Read Herb-Wife (Lord Alchemist Duology) Online
Authors: Elizabeth McCoy
Quite
the agreeable thought. "Mmmmmm." He slid down beside her,
pulling her partly off the pillows, so he could hold her close
without squashing her. "And tonight, perhaps I should be quiet
at dinner, to save my . . . strength?"
It
made her giggle, though with an odd break. As they drowsed, Iathor
thought,
Body-trust. Perhaps heart-trust. Who'd have thought
mind-trust would come last?
Though he remembered her pained
insistence, that happy endings were only for the pale of skin.
Perhaps . . . It was nearly a revelation. Perhaps
Kessa refused to trust her own heart.
In
confused, spent thoughts, he wondered,
Does she think it madness,
then, to share my bed? To be fond of me?
It
made as much sense as any other explanation of his wife.
S
omehow
both frustrated and sated, Kessa curled against Iathor while he
stroked her drowsily; finally, water-closet concerns sent them into
the bathing room in turn. Waiting for him, she slipped under the
bed's covers; the room's warmth wasn't enough for bare skin without
his heat.
The
bed was soft. The pillows were as smooth and comfortable as the ones
in Iathor's home. Kessa half-buried her face in one and tried not to
think. (And yet, if the Princeps annulled the marriage . . .
All for nothing.
But if her plan failed, would Iathor still
hate her if he realized . . . ?
Hush, foolish
half-breed.
)
Her
husband returned with the gray-sealed letter the elder Chemstone
boy'd brought. Before opening it, he slid his arm under her head and
gathered her close for a nuzzling kiss. She tried not to cling
like . . . like that pretty courtesan at the Birch,
but found she'd slid her leg to hook around one of his.
"Mm.
I'll never get this read if we're not careful," he warned. She
snapped her teeth at his collarbone; he added cheerfully, "That's
not careful."
That
clinging courtesan had likely never threatened to bite him.
Her
mistake.
Kessa snorted, wriggling to rest her head against
Iathor's chest as he awkwardly broke the thick, multi-page missive's
seal one-handedly.
"It's
from Master Faro Jobaenen, my Cym syndic – a proxy Guild
Master," he explained, picking wax bits from her shoulder. "I
should show you Cym's guild offices. They've excellent murals of
Earth priests discovering alchemy, all throughout the building as
well as outside. It'll terrify poor Jobaenen, of course . . ."
"Oh?"
Surely she wasn't so horrible, even in Cym.
"Sadly,
yes. His predecessor stole guild money, and wound up broken from the
guild. When my masterwork was the less-consuming draught, Jobaenen
worried I or my father might insist our syndics be bound, to keep
them honest. He's supposed to be a confident man, good teacher,
otherwise . . . Hm."
Kessa
craned her neck, but the combination of the angle and dense
handwriting let her pick out only a few words. "What's wrong?"
"Mmm."
That was nearly a growl. Then he sighed. "Young Tal Chemstone
gossiped about me. Master Jobaenen's emboldened enough to complain –
well, 'report' – certain irritating things Iasen did before he
returned to Aeston to irritate
me
."
She
couldn't keep her
mmph
from being grumpy.
"I'm
glad I didn't open this earlier." He tightened his arm around
her. "Iasen was paying dues promptly, for a change, but it
slacked off . . . I wonder if that was when journeyman
Lairn stopped sending those cosmetic potions and the aphrodisiacs?
Ah, and that little story . . . Blight."
"I
can't read it from here," Kessa complained, lightly scraping her
teeth against his collarbone in a near-bite.
"Erm-hrm!
Due to nastiness among nobles' sons that got people killed, a judge
asked Iasen to make a vial of the dramsman's draught. The Princeps
intervened, the accused was given a different sentence, and Iasen has
two draughts. It's against custom at the least . . ."
"Different
sentence?"
She
could feel Iathor's grimace through his entire body. "A brutal
whipping. I'm told the young man's sister considered that an
improvement over him being bound to the cad who jilted her."
