Herb-Witch (Lord Alchemist Duology) (26 page)

Herbmaster
Keli threw her hands in the air as if tossing something behind her.
"The man's an irresponsible lout of a master alchemist. He's
constantly behind on his dues, he's off at noble parties at all
opportunities, and he prefers the ones in Cym for the winter. Some
emergency happened in his house, or with his student, or both, so he
came back – and as usual, it's got half the officers thinking
Kymus should get himself a
different
heir." Her voice
dropped to an annoyed growl. "It doesn't help when Iasen claims
his brother's interested in marrying my daughter the moment she shows
useful tolerances. I've people leaning on
me
to test Nicia
now, though her body's yet growing."

"You
can stall them, yes?"

"Oh,
indeed! But the chances that she'll be acceptable to the man? Poor.
High tolerances are not immunities.
I've
high tolerances! I
might contemplate an arrangement myself if that were enough, but it's
not. Therefore, we're one carriage accident away from a Guild Master
who can't even be bothered to pay his own dues." She leaned on
Kessa's counter. "So while I'd be ecstatic should Kymus marry an
herb-witch . . . I doubt Nicia's the one."

"I
can . . . keep a lookout. For someone who might be
immune."

Herbmaster
Keli swept over and put her knee upon the window-ledge. "True
immunity is rare. He's been looking for years. Decades, probably. And
his father would've been seeking brides for both sons before that."

"Pity
the girl who has it." Kessa looked at her dark hands, wrapped
around each other on her lap. "Everyone'd be throwing her at
Master Kymus – or trying to marry her himself, to have an
immune daughter."

"At
least she'd have her pick of well-off men, or their sons."

"Until
someone decided to kidnap her and lock her up till she produced an
acceptable daughter. Or son, as an alternative heir."

"Ugh.
I suppose there's that chance. Anyone so unscrupulous should
certainly be kept away from the position."

Kessa
wrapped her arms around herself tightly. "Why do you think I
have it, Herbmaster?"

"First,
our Master Kymus is nearly obsessed with you. He's both feeding and
fighting with you. He usually only yells at his brother, though I
hear – from Iasen, but Iathor's never denied it – their
parents fought loudly and frequently. Second, I've been talking to
people while I waited for the Guild Master to leave; they claim you
walked through the dregs of that cloud those silly boys made, which
I
know should've left you staggering at best. Third, when dosing
someone, it's far easier to put it in the pot. You'd not believe how
many people see an herb-witch dose their cup, and pfft, they pour it
right on the ground. So irritating."

"You . . .
do that often, Herbmaster?"

Hands
on hips, the older woman said, "Not so much now that I'm a guild
officer. Fourth, I cannot believe you've not tried to get your eyes
changed by now. Fifth . . . I'm working on fifth. I
think it's that I remember Chiftia, from before she stopped sending
letters, and she not only didn't know alchemy, she was as biased
against the art as most alchemists are biased against herb-witchery;
the only way you'd have learned healing ointments, like as not, is by
taste and that's dangerous. I've no sixth, except you're not denying
it."

"What
if the girl who has it . . . doesn't want to marry
anyone?"

Herbmaster
Keli looked out the window. "Oh, child. Then I suppose we keep
waiting and hoping the guild can contain Iasen's frivolity till he
sires a boy, and that he'll leave his son's raising to someone with
sense. Or, Earth and Rain forgive me, I have a good long talk with
Nicia about the situation, and – if she consents – we
fake an immunity for her," she finished sadly.

"You'd
sacrifice your daughter?" Kessa whispered, holding herself
tighter.

"For
the sake of the guild remaining a power of protection and policing?
Yes. With her consent. Iathor'd be furious, but once he had a
dramswife, he'd do his duty as best he could." Keli's expression
was drawn, and she looked a decade older.

Kessa
looked down at her own knees again. "You fight dirty."

"She's
my daughter," Keli said. "And likely the only child I'll
have, with my one true love and husband gone. Wouldn't you fight
dirty, to protect someone you love?"

