Herb-Wife (Lord Alchemist Duology) (38 page)

She
made herself stop. "Go."

"Kessa,"
he complained. "Please don't."

"Didn't
you say . . . this is my room?" She opened her
eyes to stare at the canopy above the bed, with its amber-lit blue
and gray turned to greens and browns.

"Yes,
but . . ." His voice sounded pained, and he
curled against her hips. "It's a blighted wretch who pleasures a
woman and leaves her upset and alone. I'm not going against my better
judgment again."

If
I don't make you go now, I'll never be able to do it.
She
gathered herself to sit. "Then I'll sleep on the couch."

"What?
No!" He jerked up, bracing himself on stiffened arms to stare at
her though her face was turned away. "Kessa,
why
?"

"You
swamp me, Iathor. You wash me all away until I don't understand what
I feel." She closed her eyes tightly. "I hate you. I hate
you. Go." She couldn't manage to put heat into her voice.

"I
don't think that's
hate
, my lady wife."

Terrifying
thought. "Will you go? Or was it a lie, giving me this room?"

His
wrists were still against her hips. She felt him wince. "You've
infuriatingly good aim. Very well. But . . . you know
where my bed is, and if this one becomes too empty . . ."
He started to crawl off.

She
pulled her robe closed again. "That'd mean you'd won, Kymus."

"Mm."
He stood over her. "I believe tomorrow is a night patrol. If I
leave for Cym the day after – and I'll try to talk to the
city-prince before I go – will you patrol with me?"

She
should say no. She should say she'd be hiding under her bed with the
door blocked by a chair. She opened her mouth to say
perhaps
.
"Yes."

Iathor
put a hand on her shoulder and leaned over to kiss the top of her
head. He'd the scent of
her
on him, and yes, tinged with the
faintest edge of bittersweet and sharpness, like the conception brew.
She barely kept herself from covering his hand with hers, and their
fingers brushed as he stood. He asked, "You're sure I shouldn't
stay?"

"Must
I shove you out?"

He
was smiling as he raised his hands to ward off her glare. "Not
this time, my lady wife," he told her, and fled.

The
bed-curtains blocked him from view. When the door closed again, she
held her breath till she heard footsteps heading across the sitting
room. Then she turned and beat silently on her pillow for a few
moments, flopping on it with her eyes blurring. She didn't know if
she wanted to scream with fury, weep anguished tears, or give up
after all and walk from her room to his.

Stubbornly,
she did none of those, until she fell asleep.

Chapter
XXII

I
athor'd
sent a letter once he'd returned to the offices; the city-prince
returned a summons for the very next noon. Tucked into an informal
audience chamber with the social trappings of weak wine and meat on
bread (and a single dramsman bodyguard by the door), Iathor explained
what his brother'd done, and likely meant to do in Cym.

Prince
Tegar paced, his meat rolled into the bread-slice. "Blighted
prejudice. Aye, it'd be a handicap to have a brown-eyed, dark-haired
boy in Cym – the politics are more vicious there, after all.
But the seat of the Alchemists' Guild is here in Aeston, and I've no
intention of making anywhere else seem better. My son knows the
value, too." He sighed. "But I can't say you're wrong, how
my cousin'd jump if there's political pressure in favor of a paler
boy. Not likely to order the conception ended, though, if he wants
more immune stock."

Iathor
hadn't considered that possibility, though it was instantly logical.
He set his glass down abruptly as his throat closed in protest.

"Now,
even if matters swing ill, if your brother returns here, I'd make
m'own pressure to ensure his boy got your training. Seems to me that
while Iasen's a social man, he's got less credit than he should among
men with daughters. And little, I hear, among the masters of your
guild, either. But that's a poor second choice to getting everyone
used to your son looking a touch over-baked."

Iathor'd
not
tell Kessa that turn of phrase. "It was also my hope,
your Grace. At only quarter-barbarian, he might be light enough for
hair bleaching to be useful. But yes, some masters would support a
more traditional lad. And there'd be intense pressure, I think, to
find one immune even if he weren't."

