Herb-Wife (Lord Alchemist Duology) (54 page)

At
least the ointment's burn on her wounds explained her tears, and if
Dayn noticed Bynae's concerned fussing before he collapsed across the
bench seat . . . He said nothing.

Chapter
XXXIV

I
n
the end, it was simple. He and Brague were shown to a small, private
room . . . There, Iathor waited. And waited. And
waited more, tapping his fingers on the chair's arm and composing
lesson plans and lectures in his mind. Somewhat past noon, Thioso
strolled into the room where Iathor'd been doing all the waiting.

Iathor
raised an eyebrow. Aside from the formal clothing, Thioso looked as
casual as if he'd just come off the street. The envelope he produced,
however, was as ornate as the one Iathor'd received yesterday. Iathor
took it. "You're running messages?"

"Hardly,"
Thioso replied. "He saw me two, three days ago. This was from
his servant."

The
wax and imprint both looked formal enough. Iathor cracked the outer
envelope, then the seal on the inner paper. The usual titles for the
Princeps, for himself, and finally, in the same handwriting as
yesterday's . . .

It
was signed with the Princeps' name, in that same script, then a
repeat of the man's titles in the scribe's writing.

Iathor
closed his eyes and tried to think why his hands were shaking.

"Good
news?" Thioso asked.

"I'm
still married." He turned the paper around to display the
writing.

"Doesn't
answer the question."

Iathor
opened his eyes to glare mildly. "It's good. Do you want to come
when I call upon my brother?"

Thioso
groaned. "Not hardly. But I will, no doubt. Me'n some Cym
watchmen, I hope."

"Mm,
only if it's needed . . ."

Brague
said, "M'lord, I'd rather enough watchmen that your brother's
men won't think of resisting on his behalf."

Understandable
paranoia, and perhaps Brague should know. He and the other servants
would've taken the measure of Iasen's dramsmen far better than Iathor
could've. "Indeed. Watchman Thioso, do you think you could
arrange this?"

"If
you don't mind hiring a buggy to get me to the main headquarters, Sir
Kymus . . ."

"I'll
need one for myself to get back to the Chemstones'. My cousin brought
me, but left on his own errands." Iathor pushed himself
standing. It was just his imagination that his legs were weak.
Perhaps he'd been sitting too long.

"Save
money. Tag along. You'll want to request the honor guard personally,
anyway; I'm just Prince Tegar's man, and my job done." Thioso
pulled his gold-trimmed tabard away from his neck. "Be glad to
get out of this itchy stuff."

Iathor
smoothed a hand down his own tabard. "And I'll be glad to put
away the finery and get back to my own house – though I don't
look forward to the work that's built up in my absence." He put
the letter back in its outer envelope and carried it as tightly as he
could without creasing it. "What did you speak to the Princeps
of, might I ask?"

"A
few things I'd seen. A few things I hadn't." Thioso waved a hand
vaguely. "Might've gotten more expression if I'd spoken of the
old empire's crops in the last decade."

"I
sympathize." Iathor wondered, absently, if Thioso'd be more
forthcoming about the interview once they were in a hired carriage,
and changed the subject to the visiting watchman's lodgings.

By
the time they'd gotten a buggy (carriage prices had risen with the
snow, while hired buggies lowered theirs till only a spendthrift
might consider the chill unreasonable), Iathor'd learned the
accommodations for a city-prince's messenger were sparse, barely
private, but clean and free of vermin, and came with decent dinners.
Once in the buggy, the gray-haired driver monopolized the
conversation, asking questions of Thioso and regaling his captive
audience with tales of prior passengers of note, carriage-chases
through twilight streets, and the amusing things his brand new
grandchild did last fiveday.

Iathor
hoped not all babies spat up so freely upon their fathers.

