Herb-Wife (Lord Alchemist Duology) (19 page)

"Would
this man call himself Wolf?" Iathor asked.

"Wild
Wolf. Lone Wolf. Sharp-toothed Wolf. Poetic, but unimaginative. The
Shadow-master thinks wild dogs are troublesome, prone to starting
what they cannot finish, and not . . . house-broken."

"Always
a difficult matter." Iathor hoped the man'd get to the point.

"Indeed.
You might tame this Wolf, with all good will. There's no love of
arsonists in the shadows."

He
sucked in a cold, biting lungful of air. "You know where he is?"

"We
know where he's gone. Some days past, shortly after news of your
golden blooms spread through the shadows and light, Wolf took passage
on a barge upriver, to Cym. The Shadow-master regrets the
information – and the man – weren't found sooner."

Iathor
kept curses behind his teeth. "My thanks for the gift. I'm to
understand the other subjects of my wrath are not yet in the
Shadow-master's hand?"

"I've
not been told, Lord Alchemist. Good evening to you."

"Good
evening." Iathor tried to make it gracious despite the cold, the
wind, and the frustrating news.

The
messenger stood, bowed again, and made his way off over the rooftops.

Iathor
walked to where Kessa hunched, the child's legs visible and the rest
of the child beneath her cloak. She growled, "And you accuse
me
of keeping secrets! Since when've
you
been on good terms with
the Shadow-master?"

This
time, he didn't hide his sigh. "If you define 'good terms' as
'writing occasional polite ultimatums regarding the sale of illegal
alchemical preparations' . . . Perhaps some twenty
years." He gestured. "Is the child all right?"

"Cold."
Kessa hesitated briefly. "He wasn't given proper clothes for
this. I don't think frost's bit the fingers yet, but I'm not sure."

Iathor
pulled his glove off and felt for the correct stopper-shape in the
rows of pockets resting against his chest. "Brado's elixir. It's
best for internal wounds, but a few drops on skin should heal an
early frostbite."

Kessa
snagged the vial with a bare hand. She murmured, "Give me your
hands." A pause. "Now the ears. Toes need it?" The
child murmured negation, and Kessa replied, "All right. Now,
have a sip. Tell me if it burns going down."

Iathor
frowned. Only immunes felt the healing elixir's heat.

A
brief rustling, then the child's voice again. "No, Kellisan.
Smooth and cool."

"Lucky
rat," she said. "Were you paid for this?"

The
child must've shook its head against her body, for Iathor heard no
reply before Kessa looked at him again, dropping her gaze when he met
her eyes. "Have you coin? Bad form not to pay the
messenger-rat."

He
smiled wryly. "How much?"

She
shrugged. "What the information's worth. What you can afford.
Nobody chalks prices on boards in rat-nests."

"Mm."
For night patrols, he held his own small purse. He dipped his bare
hand inside, bringing up enough coins to distinguish darker copper
from the tarnish-and-shine of silver. "More of your family,
Kellisan?"

She
sighed; he wondered if she hugged the child under her cloak. "In
a way."

Iathor
held out a full silver flower. "I hope this suffices."

The
flower vanished beneath the cloak. "Thank you."

"Bad
form not to pay the messenger," he replied, not liking her
pained tone.

"Mm."
She returned her attention to the child. "Tych? Can you get
back?"

"Can
I come home with you, Kellisan?"

That
was definitely a pained grimace, as Kessa briefly closed her eyes.
"Yes. But that could cost a lot, if you stayed. Ask your fagin
first. He'll translate, or know who to ask."

"Oh.
I can get back home now."

Kessa
unwrapped the child from her cloak. "Safe travels. My regards to
your fagin, and to his health. Need a boost?"

"S-sure."

Kessa
started to pick up the young boy (or not-as-young girl, despite that
claimed pronoun) but Brague stepped over and took the child under the
arms, lifting it to the rooftop. The roof-rat looked down, wide-eyed,
after it finished scrambling onto the shingles. Then the child turned
and pattered off.

