Herb-Wife (Lord Alchemist Duology) (48 page)

"It
would be more sound to hedge your bet, Lord Alchemist. A concubine's
son could be legitimized or set aside for a better wife's child."
The Princeps' expression and tone were as dry and distant as if the
theater play were of only mild interest, for the technique of the
actors.

"Perhaps,
your Majesty. But my father sought a likely bride for me before I was
even confirmed as his heir. I've sought an immune woman since I
became Guild Master in his place. Neither of us found one, till now."

"Yet
you must admit, finding one implies you might find another. Or there
might be some other reason to choose a better wife. The Cymeli family
was once immune . . ."

Almost
as many generations ago as when the Lord Alchemist of the time
relocated to Aeston.
Iathor looked at his hands, folded carefully
and correctly on the table. "I have wed, your Majesty. I would
that the ceremony settled the matter, so we are left in peace to make
a family, and her pride not broken by an annulment."

"You'd
deny my granddaughter's fealty, were it offered?" The tone was
diffident. Impossible to tell what answer he expected, or wanted, or
if he were serious.

Iathor
stared at his hands, and not the wrinkled ones of the man across the
small, round table. "I am your Imperial Majesty's servant. I
will do as the Princeps of Cymelia bids. But it would be no kindness
to either woman."

"You're
fond of the girl?"

"I . . ."
. . . have always hoped to love my wife.
". . . am, yes."

"Always
a risk. Better not to let them get so close, or at least wait till
the heirs are birthed."

Iathor
recalled the Princeps was twice-married. He didn't know what had
claimed the first Princess Cymeli. "As you say, your Majesty,"
he replied. "I hope my service to Cymelia has been
otherwise . . . sensible."

"Overall,
Lord Alchemist, overall." Wrinkled fingers tapped silently on
the table. "I will consider my answer. Have you lodgings for the
next fiveday?"

Iathor
felt very nearly ill at the delay; on top of the uncertainty, it
meant even more work would accumulate in Aeston. "My cousins,
the Chemstones, have provided rooms, your Majesty. If my presence
imposes upon them, I'll take lodgings in a public inn."

"I
see. If there's any trouble with your lodgings, Lord Alchemist, the
palace majordomo will make accommodations. I will send word in no
more than a fiveday. Is there aught else?"

Iathor
took a breath, calming himself. "Little, your Majesty. My wife
saw a known extortionist yesterday, whom she believes set fire to her
shop shortly before our betrothal. I believe the Aeston watchman
Thioso, Prince Tegar's man, would like to speak to the criminal. As
would I. He may've instigated an attack upon my wife. She escaped,
but it involved one of the imperial preparations that made women
legally men, with barren fields."

"If
you and my cousin's man wish to question the criminal, should he be
caught, I doubt there'll be reason against it, Lord Alchemist. Cym's
watchmen will be informed. You may go." The Princeps' hand-wave
somehow dismissed him without entirely sinking his hopes. A gesture
used on many proud men, no doubt.

"Thank
you for your audience, your Majesty." Iathor stood, went to one
knee again, briefly considered full abasement, and decided he'd
already made what points he wished there.

Iathor
collected Brague outside the room. When they were walking across a
courtyard, toward the carriage house where Jonie's buggy and driver
waited, the dramsman asked, "Did his Majesty grant your request,
m'lord?"

"No.
He said he'd think on it, and answer sometime in the next fiveday."
Iathor kept his voice calm out of long practice. "Keep me away
from pens for a while, Brague? I'm liable to disinherit my brother."

"I'll
remind you if you seem to be writing such, m'lord."

"My
thanks. At least if they capture Wolf, Thioso and I may question
him." Dayn'd been abashed that he'd not only not caught the
extortionist himself, but also blocked Kessa's sleeping powder. For
her part, Kessa'd been diffident, seemingly more concerned that
they'd not gotten a cloak for Bynae afterward.

