Herb-Witch (Lord Alchemist Duology) (33 page)

"You're
not taking this seriously! You've a duty to the family name–"

"To
beget an immune heir." Iathor put a sharp whipcrack in his
voice. "That is my duty to the name, the guild, and the country.
If you've nothing to say but that you oppose a possible match, it's
said. You needn't waste my time further." He looked past his
brother. "Dayn, hold the door for Master Iasen, please?"

Iasen
spat, "And you coddle your dramsmen!" He stalked out. Dayn
closed the door behind him, gently.

Iathor
counted to five, ticking the moments off with thumb and fingers. Then
he went into the outer office, where Dayn propped up the wall and
Iathor's gray-haired secretary, Deocris, pretended he'd heard
nothing. Iathor said, "I'm going to check on Kessa and Nicia."

Dayn
asked, "May I come, m'lord?"

"If
you wish." Even with the newer draught, Dayn would be concerned.
Iathor himself was nearly shaking.

He
thumped down the stairs, nearly on the heels of a journeyman, clearly
returned from buying lunch.

Kessa
peered out the open door. Her gaze might've been hunted, or simply a
trick of her eyes. She vanished back into the room, but he heard her
say, "He's early."

He
leaned on the doorframe. A large, ceramic-coated copper bowl sat in
the middle of the table; Nicia dripped in heated water from the
alembic. Kessa hunched over the bowl with the glass stirring rod,
which she used as if she suspected the mixture would begin smoking at
any moment.

"You're
further along than I'd expected," he said, approvingly. "Any
problems?"

Nicia
glanced down to Kessa. Without looking up from stirring, the
herb-witch said, "Nothing we couldn't handle, Master Kymus."

Nicia
didn't look up, either. Iathor put his frown behind his best
guild-meeting mask. "Good. Carry on."

That
won him a flicker of Kessa's glare, but he let it roll off like rain.

Nicia
set down the alembic when it was nearly empty, and picked up a
smaller dish. "Ready?"

Kessa
gave a final stir. "Ready."

Delicately,
Nicia shook the powder out of the dish, in a relatively even dusting
across the surface of the bowl's mixture.

Kessa
crouched like a suspicious predator, chin level with the table. Nicia
giggled and did the same.

Iathor
rolled his eyes. The smell alone should've cued Kessa that it
wouldn't explode – if she'd ever worked with alchemical
explosives.

Tendrils
of smoke misted up, starting white and foggy, but quickly darkening
to a rich alchemist's gray and spilling onto the table. Both girls
stood, rubbing their noses.

He
stepped forward and held his hand under the smoke. "As you can
feel, this is a cool smoke, not a hot, explosive one. Thus, it flees
the sun, seeking shadows and caves at every turn. Well done."

Oddly
reverent, Kessa put her hands out as if to catch the smoke spilling
from the bowl. Nicia swirled her fingers through the fog on the
table. "Thank you, Master Kymus."

"Well,
it's past lunchtime, and all the students are returning to watch
their preparations. However, we've not fed ourselves." He looked
pointedly at Kessa in case she glanced up, but she didn't. "I
believe the Smoking Flask should have something for a hungry Guild
Master and students. Shall we?"

"What
about the preparation, Master Kymus?" Nicia asked.

"I'll
ask you how to dispose of it, and watch you do so when we return."

Kessa's
little smile wasn't reassuring, even without seeing her eyes. Perhaps
her thoughts involved putting the mixture in Iathor's soup.

Hopefully
not. Smoking duds tasted dreadful.

As
they walked across the courtyard, Iathor asked, "Any ideas yet?"

Kessa
hesitated; when Nicia didn't answer, she said, "Fill it with
clae till it stops smoking?"

"That
would work. Waste of clae, though," Iathor said. "Nicia?"

The
apprentice paused outside the tavern's door. "Um. It's a fragile
mix, that flees heat . . . Boil it?"

Iathor
opened the door for them. "Excellent. Once it's been broken down
by boiling, and diluted in a three to one ratio, it's an acceptable
addition to soil for better crops."

