Herb-Wife (Lord Alchemist Duology) (3 page)

"Mm."
Iathor kept himself from nudging her remaining bit of roll. At least
she'd finished the egg-crepes. "The . . . weather
continues fair, if cooler."

Her
dark hand crept up to take the last bit of jam-laden roll. "I'd
thought it might go bitter," she creaked, voice cutting out on
the higher notes.

I
was going to teach Fervefax Stones, for warmth.
"It may yet,
by tonight."

"Good
night to . . . have somewhere . . .
warm." She nearly dropped the roll on her plate, gripping both
hands in her lap.

Her
home in flames . . . Iathor tried not to wince.
Perhaps the weather wasn't innocuous. He turned his mug about in his
hands. "I hope the tea's helping your throat," he said, and
belatedly thought better of it. Truth-compelling Tryth elixir, in
tea, had uncovered her immunities in that prison cell, and led to his
shock-numb proposal.

For
once, her chancy temper didn't seem to flare. "A bit. It'll
heal."

"I . . .
expect Herbmaster Keli to visit. If I've nothing suitable prepared,
mayhap she can suggest a healing brew." Anything to do with
herb-witches was of interest to the Herbmaster of the Alchemists'
Guild. Further, Iathor'd sent her a message last night, in case the
attack on Kessa had been a general move against herb-witches.

Perhaps
Keli could uncover how quickly Kessa'd escaped.

Kessa
creaked an acknowledgment, then quickly ate that last bite of roll.

Iathor
sighed and pushed back his chair. "We should go into the sitting
room." He sounded reluctant even to himself.

She
wrapped her hands around her tea mug. "I . . . I
might bleed through . . ."

"I'll
buy new cushions. I'll buy a new couch."

Her
lips twitched slightly. In her cracked rasp, she said, "Cheaper
to buy a new towel."

He
paused, about to pull her chair out for her. "You're right. I'll
have one fetched."

Before
he turned, he couldn't stop himself from lightly touching Kessa's
hair again, just enough to feel the cool strands on his fingertips.
Then he drew back, worried at how still she went at even that
contact, and went through the door between breakfast nook and
kitchen.

He
didn't
quite
have his entire household listening at the door.
His cook, Tania, fussed with leftovers, turning them into snacks with
a pair of her cousin-apprentices helping. Brague, his first dramsman,
bodyguard and valet, sat at the servant's general table with a mug in
his hand. Dayn, footman and apprentice bodyguard, was across from
him, legs on the side of the bench that allowed him to stand at a
moment's notice. The steward, Loria, sat next to the door, making
alterations to a dress pulled from storage.
Mother's gardening
dress,
he thought, and had to shake his head slightly. "If
someone could provide a towel? Kessa worries for the couches."

Loria
snorted. "Some of them could use re-covering, m'lord." She
pointed at one of the children. "Zeth, fetch one of the shabby
towels. A good, thick one."

"Aye!"
The boy darted to the pantry-like door that housed a servants'
hallway beyond the shelves.

Iathor
added, "When you've a moment, Loria, if you could have a lesser
healing elixir brought up? I'm worried for Kessa's voice."
Healing elixirs
should
work on her, but if not . . .
Well, the Herbmaster would visit.

"Yes,
that did sound bad." Loria laid the dress on her vacated chair.
"I wasn't sure it was safe to offer one, m'lord."

"The
tea's not helped as much as I'd like. This far after the Purgatorie,
there should be no threat." He nodded to her before returning to
hover beside Kessa's chair.

The
herb-witch'd refilled her tea cup, and was dripping honey into it.
Once she'd stirred it in, she slanted a look at Iathor through her
hair.

Far
too meek and polite for the usually temperamental young woman. He
hoped it was to save her voice and not because she'd been hurt too
badly. (He shied from thinking of how bad it might have been.)

