Herb-Wife (Lord Alchemist Duology) (44 page)

He
ignored the itching of days-worn clothing and sat, mirroring her
position with his legs beside hers. His father's advice came to mind
when he set himself to recall it, but it took several moments before
he could swallow enough pride. "I'm sorry I yelled at you in the
street. I was frightened for you, and travel-weary."

Kessa
closed her eyes tighter. The light wasn't good enough to notice tears
hidden in the corners. Iathor supposed the lack of glare was a sign
of . . . something. Perhaps she, too, realized how
frayed their tempers were.

He
tried to think of something, perhaps an explanation. Not telling her
would be an oversight. "There's been problems, Jonie says, with
tribes driven out of their territories. They've stayed and people
think they're taking jobs, or stealing. I didn't know matters had
become so . . . quietly bad. I'll not let you be put
in danger."

That
got more reaction: hunched shoulders, arms wrapped around her belly,
legs drawn up more. Still no words.

"My
cousins should accept my choices, and be civil at the least," he
said firmly, for them both. "If not, then we'll go to an inn, or
hired house, where I may throw my title in the keeper's face and
obtain politeness for my coin. I'll not let anyone here scorn you."

She
creaked a small
ah
, head bowed. He reached for her shoulder,
but she flinched as his hand brushed her sleeve.

It
was the arm that watchman'd grabbed. He asked, "Are you hurt?"

After
a pause, Kessa shook her head.

It
struck him, of a sudden: this was
Kellisan
 – and any
man would prefer silence over tears. And yet, Iathor had a
responsibility to his wife, who was that same person.

His
father's advice had some vital parts missing.

"I
could try to carry you to the bathtub, but I'd probably fall down."
He was rewarded with a twitch of her lips, and went on, "I once
wondered if I should buy a white horse, and sweep you off from the
marketplace, but I'm not good at riding the things, and didn't think
falling on you would be very . . . romantic."

The
noise she made might've been tears or laughter. Voice strangled, she
said, "I'll take the rotted bath, Iathor."

A
good sign, his first name? He hoped so. "All right." He
rose and would've helped her up, but she was standing at nearly the
same time. When he tried to put a hand on her back, she twitched
again.

In
the bedroom, they passed Brague, clean-faced, and a damp Dayn, who
held his shirt in front of his chest and said, "Brague gets
first go at the servants' bath. I'm for a fresher shirt, m'lord,
m'lady."

Iathor
nodded, grateful that
his
servants were either untroubled by
Kessa's ancestry, or else unwilling to bother him by showing bias. He
hoped it was the former. He'd settle for the latter, though it
twisted slightly in his heart. Belatedly, he supposed a shirtless
servant wasn't appropriate around the married woman Kessa truly was;
they'd residual confusion in all their minds, he suspected, after
five days of treating her mostly like a boy – save that she
took privy matters alone.

The
bathing room was tiled in green: pale on the floor, dark shading to
pale on the walls. The water-closet was enclosed in its own plaster
and tile, in one corner, with a fragile-looking slatted door. Against
one wall was a double-hulled alchemist's tub (sadly too small for
two) and a water pump rose from the floor nearby. This floor's grille
led to a drain. A high-placed window was set with a row of thick,
dark green, glass chunks, and had a curtain besides. The floor-drain
was damp, and someone had refilled the basin beneath the mirror. A
thick towel was on a stand near the tub, and Brague had already
placed the tub's own Fervefax Stones into their niches to heat the
water.

From
the way Kessa stared at the tub, Iathor thought she was torn between
fatigue and longing. "Shall I help you get undressed?"

She
tightened her shoulders. "No. I . . . I'd like
some privacy. Please."

He
sighed, irritated, before remembering she'd not had more than a
tree's width of privacy for an entire fiveday, and been primarily
among men as well. He tried not to sound cranky. "As you will.
Please, don't fall asleep in the tub. I also need a bath."

