Herb-Wife (Lord Alchemist Duology) (43 page)

The
door opened again, on the tail end of a woman saying, "–have
written
– Earth and Rain, Iathor, is that
you
?"

He
found a polite smile for his cousin – mother's brother's
daughter, an early widow who'd moved back in with her brother and his
wife. "Jonie. I did write, but not enough in advance,
apparently. My apologies."

Joniacae
laughed and clapped her hands. "Oh, Iathor! Come in, come in! We
heard you'd married, but really, we'd thought you'd wait till spring
to visit."

Iathor
stepped inside so he could bow over his cousin's pale hands. Her
sleeves were a light brown, but her bodice was an alchemist gray that
went well with her dark, honey-gold hair. She was slightly shorter
than he, with a build much like his mother's, and her face was
younger than her years from discreet Vigeur doses.

"I'd
thought so as well, for all mud would've slowed the carriage, but
pressing business called. Has my brother shown up, or have we
overtaken him?"

"You're
not together? Really, I'd thought he'd have been celebrating up
here . . . No, he's not returned to Cym, so far as I
know. He plans to?"

Iathor
let himself show bleak determination. "Yes, and for ill reasons.
I believe he seeks to lay a family quarrel before the Princeps
himself. I will stop that spark before it burns down the workroom."
He forced another tired smile. "But not tonight. We've been
riding the Cym Mail for the past fiveday, and a bath and something
edible
would be salvation. Kitchen scraps and clae-cleared
water, if you've already dined."

"Oh,
of course." She smiled back, then glanced over his shoulder.
"Oh, Iathor, did you leave your wife in Aeston?"

He
cleared his throat and didn't look at the dark shadow sticking close
to Dayn. "She'll make her appearance . . . late,
as I'm told is customary. Is there a room where we might put our
trunks? A stable stall? Chemstone hay bales
must
be better
than those wretched cots at the mail coach inns."

"Oh,
really. Dels!" Joniacae looked to the young man who'd brought
her to the door. "Show Iathor's men to the guest room, the one
with adjoining servant's quarters. Then tell my brother and Ietra
that our cousin's here."

"Of
course, m'lady." The servant motioned to the others. Kessa took
charge of everyone's satchels and followed.

Iathor
watched her go a moment longer than he should've, sighing that she'd
chosen "servant" as her cover.

"Oh,
dear," Joniacae said quietly. "Picked up a hanger-on
already?"

"What?"
Iathor looked at her sharply, seeing only a faintly troubled look.

"The
tribesman. The watch doesn't like them loitering, looking for work,
but . . . Well, I suppose if you bind him, he won't be
stealing."

"Since
when have barbarian tribes been such a . . .
nuisance
in Cym?" Iathor asked. "I know some come down streams the
barges can't navigate, but now there's some issue with making
apprentices of them?"

"Oh,
has it really been a decade since you visited?" Joniacae touched
her lips with a fingertip. "Something like that. Some aggressive
tribe drove out several others, up north and west. They settled here
because the army keeps the war-like ones away. It's distressing; they
can't hunt, because of the farms, and they give away their children.
I don't know why they can't just use dry tea rather than having the
children and leaving them in people's gardens or handing them over on
the streets. Or just move south, past the marchlord outposts."

Iathor
frowned darkly as Joniacae went on. "The men sometimes work at
the docks, unloading the barges and such – but there's been
concern that they're taking work from decent people. So there's a
rule now that they're not to have apprenticeships that'd take a trade
from a citizen. But that's politics, and you all exhausted! Iathor,
why ask me about politics when I should be taking you to your room?"

"It
gives my people time to open the trunks," Iathor said, offering
his cousin a polite arm. "I recall there's a bath in the guest
rooms?"

She
took his arm, the better to guide him along. "Of course! And one
for the servants down the back hall. I'm sure Brague remembers. Shall
I send in tea? We were going to sit in another half-hour, but we can
stretch that a bit without our cook complaining."

