Herb-Witch (Lord Alchemist Duology) (8 page)

Miss
Joleusea gasped, blue-green eyes wide, while Miss Irilye snorted
delicately and sipped her wine.

"The
claim would seem to have merit." Iathor took a bite of food so
he wouldn't be required to say more.

"So
the judge thought!" Iasen washed down a tiny pastry and sat up
straighter, unable to lean forward confidentially with his audience
to all sides. "You know what the sentence is, if they catch an
assassin alive in Cym, don't you?"

"Rectify
that oversight?" Iathor asked, regretting the quip when Miss
Irilye giggled and shifted her toes to touch his. He slid his foot
under his chair. Let her put her slippers on Iasen's boots.

"Nah,
too much a waste. The
sentence
is that the intended victim –
or his heirs, if the assassin succeeded – gets a dramsman."
Iasen slouched back again, dramatically.

Miss
Irilye said, "How tidy."

"Oh,
my
!" Miss Joleusea said again. "You mean that poor
Baron's boy . . ."

"Would've
been bound to Mamanute's son, whom he'd tried to kill," Iasen
said. "That's how I heard all this, direct from the judge. He
had me brew up the draught, with three guild officers to act as
witnesses."

"This
is a story I'm supposed to
like
?" Iathor reminded himself
that a young lady was present (two, technically) and took another
bite.

"Well,
yes! You see, at the last moment – and I do mean last, the
potion done and the judge not waiting 'til Baron Highglen could
travel to Cym – at the last moment, the sentence was commuted
by the Princeps. He even sent his youngest son, Ryneld Cymeli, to
deliver the scroll." Iasen didn't show disappointment, at least.

Miss
Joleusea's expression held the relief that neither Iasen's nor Miss
Irilye's did. "What happened to the poor lad, then?"

"Whipped
till he scarred from it, the order was, and his sister fell on her
knees thanking Earth and Rain – and the Princeps – for
the mercy."

"Oh,
my." Miss Joleusea's gaze darted to the dramsman servants in the
room.

Blithely,
Iasen said, "Me, I'd have thought the potion less traumatic.
Half-tempted to bring out the vial anyway and ask if the lad wanted a
choice."

Iathor
silently drank water and listened to the noble girl's uneasy giggle,
and Talien's attempt to change the subject to more "interesting"
alchemies.
And Iasen asks why I don't just pick some girl with
tolerances. Bad enough there's need for my servants to be dramsmen,
sacrosanct from threats because nothing can break their loyalty. But
to make a dramswife to share my life and bed, and never again know if
her agreements were true or potion-wrought?

The
thought made his soul barren, like drought-blighted land.

Chapter
IX

W
hen
Kessa heard the carriage, she scooped up the much-lighter basket and
slipped into the darkening evening. She closed her eyes and shivered
in the chill breeze, holding the basket, and waited for the carriage
to stop, and its door to open and close again.

Her
Guild Master took the basket from her with an exasperated snort,
handed it to his servant, and folded a gray felt blanket around her
shoulders. She choked off her protest as he turned her around and
nearly shoved her back inside, where a small brazier kept a pot of
herbs at a simmer.

He
called over his shoulder, "This may take a bit. Do whatever's
necessary for the horses and you to keep from freezing, if you
would."

There
was an indistinct acknowledgment from one or both of his men, then
the door closed.

Though
Kessa'd hoped he'd leave after getting an obviously-empty basket,
she'd not expected it, so she shouldn't feel so wretched at the
failure. Perhaps he was used to getting his own way because of his
dramsmen. Stories said no dramsman could disobey his master, after
all.

Nor
a female dramsman defy hers.

Would
her immunity extend to
that
? What if it didn't? She'd heard
that some nobles, city-princes especially, gave it to their wives
lest a poisoner's orders make them knife their husbands in bed.

Did
he want
her
to risk that draught? To risk that even her mind
wouldn't be her own? (Or would her mind scream while her body obeyed?
Was that worse or better?)