At
the guard-station, the buggy had to wait for a cart, over-filled with
excited watchmen and bound, unconscious prisoners. Iathor ignored the
driver's rhetorical questions and craned his neck. Most of the
prisoners seemed barbarian-blooded to some degree, which made him
tighten his mouth and remind himself Cym's bias wouldn't mean darker
folk
didn't
get into tavern brawls.
Once the door's clear,
perhaps I can slip out and let Thioso decide if this driver should
wait,
he thought. Then his thoughts froze like snow as an
unloaded man's head tipped to the side: too bright and unnatural to
be a bruise, a streak of purple showed on his jaw.

There
were two missing vials in Iathor's coat: a paralytic elixir, that
required only skin contact. He'd added the inert dye so even if a
patroller left an unmoving thief or over-enthusiastic brawler to the
hands of his fellow miscreants, there'd be signs for true watchmen to
see in daylight.

Those
vials had been in Kessa's coat.

He
didn't remember leaving the buggy. His boots crunched on snow. His
shoulder slammed against the wall as he caught his balance. Their
driver was calling out crankily, Thioso's voice answering. Brague,
behind him, asked, "M'lord? M'lord?"

"The
dye," Iathor said, gasped, croaked. "It's the night patrol
brew."

"
Blight!
"
Brague swore, uncertain note shifting to certain alarm. He strode
ahead to take one of the Cym guards by the sleeve as he turned to
hoist up another unconscious man. "Watchman, what happened
here?"

Iathor
grabbed the back of the cart, its wood rough and probably ruining his
thin, formal-wear gloves.
My wife. My dramsman. Where are they?

The
watchman was pale of hair and skin, with hazel eyes and a
reddish-brown beard. "Bunch of savages cornered some quality,
they claimed, down at the Millwell warehouses. Their driver got
loose, ran into our patrol and led us back. Mostly we just cleaned
up – they'd alchemy."

"Was
anyone hurt?" Brague asked, before Iathor could seize the man's
wrist and demand it less coherently.

The
watchman bent to heave the next-to-last man from the cart, into a
waiting fellow's hands. "Two dead, and one not likely to make
it . . . Oh, you mean the quality? The footman was
beat up some, cut a bit, but they'd alchemy. Sent 'em home with our
squad leader on his horse to make sure they were who the driver
said."

Iathor
hissed with fury at the man's vague, barely-helpful words. At his
other shoulder, Thioso said, "Alchemy, eh? Did you see who-all
was involved? We've an interest."

The
gold trim on Thioso's Aeston-marked tabard accomplished what Iathor's
gray finery hadn't; the watchman came alert. "Let me get this
last man out, ah . . ."

"Thioso
of Aeston, on my city-prince's business. This here's the Lord
Alchemist." He jerked a thumb at Iathor and repeated, "We've
an interest."

The
prisoner dropped from the watchman's hands and thumped back into the
cart, groaning at the impact. The watchman said, "Ha! You're the
one the day officer'll need to question, see if they were telling the
truth!"

"Truth,"
Iathor grated out, "about
what
?"

"Ah . . ."
The man sorted his thoughts, while Iathor reminded himself that
strangling the man – or having Brague do it – wouldn't
help. "The quality . . . The woman . . ."

"My
wife is half-barbarian and not bleached, yes," Iathor snapped.
"Was she there and
was she hurt
?"

The
man had some sense, and answered the last question first with at
least a pretense of sympathy. "Not bad, it looked. Coat torn,
but her maid had healing salve. More shaken up, seemed."

Iathor
sagged against the back of the cart, wondering how he could've
thought the Princeps' letter made him weak. That'd been a passing
fatigue, not true terror. The thought reminded him of the letter he'd
been holding, and no longer was; he looked around in a confused panic
till he saw it poking from Brague's pocket, slightly snow-smeared.

"The
day officer," Iathor said. "I want to talk to him, and
whoever knows the most about this . . . incident."
Disaster, terror, personal nightmare. Why'd Kessa been where she'd
needed
that potion? Why anywhere Dayn had needed to defend
against so many?