"Perhaps
tea and dinner, and we can join you in the sitting room afterward,"
Iathor said, thinking of Kessa's temper and fondness for baths.

"We?
Oh, Iathor, let your poor servants rest. It's safe here."

"Mm."

"Was
the trip long?" Joniacae asked.

"A
fiveday. I detest travel. The inns cannot possibly compare to my
cook's efforts even if they tried – which they don't –
they rarely have vermin-bane, the beds are wretched, the coach
carries passengers we don't know, who make my dramsmen twitchy even
when they
aren't
constantly talking about things and people I
don't know and couldn't care less about, the driver isn't mine, the
horses go lame, there's a constant worry about bandits or the coach
losing a wheel . . . And despite my best efforts of
delegation, I'll return to a pile of work that'll cover my desk and
tower above my head."

His
cousin laughed. "And you've a new wife all abandoned?"

"Mm."

"Well,
you'd best bring her
soon
."

He
gave up; tempting as it was to surprise his cousins, the current
issues in Cym made that a brew with all the forms showing
explosion
.
"Jonie . . . I have. To reduce risk, she wore
men's clothing for traveling."

"Iathor!"
Joniacae stopped to stare at him. "Don't jest! I know Brague,
and I can't believe that other young man's a
girl
."

Levelly,
with the patience he should've given Kessa in the street, he said,
"My wife wasn't raised by her parents, and knows not which was
barbarian and which Cymelian. She's immune. She is my wife in high
marriage. If our son has her dark hair, or dismaying eyes, we'll
compensate. If she's unwelcome, tell me now, so we may find an inn at
once."

Joniacae
lifted her fingers to her slightly-open mouth. "You can't be
serious . . . You never mentioned in your letter!"

"It
didn't seem important." He waved a hand tiredly, as if he could
brush away fatigue or his cousin's shock. "I'm surprised you
hadn't heard from Iasen."

"Oh,
he never writes." She shrugged impatiently. "We barely
found he was headed to Aeston, save one of his people came by the
evening before he left. He's sent no notes about returning, either."

Tiredly,
Iathor weighed Joniacae's good sense against possible gossip.
Finally, he sighed. "I believe it was impulse. He told me, once,
he'd go to the Princeps and have my marriage annulled. When he left
Aeston, it was after misdirection to imply he was in residence –
and, I believe, an attempt to embroil me in legal complications that
could've kept me busy for fivedays or months." Iathor relaxed
his unconsciously-clenched fist. "I'll speak to the Princeps
first, and drag my brother back for violations of guild rules. His
student in Aeston was making experimental potions, allegedly for
Iasen to sell in Cym."

"Earth
and Rain and freezing Wind," Joniacae whispered. "It hardly
seems possible."

"It's
the most irksome and extended tantrum he's ever thrown," Iathor
said. "But now that I've found an immune bride, I'll not sit
back and let Iasen try to destroy my marriage and turn my unborn heir
into a nameless bastard."

"Dear
me . . ." Joniacae started walking again, but
very slowly. "Iathor . . . I think it would be
best if perhaps we had
breakfast
. Daleus might want to talk
after dinner, but really, this is so much to take in."

Worse
than he'd hoped, but better than readying a carriage to take them
elsewhere. "Tell your brother I hope damping these fires can be
achieved quickly, without scandal."

His
cousin nodded. "Yes. I'll tell Daleus. And have dinner sent."
She paused at the door to the guest room and took a breath. "Well.
It's good you're visiting, anyway, and I'll see you . . .
both, like as not, at breakfast, yes?"

Iathor
nodded in return. "I hope so. Good evening, Jonie."

"Good
evening, Iathor. My regards to . . . your wife."
She headed back down the hall, giving a little wave before she turned
the corner.

He
took a breath and went in. The guest quarters were relatively small;
the sitting room was closet-like, with a metal stand holding a caged
Fervefax Stone for warmth, two chairs, and a small table that'd be
cluttered by two tea cups. Doors went to either side, one blending
into the walls' wood panels and the other more obvious. Iathor took
that one.