The
buggy-ride was slow. The weather continued to threaten, and only the
uneasy, constant stirring of the snow by horses and carriages, as
well as some foot traffic, kept the roads from becoming blocked. To
cheer himself, he tried to think of things he might show Kessa while
they waited for the Princeps' verdict. Perhaps she'd want to revisit
something from Jonie's tour. Perhaps she'd want to see something
entirely different. Perhaps they could have an expensive dress
commissioned, and take her touring the academy to see where their son
might go, and rot the chances of the Princeps invalidating their
wedding. If he had to keep her as a mere concubine, he'd give her
pairs of earrings in silver and copper, studded with gems.

The
thought didn't cheer him, save in a perverse, grim sort of anger. He
added to it:
If my marriage is annulled because of my son's likely
lack of welcome in Cym . . . I'll found another
academy in Aeston, to surpass this one.

Kessa
waited near the carriage house door with Dayn, who'd claimed his
aches gone after the carriage-treatment of a healing potion and a
later hot soak. She flicked her eyes up, nervous enough that her head
wasn't wholly turned for the gesture, and stood, the V-stripes of her
dress straightening. He held her tightly, as if he could make alchemy
by his mind alone and turn the air into a shield around them. Her
hair was slightly damp against his cheek.

She
didn't return the embrace, but leaned against him. "And . . . ?"

"The
Princeps gave no answer," Iathor said. "He'll give one, he
says, sometime in the next fiveday. But at least, if Wolf is caught,
I and Thioso have permission to ask questions."

She
shivered against him. "Wolf's probably headed to some other
city."

"In
this weather? Only if he's as good at living off the land as the
tribes are reputed to be. Has Thioso written back yet?" Iathor'd
sent off a letter this morning, via one of the Chemstone servant
boys.

"Yes.
You're not to make Wolf a dramsman before Thioso's questioned him
with truth potion. The letter's in the guest room. There's another
that young man, Taleas, brought."

"Then
that's where I'll go, so I can don something more comfortable. Does
Bynae still think you're going to devour her whole?"

"No.
She's sure it'll take two or three bites. Painful ones." Kessa
took his arm, almost cheerful. "Should we try to find who was
hoping to propose to her?"

His
suspicions swirled in his mind like a particularly delicate,
hazardous potion. He hoped Kessa'd not think of the possible
implications. "She said a cook, who couldn't leave his
employment. And further, his master traveled and he wasn't here at
the moment. But if she decides to return with us to Aeston . . .
We'd best make sure she contacts her family. She didn't say her
parents were dead . . ."

"Something
to do if we don't get snowed in, I suppose, since she still hasn't a
proper coat. I wonder why not? Is hers just raggedy and she didn't
want to be seen in it?"

"I
don't know." But he was glad Kessa was willing to muse in his
presence. "I want to make sure
your
coat has preparations
to hand, though. How are yours arranged?"

She
moved her left hand to indicate the placement on that side. "My
sleeping powder at the upper edge. Healing, healing, healing. Another
row of healing. The pockets aren't full."

"I'll
add some of mine. I should've thought to do it earlier." He led
her into the guest rooms and took her coat from the wardrobe to lay
it on the bed. "Put hostile or defensive vials on your left, so
you may grab them with your writing hand. Opposite, the healing brews
and a Purgatorie, for those can be taken with your off-hand with less
trouble."

Kessa
tapped his ankle with her foot. "I hadn't enough for more than a
few pockets anyway."

"Nevertheless,
it's best to keep them in certain ways from the start so you don't
need to re-adapt." He sorted vials among the pockets, and added
a few from his own coat, naming them for her: Two of the paralytics,
useful in night patrols; some other curatives; an Igni Stone and its
activating agent. He paused, and touched one pocket. "That one,
leave empty. I'll discuss with Prince Tegar if it would be meet for
you to have a vial of the draught."

"I
doubt anyone wants a half-breed carrying
that
!"

"Mayhap
not. But I think it may be your right, as much as it's mine or my
brother's. I should teach you the brewing, someday. Or at least
enough to get part-way there. The final secrets are in Prince Tegar's
keeping." He put both their coats back in the wardrobe. Then he
undid his belt and pulled off the fancy tabard as well. He'd gotten
the tunic over his head when he thought to glance at Kessa.