"Blight
that brother of yours. Why'd he take it into his head he wanted the
title, anyway? If he'd ambition, he'd have been breeding sons for the
past twenty years, I'd think, to get an immune one." The
city-prince took an over-large bite of his food.

"As
far as I can tell, he's simply taken an extreme dislike to the
thought of a barbarian bloodline. Unless it's Kessa in
particular . . . He apparently hoped she'd take all
blame for that moneylender's dis-minding, so Lairn, his student,
wouldn't be noticed." That could be for several reasons: to keep
Lairn from being imprisoned rather than producing profitable teas and
dyes, keep the customers from fearing it'd been his tea alone, keep
the teas secret . . .

"Well,
I'll have to write a persuading letter if Iasen gets political clout
behind him. Cym's closer to the frontier, and they get more savages –
not the truly wild, hostile ones, of course, but enough peaceful
tribes that curiosity's worn off. Fewer people thinking they're bold
Wind-followers who go exploring and traveling for the spirits, since
some tribes settle on the outskirts. Cheap, grubby labor."
Despite his casual manner, the city-prince's words betrayed his
knowledge of the capital.

"I
hope to leave tomorrow. My people are packing for myself and Kessa."

"Taking
her with you? Court'd eat her alive. Not sure enough'd see her as a
poor innocent."

"I
was planning to bring her covertly, your Grace. She dresses as a boy
well enough, and I claim her as a student quite truthfully. My
mother's kin might feel slighted if I left her behind." Besides,
Iathor wasn't sure what trouble might result with an unsupervised
Kessa.

The
city-prince snorted. "I suppose she must act a boy well enough.
She acted a timid country cony at the wedding, after all. Not so
timid when you're alone, eh?"

"It
depends, your Grace." Iathor tried not to think of how his
wife's body had pressed against his when he mouthed her pierced
earlobe.

"But
you're smiling, Kymus. Right, there's other reasons to bring a girl."
Tegar caught up his wine-glass for a large swallow. "So, I'll
have an agent at your house tomorrow, before noon. Drag him along.
He'll have my letter to my cousin, and another to act as my hand in
the law, if you need help retrieving your brother. Aught else needed
from me?"

"Unless
you know a suitable woman in the Aeston cells who'd rather the
draught and a bodyguard's job, with a bit of maidservant training,
instead of the work-gangs . . ." Iathor shook his
head. "I've not finished the replacement draught anyway, and
cannot think of anything else I might need, your Grace. I thank you
for what you've offered."

"Huh.
No, no cross-dressed assassins or the like yet. If the guard catches
any, I'll send word. Or if Dhaenoc hears of some soldier-woman
discovered in the local troops."

Earl
Dhaenoc, brother to Prince Tegar's wife, was in charge of the city
guard and – save for loyalties owed to the Princeps –
the army troops garrisoned in Aeston. Iathor shook his head at
himself. "Yet another possibility I'd not considered. Thank you,
your Grace."

"Thank
me if I find anyone. I'll add a note that my cousin should give you
run of his cells, too, for that matter." Prince Tegar devoured
the last, large bite of his meal.

That
sounded like a dismissal. "I'll seek time to look in them.
Hopefully Iasen will cooperate without guardsmen." And hopefully
his brother'd left most of his dramsmen in Aeston, to maintain the
fiction of his presence.

The
city-prince set down his empty glass. "He's dug in deep against
you, Kymus. Don't confront him alone."

Though
Aeston was long-civilized, no longer ruled by a marchlord, Iathor'd
never heard it said Tegar Aeslird was incompetent in the bluff
frontier-lord role he affected. Iathor stood, with perhaps half his
meat and bread remaining. "I'll take your advice, your Grace."

"Good
man. Take the meal there, too, so you'll not go hungry." He
waved casually as he headed for the door. "I've another
petitioner. Safe travels to you, Master Kymus."