Perhaps
he took her shudder for just chill, as he set her on her stool and
took a pace backwards. There was a moment of silence. "Well. I
trust food's improved your temper, at least."

She
looked up. He looked back, and perhaps that was a wary expression,
but he didn't flinch. It was dark enough, with just the brazier, that
her best weapon was blunted. She wound her hands in the edges of the
blanket and dropped her eyes to her lap. "Yes," she
muttered, though she choked on proper titles. She managed to force
out, "Thank you."

He
sighed and leaned on her counter. Pale hand against his dark robe,
with the coals-light gilding both at the edges.

Kessa
didn't want him in her shop, in the dark that reminded her of the
prison. She breathed in, deliberately. There was no distant reek of
unwashed prisoners and work-gangs, nor the older memory-stink of
taverns with cheap wine and beer; just her own stock, and hints of
the preparations he carried. And she was no skinny half-breed brat
without trade or home.

Still,
she twitched when her Guild Master spoke abruptly. "There were
three different preparations found at Darul Reus' home. Two . . .
Two of them, even your immunities couldn't have totally thwarted, I
think, though perhaps your brew might've interfered. The other may be
some dragon-oil youth potion. I need to know the recipe you used."

That
was the problem with keeping bits of one's old life: someone might
glimpse them hiding under the skirts of the new. She couldn't say
she'd gotten the potion from someone else, or he'd demand to know
who. She dared not lie about the ingredients, not knowing what lie
might serve. In painful truth, she wasn't even sure which ingredients
were for the "sleepy" part, and which for "suggestible."

"It . . .
it's called Tagget's Tonic." She paused, to see if he knew it.

"Go
on." His voice gave no clues.

"Three
stalks moon-steeped rushes, washed in clean water each month for
three months. Smoked white sweetflower, boiled thoroughly at noon.
Targetbloom, two blossoms, as fresh as possible and the petals sliced
fine. A spoonful of goatweed stem powder, made from a mash equal
parts chopped stems and clean water and boiled till dry and crumbly,
then ground fine." Her voice felt disconnected from her mind.
Mayhap he'd lied, and fed her a dramsman's draught in the prison.

He
bent closer, forearm along the edge of her counter. Now his tone was
interested. "What's the preparation?"

"Strip
the rushes after the third month, in darkness or moonlight, and add
enough water to cover them. Boil to string and pulp, then add the
targetbloom and stir till they're mixed well. The sweetflower should
still have water when it's added. The goatweed powder comes last, and
everything's boiled down again. It can dry in the sun if necessary.
It's ground to powder before use. A dose is . . .
about a spoonful." She'd gotten a tiny sachet of water-stained,
still-expensive silk. Darul Reus'd made no move to serve the tea, so
Kessa had, and tipped the powder into the teapot itself when she took
the strained leaves from it.

"You
knew you were immune to it?"

Miserably,
she nodded. She'd tested it; a yawn and she'd been normal again. Were
guards outside the door, waiting to hear her confession?

"An
unusual recipe."

How
could she tell what he was thinking, when he used that mild voice?
Kessa huddled in the blanket.

She
heard his clothing, felt the creaking of the wooden floor, and saw
the darker darkness of his cloak as it blocked the faint light from
outside. Still, she twitched a little at how close his voice was to
her ear. "Who was your teacher, Kessa Herbsman?"

"M-Ma–
My
teacher was Chiftia. She lives about a day outside the city." A
part of her mind whispered, despairingly,
Tell him everything.
It'll be over with.

But
she'd not worked these past four years just to give up. She sat
straighter, though she felt his hair brush hers. Her scalp tingled in
chilled reaction.

"It's
said Herbsman Chiftia is . . . mmm, senile."

Blight
him, he sounded near-amused. "Just because she can't remember
the month, or her apprentice's name, doesn't mean she doesn't know
recipes. Master Kymus."

"I
suppose that's possible." That sounded
smug
, as he
straightened. "Have you any remains of that 'tonic'?"

She
shook her head. "No. I didn't make much." Enough to test,
enough to use, and a tiny packet for Jontho to sell.