"Yes."
Her voice cracked on the tight pain in her chest. She pulled her
knees up to put her forehead on them. "But I don't even like
him."

Clothing
rustled as Nicia's mother sat and put her arm around Kessa's
shoulders. "He's not so charismatic as his brother, but he's got
better sense, and he wants to be fair. He always, always wants to be
fair."

"He
didn't tell you to talk to me?" Kessa said, in wary misery.

"Him?
He's more straightforward. Why would you think so?"

Kessa
chewed on her words for a few heartbeats. "He proposed in a
prison cell," she whispered.

Keli
barely managed to muffle her bark of laughter against Kessa's
shoulder instead of her ear. "That– that
man
!" she
gasped. "He must've been
very
excited."

"He
didn't seem excited."

"All
right,
shocked
. And if that's how you met him, I hardly blame
you for wanting to think it over. A prison!" Keli giggled again.

"He
dosed me with something. Truth . . . Tryth elixir, he
admitted later. Then said I was immune. And that . . .
that was a proposal." Kessa couldn't keep from whining. She
almost hoped Herbmaster Keli
would
report straight back to
Kymus.

"He
may've sown his wild oats as a lad, but he's clearly lost all sense
of romance! Or else he was
very
shocked." Keli was
clearly very
amused
. "Definitely make him wait. At least
till he proposes
properly
."

"But–"

"Or,"
Herbmaster Keli interrupted, gently and firmly, "until you find
someone you like better. You've been offered a student's position
with him. Take him up on it. Meet people. I'll not tell. The matter
only becomes urgent to me when Nicia needs to be tested. Promise
Kymus your daughter and he'll leave you to whatever match you
prefer."

"What
if I don't want to sell off a . . . child?" Kessa
muttered.
A child . . . who should trust me as its
mother . . .
The idea was strange, as if she
thought it of someone besides herself.

"If
he can't win your respect in sixteen years, perhaps he doesn't
deserve an heir."

"And,"
Kessa asked, after taking a breath, "how long before Nicia'd be
tested?"

"A
year."

A
year, before she plots Nicia's own slavery with her.
Kessa
whispered, "I've responsibilities. But. A year may be enough to
find–"
. . . a way out . . .
"–something that won't hurt anyone too much."

"You'll
be his student, then?"

Kessa
realized she was leaning on the Herbmaster, her head on Keli's
shoulder. Mothers were more subtle, dangerous creatures than Maila'd
ever been. "If Nicia will. If he still wants."

"I'll
write to him immediately about how my daughter looks forward to
studying with you," Keli said. "Should I tell her about
your, ah, tolerances?"

"Not
yet," Kessa said, almost asking. "It might be too hard a
secret."

"She'll
have to learn to keep those, but all right. In your own time."
Keli patted Kessa's shoulder. "And if Kymus troubles you?
Tell
me
, herb-witch."

Politics
had closed over her head, leaving only a wistful memory of being
unimportant. "Thank you, Herbmaster." She pulled herself
upright, because Keli was far,
far
too comfortable. (Told it
was her choice, told which choice Keli hoped for, told she had an
ally? There was some price attached. There had to be, if only an
added weight to herb-witch concerns because of the Guild Master's
interest in Kessa.) "Do you still want the mint? I do have some,
fresh enough to be from someone's window-garden."

"I
would indeed like to buy some, if you don't mind, my dear."

"Of
course not." Kessa turned her head enough to smile, eyes closed,
and got up to fetch her stock.

Chapter
XXV

T
wo
days after the . . . regrettable shouting . . .
Iathor was returning to Kessa's shop, chewing over yet another bitter
apology; Dayn and one of Rom's apprentices had returned from Herbsman
Chiftia's village. And though perhaps Kessa'd not stayed as long as a
full apprenticeship should've been . . . She'd been
there. And Nicia'd confirmed that she'd suggested the potions Kessa'd
named in the night.