After
he pulled her chair back, she picked up her tea with both hands and
stood, passively waiting for him to steer her into the other room. It
made his skin prickle at his shoulder blades, and awoke old
nightmares of dramswives.
She's immune,
he told himself,
guiding Kessa with a light touch on her shoulder.
This isn't . . .
permanent.

She
stood by the hearth and its glowing coals until the servant boy,
Zeth, arrived with the towel. Iathor spread it on the end-seat of the
most comfortable couch, and was relieved when she sat without urging.
Too restless to sit, he leaned against the mantle above the
fireplace. "Can you answer some questions?" he asked,
trying to make it gentle.

Kessa
sipped her tea. "Mayhap."

Better
than the stubborn silence he'd half-expected, or an outright
no
.
"I've written to the watch, and set some of the guild's
sponsored men to earn their stipend by asking questions and keeping
your shop from being looted." It was fortunate much of Aeston
was built with brick. There actually
was
something left of the
building. "I hear the family upstairs escaped entirely, though
they lost most of their belongings, of course."

"My
fault," Kessa rasped, staring into her mug. "Thought Wolf'd
realize . . . not my door, in back. Just take a club
to everything. Not burn it."

"You
think it was him?" The extortionist had bullied herb-witchery
from Kessa, even in the street. His two minions had fallen to an
alchemical sleep-bomb, but Wolf had escaped.

"Leaving
that stupid mouse skull on my door. Rat skull. Part-barbarian
himself. Probably thought they'd scare me." Kessa drank again.

Guilt
was bitter. Iathor'd forgotten to warn her of the plans to catch
them; if she'd known, she might've avoided being linked to the trap.
"I'm sorry."

She
shrugged.

"It
doesn't make sense, though," he continued. "Unless . . .
Was he . . . with the men who attacked you?"

She
shook her head.

Iathor
looked down into the hearth, and back again. "I fear it's the
Shadow Guild."

"What?"
She nearly looked up at him, head jerking partway around, before she
dropped her gaze. "They'd have no interest in me."

He
took a breath. "Kessa, you know too many brews that I can't
believe you learned at the knee of that senile herb-witch in the
country." Hele's ointment, an alchemical wound-mending paste;
something she'd called Tagget's Tonic, that she'd used on a
moneylender and inadvertently mixed with alchemy that dis-minded him;
the self-poison she'd used to escape her attackers. "Perhaps the
Shadow Guild was willing to ignore you before, but once you came to
my attention . . ."

"They'd
no reason to burn my shop. None!" The last word sparked another
coughing fit.

Loria
showed up at the end of it, carrying a mug-sized bottle and another
cup. "We're low on the Brado's elixir, m'lord. Only two more."

Iathor
took it from his steward. "Much as I'd rather brew replacements
myself, I think you'd best write to the guild offices and make some
journeymen happy."

"Aye,
m'lord." Loria looked between him and Kessa and frowned
meaningfully at him.

Obediently
(he'd no wish to eat her sister's finest gruel for dinner) he sat
beside Kessa before he uncorked the bottle and poured it into the
cup. The bittersweet alchemy smell spread itself through his nose and
the back of his mouth, mint and earthy fork-root following.

Kessa
set her tea on the low table in front of her and reached for the cup
of Brado's. She held it a moment, then her shoulders slumped and she
took a large sip, tilting her head back so it could trickle slowly
down her throat. Her eyes were closed, first normally, then tightly
in pain.

Iathor
sympathized. There were numbing elements in the brew, but the
alchemist's immunity he and Kessa shared meant anything that fooled
the mind worked poorly or not at all. Drinking Brado's, using a
Hele's ointment . . . Both would burn on the injured
flesh and in the blood.

Two
more large mouthfuls emptied the cup, and Kessa set it aside to drink
more tea. She whispered, "Thank you."

"I
should've left some by your bed."

"Probably."
That was a relieving shred of tartness.

"I'm
still unsure it was Wolf. He was acting nearly alone, and would he
really have spent coin to hire men?"