Passing
him, Kessa asked, "Does it spoil them for herb-witchery? Or
enhance the effects?"

"I've
never heard it spoiled anything," he said, pleased at her
interest. "I don't know of any studies. Herbmaster Keli might."

"I
could ask," Nicia offered.

"If
you would. But first, our lunch." He led the way to an alcove,
as his guild rank entitled him to do, rather than brave the central
tables where journeymen and apprentices sat.

Chapter
XXXII

"
T
he
younger brother . . . thought he was alone with me,
down there," Kessa said, low under the lap-harp playing of
Burk's current employer: Isera, a courtesan who'd needed a bit of
muscle to keep would-be clients polite. (Her last muscle'd gotten
caught picking pockets – a sideline he'd
not
told Isera
about.) "Looked ready to beat me for putting grubby half-breed
hands on things."

Her
brothers, Tag and Burk, both understood immediately. Tag looked wary
and thoughtful, while Burk shifted against the tavern wall they all
leaned against and looked even more like a burly dockworker than
usual. "Need me to find berths that wouldn't show up on records,
Kellisan?"

She
drummed her fingers against the bricks. "The lessons . . .
I don't know. Keep an eye out for berths to a marchlord's frontier?"
In some territories she'd be one half-breed among others, able to set
up as an herb-witch again; mayhap with enough success to bring Laita
as counter-girl after all.

"Might
be safer," Tag muttered. "If the younger doesn't like you."

"Aye,"
Kessa agreed. "Especially since I've agreed to go to his house
with my teacher and fellow student, and see what we can do about the
stench."

Tag
scowled. "The brother . . . He's the one what's
been thrown out of the Cat and Birch, though more for causing a
nuisance than breaking anyone. Seems he's the sort who forgets to
pay, though. Girls have to go to the elder brother.
He
pays
fairly, so far as I've heard, if not what the younger promised."

"Do
I need to find you more coin, Tag?" For surely her first flowers
were spent and then some by now.

Her
fagin brother shrugged. "Gave me a chance to make arrangements
with that public stable the houses fund. Warm place for a nest of
rats. Mayhap they'll learn horse-trades, if they get too big for the
roofs."

"What,
some might go straight?" Burk asked, grinning at his smaller
crèche-brother.

"Ain't
no harm in it."

Kessa
added, dourly, "Unless it brings guards poking about."

Burk
shoved her shoulder. "Ah, we're fine. I'm all but straight, Tag
'n' Jontho'er not so easy to catch, and you know we can keep Laita
safe. It's you we're fretting about."

Kessa
tried to lighten her voice. "Well, it's that younger brother
fretting me most. I hope he doesn't go to the nastier places."

Tag
shook his head. "Not that I've found, either of 'em.
Though . . . That elder. He's usually at th' Cat or
Birch once a fiveday on patrols. Except he's been to th' Birch not so
long ago, just him. Be happier if I knew which side he favored."

Burk
reached over Kessa's head, easily, to shove at Tag's in some silent
comment. Kessa ignored it; Burk probably didn't want Tag talking
about such things, for all Kessa was dressed as "boy" as
either of them, and no sheltered noblegirl.
Or trapped broodmare,
safe . . . the sky only seen out the window.
Low,
more to herself than her brothers, she said, "His cook visited,
some days ago, and if she told truth and not some theater lines, her
master's not so bad."
The sort who'd defend himself from a
robber with a brew, and offer to heal the scars after. Had to be
badgered to bind that younger dramsman, Dayn. Steals rolls and fruit
in the kitchen.
Tania'd been at ease with her station, and with
her loyalty bound. She'd described . . . something in
a happy dream, like family.

Burk
said, "Mm?"

Tag,
with sharper ears, waved a
later
at him, and said, "I'll
think of a way to get at th' truth.

She
put an arm around Tag's shoulders, and her head against one. Burk
patted her shoulder reassuringly, and she gripped his forearm.
"Thanks," she said. "If he's a monster after all . . .
the mask must slip in time, yes?"

