Herb-Wife (Lord Alchemist Duology) (15 page)

Iathor
coughed. "Ah. I've overstepped." He shifted his legs as far
from her as possible.

She
nearly tried to kick his ankle, before remembering he'd approved of
his mother's hot temper. To truly annoy him, then . . .
Kessa sat primly and said, in her sweetest, softest, and
highest-pitched voice, "Of course not, Master Kymus."

After
a dead silence, he said, "Earth and Rain. Gruel would be
kinder."

"Surely
not, m'lord," she demurred, trying for an even more breathy
pitch.

He
mock-cowered. "Mercy, Kessa, I beg you! This is cruelty."

She
pressed her fist against her mouth to keep from laughter (or perhaps
tears). "I suppose I shouldn't, when I still need to know what
I'll have to do."

Iathor
relaxed and stopped pressing himself against the corner of the
carriage. "Very little. Sit on a stool. Drink the draught from
the vial. Look only at me. Certain of the signs are in the size and
reaction of the pupils."

He'd
have to meet her eyes, and without the color-draining of the catseye
ointment to soften the sight. "Ah, so you've the hard part."

"Kessa,"
he said gently, pausing as the carriage rattled over unevenly packed
dirt. "Kessa, if you didn't use your eyes as a weapon, and hide
them the rest of the time . . ."

She
looked up, jaw set, and saw his own eyes tighten as he forced himself
to meet hers. "It's all they're good for," she said, and
looked out the window again. The carriage jolted again, going to
cobblestones.

He
sighed after a moment. "Come with me, on night patrol?"

Out
in the darkness, where the ointment made the world shades of
gray . . . Where he'd met her eyes with curiosity, not
tension nor flinching . . . Terrifying, to be
watched
like that.

She
moved her hand sightlessly, pressing the knuckles against his leg
till he wrapped his fingers around hers. With a tightness in her
chest, she said, "Yes."

The
buildings outside were a blur of red and golden brick and tile roofs.
There were no words she could find. Finally the carriage stopped. She
could see
The Smoking Flask
tavern, across the brick-paved
square from the guild offices.
Wait,
she thought.
I
wanted . . .
She didn't know, so she let Iathor
help her into the chilly sunlight.

The
guild offices smelled of cedar at the front room, tickling her nose
as usual and covering the other scents. The dramsmen took her cloak
and Iathor's coat, handing them off to an apprentice. She wrapped her
hands around Iathor's offered arm and half-lidded her eyes,
concentrating on the different odors and the way so many of them left
a bittersweet coating inside her nose: the smell of alchemy.

Brague
stalked ahead of them, like a tall brawler looking for trouble
despite his graying hair. Dayn followed behind, a silent servant who
probably noticed everything around him more than anyone noticed him.
They passed few people; Kessa only saw gray pants or hose and boots
of varying quality. Iathor gave only short, distracted greetings.

Kessa
hadn't been to the third floor before. It was mostly meeting room,
with a few offices or storerooms to the other side. A half-dozen
apprentices and journeymen loitered outside a thick, wide door.

The
meeting room itself seemed too huge and too small at the same time.
The floor was bare, dark wood. The walls were covered with pale gray
fabric. Thick gray curtains were pulled back to let sunlight through
glass chunks. The long table wasn't centered in the room, but had
probably been moved for the occasion.

There
were a lot of stools and chairs. Those behind the long table held
people in formal clothing to match Iathor's. Closest to the door was
a woman with graying hair, dressed in plain browns, paper and
ribbon-wrapped graphite sticks before her. Next was a short, round,
balding man with eyes so violet Kessa could tell their color even
through her hair. He picked at his gray gloves in a nervous habit.
Beyond him, tall, skinny Master Iste, who'd occasionally taken over
Iathor's tutoring duties. The next man was red-haired, with thick
green borders surrounding the alchemy gray of his tabard; alchemical
forms were picked out in green and red in the center. None were
explosive fire
designs, so Kessa didn't know what it might
mean.

