Herb-Witch (Lord Alchemist Duology) (11 page)

"That's
all?" Her voice was barely audible above the carriage's rattle.

He
uncrossed his legs and leaned forward, elbows on knees. He could
almost see beneath her hair.
She'll need . . .
he thought, and hoped she'd understand. "I find it irresponsible
to impinge upon someone's free will, permanently, without an equal
commitment to care for that person's needs. Permanently. My staff
could live elsewhere – my steward did, before her husband
died – but should they lose their homes, should they need the
care of the elderly, I'm the one whose life they're tied to. It's my
responsibility to watch my words, so they've as much free will as
possible. They can ignore hints, you see, where direct orders would
force obedience. I'd rather they chose what they did, rather than
leaving all choices behind when they accepted the draught."

She
was quiet a moment, wrapped in her cloak. "You didn't order them
to stay awake?"

"No."
He let his hands dangle between his knees. "But Brague took the
older draught, and the others . . . They've an
instinct to protect me. I don't usually have so many strangers in the
house, and they consider my brother's dramsmen such. They'd not sleep
until they deemed it safe, which might've taken until my brother's
men fell over."

She
shifted her shoulders as the carriage bumped over a patch of bad
brick, making it hard to read her mood. "Your brother's . . .
men . . . are protective of him?"

Iathor
had to consider his words. No need to alarm her with his disapproval
of Iasen's impulsiveness. "Yes. I think my brother forgets his
control over them. Free-willed folk go along with him . . .
easily. I'm not sure he understands what the draught does to his
servants."

She
shivered.

"Are
you cold?"

"I–
a little." She sat up straighter, un-hunching her shoulders, and
lifted her chin with her eyes closed. "My body's heat is banked,
not flaring as when I'm walking. That's all."

Quietly,
he said, "I'd feared the conversation distressed you." Talk
of dramsmen often distressed people . . . At least,
those who didn't take it for granted
they'd
be the ones
binding, and never the ones bound. Iasen's careless assumptions
couldn't reassure anyone who might think of drinking that brew . . .

Not
that Iathor could interfere with his brother's dramsmen. Once the
draught was taken, the only release was the master's death. Even
then, prior orders were often followed so faithfully, only another
draught could override them. And even
then
, subsequent bonds
were never strong enough to counteract the first; there was a notable
theater play of a noble who feigned death to avoid his rival's
assassins, then returned to re-command his dramsmen who'd been taken
by his rival. The stage in Cym had run red with dyed silk streamers
in the final act, as dramsmen fought and died for their masters.

In
the silence of their thoughts, the carriage stopped. Jeck's
yawn-cracked voice said, "Meat-pies, m'lord."

Iathor
looked out the window. The vendors were a tawny-haired young couple,
perhaps siblings, with a hand-pushed wagon. From the various people
pausing to buy, and the prices the pair called, they were selling
good meat. "Popular. This meets with your approval?" he
asked Kessa.

"I've
money, this time."

Though
not so much as before she'd paid some of her dues early. He said, "As
do I. I'm taking you on my errands, so it's only proper to buy your
meal." Without waiting for objections, he slid open the carriage
panel again and called, "Two for Tradeswoman Kessa, and as many
as you both want for yourselves. Get one for me if they'd be
reasonable cold; no telling when lunch will be."

"Busy?"
she asked as he turned back.

He
was too weary to think politically, or wave troubles away as he
supposed a courting man ought. "Exceedingly. At times, I've
wished you'd just killed the man, deliberately, so I could beg a
pardon rather than search for some mysterious person who provided him
with dragon-oil youth potions for his tea. Are you
sure
you
detected nothing odd in yours?" he asked. "Dosing him in
retaliation?"

She
only huddled in her brown cloak.

At
least silence was more honest, if frustrating. He let the questions
hang until Dayn tapped on the door and handed in two paper-wrapped
pies. Iathor took them and quickly set them beside Kessa on the flat
bench-cushion. "They're hot," he warned, blowing on his
fingers.

"Mm."
Cleverly, Kessa gingerly transferred one to a protective fold of her
cloak over her lap. She cupped her hands around the pie's edges, as
if around a Fervefax Stone's heat, and held it steady while the
carriage continued on.

She
looked smaller when not angry. Younger.
How young might she be?
he wondered. Past the age when noble girls had their spring
blossoming balls and were deemed (barely) marriageable, perhaps, but
not so old as hopeless or determined spinsters. Again, he wished
Master Rom'd been able to tell him Kessa had family: a father,
mother, brother,
someone
Iathor could consult. Perhaps it
wouldn't be too impolite, even for a meal . . . He
asked, "Are your parents still alive?"

"I've
not the slightest idea, Master Kymus." She lifted the pie to
nibble its edge.

He
distrusted that meek tone. Iathor tapped his finger against the
carriage-wall. She'd taken several more bites before he found a
polite alternative. "Have you any family?"

"Bloodkin?
I've not the slightest idea." She continued eating, serene as a
household's lady – or a noble vixen, needling an impertinent
suitor.

Were
you created by barbaric alchemical rituals, then?
he nearly
retorted, but held himself to proper manners. Whether she was goading
him or simply being honest, letting his temper get the better of him
was unlikely to
help
secure her fealty. (He pushed away
memories of his parents' arguments, and his father's advice for
soothing a ruffled spouse. The techniques Iaren Kymus had explained
were . . . too advanced, when Iathor dared not even
take the girl's hand without reason.)

After
her pie was over half eaten, he tried another topic. "There
should be an apprentice alchemist at the hospice. I could have her
show you around, if you're interested, while I'm talking to the
bonesetter." Herbmaster Keli's daughter was likely more biddable
than Kessa, if Nicia found out anything about the wary half-breed.

"If
you think she'd not mind," Kessa said doubtfully.