Brague
was in the guest bedroom beyond, moving clothing from trunk to
wardrobe. The dramsman didn't speak till Iathor'd closed the door.
"M'lady is in the servant's room, with Dayn."

"Does
she say why?" Iathor asked quietly, absently staring at the
walls: half-height wood paneling below, green-tinged plaster above.
If he looked at the bed too long, he might be tempted to fall into it
and not get up.

"Ah . . ."
Brague dropped his own voice. "She said she didn't want to get
comfortable till she knew if she were sleeping in the stables."

Wince-worthy
indeed. Iathor did. "I've told Jonie about her, and she didn't
call for the carriage. I think we're fine till morning, at least.
Daleus won't counter his sister's hospitality – so long as she
can break the news to him gently. When you're done with the clothes
here, could you draw a bath?"

"Of
course, m'lord."

"My
thanks." Iathor went through to the servant's room. There was a
short, plaster-walled hall first, with a storage closet to one side,
and a facing door into the servants' halls. Someone'd already bolted
it on their side. The servants' room was smaller, windowless, with
two cots and a wardrobe, as well as shelves and a small cask of clae
for dusting clothes. A metal bowl hung from the ceiling, containing
fading Incandescens Stones; though they'd started flickering, the
overall light was steady enough. Grates in the floor covered small
pits for aging Fervefax Stones. In the heat of summer, they'd
probably contain Frigi Stones past their prime – though only
if visitors arrived. In the winter, warm rooms were a buffer whether
occupied or not, and too many Fervefax Stones could make a room
stifling.

Dayn
had clothing draped on the shelves, freshly dusted to lift the odors
of five days of travel. He looked up as Iathor entered, and pointed
at the corner to the right of the door.

Iathor
said, "We'll at least be staying the night, and shouldn't have
any problems unless Jonie's lost her knack for handling her brother.
She's having dinner sent, and we'll worry about breakfast tomorrow."
Then he looked at the indicated corner.

Kessa
sat beside the door into the sitting room, leaning against both walls
with her head to one side and her eyes closed. Her knees were drawn
up slightly, tipped against a wall. Her arms were folded over her
belly. She asked, "This mean we should let the servant bring
another cot in?"

Iathor
went to one knee beside her. "No. I told my cousin, Joniacae,
that I'd brought you. We'll likely see her, her brother Daleus, and
his wife, Ietra, at breakfast. I'm having Brague draw a bath. If the
tub's not big enough for two, the first one's yours."

"Stink
that badly, do I?" She opened her eyes a slit, like some wild
beast that woke irritable.

He
steeled himself (it'd helped numb him, that "Kellisan" had
no swoops of hair hiding those eyes) and leaned to put his nose near
her neck. She smelled of skin and sweat, vermin-bane, old straw, and
more recent mildew from the latest carriage. He drew away, to lay the
blame at the last leg of the journey, and saw her eyes were pressed
closed. For once, she looked nearly as miserable as when he'd found
her crippled by moon-blood cramps.

Iathor
tamped down his exhausted annoyance that he had to deal with her
sulking when he was just as tired, and it'd been her choice to come
when she could've stayed home in comfort. Neither of them had eaten
recently, and being mistaken for a scutwork servant couldn't have
helped her temper. "Come." He offered a hand. "Let's
see what the bathroom offers."

She
kept her hands stubbornly in her lap.

With
a repressed sigh, Iathor turned his head. "Dayn, perhaps you and
Brague should wash up a bit so whoever draws short straw for the
servants' baths won't feel too wretched."

"Yes,
m'lord." The footman finished dusting a sock and slipped out.

It
left him contemplating a grubby, sullen, cross-dressed half-breed,
her eyes squeezed shut and her temple against the wall. Iathor sighed
and told himself,
Getting either of us to the bath won't get us
fed any quicker, and shouting would startle the servants . . .
And do no good at all, he realized in a rush. If she balked at a
reasonable demand to take care of herself, then he lost that battle.
If she obeyed, he lost a different battle entirely.