A
bored, thin-haired clerk was next – witnessing for someone
else, from the gaudy-sigil'd sash he wore over a pale tunic –
and after him, Herbmaster Keli. Kessa's heart nearly stopped;
standing behind the Herbmaster wasn't just her daughter, Nicia,
but . . .
What's Laita doing here?
She barely
noted the even paler-blond Master Mathus Iontele, who'd asked, days
ago when they picked up Iathor from the offices, if she'd heard of
the Iontele Lord Alchemists, before the title passed to the Kymus
line.

Beyond
him, Iasen Kymus slouched, a bit broader in shoulder and cheek than
his elder brother, with hair and eyes a shade lighter, and a
fashionable beard. Kessa dropped her gaze, choking back terror that
her lovely sister was in the same room.
Laita probably insisted.
Keli'd not know to refuse, nor Nicia . . .

She
forced herself to look up again. Another man she didn't recognize,
broad of chest and stomach, with entirely white hair; his long,
gently rippled beard flowed over the white robes of a judge. And
finally . . . Thioso stood at attention at the end of
the table, in a tabard likely borrowed from a Weavers' Guild man: the
hour-glass pattern of bricks, the city's symbol, was embroidered in
deep, shining red, edged in gold thread.

At
the far end of the room was a stool with a cushion.

Kessa
was vaguely aware Iathor murmured greetings, though she couldn't have
matched names to the people afterwards. She managed to focus enough
to hear him say, "Judge Heusmae. I'm glad you were free this
day."

"I
was honored by your invitation, Master Kymus," the judge
acknowledged.

Then
they were past, Iathor steering her to the stool.
I only ever
wanted to keep my head
down
.
But she was
under the gaze of people of importance, and the only way to avoid
true notice was to be elegant and quiet.

Brague
and Dayn put themselves on either side of the stool, backs to the
wall.

Iathor
looked at someone behind Kessa. "Yes, Master Regeth?"

An
unfamiliar voice said, "Master Kymus, my cousin Aleran and
various others were hoping . . ."

"From
all the chairs and stools, the entire guild wants to try to cram
themselves in. Whether they're allowed . . . is up to
Tradeswoman Kessa to decide."

That
wasn't helping her stay
unnoticed
. But perhaps the more
witnesses, the more distractions from her small, dark self? She
licked her lips. "All right."

Iathor
said, "She grants permission. I don't see why the process should
be any more interesting this time than the last, but if everyone
wants to say they were here . . . However, there
will
be conditions."

"I'll
tell them, Master Kymus," the other man said.

There
were sounds of movement and soft voices. Kessa didn't look around as
the noise of entering people grew.

It
took long enough that her initial panic wore off. Desperately, Kessa
bit her lower lip and thought of what she knew of the draught.
Tania'd said nervousness vanished, though she'd felt flushed and
dizzy. The newer draught filled up the heart less than the one
Iathor's father'd brewed. Pupils did . . .
something
.
The master's instructions would triumph over the dramsman's will.

Kessa'd
once taken mindbright elixir before it was fully brewed. The
minnow-silver thoughts had filled her mind with emotionless
knowing
;
Iathor'd not be angry if fooled into taking a dramswife, but
heartbroken.

It
was a woefully tiny collection of facts. It was all she had.

Briefly,
she wished he'd given her the draught when he first met her, not
Tryth elixir. Then it'd be past and nothing more to dread.

"No
more," Iathor called. "You can leave the door open, but the
room's full."

Kessa
looked up at him as he surveyed the room. "Now," his voice
cracked out, in the unbending tones of the Lord Alchemist. "There
are conditions to remaining here. The first, as you all should know,
is that you shall not get into Tradeswoman Kessa's field of view. The
second . . . Once she's taken the draught, there shall
be
utter silence
from you all. Should any one of you speak
before I do, I'll brew the draught for you and take you as my own.
Is. This. Clear."

