample to analyze, if you've inclination. It removes the
virtue from beer, so the drinker won't become drunk. Don't have more
than a glass or three, if you value your stomach's easiness."

Rom
sniffed it. "Wouldn't it be easier to take a Vinkest's pill?"

"Well,
yes. But
she's
never been a student to know about Vinkest."
Iathor coughed. "I didn't tell her about Vinkest's pills. No
reason to quash her urge to research."

"A
point. You're still interested in her skills?"

"Yes."
Iathor nodded thoughtfully. "Yes, I am."

They'd
found no other preparations in Darul's effects – only the teas
and sachet. If Kessa'd not tasted anything, then whatever brew Darul
took had been in his cup alone, or she was tongue-blind. Iathor tried
not to discount those possibilities, but he favored the third option:
she'd defied the Tryth elixir.

He'd
never before been so pleased by someone
lying
to him.

In
the entry room, Iathor's footman waited, a gray felt blanket folded
in his lap. Dayn stood immediately. "M'lord, Master Rom. An
apprentice came by and said he'd left his report on Master Rom's
desk."

"Ah,
the lad I sent to find out about the 'gray watch,'" Rom said.
"Why didn't he come down?"

"When
I said both you and m'lord were working, he professed a desire not to
disturb you, Master Rom."

"Ha!"
Rom laughed. "Iathor, have you been scaring my apprentices
again?"

"Not
deliberately. That was my brother."

"It
was, wasn't it? Still don't know how he survived those brews."
Rom slapped his thigh in amusement.

Iathor
grimaced. Having Iasen wander through, sample several apprentices'
preparations, and collapse in faked convulsions – terrifying
the apprentices – was more embarrassing than funny. He
gestured at the blanket. "And that?"

Dayn
looked serene. "He'd forgotten his cloak, m'lord. Miss Kessa
insisted he use this, and return it to m'lord."

"Mm-hm."
Desperate to be rid of it, or possessing a kind streak for feckless
apprentices? "Did she feed him, too?"

"He
didn't say, m'lord."

Rom
laughed again. "An apprentice admit he got free food? I'd think
not!"

Iathor
sighed. "Well, if
I
don't get
my
lunch, I'll have
an annoyed cook, who's rationalized feeding me gruel if she thinks I
deserve it."

The
guild officer thumped him on the back, jovially. "Off with you,
Master Kymus. I'll see what young Criz wrote and send someone for my
meal. Good day!"

"Good
day, Master Rom," Iathor said, slightly winded by the
enthusiastic blow. He shook hands and left as the big man headed for
his office, calling out lunch suggestions to his secretary.

Dayn
opened the carriage door outside, and silently handed in the blanket.
Iathor took it with matching blandness.

Perhaps
she poisoned it?
Iathor wondered.
Daft thought.
He yielded
to curiosity and gave the blanket a thorough sniff.

Wool
felt, leaf-smoke, and . . . perhaps the faint odor of
herbs from Kessa's shop. No metal-salts, nothing strong enough to
affect anyone, nor any hint of perfumes such as nobles used on their
letters to send nuance (or outright contradiction) of meaning.

He'd
not expected any of those, save possibly the smoked ash of anger.
Perhaps food
had
calmed her, and she'd just been charitable.

When
he walked through his kitchen door, Tania pounced upon him. "Your
brother's in the dining hall with guests. How'd this morning go?"

Iathor
stalled, strolling through the kitchen with his cook attached to his
arm. "We found three other potions, two already mixed into tea
leaves. I'll be returning to Kessa's shop this evening, to ask for
her brew's recipe."

"That's
not what I mean!" she hissed.

"Later,"
he assured her, and escaped toward the dubious refuge of his
brother's company. No doubt Iathor'd soon be enduring accounts of
theoretically humorous misadventures perpetrated by people he neither
knew nor wanted to know.

The
formal dining hall – all dark wood paneling over gray-glazed
brick, with plush rugs where people might walk – had been
arranged for Iasen, with two of his dramsmen standing at the walls,
and the threatened guests. One was half hidden behind the tall-backed
chair at the head of the table, while the other, in green . . .
Iathor searched for a name, finding only "Count Nearwater's
daughter," whose father owned the county across the River Eath
and frequently complained about whatever someone'd dumped into the
water recently, and how it affected the fishing. As Count Nearwater
made most of his money from a mix of fields, orchards, and adequate
wine, he didn't complain
too
loudly.