He'd
not mention he'd discovered she knew at least one true alchemical
potion she couldn't possibly have learned from Chiftia. He'd not
comment on the letter Herbmaster Keli'd sent, two days ago,
expressing her approval of him teaching Nicia
and
Kessa,
together. Nor on how fresh its ink had been.

Hopefully,
the Herbmaster'd already secured Kessa's consent to become his
student; Brague'd said she'd not been hostile when he'd delivered
food. Iathor'd added a fading Incandescens Stone to yesterday's
basket, in an apology he'd not been able to word.
I cannot risk
her going to . . . returning to? . . . the
Shadow Guild.
The making of the dramsman's draught was closely
guarded by the Alchemists' Guild, but there was never a perfect
secret. False recipes were released occasionally, given to the
unreliable apprentices and journeymen, and the only way to sort false
from true, poison from will-prison . . .

Would
be by taste.

Kessa
might be ignorant of that complication, but Iathor'd not wager the
Shadow-Master was. It was, therefore, far better to give her the
apologies she deserved, no matter how irked he was by her secrets.

He
gazed out the window, noting where the pale morning light showed
peeling paint or chipped bricks on the buildings they passed.
Why
she doesn't reach beyond this?
Did she feel necessary where she
was? Dayn'd said she'd been known for delivering curatives when a
child had a night-fever, or a granny was chilled.

But
if it's duty,
he thought as her shop came into view,
why are
her shutters still closed?

Normally
he waited, appropriately, for the carriage door to be opened. This
time, he shoved it open and was out before Brague came from the
footman's perch. His bodyguard sighed and followed him to the shop's
door. Iathor knocked sharply, wishing it weren't so chilly. It was
hard to smell anything but
cold
.

Nothing.
He knocked harder. Was she even there? Perhaps she was at Rom's.
She'd kept Brague waiting briefly, the evening before that
unfortunate night patrol.

From
inside, there was an indistinct call that sounded more like
go
away
than any reassurance.

"Kessa?"
he called. "Are you all right?"

Silence.
Iathor frowned at the door. Was she still angry? Testing him?
Changing her mind about being his student? Hiding a lover beneath her
bed?

Being
held at knifepoint by an intruder?

"Kess-"
he started, breaking off as the door opened.

Slightly
warmer air swirled out, with the acrid smell of vomit and the deeper,
sweetish odor of sluggish blood. Kessa leaned in the doorway,
bedraggled hair hanging loose. One arm was wrapped around her middle.
Her other hand dangled against the doorframe, fingers red. "I'm
alive," she creaked. "Go away."

It
was moon-brought bleeding, from the scent. The rest . . .
"You're sick."

She
turned away, already starting to shiver. "I'll live," she
managed, walking the two steps to her counter. Then she leaned
against it, and kept leaning until she'd slid into a curled crouch at
its base, both arms wrapped around her belly.

Worried
and mystified, Iathor followed her inside and crouched beside her.
Touching her shoulders made her flinch, but she didn't try to elbow
him in the gut, so he didn't move away. "You're in pain?"

The
noise she made was something between a croak, a laugh, and a sob. If
she'd not been clutching her middle so tightly, she might've turned
to glare. After a gasp for air, she said, "
Yes.
" He
suspected
you idiot
silently followed.

"What's
wrong?" he asked, wondering if it'd been some mis-brewed potion.
Surely not a miscarriage? That would be a nasty, delicate situation
indeed . . .

"Moon-blood,"
she rasped, to his relief. "Never seen it do this?"

"Not
so wretchedly. Aren't there potions– oh." He deserved that
unsaid
idiot
. "You've no preparations that block pain."

"They
don't work," she whispered, then tensed with a stifled whimper.

"No,
most wouldn't." Most such potions worked by telling the mind
pain was absent; immunity to mind-altering potions was immunity to
those. Relief would come only from addressing the underlying cause.
He half-turned. "Brague, leave the basket here. Decide whether
Jeck or both of you should go to the hospice to get . . .
Blight, what
causes
moon-blood pain?"