As
he was nearly out the door, Kessa halted him with his name. "Iathor.
The food. If I'm not out when it comes. If that table could
move . . . ?"

"I'd
get to stay?" The bathing room would be cramped, but he could
leave the door open.

She
took a breath. "If . . . you like. And if you
behave." The last sentence was less strained than the first.

"If
I don't, I'll wind up sleeping in that sitting room, no doubt."

Her
snort was ragged. "Out." He couldn't tell if there was
amused exasperation there, resigned frustration, or something else.
Perhaps just exhaustion.

He
obeyed, reminding himself to be grateful she'd tried to reach past
her own cranky fatigue. In the sitting room, he left the door cracked
so he could hear if Kessa called. The chair wasn't as comfortable as
he might wish, but after hard coach benches and wooden inn
stools . . . It'd do.

He
recalled being surprised, after other long journeys, at feeling as if
he'd been pulling the coach himself at day's end. Though it was only
dinner-time, he nearly dozed till someone knocked.

"Come
in," he said, and raised an eyebrow. Besides the servants he'd
expected, with trays of food, his cousin Daleus hovered in the
background, wearing a gray tunic and tight-fitted pants. "Cousin,"
Iathor said, standing though his back and legs ached. "Don't let
me keep you from your meal."

One
of the Chemstone servants went through into the servants' room while
the other set her tray on the table. Daleus waited for that one to
leave before slipping into the room, and didn't sit. "Mm, should
just take a moment."

Nor
are you saying "Good to see you, cousin,"
Iathor
thought. "I apologize for my precipitous arrival. I'd hoped my
letter would arrive first, but I fear we may've escorted it in the
Cym Mail."

Daleus
waved a hand. "Jonie told me why you felt it urgent . . ."
He paused and stood aside to let out the other servant, a small,
sharp-featured woman. Then Daleus sat. "Iathor, are you sure
it's that urgent?"

"More
urgent than I knew, if the Princeps is as displeased by darker skin
as the watchmen we met at the mail station." Iathor didn't touch
the food, though the smell of spiced chicken was quickly going from
"mouthwatering" to "drool-causing."

"Ah,
yes. You see . . ." Daleus looked away, then back
again. "Cousin, this matter with the tribes isn't likely to go
away soon. It's been building. Once it was fashionable to have a
tribesman, or someone with dark-dyed hair, as a servant or employee.
The nobility found it charming. The merchants could get exotic
countergirls or workers. Now? They're ruffians and thieves."

Iathor
tried to steady his voice. "Daleus, it was a long, tiring trip,
and I'm irritable and slow. What does this have to do with my wife,
who was raised in Aeston? Poor family, yes, but as much city-bred as
any other woman there."

"Yes,
well, perhaps in Aeston . . . But look, in Cym, where
the alchemical academy is? What if the boy's dark, Iathor?"

"He'll
be immune."

"And
faced with all sorts of assumptions. Iathor . . .
Perhaps it's best to let the marriage be annulled. I don't say you
should stop a conception, but . . . Think of the
child."

I'm
too tired to deal with this.
But he had to, and preferably
without ultimatums which would have him bundling a damp, distressed
wife off to an inn. "Daleus. I am thinking of the child. I'm
thinking of any boy of mine, to whom I must someday give the draught
and watch his eyes to see if he is my heir – or my dramsman."

Daleus
had a son already, near grown and probably at that same academy where
Iathor and Iasen'd spent time as journeymen. When the boy, Taleas,
had evidenced alchemical tolerances, they'd tested him. He'd resisted
several potions, and ridden out Tryth without Purgatorie, but been
unable to avoid the elixir's effects. And Iathor'd seen a father's
fear in Daleus' blue eyes, as his cousin offered to permit testing
with the draught.

This
time, Daleus looked away. "He'd still be . . .
your son, wouldn't he? You'd still love him."

