Herb-Witch (Lord Alchemist Duology) (18 page)

"I
was walking to my shop, fretting about the
spy
in the alley.
The three gray watchmen were walking the other way. Since I didn't
know the
spy
wasn't theirs, I tried to bluff it out.
Then . . ." She took a breath and leaned on the
desk.

Had
her hands been trembling? He was unsure. "Then?"

"Then
next I know there's shattered crockery on the ground, two of them
falling over, and the third
getting away
because the fool
guardsmen were too happy about their
toy
to stop him!"
She jerked her chin up, her hair swinging away from her cheeks.

She
did smell of sleep powder, now that he thought to sniff. "How
close were you?"

Kessa's
mouth twisted in a bitter smile. She might've been a barbarian shaman
about to order someone's death by ritual torture. "They were
trying to grab me. It's hard to stay far when you're dodging three
people."

"Ah."
Well, he could withstand jibes and outbursts from conservative guild
officers, if the story reached their ears. "You say they caught
two of them?"

"And
let one go!"

"Perhaps
they had a man stationed to catch anyone who fled."

"Perhaps
they were a pack of little boys, snuck into the workroom to play with
the potions!"

Iathor
tried not to wince at her near-shout. "He shouldn't be able to
evade the guards long. Not after the captives are questioned."

"With
what, truth potions so they don't lie?"

"Yes.
Exactly."

She
breathed, "You blighted–" She cut herself off. "You
think that if there's even one escaped, he won't take their gains and
run? That he won't be thinking of
revenge
? Are you that
simple
, rich Lord Alchemist?"

It
didn't take uncommon sense to realize
now
would be an ill time
to offer . . . anything he could offer. "You
shouldn't have been so directly involved," he repeated.

"If
someone'd
told
me, 'Oh, we're setting a guardsman 'cross the
alley,' I might not've been!"

"It
was an oversight!" he snapped. "I'd not realized they'd be
so obvious as to concern you!"

"You'd
not realized–" she started, in tones of disbelief, but broke
off to laugh.

It
was a shrill, unhealthy laugh, ending with the heels of Kessa's
finger-curled hands on her cheekbones, eyes covered and head bowed.
"Blight you, Kymus," she rasped. "You've put me in
danger for an
oversight
."

Her
conviction unsettled him. "Questioning will find where they've
been staying, and who else was involved." He tried to make it
reassuring as he walked around his desk. "I can involve myself
now. Would you like to be present?"

"What?"
she said, lowering her hands and staring at him with only a few
strands of hair trying to screen her face. She looked . . .
savage. "So you can throw me into the prison when we get there?"

"You
are
paranoid!" he said. "Why would I do that?"

"Why'd
you
spy
on me?"

"I
wasn't! He wasn't looking for any save the gray watch!"

"And
his mind forgets all else? I've customers who need discretion!"
Her hands were fists at her side. "How dare you betray their
trust?!"

"
You
need food." It was the logical reason for her state. "We'll
go to the kitchen, get you something, and–"

His
hand, not quite touching her shoulder, was knocked away by the back
of her wrist. Her pupils were pinpoints of black within mottled brown
and yellow. "I wasn't that blighted bastard's 'good girl' and
I'm not
yours
, either," she hissed.

Of
the mix of thoughts (
You're anyone's?
and
What does this
have to do with anything?
and
Good?
) what precipitated out
was . . .

"He
laid hands on you?" he asked, quietly.

"What
do you think?" Kessa said, voice as flat and even as a fine
workroom table. She turned and walked to her dropped basket.
Amazingly, it'd landed upright, not tipped on his rug. She picked it
up.

Hungry,
frightened . . . Also paranoid, difficult, and
stubborn. A bad combination. Very gently, he said, "Come with
me. You can identify them. You can be present for the questions, and
tell me if I've left anything out. Brague should have the
food-basket. We'll take it with us."

Her
eyes were closed, and her knuckles were a coppery-pale. "Oh, why
not?" she muttered. "Wanted me locked in a dungeon, you'd
have one in your basement."

Before
he recovered from
that
baffling statement, she'd pulled the
door open and stormed out.

Iathor
followed, and asked Brague, "Did you hear? Never mind. The
carriage, the prison, and the food, please."

"Yes,
m'lord."

To
Kessa, Iathor said, "I usually go through the kitchen, to get to
the carriage."

"Fine."
Her head was bowed, her shoulders slumped. Iathor found himself with
one hand raised toward her back; he lowered it. Now . . .
was not the time.

Chapter
XVIII

K
essa
walked through the kitchen, seeing little more than when she'd
stalked in on Brague's heels, eyes determinedly forwards. Now she
watched the floor and clutched her cloak. Too hot. Too cold. Too
light-headed. Too sick.

A
woman's voice: "M'lord, is that–"

Kymus:
"Yes. Later. Ah, thank you, Tania."

How
dared he be so calm? She almost turned to demand . . .
but it was a stupid question, fit for a blushing maiden in a theater
love-story.
She
would be calm. Like ice. Like stone. Like the
glass alembics in an alchemist's workroom – or a poisoner's.

I
should've taken Maila's place
, she thought, in the chill sunlight
with her cloak wrapped around her to hide her trembling. Should've
mourned in public, drunk poison with Maila's poisoner in private, and
dressed in the charcoal of a Shadow-witch who never went out as
herself.

The
carriage and horses clattered to a stop in front of them. The footman
appeared from beyond the walls of Kessa's hair, offering his hand.
She shied away, but stepping into the carriage . . .
holding up her skirt . . . the basket . . .
the hand-grip at the door . . .