Thioso's
diffident cough was easy enough to place. "Seems a bit much,
sir."

From
further down the table, Master Iste said, "May I explain, Master
Kymus?"

Iathor
toned down to mere
Guild Master
. "I'll not hoard the
lecture opportunities. If you will, Master Iste, for the benefit of
the apprentices and journeymen in the halls, as well as our watchman
and Clerk Acheril."

"Of
course." In a teacher's voice, the thin alchemist said, "It's
well understood that the dramsman's draught, once taken, will bind
the non-immune to the first human he or she sees. However, even the
blind may be made dramsmen, focusing on the
sound
of the
master's voice, as well as such things as scent or feel. For this
reason, anyone who takes advantage of the new dramsman's vulnerable,
pre-bound state . . . Well. There's only one way to
ensure he'll never contradict the agreed-upon master's orders, isn't
there?"

Iasen's
drawl was nearly mocking. "Awful lot of trouble to bother with,
if the herb-witch
is
immune."

Another
unfamiliar voice said, "Nevertheless, Master Iasen, I've had
apprentices brew trash potions and marked down or dismissed the
careless. The procedure here . . . is silence."

Herbmaster
Keli added, "Master Coty's right. Sloppy technique when it
doesn't matter only breeds sloppy technique when it matters greatly."

"Exactly,"
said the Lord Alchemist. "Now, those unsure if they can restrain
their voices may leave, for their own safety."

The
whole room seemed to hold its breath.

He
snorted. "I see. Very well. We begin."

Kessa
watched him reach into his open robes, taking out a vial of thick,
clear glass. The liquid inside was blood-red, sealed within by wax
and ribbon, the ribbon wound through a metal loop so the stopper
could be pulled out.

Iathor
held the vial high, then offered it to Judge Heusmae. Kessa twisted
slightly, watching the white-robed man examine it. "The seal is
intact. Do any others wish to examine it?"

"Yes,"
Iasen said.

"And
I, then," came Keli's voice, followed by a soft
If I might
from the clerk.

Judge
Heusmae passed it down, and Kessa didn't twist further to watch.
Either Iasen'd try to tamper with it (under the eyes of half the
guild, it seemed) or not.

Thioso
wasn't watching her. His eyes were intent on the vial, like a hound
who heard something far away.

Too
long, too soon, it was passed back. With all the flair of a
streetside magician, Iathor slowly wrapped his fingers in the ribbon.
He held the vial a forearm's length from his chest, and pulled the
stopper free.

Kessa
was close enough to scent the fumes that rolled out, so thickly sweet
and bitter that she wondered it wasn't smoking visibly. It was like
honeyvine. Like honey. Sweeter, wrapping into her nose and chest,
coating the back of her tongue.

Carefully,
she stood and pushed the stool away with one foot. Tania'd said
dizzy
, and Kessa . . . would have the truth of
her own body, whether she succeeded or failed.

She
looked from his chest long enough to take the vial. She remembered to
hold it a little out from her body, so it'd be easy for the judge and
Thioso, at least, to see she spilled nothing. Then Iathor slipped his
fingers to either side of her face, blocking her view of the rest of
the room like blinders on a horse.

The
Lord Alchemist said to the room, "Silence. Now."

The
room held its breath again.

Iathor
looked down to her. "When you're ready, Kessa," he
whispered. His hands were warm.

She
wasn't ready. But she'd not been ready, when she'd sipped the
Tryth-laced tea. Not like when she'd tested Tagget's Tonic on
herself, safely alone in her shop, where she only yawned a
moment . . .

Yawned
a moment, affected briefly, before it passed.

Drank
the Tryth elixir and wanted to speak truth, then lied entirely.

Scented
the lust-candle when she and Iathor'd investigated the alchemical
disaster in Iasen's basement, and wondered if the continuing dose
made her think oddly.

Been
dizzy in the concentrated fumes of an entire day's worth of brewing
and sampling.