"Yes.
But have you never told family to do something you knew wouldn't
happen? I told my brother to jump in the pond a score of times. Would
you wish to live your life guarding your tongue, lest some casual
order slip from it, and be taken as serious?"

"Iathor . . ."
There was pain there. The thoughts hit home too surely for Daleus to
deny it.

"My
wife is immune, as am I." He let his own pain infuse itself into
his voice. "Daleus, cousin, I've been searching for an immune
woman since before we tested Tal. I found her. Would you have Iasen
be the Guild Master in my stead? Is he that responsible a man, away
from my shadow?"

"Blight."
Daleus sat a moment, then pushed himself up. "Stay in my house
as long as you need while in Cym, cousin. I'll see you at breakfast?"

Iathor
rose as well, hand outstretched. "Both of us, if you will."

Daleus
clasped the offered hand, briefly. "Indeed. Good evening,
cousin."

"Good
evening to you, Daleus. I hope your dinner is pleasant."

"Mm,"
he said, and left.

Iathor
sighed, regarded the table and tray dubiously, and made several
trips. The bed held the tray while the table was carried to the
bathroom. Dayn emerged to investigate the scraping sounds before the
chair was more than dragged slightly against the sitting room's
doorframe, and carried it the rest of the way himself, somehow
managing to not-look at Kessa in the tub even as he set the chair in
the bathroom's doorway.

Iathor
uncovered the dishes and poured tea while Kessa curled in the tub,
her wet hair flattened against her face. She said, idly, "Your
dramsman gave you a grouchy look."

"For
carrying the chair myself, yes."

"You
could've told him not to."

"Hmph."
He set her tea down near her.

She
reached for the cup. "I don't think I like Cym."

He
could've said
We only just got here.
He could've said
There
are some lovely places I must show you.
What he did say was, "I'm
inclined to agree."

Chapter
XXVII

T
here
was only one bed. Kessa fell into it and was asleep before Iathor'd
finished his own bath, so it was moot whether she wanted to be close
to anyone in her travel-aches and lonely fears. In the night, waking
from dreams of being chased, she found herself pressed against her
sleeping husband after all.

I
hate you,
she tried to think at him. It seemed hollow.
I hate
depending on you.
In Aeston, she could've stalked off to the
tangled places beyond Kelp Street, hiding for days before someone
betrayed her for gold leaves. And even
then
, she could've
asked Burk to find an honest smuggler to get her out of the city.

But
Cym? Where her skin was excuse for more than shoves or sneers in the
street, and she didn't know the patterns of the local Shadow Guild
and its fringes? She was dependent on her husband for protection from
everything, it seemed. Guards, his own family . . .
Perhaps she could defend herself against a cutpurse, but she was out
of practice; it was no good thing to rely on the surprise of a woman
fighting back.

Blight
it. I'm scared. And I don't want to be in your debt.
Being in
someone's debt was no good thing, either. Tanas'd slapped her for
insufficient gratitude. Maila'd pinched, or said if Kessa
wanted
to return to the streets, without access to potions to keep her
sickly sister alive another winter . . . Darul Reus,
the moneylender, had tapped his ledger and
supposed
if she'd
useful potions, he could take those instead of the whole payment.
Even old Herbsman Chiftia in the country had ranted at her for
obscure crone's reasons, such as the herbs not being short enough or
the floor not being swept as she'd wanted it – or when Kessa
was busy sweeping instead of watching a potion Kessa could smell
perfectly well.

But
here she was, beneath green guest blankets, pressed against Iathor
and dependent on his good will even when they were both angry. Even
when there was nowhere to sulk till she could stand to talk again.
I
carry his heir. He'll protect me for that, if naught else,
she
tried telling herself. It felt a thinner protection, in the Cym
darkness.

She
slept again, crying silently, and woke to morning light behind the
bed-curtains, her slumbering husband's arm over her neck and his leg
over hers as if she were some life-sized rag doll. She considered
chewing his shoulder, but there wasn't need to wake him if she could
wriggle loose . . .