Herb-Witch (Lord Alchemist Duology) (42 page)

"If
you're g-greeted," she said, jaw vibrating in the cold, "by
th' entire staff, half-naked . . . no 'splanations
n-needed."

It
was worth his
seeing her
to watch his expression. Appalled
dismay. A snort of amusement. "If that's what greets me, ah,
Kellisan, then
I'll
want an explanation from someone."

At
least he remembered her alias. She snickered and kept pace as Brague
led the way. "N-not from me. I've n-not th'coin."

"I
find myself thankful." He was smiling again.

"Bah.
I'd not w-waste c-coin on pranks."
He can see me.
Perhaps
he'd not see her own smile, with her teeth chattering.

"Also
good to know."
That
sounded
smug
.

It
was her turn to snort, moving ahead as Brague dropped back.

It'd
been a risk, so openly showing she wasn't sheltered. But he'd not
ordered her away, nor insisted she stay with the carriage. He didn't
complain when she ranged about, any more than her brothers would've,
so long as she kept within easy sight – as she'd have griped
if they'd gotten out of eyesight.

She
tried to muster up a complaint. Perhaps
If he really cared, he'd
want to protect me
? But of protective cages or being equal enough
to patrol . . . She couldn't argue both halves as
reason to dislike him.

Blight.
Burk may be right.

It
was good it wasn't mild, with a round moon heavy in the sky. They'd
passed enough easily-climbed walls . . . She'd have
wanted to offer him a hand up, out of the twilight between his world
and the one she'd grown up in, to the rooftops she'd once thought
home.

It
was a giddy, scary, foolish thought. She put it aside; she should
keep alert for movement that might not be a stray cat or dog.

Eventually,
they got to the tall brick of the Crimson Birch – built up and
down, not sprawling – and Brague tapped at the back door. It
opened quickly. The young woman beyond exclaimed softly, "Brague!
Is he–?"

Kymus
went in next, while Kessa blinked and rubbed her eyes as the ointment
turned the Birch's lamps to blinding suns. She heard the other woman
cry, "Sir Kymus! You're here!" Squinting, she saw him with
his arms full of a buxom, soft blonde wearing something skimpy in red
gauze, black ribbons that trailed from her neck and wrists, and
nothing else. She babbled something Kessa couldn't follow.

Is
this what . . . who he wanted to explain? She seems to
explain herself.
Kessa pulled her hood farther down to shield her
eyes from the glare, and glanced at the grimacing Kymus before
studying Brague. The bodyguard seemed only lightly paranoid, so the
perfumed courtesan's behavior wasn't a threat, nor out of the
ordinary.

More
clearly, Kymus said, "Mistress Siphe requests that I attend her,
Rose?"

"Yes,
m'lord! Because of Nissy!" Rose pulled away, tugging him by the
wrist.

"I,
ah, my . . . patrol . . ." Kymus
glanced over his shoulder.

"There's
a room–" Rose began.

Kessa
cut the courtesan off, voice deep as possible. "This, I think I
want to see."

"Oh . . .
Blight," Kymus muttered. "All right, come on."

They
followed Rose through the hall, up two flights of stairs, to a small,
personal bedroom, not meant for entertaining customers. Inside, Kymus
bowed and murmured
Mistress Siphe
to the woman in the chair.

Siphe
(the proprietor of the Crimson Birch, Kessa recalled from Tag's
briefing) was a
large
woman. She wore her weight gracefully,
on a tall, big-boned frame. Her hair was as black as Kessa's, but
likely from dye, for her skin was pale. She wore specially tailored
men's clothes: black tunic and hose, a red tabard with a spray of
white birch-twigs, and high leather boots. Her expression was
relieved
.

Kessa
quickly looked aside before her eyes could offend, back in this world
with color.

On
the low bed that wasn't quite a cot, another woman lay on her side –
also tall, but rangy, with features that'd be called horse-like by
detractors. Fresh scratches ran across her cheekbones, underneath a
cloth gag. Her hair was dyed horse-brown; it didn't match her
dark-blonde eyebrows, and showed pale at the roots. Her wrists and
ankles were tied together, anchored at the bed's corners. She was
semi-conscious, tugging at her bonds occasionally and moaning.