"Are
we even, with secrets revealed?" Iathor asked as Kessa turned.

She
paused, looking up at him. This time, she didn't glance away quickly.
"I wonder," she said, and hastened streetward, Dayn quietly
following.

Brague
walked beside Iathor. "I mislike the Shadow Guild knowing you
patrol here, m'lord."

"I'm
not pleased they've noticed either. Perhaps I should start doing
short-routes that meet up with Jeck at the half-way point."

"It's
still only a few places to wait with crossbows, or shoulder-cannon,
m'lord."

"True
enough. But that'd be a declaration of open war with the city-prince.
Even if Iasen weren't here,
Kessa
could brew the draught, if
given the recipe pages. Within fivedays, there'd be more trouble than
the Shadow Guild should want."

"Still,
both you and she are together here, m'lord. One target."

"Yes . . .
I'll ask her to stay home after she's conceived." Easier if she
developed a queasy stomach. "But not before, unless there's
danger that'd stop all my patrollers for fear of hostages."

Brague
grumbled softly, but didn't object further. Before them, the tall,
squared length of the Crimson Birch arose.

Inside,
a servant led them down the hall to the room Mistress Siphe, the
proprietor, filled with cots for the night patrol. It was a small
task, every other fiveday, and she requested the occasional favor of
healing and curative ointments. Sometimes Siphe paid a nominal fee;
sometimes Iathor handed over a few coins in rent.

Using
the Crimson Birch or Emerald Cat as endpoints meant his patrollers
wouldn't spend coin and energy roistering when they arrived; both
establishments catered to those who enjoyed giving or receiving pain
in some degree. The Birch was more extreme; the Cat more likely to
provide costumes and players for "Caught Thief and Inventive
Noble," but neither were places men went on whims and in groups.

Iasen
presumed Iathor's visits indicated such tastes; Iathor'd never
bothered to enlighten his brother about the night patrols.

The
room was warm, and dim to keep from shocking ointment-dosed eyes.
Amid the cots, Kessa stretched her arms before she started undoing
the cloak.

"Master
Kymus?" a woman asked from the doorway.

Iathor
turned. "Yes, Rose?"

The
courtesan walked toward him. Even with colors faded in the partial
light, even pouting, Rose was lovely. Golden waves of hair, a
plentiful bosom and soft hips . . . White skin, now
unmarred by whip-scars on her back, thanks to healing ointments. She
had, if not a taste for pain, at least an urge to know the secret
desires of her patrons. She'd tried to play "dramswoman and
master" once with him; he suspected she considered a secret
dread as good as a secret fantasy.

When
she stood before him, he recalled Kessa was slightly behind. The
hidden awkwardness was only enhanced when Rose fell against his
chest – and he wasn't callous enough to step aside, no matter
the artfulness of her collapse. Keeping his hands from anywhere
untoward was difficult with her in a barely-opaque dress that left
her back bare to her hips. "Rose, what's wrong? Is someone
hurt?"

"N-no,"
she sniffled. "But you're said to be marrying soon, m'lord."

"I've
found a woman immune to the dramsman's draught, yes." Who stood
not a body-length away.

"Mistress
Siphe says you might not bring the patrol here anymore! Wives change
men, she says."

"I
don't think mine will forbid patrolling, most times." It was
hard not to glance toward Kessa. "Mayhap when she's near to
childbed. I'm told some women require something to bite, and it'd
only be fair to offer my arm."

Kessa
snorted quietly. Rose just pouted. "Will you ask for me again,
m'lord? Even if just for pampering?"

"That
depends on what my wife thinks of such matters. I doubt you're so
infatuated with me, truly, to be pained if she says no." Perhaps
enamored of her ability to make him uncomfortable, merely by the
threat she might kneel and call him
lord
, perhaps grateful for
his healing salves to cure her scarred back when the Birch gave her
refuge . . . but not infatuated with
him
.

