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

A
potion to make Laita strong, so she didn't always get sick, first and
worst and longest.
Kessa curled around her basket, hiding behind
her arm and hair.
Earth and Rain, I've a price after all. And he
found it so easily.
"I'll think about it," she rasped.

"Good.
Now, if you don't eat something, my cook and steward will castigate
me nearly as much as you did. This isn't a gift. I'm selfishly
sparing myself grief."

She
kept her little laugh from turning to a confused, strung-out sob.
"All right."

For
the rest of the trip, he pressed food on her. A bit of bread, then
another with jam. The egg-crepe, with its cheese and diced
vegetables, because it'd not be so nice after sitting. Though it
didn't rest easily in her gut, at least her hands stopped shaking,
and she could bear to let the footman help her out when they arrived.
(
Thank you, Dayn
, Kymus said, following.)

It
was the same guard station she'd been in, of course. She clenched her
hands on her basket's handle, and didn't look at the brick, didn't
think of the cells below.
I'm just a mouse. Quiet mouse.
Dramsmouse, perhaps.
She watched how Dayn followed his master,
and tried to copy the mannerisms, though she was never so good at
that trick as Jontho.

Good
enough, at least, that the guardsmen who called greetings didn't
question her presence as she followed Kymus inside, to an office
where her Guild Master said, "Please tell Commander Rothsam I've
questions about the recently arrested extortionists."

The
Yes, sir
reply was young; the lad darted into the inner office
faster than necessary.

Kessa
watched Kymus ticking off seconds on his fingertips behind his back,
giving a little wave at the end – as the Watch Commander
shouted, "Sir Kymus, what blighted mess've you brought
this
time?"

"Tob!
I'm glad I finally caught up with you." Kymus strolled in. Kessa
hesitated, watching Dayn for cues.

"That's
Commander Rothsam to you, Sir Kymus." The other man added, "Out,
boy," and the secretary slipped past them.

Dayn
also paused a moment, then flicked his hand at the corner. Kessa
stood there, and the dramsman stood beside her, watching his master
through the part-open door. It was enough of a relief, this small,
hidden alliance, that she leaned against the wall so she'd not fall.

The
two men in the other room spoke, but between her nerves and the
nearly-closed door, Kessa couldn't make out much. Kymus, somewhere
between cheerful and serious. Commander Rothsam, grumbling, and once
bursting out, "Don't tell me she's the one we took a few days
ago!"

Kessa
clutched her basket more tightly, trying to listen, but Kymus'd
dropped his voice. No orders came to re-capture her, though; the
eventual shout for an Officer Jothe was, it seemed, only to provide a
guardsman witness for the questioning.

As
Officer Jothe led them to the back courtyard, Kymus asked, "Would
you perhaps have some tea, Journeyman Kessa?"

She
opened her basket. "I fear it's not the best quality, Master
Kymus."

"I'm
sure it will do," he said, and she wondered if he was also
remembering a dark cell. The taste of mint and roses was bitter-sweet
in her memory.

Chapter
XIX

T
he
interrogation had gone . . . well, Iathor supposed, as
they left the guard station. Though neither man'd been
alchemy-tolerant, neither'd died of the Tryth elixir, hearts racing
beyond their limits while their minds drifted truthfully. The
Purgatorie he'd administered (to prevent deaths) caused the usual
reactions, but there'd been buckets to contain the immediate mess and
Kessa – in an odd fit of mercy – had given him mint
leaves, fresh enough to cut the smell of vomit. She'd held another to
her own nose.

What
the men had answered, though . . .

The
escaped man, part-barbarian himself, was called Wolf. The other two
presumed Wolf would've returned to the inn they'd been using, owned
by one of the prisoners' family. That man, Chas, had tried not to
answer, even with the Tryth, for fear Wolf might harm his daughter or
sister. And after Chas'd finished heaving into a bucket, he'd begged
Iathor not to let his family be hurt.

