Herb-Wife (Lord Alchemist Duology) (11 page)

"I
don't even know if they'd be put up during dinner." Having small
spirits of
neatness
was slightly alarming, as if things might
pick themselves up and move after she set them down.

"Perhaps
we can ask that they be left?"

"I
don't know! I never thought I'd marry at all, let alone someone with
servants. Who'd want an ugly half-breed?"

"You're
not ugly," Nicia said, a bit uncertainly.

"My
eyes are." Kessa set the cup down so she could wrap her arms
around herself. Too much truth. "I'm sorry. I should be . . .
gracious."

"It's
all right. If I'd lost my home, I don't know what I'd do."

"One
breath at a time," Kessa said. She took a deep one and let it
out. "Hand me a book. We can search till dinner."

Nicia
brought one over. "I can stay, if you want. We can keep working
on this till we need to sleep."

Kessa
smiled up at her, eyes closed, too raw inside to say no. "Thank
you."

The
apprentice plopped onto the couch next to her. "I'm just glad I
can help."

Chapter
VII

I
t
was dawn by the time Iathor got home, for he and his men had slept in
the Emerald Cat's volunteered cots, as usual. Prowling the dark,
winter streets had been surprisingly odd, without the cross-dressed
girl with them. (The catseye ointment bleached the world of warm
colors, leaving grays and blues. He'd been able to meet Kessa's gaze.
And she'd stared back in ineffable fascination, or looked away.)

"She
was upset to've lost the cloak we gave her,"
Brague'd
commented.

It'd
been a castoff, liberated from his closet. Iathor barely believed she
wasn't
glad
to've lost it.

And
yet, she agreed.
He yawned his way into his kitchen's quiet
morning bustle.

It
smelled of baking bread and spiced oatmeal:
edible
gruel,
rather than the carefully bland stuff Tania prepared if she thought
he deserved it. Iathor moved out of Brague's way, and inhaled
appreciatively.

"Ah,
m'lord," Tania said, all warm cheer and welcome. "Breakfast?
Or back to bed?"

"Mmmmm.
Breakfast appeals . . ." He nodded to a pair of
servant-girls, who giggled and ducked their heads, no longer quite so
intimidated by the Lord Alchemist as when they'd first arrived.

"Then
find a place to sit, m'lord – breakfast nook or here."

While
Brague nodded to Tania and slipped away to help Jeck put away
carriage and horses, Iathor slid into the place the two girls
vacated. "Warmer here, I'll wager."

As
Tania bustled, the servant-lad next to Iathor swung his legs over the
bench and stood. And that revealed . . .

Kessa,
in the over-sized houserobe, picking at her oatmeal. The bowl was
half-empty, so she'd had some appetite. Iathor was surprised she was
awake; when Brague'd woken him for night patrol, the dramsman'd said
Keli's daughter Nicia was staying the night, and they'd only gone to
bed an hour or two before.

"Good
morning to you, Kessa." He wondered how close he dared sit.

"Suppose,"
she muttered. She mustered up a brighter tone. "Good morning to
you, M . . . Iathor."

"Was
that nearly 'Master Kymus'?"

She
stirred her bowl, wafting the smell of honey and spices. "Mm."

Iathor
interlaced his fingers on the table. "The morning's not kind?"
he said, suspecting titles were a bad sign, as they'd been when his
mother castigated his father.

"I'd
a nightmare." She took a spoonful of oatmeal. "A stupid
nightmare."

"I'm
sorry."

She
ate the spoonful. "N'your fault."

I
wasn't there in time. I didn't protect you.
That felt like his
fault. "Do you want to speak of it?"

"It
was stupid. No reason for . . . running around here,
lost. If there were fire, I've a window
in my room
."
Kessa stared into the bowl.

All
he could say was, "Ah." If the thought of
burning
made him flash to that waking nightmare, how much more might she feel
it?

She
went back to a lighter tone, slightly forced. "How was patrol?"