The
watchman passed the last prisoner to another, to be dragged to
whatever jail cells were inside. "I'll take you there
straightaway, Lord Alchemist."

As
he followed, Iathor said, "Have you determined who led the
assault?"

"Not
yet. Not likely to, till they wake, neither. And dusting 'em off,
hoo! Left Cem sleeping half the way back, and he held his breath.
Situation like that . . ." He reined in his
enthusiasm. "Well, it's a good thing someone had potions. Meant
it ended with a scare, and nothing more."

Except
for those Dayn killed.
Or had Kessa's hand been on a blade's
hilt? Possible, though Iathor hoped the potions had made that
unnecessary; a knife would've put her closer to danger than a
splashed elixir. Belated urgency made him all but ride the watchman's
heels till they got to the appropriate office and its sturdy,
beaten-looking desk.

The
day officer behind that desk was tall, with muscles to befit a
watchman and hair the same shade of gold as Bynae's – and thus
suspect, since his beard was also that even hue. He didn't get a
chance to doubt Iathor's identity beyond a dubious look, since Thioso
promptly presented him with his own credentials, the wax embossed
with Prince Tegar's seal, and vouched for the Lord Alchemist.

"Half-barbarian
nobles," the day officer muttered, sounding disgusted. "No
offense, m'lord."

"I'm
sure the Princeps would object if I brewed up a dye that turned
everyone dark-haired and skinned, and poured it into the wells here,"
Iathor said, pleasantly. "Watchman Thioso vouches for me, and I
most certainly vouch for my wife in high marriage. Would you care to
see that the Princeps himself finds no reason to look askance upon my
marriage? My dramsman has the letter with him even now. Or, if we can
dispense with matters of offense or lack thereof, perhaps you can
tell me
what happened
that put my wife in danger, and who was
involved, and whether I may question them with Tryth elixir?"

It
wasn't as coherent a reprimand as he would've liked, but the day
officer cleared his throat. "I, ah, didn't have the best report.
We've not questioned the tribesmen yet. Something brought the wo–
the lady to the warehouse area. A bunch of tribesmen in a cart tried
to seize the buggy and driver, but he was warned in time and escaped.
The warehouses are well patrolled, and he encountered watchmen
quickly. When he led them back, only a few men were yet standing, and
none of the victims were seriously injured. If you wish to see the
prisoners while they're questioned, then so long as you're
accompanied . . ."

"Adequate,"
Iathor said. "You'll be questioning them soon, I trust?"

The
day officer cleared his throat again. "Ah, yes. As soon as they
wake."

"Approximately
an hour, for the purple-marked ones. I brewed that potion myself."

"And,
ah, the ones without marks?"

"I'm
not sure.
That
powder is my wife's." Iathor smiled,
deliberately smug.

Whatever
disquiet the other man felt, he didn't voice it. "The
purple-smeared one should be waking soon, then."

Only
one?
Perhaps Kessa hadn't been within their reach, thank
something. "I wish to be there. If you'd assign a watchman
as . . . 'chaperone'?"

The
man who'd escorted them had left again; likely his good fortune. The
day officer strode to the door and looked out. "Cem! Escort
these men. They want to talk to the new prisoners."

There
was a grudging reply, and the day officer stood back. "Cem will
take you around, m'lord. Watchman." He nodded to Iathor and
Thioso, and gave Brague a wary look.

"My
thanks," Iathor said dryly, and left.

Thioso
lingered, and Iathor caught
. . . love match or
convenience
before 
. . .
Then
the unfortunate Cem gave a bleary salute and asked, "Where to,
er, m'lor'?"

"The
man with the purple on his face, or any of the others who seem to be
waking," Iathor said.

"Yes,
m'lor'." Yawning and wavering slightly, Cem led them through a
hall, a guarded door, and another hall before stopping at a
closet-sized room with a floor-to-ceiling gate in metal. A man was
folded into it, head lolling and dark hair mostly covering the bright
purple smear on his cheek.