Unobtrusively,
the footman said, "I'll give you the basket when you're in, m–
Miss?"

Had
he seen her eyes? Probably. He didn't deserve that. Kessa made
herself open her fingers and let the basket from her grip. Made
herself get into the carriage. Managed to whisper, "Thank you" –
no sense blaming dramsmen for their master's idiocies. Took the
basket back, and curled against the back corner.

After
some brief, low conversation outside, Kymus followed. He hesitated
before sitting at the furthest corner.

At
least she'd managed that much: fear of the crazy half-breed, or
respect for her fury. Either way, not
his
, to be disregarded
at whim.

He
was too far away to be seen, through her hair. It bothered her.

Her
stomach insisted the carriage bumped and lurched as if going over
mounded graves. She swallowed hard. There'd been no graves when she'd
come in, riding on the front of Brague's saddle. The carriage-way'd
been brick in decent repair. Better to close her eyes and keep
telling her guts to behave.

Blight
it, the after-effects of screaming fear could swim down-river and
drown in the sea without her. He'd
not
thrown fire-brew at
her. Nor had his servants toss her out. Or lock her up. Or hold her
for abuse. So what else should she fear he'd do? Rescind his
proposal? Determine her potion was half-responsible for Darul's
state, and hold her for trial?

But
thinking that'd end the matter was foolishness. In prison, with no
protectors . . . Her ugliness was only a defense in
light, not a cell's blackness. And even if she were safe from that,
she'd fret about Laita.

"Are
you all right?"

There
was nothing, absolutely nothing, she could reply without screaming or
tears. After a moment, she rasped, "What're you going to do with
me?" Her throat was rough from yelling and tight with
after-shocks.

No
way to guess what his pause meant, without looking. "I'd like to
feed you, just now."

"Ungh."
The smell of good bread, an egg-crepe . . . It made
her hungry and ill together.

"Kessa."
(Was he working to make his voice that gentle?) "What
have
you eaten today?"

"A
roll. Across the street."
Show gratitude . . .
She couldn't. She'd dreamed of when no one would feed her but
herself. "It's enough."

"Better
than I expected," Kymus said, perhaps with irritation leaking
into it. "Still, I don't see why you'd want to starve yourself
when–"

She
snapped her head around. "Just because the price isn't
coin
doesn't mean I can afford it." It came out through her teeth.

Kymus
blinked at her before he turned his head and looked at the
food-basket beside him. After a long time, with his brows drawn down,
he finally said, "I'd not intended there be a price."

"Because
you think you own me already?" Her rough throat ruined the cool
tone that should've had.

He
frowned harder, still not looking at her. "This would be simpler
if your teacher'd recognized your immunities and
reported
them. The moneylender could've been dealt with legally, if you'd even
borrowed from him at all, and you'd be learning true alchemy with me
already."

Did
Maila understand what value I'd have? Did she hold me as a counter to
him? A bargaining chip? Or just an apprentice to avenge her when
someone finally killed her?
Six, five, even four years ago . . .
She might've been gentled with food and a promise of status. A
promise of someone who'd have to accept her even with her dog-vomit
eyes. "I suppose Chiftia didn't realize I tasted brews now and
then."

"I
wish
Rom'd
seen. Surely you at least
sniffed
your
journeyman-work?"

"Healing
salves. A pain-relieving potion. Dry tea."

"Did
you do that
deliberately
?" he asked, frustrated, and
looked up.

Of
course.
This time, she looked away. "Those are mainstays of
an herb-witch's business. I'd no reason to make anything unsafe to
sniff."

"How
could your teacher've told you
nothing
about immunities?"
That was definitely frustration, though perhaps not with her. "You
should be learning true alchemy, not wasting your potential brewing
potions
anyone
could make, crippled in your research without
time to study in the guild library."

If
Maila'd told her . . . Would she've run? Gone to his
door and said,
My family's hungry, my sister's always sick. Can my
immunity buy your help?
She remembered how horribly ill Laita'd
been, one winter, and thought she would've, hands wrapped in rags and
feet slipping in Burk's outgrown boots. "Too late," she
said, to what-ifs as much as him. "I've a shop now, and need to
make its rent."

"Yes . . .
That must be taken into account in the stipend."

What?
She closed her eyes and gritted her teeth. "Kymus, don't make me
kick you."

"Ah?"
(Genuine surprise, or artful confusion?) "Why would . . .
Ah,
blight
. I want you as my student."

"N–what?"
That was entirely unexpected.

"Student.
My student. You should be studying true alchemy. Doing research to
the limits of your abilities. Don't you realize how rare alchemist's
immunity
is
?"

I
screamed at you in your own home. I threatened to kick you.
Perhaps he
did
visit the Cat and Birch for sport that was
merely odd, not terrifying. "Nicia . . . She told
me. She hopes she's got it."

"Unlikely.
Not impossible, but unlikely. Also irrelevant to
you
having
it, which you clearly do." He added, after a half-breath, "And
to forestall paranoid accusations,
yes
, I want to convince you
I'm not the monster you seem to think me. But you're wasting your
potential!"

Kessa
opened her eyes and stared into the spaces beyond the
perfectly-fitted floorboards. "I've duties."

"Yes.
A practicing herb-witch, with customers who depend on your wares.
This would be taken into account in scheduling."

Customers,
family . . . "I don't know."

Tightly,
Kymus said, "I'm aware you apparently think I work black alchemy
in my basement and moon-steep human hearts in my attic. I assure you,
this isn't the case. You could
learn
something. I saw you
copying a recipe at the hospice – is there
nothing
you'd want to research?"