"Uneventful
for me, though two others found someone trying to crack open a
window, and gave chase. The thief got away." No sign of
arsonists, nor face-burned men. "We'll have to replace your
patrolling gear."

"Putting
me in boy's clothing, eh?" she said, almost as flirtatious as
her sister'd been. "You like boys?"

He
snorted. "I like y–"
You
The realization was as
sudden and burning as Hele's ointment upon a cut; scalding, searing,
healing.

Odd.
I'd not realized I'd been wounded.
He barely noted Tania'd set a
bowl of good, sweet oatmeal before him.

The
herb-witch hesitated, feral, still, and tense – then set down
her spoon, neither fast nor slow, and stood. "I think . . .
I'd best try to sleep again."

An
unspoken
Master Kymus
drifted behind her words. "Kessa,"
he said, reaching out.

She
swung her head to the side (seeming a wild animal, when he saw her
eyes). For a moment, he thought she'd flee. But she brushed the back
of his hand with her fingertips, as if he were some boiling potion
she dared not touch.

He
wondered if her expression could've been read, even unfouled by her
savage eyes.

Then
she walked around the table and out the door, arms wrapped around
herself. Holding the robe closed, perhaps.

Tania
leaned over his other shoulder. "M'lord," she asked, with
the careful neutrality of a cook who controlled the supply of bland
gruel, "did you upset the poor girl?"

"I'm
not sure." He covered the back of his hand, where his skin
prickled.

"Mmm.
I certainly hope not." Tania bustled off.

Thankfully,
she'd left the
good
breakfast. Iathor savored it as the only
interesting thing to eat for days, if he'd misjudged Kessa's
reaction.

Afterward,
he felt awake enough to go to his office with a pot of tea. Despite
wanting to focus only on finding those responsible for harming Kessa
(his betrothed,
betrothed
) . . . there simply
wasn't enough information to obsess over. Pacing the room was sadly
boring. That left his day-to-day work: Little flares of the
recently-settled price dispute with the Weavers' Guild, over shared
ingredients; proposed masterworks by journeymen; financial summaries;
reports from officers and syndics in other cities.

Writing
letters to nobles who'd be offended if not notified of Kessa's
testing. He left the date blank.

The
letter to Prince Tegar . . .
You need not force me
to wed, for I've secured my bride's agreement.
He set that one
aside, too; such a missive should contain invitations.

It
was closer to noon when Kessa and Nicia emerged for late breakfast.
Iathor followed the scent and secured warm, buttered rolls, then
bowed and excused himself; the apprentice and journeyman were sitting
very close together, very quietly. His presence obviously blighted
whatever they
wanted
to discuss.

Shortly
after, Kessa peeped around his door sidelong, eyes hidden by a swoop
of hair. "We'll be in the library, researching. That's all
right, yes?"

"Of
course." He almost teased
Just don't eat the books,
but
after his brother's remarks about the wandering savages, who were
half of Kessa's bloodline . . . It wasn't funny.
"Loria has a workroom key, if needed."

Kessa's
thank you
was barely audible.

The
girls broke for lunch; before joining them, Iathor curiously looked
in the library.

No
books were out.

To
have such tidy students would be more miracle than he could credit.
So either they weren't studying – something he'd suspect if
one were a boy – or they didn't want to reveal what they'd
focused on.

As
he took his own seat for lunch, he asked the two close-seated girls,
"Will I be told what you're researching?"

"It's
a surprise," Kessa said, before Nicia could do more than look
uncomfortable. "We may need to go to the hospice to find the
right book."

"May
I send Dayn with you?"

"Please,"
she said, to his relief (it would've been inconvenient to have his
dramsman guard her covertly). "If I can't find what I want at
the hospice, I'll have to ask the Herbmaster if she's still got those
books she lent me, last . . . month, was it?"

"So
recently." Iathor shook his head. "It seems longer."

"Like
a child's dragon-tale," Kessa murmured. Then she asked Nicia,
"When will your buggy come?"