"And
you, your Grace." Iathor folded the remaining bread around the
meat and followed the bodyguard out, collecting Brague.

It
took longer at the guild's offices than Iathor wanted, preparing for
his trip on short notice – while technically on his light-work
day. The last hours were spent delegating, making sure Master
Fantho'd retrieved Lairn successfully, and watching Herbmaster Keli
and Fantho eye each other until Iathor asked pointedly if there was a
problem.

Upon
being assured there were no problems whatsoever, Iathor dismissed
them so he could work until dusk. Then he went home, and hoped his
late-sleeping wife hadn't secluded herself in her room again.

Dayn
met him in his carriage house. "No surprises today, m'lord.
M'lady's dressing for dinner, after her bath."

"That's
nearly a surprise itself," Iathor said wryly as they headed into
the house. "My thanks. Are we prepared for tonight and tomorrow?
Prince Tegar's sending an agent before noon, tomorrow, to travel with
us."

"Loria
says we've garments for 'Kellisan' on the trip, and dresses for Kessa
once we've arrived, m'lord. We'll have two larger cases, and smaller
packs in case the larger must follow us."

Or
in case bandits sought to waylay the coach, or some theater-plot
chaos sent them running through the streets of Cym. "Good. Let's
hope nothing goes awry."

"Aye,
m'lord."

He
collapsed into his chair in the dining nook shortly before Kessa
entered, wearing a simple, blue-gray dress that made her skin seem
darker and sallow. She paused at the foot of the table, and for a
moment he feared she'd simply perch there like a feral cat, as she
had yesterday. But, watching him through a swoop of her hair, she sat
to his right.

He
reached over to stroke along her jaw; her hair was still damp,
belying any claims that barbarian bloodlines preferred grubbiness.
When his fingers reached her ear and the twisted wire, she drew in
her breath and leaned back, face tipped upward and eyes closed.

It
wasn't the practiced, seductive enjoyment of a courtesan. It wasn't
the understated, slightly theatrical reaction of a noble's daughter –
and he'd been called back from Cym's alchemist academy for flirting
too-seriously with highborn girls rather than restricting his
experiments to women of coin-bought chastity. It was an open,
vulnerable moment, and if he'd not been half-starved, he'd have
called for privacy and led his wife to the sitting room's couches.

"I
hate you,"
she'd said, but he couldn't believe that. She'd
likely never've spoken of the emotion, were it sincere. Though he had
tumbled her life about . . .

His
house, his servants, his coin to buy her clothes – or his
mother's dresses, fitted in size, but not color.

His
touch upon her, when she'd been more innocent of intimate sensations
than even a sheltered noble's daughter.

No
wonder she might've been upset. And no wonder she'd sent him out,
unsure if his gift of a room was a fiction – and thus he'd
left, despite knowing it a poor choice, and frustrating.

As
the door from the kitchen opened, Iathor moved his fingers to her
shoulder and down her arm. It earned him a smoldering look through
her hair, as a predator might eye a fat sheep, and his spike of alarm
was tinged with an entirely different excitement. He plotted to catch
her in a warm, dark corner during the patrol and see how long he
could coax her to hold his gaze.

He
was contemplating this interesting thought, and watching her eat her
stew, when Kessa kicked his ankle.

"Ow."
He moved his feet out of range, though it'd been a half-hearted blow.
"What'd I do?"

"You're
not eating."

He
remembered he was hungry. "Ah. My thanks."

She
said nothing else, and he couldn't think of anything more interesting
than simply enjoying the food and her presence – save
provoking, unsuitable questions.
Why so insistent on having my
son, so quickly? You feared I'd tire of you? Were you buying a place
here, and thought it merely duty, without chance of pleasure?

He
thought,
I don't want to swamp you, nor wash you away,
but
realized . . . Seeing her react to his touch was a
fierce delight, even as it'd been to see her pupils, unreacting to
the draught.
I want to return you to shore afterward, then.