"Only
takes one to set a fire," Kessa said, her voice only normally
low.

"But . . .
how many attacked you?"

She
was quiet for a moment. "Four. I think it was . . .
coincidence."

"I
can't believe that. It was too well-timed."

"Wolf
couldn't have known I'd be walking back, not riding in the hired
buggy you arranged. It was twilight. I was a woman alone.
Coincidence."

Four
men attacked you, the same evening your shop was torched, and you
call it coincidence?
Iathor frowned, catching it before it turned
into a scowl. "You marked them, though?"

He
was sure her hands trembled, before she set the mug against her knee.
"Yes. It was . . . Perhaps a quarter hour's walk
from the guild offices. I ran into an alley, to my left. Then . . .
to the right. And a dead end to the left again." She spread out
one hand, palm down, and looked at it.

It
trembled, her nails chipped and ragged. Iathor reached out, but she
curled her hand into a fist and set it on her knee.

He
said, "I'll have that area searched by the watch."

"I
spat in one's face. Bit another. And a hand. The last, I think I only
stabbed, and not well." She rubbed at her upper thigh with her
fisted hand. "I lost my knife."

"I've
already told the guild officers to spread it wide that alchemical
wounds should be reported. Will the men die?"

She
continued to look down at her hand. "I doubt it. Scar, I think.
They'd a cart. One of them could've gotten the others away."

"I'll
have the watch informed. Kessa, why are you sure it wasn't the Shadow
Guild?" The criminals who eventually all paid dues to the city's
Shadow-master . . . Rogue herb-witches were among
them, and the occasional renegade alchemist as well, brewing illegal
potions and skirting the edge of what the Lord Alchemist would
tolerate before he brought true force to bear.

"I've
nothing they want, know nothing they care about. I'm just an
herb-witch."

"You're
immune, and my interest was becoming obvious."

"Only
a fool'd think you'd
not
take me in, if my shop burned."

"It's
the sort of thing meant to drive someone away. To make you
leave
."
He tried not to think
or walk into the flames, after being
attacked.
She'd seemed close to it.

"And
where would I go?" She forced a little laugh. "You'd follow
me. You said so."

"If
you vanish, I will assume you've been abducted, and I will find you."
He remembered swearing that, in the dark cell of the underground
prison. He'd meant it to be reassuring: he'd not allow her to be
kidnapped by extortionists or vanished again by the watchmen who'd
neglected (though he'd never told her that) to report her arrest. And
he'd meant to warn her from running, if she were truly guilty. "We
know that, but . . ."

She
put her tea mug down again, roughly enough to've sloshed if there'd
been more than dregs left. "It wasn't the Shadow Guild! If you
think I know so much about them, then
believe me
! If you think
I'm an ignorant girl, they'd have no interest in me anyway!"

He
leaned forward. "You're
young
, and I wor–"

She
turned her head and glared, making him flinch from what his instincts
saw as a vicious predator's stare. She spat, "If they wanted me,
you'd never've
met
me! My teacher was–" She drew in a
ragged breath. "Was that senile old Chiftia, and I taught
myself
the green death."

Almost,
he burst out,
You're still lying to me!

But
someone knocked on the archway.

Iathor
glanced up at the guardsman in his reddish-brown uniform and worn
tabard, pulling idly at his straw-colored beard. "Thioso. Good
afternoon to you."

"Hope
I'm not interrupting, Sir Kymus. I can go ask your excellent cook if
she's any more sweet pastries, if I am."

And
eavesdrop more, like as not, or whatever it was you were doing when
you came through the kitchen door and not to the front.
"Nothing
vital," he said. "Have you found anything?"

The
man stepped into the room and warmed his hands at the fireplace.
"Little enough. There was some smashing and noise going on from
the shop, what gave a bit of warning for the family above. They wound
up going out their front window, for the flames blocked off their
stairs and door. Fire must've started in the shop's back storeroom."