"If
he's a monster," Tag said, "we'll find out."

"Just
stay safe. All of you."

Tag
snorted at her, and Burk shoved her shoulder.

Chapter
XXXIII

W
hether
due to embarrassment at their argument, or the social demands of
Talien Irilye, Iasen barely even passed Iathor in both the guild
office halls and Iathor's home. That pleased Iathor well enough, and
the second day after his new students' lesson, he stood with them in
the courtyard behind Iasen's home.

There
was a letter on Iasen's desk at the guild offices, advising him that
Iathor was conducting a lesson at the house. It had a very official
seal, exactly the same as letters reminding Iasen of belated guild
dues. Iathor'd acquired a key from Iasen's cook, Viam, who'd not been
told
not
to let the Lord Alchemist try his hand at removing
the stench.

Iasen
owned a tall house, not much smaller than Iathor's, with a stable and
carriage house in the back, but little room for back gardens. It
seemed in good repair; Jeck and Dayn were already checking the
stable's suitability for the horses. The servants' entrance was to
one side, in front of the carriage house. The bricks were
whitewashed, even in back, as current fashion dictated. (Iathor's
home was also brick, but as amber as when his grandfather'd ordered
it built.)

Kessa
huddled in her well-worn cloak, squinting balefully at the house.
Nicia clutched a newer, green cloak, and blew fog in the chilly
morning air, eyes slightly crossed at each puff. Brague, in the dark
gray coat he used for night patrol, loomed behind them, as if fearing
Iasen hid a host of dramsman mercenaries who'd protest their
hideout's invasion.

Iathor
took the servants' key from his pocket and refrained from trying to
twirl it 'round his finger; he'd likely lose it in the winter-sere
garden beside the entrance and have two young women trying not to
snicker. Or possibly worse, one laughing out loud.

Then
again, that might be
better
 . . .

Iathor
puffed a cloud of his own and unlocked the door.

Even
forewarned, he stepped back with his hand over his nose as the smell
rolled out. The outside air seemed to strengthen it briefly before
the breeze tore it apart.

Brague
was at his shoulder. "Are you all right, m'lord?"

"I . . .
may breathe again soon," Iathor wheezed. He glanced behind his
dramsman to see Kessa with her cloak pulled up over the lower half of
her face, and Nicia frowning and waving at the air in front of her
with a gray-gloved hand. He turned back and took a gulp of
slightly-revolting air. "If you'd ask Dayn to get the clae and
perfumes from the carriage?"

While
Brague called that along – unwilling to let his master out of
his sight – Iathor held his breath and advanced into the
miasma.

Inside,
a stairway curved up on his right, with a laundry opposite. Old
Incandescens Stones flickered in holders along the walls. Some were
entirely dead. The kitchen was dark and wretched beyond, the
fireplace cold. Iathor took a careful sniff and retreated, gagging.

"Are
the upstairs windows open?" Nicia was asking as he escaped to
fresh air.

"Wouldn't
want to run to
get
them open, in that stench." Kessa
pointed at the tall chimney. "And that's too easily climbed.
With nobody around, a strong-stomached thief could reach those
decorative slopes on the roof and use a grapple to let himself in. If
it lies empty too long, even in this part of town, I'd not bet
against someone smashing a window."

"The
shutters are fast-closed," Brague objected. "No good place
to slip a knife to lift the latch."

Kessa
squinted up. "Perhaps you're right. And if it's got latches that
go into the sill, those can't be slipped without an awfully poor
shutter. Which side is the shutter-hinge on?"

My
dramsman and my potential bride are chatting about breaking into
houses.
And doing so while Nicia listened, eyes wide. With a
grimace, Iathor collected the basket of perfumes.

After
picking the strongest, Iathor ventured back inside. The smell'd not
faded, but the perfume cut it enough that he wasn't about to heave up
breakfast. He called over his shoulder, "I'm going further in."