"If
she has other duties, I won't override them."

"Mm."
She was quiet a moment, as if sorting through what
she
might
say to
him
. "It would be interesting, yes. I presume
they've a workroom?"

"For
the healing salves and potions, yes. Have you an interest in those,
as well?" He nearly winced, belatedly recalling what
as well
might cover: poisons, the mysterious "Tagget's Tonic," who
knew what else . . .

Happily,
she seemed oblivious to that interpretation. "Some. I gather the
most potent are true alchemy, not just herb-witchery."

"The
most spectacular, perhaps," Iathor said. "Herb-potions
aren't necessarily less potent, though they take longer to work, or
require many doses over a period of time. I wonder . . ."
He broke off, thoughts trying to coalesce like a quickening brew.

"Mm?"
Kessa reached for the second pie.

"It's
not . . ."
. . . suitable for
lunch conversation?
Yet it was exactly the sort of topic he might
discuss, over a meal, with any master in the guild. And hadn't she
devised an humble, unnoticed masterwork? "The youth mixture that
Darul had in his tea. I wonder if someone was trying to meld herbal
tactics with metal-salt potency, or if it were merely a non-obvious
method of delivery."

She
absorbed the thought. "Would that work? Not just build up a
dangerous concentration of metal-salts in the body?"

A
good question; she wasn't totally ignorant of true alchemy. "It
depends on the salt and the brew, and how often it was taken. Most
people's bodies will eventually purge the effects of a potion, so
continuing a dose at the appropriate intervals . . ."

"The
dramsman's draught isn't purged."

"The
effects persist, yes, but the draught's ingredients must be purged,
for there's an entire geometry of metal-salts that would cause
madness or death if combined, and provably
don't
, unless
they're taken at nearly the same time as the draught."

"I
didn't know that."

"I'd
not expected it," he said gently, wondering why she
sounded . . . apologetic? Afraid he'd mock her
ignorance?

She
made a small noise and addressed herself to the food sufficiently
that he knew the topic was closed.

Eventually,
though, the pie was gone. And he still needed to ask her to be his
student. "Kessa . . ." The carriage came to
a stop; she swayed, bracing her toes against the floor. He took a
breath and began again. "Tradeswoman Kessa, would you–"

The
door opened, and in the pinch of time that interruption gave, Kessa
slid over and accepted Dayn's hand down, as if escaping.

–
consent
to be my student,
Iathor finished in his mind, and sighed. He'd
ask again later. For now, he got out and let his sleepy footman close
the door behind them.

Kessa
stood a few paces from the carriage, looking up at the hospice, her
hair falling back from her face. When he saw her eyes, her expression
seemed to plan a barbaric, bloody raid with spears and arrows.
That . . . seemed unlikely, though her body-language,
words, and manner could change from instant to instant.

He
liked the herb-witch best, who asked questions about alchemy.

She
closed her disturbing eyes, but for a moment, her head was still
tipped back and her unchanged expression . . . held
pain?

As
Iathor came nearer, she lowered her face. He asked, "Are you all
right? Have you been here before?"

She
shook her head. "No. I'm fine, Master Kymus."

She
was back to the timid mouse, meek and false. It would be highly
inappropriate to drag her to an unused hospice room and ask what was
really
wrong. He'd likely be glared at, and the rumors . . .

Her
arms were tucked beneath her cloak; Iathor put his hand lightly on
her back, steering her to the door so Dayn wouldn't be left standing
too long. His footman might simply fall asleep against the wall.

In
the entry room, Iathor tapped Dayn's shoulder and pointed to a chair.
The young man nodded and collapsed onto it.

The
hospice secretary wore bonesetter greens and reds; likely one of
Peran's students. Iathor sent the youth to notify Master Peran, and
ask if Nicia were busy. Then he turned back to his guest (future
student . . . future wife . . .).

Kessa
sat beside Dayn, looking around – mostly through her hair,
with Iathor watching her. He hoped the whitewashed walls and
journeyman-crafted chairs weren't too plain. The windows, at least,
let in enough light that it didn't look cramped and shadowed, and
herbs grew in small windowsill pots. It still smelled faintly of
strong soap, despite the scrubbing so any spilled potions wouldn't
react to
that,
either. The basement door was nearby, allowing
whiffs of the ingredients there.

Another
bonesetter apprentice, wearing light green and pink from an
overbleached wash, wandered through, lingering at the desk –
either covering the post for his fellow, or waiting to speak to the
other lad. He eyed the three visitors with covert curiosity.

Nicia
appeared first, holding her tan dress so it wouldn't tangle around
her ankles. Her shirt was an intentionally-light green, and she still
had the gray apron. She dropped into a curtsey nearly on the run,
coming to a knee-bent stop in front of him. "Master Kymus!"

"Nicia."
He tried not to reveal he'd been ready to catch her. "Have you
been experimenting with the odors of ingredients?"

"Yes,
m'lord! It's absolutely fascinating! A fully completed potion
has . . . There's a different note to the scent!"

Behind
them, Kessa said, "Bittersweet. Hits the back of the nose,
almost the back of the mouth, like something thick."

And
you claim you tasted nothing in the tea?
Iathor included her in
his nod. "Yes, like that."

"It's
so
faint
," Nicia said, apologetically.

"It
takes practice to refine." Iathor noticed the apprentice
sneaking wide-eyed glances at Kessa, who watched everyone's feet.
"Nicia, this is Kessa Herbsman, a journeyman herb-witch. Kessa,
this is Nicia, apprentice alchemist."

Kessa
inclined her head gravely. "Hello."

Nicia,
a bit uncertainly, bobbed a curtsey. "Pleased to meet you."

Iathor
took back the conversation. "Nicia, am I right in presuming
you've been apprenticed to your mother, primarily?"