"Hm."
His voice changed to embarrassed diffidence. "I fear . . .
I must examine your storeroom."

She
looked up; he'd turned his head away, as people did when they felt
awkward. "My . . . storeroom."

"I'm
aware it serves double-purpose for you. I assure you, I've no
interest in your sleeping quarters."

"Then–"
–what're you proposing for? No, don't ask.
"It's dark.
I've no lamp-oil to spare. I can bring everything out tomorrow."

"Hm?
No, I can manage." He pulled white light from his robe.

Kessa
flinched her gaze away, blots dancing in her vision. "I didn't
know you'd a glowstone."

"An
Incandescens Stone," he corrected absently. "Alchemy's
stone branch was started by ancient philosopher-priests who thought
minerals were stored in the body forever, and sought a permanent
Vigeur elixir by binding the youthening effects into pill-sized
spheres of granite. They swallowed the spheres and myriad potions
that probably killed half of them, in hope of eternal life. Later,
dragon-oil peddlers made 'transmutation' stones, with metallic dyes,
claiming they'd turn things to gold with a touch. More like an ooze;
most were sponges . . ."

"I
know about the sponges," Kessa broke in. "I'm not an
apprentice anymore."

"True,"
he agreed. "You could be a student, though."

That
sounded like an offer. Or something like a proposal. Chancy ground.
"You can look in my storeroom." He didn't
have
to
ask her, bed or no. And she didn't have to go in. Or sit on her bed.
Alone with him. "I'll be out here, tending my brew."

"Thank
you." He pulled aside the curtain, leaving it open.

She
watched him rummaging in the upper shelves: the bundles of dried
herbs wrapped in cheesecloth; folds of unused cheesecloth and cheap
paper; empty jars, bowls, and sachet-sacks. He moved down to the
shelf for ingredients and steeping preparations, sniffing even the
sealed jars. Kessa clenched her fingers in the blanket to keep from
doing anything stupid. Saying anything stupid, that might reveal too
much, or remind him of crazy proposals better left forgotten.

At
least she knew who'd rummaged in her basket, in the prison. He put
everything back where he'd gotten it.

She
was surprised he spent time prodding at her herb-witchery accounts.
Those've nothing to do with blighted Darul's dosing.
She
nearly called out that if he wanted the full household calculations,
he'd have to get the book from under her bed – but why help
him put her life under his enlarging lens?

Besides,
the true accounts were hidden with the other things she didn't want
found. The outward-facing wall was lathe and plaster, so the shop
wouldn't be ugly, but there was a narrow space between the lintel and
one of the roof beams in the storeroom. Her hand could get there; an
advantage to being small.

As
he continued examining her stock, at the shelf with her dried
maiden's blood and the bowl for it, Kessa's curiosity finally won
over quiet good sense. "The other two brews," she called,
voice wavering more than she liked. "What were they?"

There
was a forced cough. "Inappropriate ones. True alchemy formulae."

Not
illegal.
Inappropriate
. That left two options: one pertaining
to the sizing of anatomy, the other to causing unthinking lust. And
he'd said he didn't think even
her
immunity could've blocked
it all.

She
couldn't think how she'd be affected by anything that changed a
body's shapes. She'd tried the same potion that'd bleached her
crèche-brother Burk's brown eyes to amber, when he'd been caught
pickpocketing once too often. Her eyes hadn't changed – though
Burk's had remained stable till Tanas insisted he turn them green and
anonymous.

That
left lust-potions, that Maila'd told her to avoid, lest they weaken
her blood with momentary thoughts. She couldn't speak past the
horrified outrage boiling up.
That blighted . . .
salted, trampled field of a moneylender!
Had that been in the tea
Darul'd tried to press on Laita when suggesting how
she
might
work off her debt? If the man'd not been mind-damaged, Kessa might've
taken up the black pants and tunic again, tying her hair back and
wearing her knife at her belt. And that was even without fearing what
such a brew might've done to Laita's fragile health . . .