The
room smelled like a brothel-room, but a sweet, cloying perfume wound
through it.
Bitter
sweet, Kessa realized, and pulled her cloak
closer, against memories.

Siphe
was explaining, ". . . found her like this, and it's
been
hours
. Had to tie her, for sometimes she's had seizures.
We can't think what it might be, and hoped you'd know, Master Kymus."

"I'm
not specialized in healing. I don't know if I can diagnose this."
But he knelt to feel the woman's forehead and throat, and sniff her
breath.

Standing
in the doorway, Kessa whispered loudly, "Her heart's racing.
She's clammy cold. Her breath is sweet, like honeyvine."

His
head snapped around; even as she dropped her gaze to her feet, he'd
stood and taken the step necessary to grab her shoulders. "What
is it?"

"Joy-powder."
The same stuff Maila'd brewed from time to time, that Tanas had –
in the end – loved more than he'd loved his low-wife's bed.
"Too much, and her heart bursts. If she's not kept warm enough,
her guts cool and she dies from that."

"How
do you
know
that?" he breathed. "It's been
years . . ."

Four
years and some since Maila died, and perhaps the recipe with her.
Kessa knew the Guild Master, the Lord Alchemist, was adding up
months. "The man who raised me . . . He died of
it."

His
hands went stiff on her shoulders. "I'm . . .
sorry."

She
looked up – and he flinched, eyes tight. She stared at their
boots instead. The patrol-club dangled from its strap around her
wrist. "Don't be. Calm that woman's heart if you can. Keep her
warm; mayhap a Fervefax Stone, wrapped and put on her stomach. If she
doesn't wake with a craving, she'll be fine." Tanas'd always
been, till he'd died instead.

Behind
Kymus, Mistress Siphe said, "Rose? You heard the boy. Get a
warming stone and bring it here, wrapped in something." As the
courtesan brushed past, Siphe continued, "Master Kymus, have you
anything to calm Nissy's heart?"

He
took two deep breaths, and pulled an even tone into his voice. "I'm
not sure what would be safe, if she's already under the effect of an
alchemical . . . assault."

"Not
Purgatorie," Kessa said. "She's too likely to choke. A
sleeping smoke, perhaps, or a potion warmed in a candle's wax."

She
could feel Kymus glaring at her, could nearly hear his
How do you
know this?
. Laita would've burst into tears, huddled against his
chest, and won time and sympathy. Kessa just stood, her cloak and
coat beneath keeping her shoulders from bruising where he gripped
them.

Kymus
let go abruptly, with a quick gesture; Brague's less urgent grip fell
upon her shoulder. She moved her own hand, with the patrol-club,
behind her back so he could take it.

Kymus
acquired a squat candle from Mistress Siphe and sorted through the
vials in his coat, then dripped something into the wax puddle around
the candle's wick. "This will likely make people sleepy who stay
long, but its normal potency should be much reduced. So long as the
watch upon her is changed now and again, you shouldn't find someone
slumped over her bed."

Rose
came back with a bundle, shouldering past Kessa and Brague.
Breathlessly, she handed it to the proprietor, and Siphe bent to tuck
it against Nissy's belly. "Rose, can you watch Nissy for a
while? I'll get Charal to come in after. If there's any change, get
me."

"Yes,
m'lady!" Rose flung herself down beside the semi-conscious
woman's bed.

Mistress
Siphe gestured everyone to the hallway, and asked, diplomatically,
"Master Kymus, would you like a . . . more
private room?"

From
the way his hands were clenched together behind his back, Kessa
suspected he'd prefer a dungeon in the Birch's basement. "That
might be useful, Mistress Siphe. My thanks."

"And
mine to you, Master Kymus. We're indebted to you again. I don't know
where Nissy would've gotten that . . ."

Kessa
said, low and dull, "You can smoke tea with the joy-powder, like
dry tea's made. Could be a simple mix-up. Or an admirer might've
brought some."