"I
think I see her reasoning."
"I
suppose I agree. Let's see what else . . ." He
jounced her head as he brought his other hand up to flip through the
pages. "Blighted idiot invoking his status as heir to intimidate
Jobaenen, looks like. Mm, moving on to that letter I sent . . .
Interesting."
Kessa
forbore to bite him as he read the next few pages, and was rewarded
by the explanation: "The local tribesmen have good tolerances
for alchemy, but no immunes. Master Jobaenen's determined they've a
rite of adulthood which involves taking a hallucinogenic preparation;
they think they talk to ancestors, little green men in the clouds,
trees, animals, that sort of thing. Naturally, someone with
alchemist's immunity wouldn't be affected . . ."
"And
couldn't be considered adult?"
"Exactly.
So any immunes are . . ." He sighed.
". . . abandoned, much like they sometimes
abandon girl-children, or give them away."
"Oh."
Kessa shuddered.
I'm twice-over nothing to them . . .
"At
least he got an explanation for that little custom, from . . .
Hm. From his second daughter's low-husband. Interesting. They're not
just getting rid of hungry mouths; something about how sons are
always part of the tribe, but daughters can be accepted into another
one. They're trying to save the girls, he says, fostering them to
Cymelians or . . . local spirits, when they expose
them in the woods."
"Could
he ask for any immune ones, too?"
"Exactly
my hope! Tolerant girls wouldn't be amiss, either. We'd have to
foster them in Aeston, considering this wretched Cym prejudice, but
Herbmaster Keli
has
been discussing an herb-witch school. A
few darker apprentices shouldn't cause a problem." Iathor seemed
nearly gleeful as he flipped through the remaining pages. "The
rest is simply guild matters . . . Mmph."
Kessa
craned her neck again, and picked out
brief pilferage.
Iathor
said, "I hope very much these incidents of missing materials
didn't correspond to when Iasen was here, but not receiving
preparations from Lairn. I . . . shouldn't attribute
such things to him just because I'm furious with him over other
matters."
Perhaps
that clingy woman from the Birch had some good ideas; Kessa pressed
herself against Iathor and made a little noise in her throat.
He
laid the missive aside and stroked her hair. "Chh. I've gotten
to the Princeps first, and before Iasen's acquired any noble
supporters. We'll be fine."
She
thought he spoke partly for himself, but let him distract her with
petting and kisses until they had to dress for dinner.
O
ver
breakfast, the fourth day after Iathor's interview with the Princeps,
Daleus said, "Cousin, you
will
take your brother when you
leave, yes?"
"Much
as I'd enjoy leaving him elsewhere . . . Yes, I'll
drag him back when the other matter's settled." No matter
how
it was settled. "Dare I ask why?"
His
cousin ignored the twin glares from his sister and wife, as both
Jonie and Ietra attempted to signal
inappropriate mealtime
conversation
. "We're supplying various Stones for Count
Fairfield's winter ball next fiveday – you didn't notice he
visited yesterday?"
"I
was busy confusing a seamstress and admiring my wife. And getting
some clothing for our maid." Mostly the former; the seamstress
had been too attentive to silver trees to actually
complain
about such a dark client, and Iathor'd made sure Kessa'd not been
left alone with the woman long enough for the polite facade to slip.
"What does Count Fairfield have to do with Iasen?"
"His
younger daughter's nigh-besotted, apparently, and Iasen gives just
enough encouragement to keep it that way." Daleus waved a hand
dismissively and reached for the teapot. "Seems Iasen's been to
minor social engagements already, talking up your high-handed
madness. Have you disinherited him?"
"Only
threatened, so far." Iathor tried to keep his voice from
becoming grim. Light banter over the breakfast table would be less
likely to get him glared at. Kessa was quietly eating, pretending the
conversation wasn't happening, but one never knew.
"At
this rate, you may go through with it." Daleus picked up his
fork.