The
sincere plea mingled with angry herb-witch accusations as they
traveled toward Kessa's shop.
In danger, for an oversight.
Irritation at Kessa and her apparent self-starvation mingled,
equally, with guilt.

Finally,
he managed, "You were right."

Kessa
made an indistinct sound.

"I
wish you'd spoken of your suspicions to myself or Master Rom. He
arranged for the guardsmen. He would've told you."
And then
you'd have been only briefly alarmed, and perhaps not accosted at
all.

Her
knuckles tightened on the basket's handle, paling beneath her
wood-dark skin, and guilt swamped irritation at her mistrust. Iathor
admitted, though the words were bitter, "But you shouldn't have
had to. I apologize for my oversight."

She
made another small noise, head bowed so he saw only her narrow chin
and tight-held mouth. Her thumbs rubbed the basket-handle in nervous
motion. Indistinct calls of street vendors came through the
compartment's walls, above the carriage-creaks and ringing of
horseshoes.

"Do
you want a guard on your shop?" he finally asked.

"No,"
she replied quickly, resignedly. "I'll manage."

He
tried to summon up the correct tone of appeasement, despite his
exasperation. "I meant to ameliorate the threat, not . . .
not impose something you'd be indebted for." For surely, she
acted as if kindness was mere prelude to a kick in the ribs.

She
repeated, "I'll manage."

Though
he waited to see if she'd say anything else . . .
Iathor sat back against the seat cushions, bumping harder than he'd
intended. "You'll baffle any attackers into submission, no
doubt."
He
was certainly baffled; how could he mend
things if she wouldn't accept his aid?

"No
doubt," she agreed – and was that a hint of a smile?

Iathor
fingered the mint leaves she'd given him, now crushed and soft . . .
as the ones she'd held. "I wish you'd be honest with me. You
claimed you tasted nothing in the tea, but your nose is as delicate
as mine."

"I
think yours is better."

"Comparable,
then. Better than that dead-nosed guard." He waved a hand,
dismissing the digression. "I still wish you'd trust me."

She
straightened in her seat, pose and poise fit for any coolly offended
noblewoman – with the eyes of a feral thing framed by black
hair and dark skin. "Master Kymus, are you accusing me of
lying?"

It
was hard to meet that stare, which seemed to look beneath his skin to
blood and meat and bone. But he made himself do so with equally-cool
manners. "I'm accusing you of not trusting me."

Did
her eyes widen, then? He couldn't interpret her expression, not while
suppressing his own instinctive flinch, but she turned her head away,
hair a dark curtain against his gaze, though she still sat precisely
straight, even against the road's bumps.

Had
that been a true victory, or a false one? "Is it just me, or do
you trust no one?"

After
a heartbeat, she said, "The latter, mostly."

He
inhaled, as if he could catch an alchemical scent of truth. But he
only smelt the scraps of breakfast, mint, fainter smells of herbs and
preparations within her basket. His mind held no clear plan, no
recipe to win trust, let alone fealty . . . In the
end, he said, "The offer to teach you still stands."

She
bowed her head over her basket. "I'm still thinking."

"All
right." Iathor let her think until they reached her shop and he
moved to let her out – handing her the food basket the moment
Dayn took her herb-basket so her hands were free.

But
though he'd hoped she'd answer him before Dayn closed the carriage
door . . .

She
went into her shop, silently.

Iathor
sighed, and called to Jeck, "The Guild hospice, please."

When
they arrived, he pulled his cloak around him. The wind had picked up,
with a chill edge. The clouds threatened rain and a nasty ending to
the day. Iathor hurried himself and Dayn inside.

The
journeyman in Darul's room was Hoch, who'd been feeding the man
yesterday. Hoch was sitting on the bed, holding a chalk-board,
apparently trying to teach Darul to recognize letters. "Hooooooch,"
the young man told the older man. "Try? Hoooooooch."

Darul
blinked mutely.

From
the doorway, Iathor asked, "Are guests permitted?"