"Slightly
after noon. I hope Master Peran doesn't mind me being a little late."

Iathor
said, "The Alchemists' Guild pays Master Peran's stipend. I'll
request his forgiveness, if necessary." He doubted it would be.

Nicia
carried the conversation afterward, Kessa asking questions about the
girl's family party the night before last. As they finished the
bread-and-stew, Iathor settled back to watch them. Or, truthfully,
watch what little Kessa allowed anyone to see of her. Face hidden
behind her hair, hands often in her lap . . .
She's
a small rat, pretending very hard to be a mouse. Often, she nearly
succeeds.
But rats had sharper teeth.

When
Nicia's stories trailed off, Iathor asked, "Kessa, the matter I
mentioned yesterday – have you any preferences for when you'd
prove your immunities?"

She
looked down at her dress: the same one as yesterday, though
clae-dusted to remove the burned odors, and brushed thoroughly to
remove the ashy stains. "Whenever I've a suitable dress, I
suppose," she said, just a little distantly for true
indifference. "How long will it take?"

"Up
to three hours to assemble everyone, a half-hour to assure everyone
I'm using the correct potion, and seconds to resolve the question.
Then up to an hour of fielding daft questions from those who didn't
pay attention, or have some bone to pick." Iathor rolled his
eyes.

Though
drowned out by Nicia's giggle, that might've been the ghost of a
chuckle, from behind Kessa's hair. "And where . . . ?"

"The
guild offices. The meeting room should be big enough."

His
herb-witch nodded. "All right."

The
easy agreement worried him; once, it seemed, she'd balked at any
suggestions he made. That led to fretting about why she'd so suddenly
agreed to his proposal. He drank tea instead of speaking. When the
bell rang in the kitchen, he said, "That must be your buggy,
Nicia. I'll call Dayn."

However,
it was Thioso in the front hallway, shaking out his cloak and fending
off the servant boy who offered to take it. Small snowflakes sparkled
as they melted. "Ah, Sir Kymus. Miss Kessa. And . . . ?"

"Miss
Nicia Greenhands, the Herbmaster's daughter," Iathor said.
"Nicia, this is Thioso, who's been looking into various matters.
The Masons' Guild pays his stipend, so he's entirely unbeholden to
me."

Nicia
curtseyed: a tiny, polite bob. Kessa wrapped her hands under her
elbows and somehow faded back without moving. Thioso bowed. "A
delight to meet you." Straightening, he added, "If I could
borrow the primary witness, I'd like to check that we found the right
alley."

"That
would be up to Kessa," Iathor said. "However, I'd rather
she go nowhere without one of my servants."

Kessa
muttered, "I'm not arguing."

Iathor
clasped his hands behind his back, lest he feel her forehead and
grumble about fevers.

Thioso
asked, politely, "And will you accompany me, then?"

"If
you'll drop me off at the guild hospice after. Unless Nicia wants to
come along?"

Nicia
bit her lip; Iathor suspected whatever she might want, it didn't
include traipsing through a light snowfall, seeking the alley where
her friend had nearly been raped. However, Nicia said, "Can we
drop by the hospice first, to tell Master Peran?"

Thioso
shrugged. "So long as it's your buggy. Mine's clattered off,
like as not."

Kessa
asked, "So you were planning on borrowing Ky– Iathor's?"

Iathor
repressed the urge to sweep her hair aside and kiss the back of her
neck and shoulders until her instinct was for his
first
name.
Aside from the witnesses, doing so without asking permission was
unlikely to end well.

Thioso
said, cheerily, "A man can hope. Might there be sweet rolls
about, by any chance?"

Iathor
caught the servant boy's eye. "Zeth, is it? Ask Tania to do up
a basket – with sweet rolls, if there's surplus – for
Kessa and Nicia to take to the hospice. And something for the
watchman here; if the weather's disreputable, he deserves
compensation. Then ask Dayn if he'd escort Kessa."