Iathor
frowned. "Cousin, has my brother been . . . a
poor kinsman, these past winters?"
The
other man shrugged. "He doesn't live with us, and we're not
nobility – or heir to it – like he is."
Jonie
said, more diplomatically, "We don't see him often, most months.
He's busy with his own appointments."
"Parties
with noble children a third his age, we hear," Ietra said, less
kindly.
"Mm.
Some of those children can look out for themselves . . ."
And very pleasant it was, no longer hunted by desperate, driven, or
outright predatory daughters.
"Perhaps
we could convince him to vacation in the old empire," Jonie
suggested brightly. "The ambassador might be willing to help."
"He
knows too many secret guild recipes," Iathor sighed. "The
Princeps would object."
"I
don't suppose," Daleus said, "you're planning on keeping
him in Aeston?"
"That
depends on if I disinherit him or not." Iathor judged his plate
and Kessa's sufficiently empty to say, "As the weather is, for
once, not snowing, I'd like to take my wife for a walk in the garden.
Is the path still marked?"
"It's
not dug out yet," Jonie said, dubiously.
Ietra
blithely overrode that. "But there's nothing so fragile that
stepping on it would be a problem."
Iathor
took his allies where he found them and smiled at his cousin's wife.
"My thanks." He helped Kessa from her chair with proper
formality, and gave nods all around. "Good morning to you all,
cousins."
Kessa
murmured her own
good morning,
gracefully put her hand on his
arm, and they retreated. In the hallway, she said, "If you're
going to drag me into drifts, I'll need my sturdy boots. These
house-boots would be soaked before I went two steps."
He
diverted toward their room. "Shall I help with your boots, or
has Bynae decided you're not so hungry as to devour her?" They'd
gone by her family's apartment yesterday, before visiting the
seamstress; though her tribesman mother'd been disapproving (no doubt
due to "soulless monster" tales), Bynae'd been returned to
Kymus service.
"She's
sure I'll have her ears for snacks, near as I can tell. Poor thing.
Her stepfather's doing nearly what the tribes do, sending her off on
the promise of pay."
"And
safety he can't give," Iathor reminded her. "If Ietra truly
wanted the girl on the prison work-gangs as a fraud . . .
For all I know, Cym might have judges who'd agree. The servants'
school that provided the alchemical dyes may yet be slandered for
promising a swan and delivering a bleached wood-goose."
"Wretched
place," Kessa muttered.
"Mm.
I hope we can place her well, in Aeston. I suppose she can take
Viala's other duties, while Viala plays maid for you, till we find
someone suitably . . . bodyguardish."
"Unless
the point becomes moot." She leaned her head against his
shoulder lightly.
He
stopped before the guest room's door to wrap his arms around her, her
back against his chest. "The point will not become moot. No
matter what the Princeps decides. I don't care if he wants me to wed
a Cymeli granddaughter. It will be
you
with satins and jewels,
whether you wear one gold earring or two silver ones."
She
rested her hands on his wrists for a moment, then tugged them away to
free herself. "What if I don't want satin and jewels?" she
asked, opening the door.
Iathor
followed her through the sitting room. "Then whatever you do
want. The finest I can afford. A new shop, with bodyguards and the
best equipment."
"I
only get that as concubine? Perhaps
I
should talk to the
Princeps . . ."
"If
you want it, you'll have it, no matter what title you bear."
She
stopped before the wardrobe, hands clasped over her midsection. The
laughter in her voice faded. "Such things should wait. Too soon
to tell if I'll take ill from the conceiving."
"All
right." He stood behind her again, his own palms flat against
her belly. Far too soon to show. Far too soon to know, save that
she'd drunk the potion and such a brew
would
likely affect
her.
There
was a knock at the outer door, and Iathor paused as voices murmured
in the sitting room. Another knock followed, on the door from sitting
room to bedroom, with Bynae's hesitant, "M'lord? A message from
the palace."