Kymus
sigh-snorted. "Search her rooms for anything like a tea or
powder. The powder might be in cakes, like cubes of salt. I can sniff
the kitchen's tea later, if you want."

"We
will. This way?" Probably receiving a nod, Mistress Siphe led
them to a second floor bedroom, with stool, chair, and a four-poster
bed large enough for a cozy two. The door was as thick as Kessa's
wrist, and three of the walls were heavy with hangings, while the
fourth was taken up by a brick chimney that radiated heat. The rugs
weren't plush, but layered so even the squeaking of floorboards was
muffled.

Despite
the warmth, Kessa huddled in her cloak, bones feeling like ice.
Jontho'd be waiting at the carriage-house, where Tag'd bought some
"look aside" from the staff. But that was a brisk walk
away.

Brague
squeezed her shoulder gently: an unexpected attempt to reassure her.

Behind
them, Kymus thanked Siphe and someone closed the door; its soft
thunk
was enough like the sound of the prison door to make Kessa shudder
again. It left her alone with the two men.

"Now."
Kymus stalked over, pushing Kessa's hood away from her face. (Beneath
the cloak, her hands twitched towards where her dagger was belted.)
"Little frozen rain spirits, Kessa,
what aren't you telling
me
?"

So
much. So blighted much. She said, "About what?" It hurt her
throat.

"About–"
He broke off and put his hand to her cheek. "Blight.
You're
chilled. Are you sick?"

She
shook her head, and wished her hair were loose to fall against her
cheeks.

Above
and behind her, Brague cleared his throat. "M'lord."

Kymus
glanced up, then over at the bed, and emitted a strangled
er
.
After a breath, he said, "Well, there's but one office, and I
can hardly evict Siphe from it. Come sit, Kessa." He took her
arm, leading her to the room's chair and claiming the footstool
himself.

The
chair smelled of leather, perfumes, and – despite clae
dustings – brothel odors. There was no way to look at Kymus
without showing her eyes, so she closed them tightly.

"Kessa . . .
Are you
afraid
?" He sounded shocked.

"You're
angry at me." She refused to cry for the shattered fantasy of
moonlit summer rooftops. Foolishness deserved no mourning.

"You're
not telling me everything you know about joy-powder."

"The
man who raised me . . . He got the craving. Died of
it. That's all." And mayhap Maila'd blamed herself for giving
him the stuff, and become careless enough to be killed by a rival.

That
poison'd been an oily blackness across her tongue, when she'd tasted
Maila's cup afterwards.

"
Is
it all, Kessa? Or do you know how to make
that
accursed brew
also?"

"No."
Maila'd viewed the profitable joy-powder as least important to teach
her disciple. Kessa knew most of the ingredients, though. In a
well-stocked workroom, she could likely re-discover the recipe. She'd
helped with it.

"Then
why . . ."

"You
grabbed
me!" She kept her eyes squeezed shut. "You
judged me guilty the moment I spoke!"

The
silence stretched; she refused to look. Finally, voice defeated, he
said, "My apologies, Tradeswoman."

It
didn't warm her bones. It didn't mend the illusions she'd had. But it
was something. Tiredly, she said, "May I go home now?"

He
paused again, for some reason. "If you wish. You'll be . . .
all right? With your guard?"

"Yes."

"Jeck
could take you back."

That'd
leave Jontho dithering and confused. She shook her head.

"I
could have Jeck take you
both
back."

"
No
,"
she breathed, throat closing up.

"Kessa . . ."
He took her hand in both of his, though she flinched instinctively.
"Why won't you trust me?"

For
a moment, she couldn't answer him. Then, with the memory of the
outside cold: "I've a cynical view of everyone, Kymus."

"Nearly
everyone," he corrected. "How do I become part of the
nearly
and not the
everyone
?"

She
thought of her brothers and sister. Laughing in the good times,
teasing each other. Closing ranks in the bad times, sharing food and
warmth as they could. Holding hands in the dark when there were no
words to make anything better. Holding hands in the day, when no
words could express the perfection of the moment.