His
daughter was a natural redhead, and an equally natural beauty as far
as Iathor knew. Her freckles probably classed as "charming";
her cosmetics ensured that no one noticed anything different.
(Unless, of course, they could detect the powders' faint scent of nut
oil.) She looked up as Iathor entered, and smiled as if she meant it.

Perhaps
she did. Iathor was Lord Alchemist; Iasen was just his heir.

Iasen
noticed her shifted attention. "Ho, Iathor, you're late."

The
girl across from him looked around the chair-back. She was a pale
blonde wearing a white dress embroidered with tiny, pink flower buds.
"Excellent! Now we're not lopsided anymore," said Talien
Irilye.

Talien,
youngest daughter of Earl Irilye, one of the three most powerful men
in Aeston. Talien, wildest of the recently blossomed young women.
Talien, who'd offered an informal liaison rather than hinting her
family thought the Lord Alchemist would be a good addition.

Iathor
hoped he wasn't grimacing.

A
plate and napkin waited at the head of the table. Iasen'd taken the
seat beside him, and Count Nearwater's daughter was beyond
him
.
That left Talien Irilye, and her low-cut bodice, to his other side.

Wishing
for a polite escape, Iathor said, "The necessities of my station
delayed me. Had I known I was disappointing more than my brother, I'd
have been more attentive to the time. Miss Irilye, Miss Nearwater. I
trust you're both well?"

"Quite
well, Sir Kymus. Thank you for asking." The red-head's tone
didn't suggest she found it difficult to talk past Iasen, but her
brevity did. Using his barony title indicated this was an intensely
social occasion – for all that many barons at least dabbled in
trade, and that "Lord Alchemist" was a title of its own to
reckon with.

Iasen
took up the slack. "Miss Violet here was most kind, and agreed
to drop by and keep me company in my solitude."

Violet
Joleusea, that's it. Wait, first names already?
Not to mention
that Iasen'd already called on attractive noble-daughters. And met
the Earl's little vixen.

"And
I, of course,
had
to come along and keep Violet out of
trouble," Miss Irilye said. "Besides, you never have social
dinners. I had to see if you'd redone the place in some monastic
tradition. Or dungeon-chains with kidnapped street-girls. Did my
brother actually see your carriage down past Sweets Street, last
night?"

"I'm
sure your brother was nowhere near Sweets Street then. It's an
inappropriate place for a man of his station." Iathor forced
himself to sit and held his glass so an apprentice servant could fill
it with clae-cleaned water. "I hope humoring my brother in his
loneliness has caused no inconvenience."

"Oh,
of course not, Sir Kymus! He's been telling wonderful tales about the
capital." Miss Joleusea made a delicate reach for a pastry; one
of Iasen's servants quickly slid over to offer the platter.

Better
someone besides myself sit through them.
The girls might even be
curious about the larger city. "How considerate of him."

"Your
brother is a most considerate host," Miss Irilye purred. "His
stories are fascinating. The parties, the people, the gossip . . .
He's even hinted he might share some alchemical secrets later on, if
we were . . . interested."

Iathor
glanced at his brother sharply, and began to frame a
polite-but-hopefully-quelling reminder that certain potions were
restricted
, and for good reason.

Oblivious,
Iasen leaned back, waving his wineglass out so his servant could fill
it. "Yes, and I was just about to share a tale
you'll
like, brother. It happened that Earl Mamanute's eldest son was set
upon by a gang of second sons, led by Baron Highglen's eldest boy.
Mamanute's lad had been leading on Miss Highglen, it seems, then cut
her entirely off at the roots the fiveday before! Inconsolable, her
brother said." He paused to sip his wine.

While
the girls made noises of possibly-sincere sympathy, Iathor abandoned
the veiled rebuke and took his own food. Bread and meat, and some
green earthspears lest Tania think they'd been too raw. Later, he'd
remind Iasen of the restrictions on aphrodisiacs.

Iasen
continued, "Anyway, there was a rip-roaring battle. One of the
second sons died from it, and two Mamanute bodyguards, so it was
serious enough that when it went before the judge, Mamanute's man
claimed attempted assassination!"