"But
the way you touch me, m'lord. No one else does that. It's not fair.
It's not her business who you see." She pouted up at him.

Brague
and Dayn were studiously ignoring the conversation, and no one else
from the patrol had arrived.
Kessa
leaned on the wall where
she could watch Iathor's face, her expression somewhere between
malice and mischief.

Iathor
refused to be flustered. "I cannot be the only man who'd give
backrubs, Rose. Perhaps Mistress Siphe could find you a patron who
desires to be ordered to such things." Or other things, which
even he didn't care to admit just now.

"Oh,
but I don't like having to dress the part." Her matter-of-fact
complaint broke from her prior Miserable Pout.

He
took the opportunity to peel her off, holding her shoulders and
studying her thoughtfully. "If you tied back your hair, and
perhaps wore gloves, I think you need only take up a riding crop to
give such orders. And now, Rose, I must seek a cot, for dawn comes
too soon."

She
reached up to stroke his cheek. "One of the rooms upstairs is
available, for a patron."

Through
force of will, Iathor didn't sigh and roll his eyes. "I need
sleep
, Rose." He turned her around, and gently steered
her toward the door.

"It
isn't fair," she said again, with artfully charming sulkiness,
but left.

Behind
him, Kessa used her deeper Kellisan voice: "She's the right of
it, Kymus. Hardly your betrothed's business, so long as neither
scandal nor annoying diseases come home."

Iathor
wasn't sure whether that
Kymus
was a bad sign, or merely
acting as a young man without license to use first names. He leaned
against the wall beside Kessa. "I'm marrying my betrothed, not a
non-immune courtesan. I want my wife to know I respect her. If she
asked about my prior indiscretions, I'd tell her. If she wishes I
should forsake all others, and seeks no outside warmth for her bed,
then I should honor her desire."

She
watched his collarbones, hiding the muted colors of her eyes. "You're
a strange man to care about an . . . arranged bride,
whose family and temperament you didn't choose. Kymus."

Dayn
and Brague had wandered to the hallway. Iathor leaned closer. "If
I don't care about my wife and mother of my children, who should I
care about?"

Her
brows went down. "I don't know. Family."

He
was entirely at a loss to comprehend how
family
was different
from
wife and mother of my children
. "Kessa," he
whispered, raising his hand.

She
swayed backward, both hands pressed against his chest. "If we
wind up on a cot here, or obviously absent in some other room . . .
There'll be talk of you liking boys. I don't want to hear gossip that
I'd want to snap, 'that was me, you idiot.'"

"My
night watch aren't generally stupid men. The coincidence of my
dark-haired betrothed and new patroller . . . Won't be
overlooked."

"Then
they'll say you like me dressed as a boy. And besides . . ."
She held her hands very still. "That's a thing for weddings. I
don't want . . . a brothel . . ."

He
stood straighter and covered her hands with his. "I suppose even
I couldn't believe it'd be only sleep."

The
emotions she repressed ended in clear consternation. "I don't
understand why you'd . . . think such about a scrawny,
ugly, dark . . ." She pulled away, to sit on a
cot in the corner.

"I
like how my betrothed walks." He smiled at her startled glare
and sat on the cot beside hers. "May I sleep here?"

She
glared at his knees, then swung her legs onto her cot and pointed at
his. "Sleep. There. No need to shove it around."

"As
you wish." He reached over and helped turn her cloak into a
blanket. Despite the wary look turning her expression to a feral
beast's, he said, "Good night to you . . .
Kellisan."

"Good
night to you. Kymus," she replied, and turned her face to the
wall.

Despite
recent frustrations, Iathor felt nearly content.

Chapter
XII

"
Y
ou
want the wedding as soon as possible?" Prince Tegar said, as his
dramsman poured his tea.

Iathor's
face tingled from the hasty scrub he'd given it when he'd gotten
home, barely ahead of the "unofficial" visit. "Yes,
your Grace," he answered. "She's not changed her mind since
I wrote to you."