She
was still by the bed, looking mostly away; what he could see of her
face suggested flustered consternation. It was amusing, but Iathor
didn't dare laugh. Instead, he latched both doors into the room, sat
on a chair to get his boots off, and went to stand behind his wife
and hum
Mm?
in her ear.

She
let her breath out in a deprecating snort-sigh. "I've years
of . . . of tradesmaiden thoughts, to set aside."

Iathor
kissed her earlobe, and earring. "I think . . .
I'd rather you set aside your dress. Dinner's not for some hours, and
it's warm enough for a back-rub."

"A
what?" She glanced at him from the tail of one eye, through her
sweep of hair.

He
ran his hands up and down her back, before working on the buttons at
her neck. "If a cat can enjoy simple stroking, why not humans?"

"Um,"
she said thoughtfully, and tugged at her sleeves as he worked down
the gray and green buttons to bare her back.

Surely
body-trust would lead to heart-trust and mind-trust? He hoped so. She
seemed willing enough to lay her dress aside and lie upon the bed.
Iathor drew the bed-curtains so the light was dimmed, only a few
stripes of brightness getting past. The hue of Kessa's skin was
obvious in the light, as he knelt over her to stroke. In the shadows,
his hands were still paler, but . . . the contrast
gentled.

She
sighed with the petting, and smiled just a little. When he began
kneading gently, she purred – not as a cat, but as a woman,
with little throaty noises.

If
the Princeps desires the Lord Alchemist to wed some noble's daughter,
I'll tell him . . . He should apply to my brother
instead, while I retire to the barony estate.
Herbmaster Keli and
perhaps half the rest of the guild might want to kill Iathor for it,
but in bed-curtained solitude, his wife's warm skin beneath his
hands, risking their wrath seemed a far better choice than letting
anyone add a third unpredictable ingredient to his personal life.

His
shoulders felt the strain soon enough, but he expected as much after
days spent traveling or waiting on uncomfortable chairs and benches.
Other parts of him had a far more interesting strain, though one he
was able to keep at a distance. He set down the wrist he'd been
exploring and carefully straddled Kessa's hips, the better to put his
weight into stiff-armed strokes. Some of her purring gained little
oof
exhales when he pressed down against her back, but didn't
stop.

Until,
at the end of one rich purr, she said, "Iathor?"

"Mm?"

"If
you wanted . . . Um." She waved one relaxed hand,
and half-buried her face in the pillow.

He
moved his hands down to make little circles at the base of her spine.
"Mmmmm?"

"I . . .
I wouldn't mi . . ." Pride and demure fluster
clashed. "I might like that. If you wanted."

"Like
this?" Narrow hips, but his hand could curve around them, safely
up from where she'd flinched before.

Her
ermph
seemed assent. He barely stopped himself from chuckling,
and only grinned. "Well . . . I can't promise my
skill can spark a bonfire . . ."

"'Sall
right," she said into the pillow. "Hearth-fire's good."

"Well."
That sounded sincere, if unusual. "Let me get some pillows.
We'll have to be slow, without the oils."

"Mmmmmrrrrrmmm."

It
took mood-crinkling time to get his hose off, and tuck pillows under
her, but leaning against her and rubbing her feet, then her lower
legs, then her lower back . . . The mood was only
rumpled, not broken. And though he did only bring her to a warmth and
not a boiling, it seemed he was sooner a welcomed guest than a barely
accepted one within her body.

With
his own body's boiling over, he lay against her back and felt both
sated and guilty. "Still hate me?"

She
chuckled. "Mm-hm."

"I
could . . . Ah, no." He stilled his fingers
against her lowest ribs, remembering what made her flinch.

"'Sall
right," she said again, and hooked an arm partway behind her
back, somehow drawing his hand up to interlace their fingers.
"Perhaps sometime . . . When you've already
warmed me."