"Ah!
Lord Alchemist! Of course!"

"My
thanks." He crouched in front of the madman. "Has he had
breakfast yet?"

"A
bit ago, but I gave him plenty of water after." Hoch grimaced.
"Hope he gets the thought of chamberpots soon."

"As
do I. As does his sister." Iathor leaned forward to sniff the
man's breath again. A bit of meat-scent, going unpalatably fermented.
Corn mush. And . . . yes, the tang of metal-salts. He
pulled back. "I think there's no change since yesterday."

Behind
him, Master Peran said, "And no improvement in his behavior,
either. Nor worsening, at least. Going to visit tomorrow?"

"Or
late tonight, perhaps, and return him to Purgatories in the morning."
Iathor gave up hope of talking to Kessa that evening. Perhaps it was
for the best; time might ease her temper.

"A
revolting treatment indeed," Peran said with morbid cheer. "If
it works, however, all to the good. Has your brother talked with
you?"

Iathor
stood. "What?"

"He
came by, perhaps an hour or two past. Said he wanted to meet Nicia.
Visited Darul, as well. Had . . . suggestions."
Peran's eyes were sharp, more gray than blue.

"Master
Peran, the only time I might listen to my brother's suggestions is if
I wanted to arrange a social gathering." Iathor noted Peran
relaxing. "What did he suggest?"

"First,
sending Darul back to his sister immediately, without bothering with
'a meat-cabbage's rehabilitation.' When I told him that wasn't an
option, he offered to make some purgatives to test. Said it was a
specialty of his."

Iathor
snorted. "My brother's specialties are finding ways to get
himself drunk, flirting with pretty women, possibly dosing horses,
keeping himself looking twenty-five, and . . ."
He frowned.
And finding an aphrodisiac that will work on him for
more than a few minutes.

Youth
potions and aphrodisiacs, found in Darul Reus' home. Alchemical work,
not herbery.

"Something
wrong, Master Kymus?" Peran asked.

"Earth
and Rain, I hope not," he breathed, and applied logic. Logic
said . . . Iasen'd been away for months. Alchemical
dissolution and debauchery weren't restricted to him. Iasen would've
had no reason to be here, if there'd not been some problem with his
student, and his house. The missing page was far more likely to be
linked to Kessa, unfortunately, than to Iasen. However . . .
Iasen might be an excellent information source concerning other
dissolute alchemists.

"I
doubt anything's wrong. I don't
think
Iasen'd try to slip
anything to Darul. But," he sighed, "I didn't think he'd
put Ysanda's Tattoo Dye into the dormitory well, either."

"Whose
what?" Peran asked.

"A
prank potion. Over a period of approximately three days, it dyes the
skin and hair to fascinating autumn-leaf shades, heavy on the bright
oranges, reds, and yellows. It doesn't work on me, or my brother, but
it made the dormitory residents and staff . . .
Colorful." Iathor grimaced. "It was long ago, when we were
at the alchemy school in Cym."

Peran
snorted. "Once a prankster, always a prankster?"

Iathor
sighed
deeply
. "Perhaps."

The
other man chuckled. "Understood. I'll make sure the staff know
his sense of humor."

"Thank
you. I hope he caused no problems here."

"Well,
Nicia didn't say he'd been inappropriate, so little enough."
Peran shrugged. "Anything else for today?"

"Perhaps
a quick stop in the library? I need some intermediate texts on
curative potions." Kessa'd seemed interested in healing.

Peran
moved out of the doorway, leading the way. "I should send Nicia.
Girl's a sponge for healing, whether alchemical, herbal, bandage and
stick, or silk and needle. I hope you don't steal her away too soon."

"It's
not my intention to steal her, though I hope to take some of her days
for instruction." Iathor paused and mentally groaned. "What's
my brother implied
now
?"

Peran
looked over his shoulder, turning a corner. "He said outright
that you're thinking to marry the girl, and he wanted to see if he
should court her first. I presumed he was joking about the latter."