Herb-Wife (Lord Alchemist Duology) (55 page)

It
roiled Iathor's stomach, to wonder how close the man'd been, with
that much on him.
Surely it's just a pattern of the elixir. A
splash. Smeared upon the ground as he fell.
He took a breath. "Is
there a place to question him? It should have a chamberpot. And a
bucket. Thioso–"

"Find
a cup and tea? As I suspected, Sir Kymus. Handy thing, that truth
potion." Thioso waved a vague salute and went back down the
hall.

Iathor
called after him, "Or water, or just the cup." Then he
looked pointedly at Cem.

The
watchman shifted, blinked, and remembered what he'd been asked. "Ah,
down the hall. Questioning rooms. Er, the good one or . . . ?"

"One
with a bucket and chamberpot. Brague, can you help drag the man
there?"

"Aye,
m'lord."

Cem
smothered another yawn. "I'll get the keys."

Iathor
paced back and forth, standing aside for another watchman who eyed
him dubiously, until Cem and Thioso returned. It seemed to take
forever. He was certain he'd watched brews boil in less time than it
required to gather the semi-conscious prisoner, restraints, a bucket,
and a cup with suitably over-strong tea, and get them all into a
lamp-lit, brownstone room with a drain in the floor near the single,
sturdy chair.

Brague
secured the man to the chair, while Cem yawned and leaned against the
wall. Iathor was finally irked enough to go sniff the watchman's
sleeves carefully. "Roll them up and get a fresh tabard,"
he advised. "The sleeping powder's still on your clothing."

Cem's
annoyed curses were matched by groggy, slurred ones from the
prisoner. Iathor went to stand in front of the man. "Have you a
name?" he asked, politely, when the words became clear enough to
make out.

The
dark-haired man clamped his lips together and glared, from pale green
eyes.

"I
am Iathor Kymus, Lord Alchemist," Iathor said, taking the vial
of Tryth elixir from its inner coat pocket. "You were among
those who attacked my wife and her companions. I will have answers
from you."

The
man gave a surprised snort. "You bed that creature?"

"Kindly
do not tempt me to have your elbows broken." Iathor measured
some Tryth into the cup of tea and swirled it gently. "I've had
a wearing several days, and am heartily sick of the pervasive
assumption that half-breeds – and my wife in particular –
are somehow sub-human."

"So
you're the corrupt one. Who'll play the merciful guard?"

"That
depends on whether you cooperate." Iathor handed the cup to
Brague. "Please have him drink this."

"Yes,
m'lord."

"I'm
not drinking alchemy," the prisoner hissed, then clamped his
mouth shut.

Brague
reached out and pinched the man's nose shut, with no change of
expression. With what was probably a snicker, Thioso went to hold the
prisoner's head so he couldn't jerk his face from the cup. The
predictable result got messy as the man tried to spit out the
Tryth-laced tea, but eventually Brague stepped away, shaking a wet
hand.

Time
was limited. Iathor put his fingers to the man's neck, to judge how
many questions he could ask before fever and racing blood became too
dangerous. "Why did you attack my wife's group?"

"We . . .
we were paid. Copper trees. Promise of silver leaves. I'd have . . ."
He clamped his mouth shut again.

Iathor
felt blood pounding beneath his fingers, but . . . not
as strong as he'd have thought. Nor was the man's skin so fever-hot
as he'd expected. Though he was comparatively pale, the potion's
flush barely showed. "You're tolerant to alchemy?" Not
immune, as Kessa'd been, her wrist cool beneath his fingers and her
pulse steady.

"Yes,"
the man hissed.

"Excellent."
Iathor took his other hand from the Purgatorie vial. "Your
name?"

The
prisoner tried not to answer, shaking his head and tensing his
muscles. Just before Iathor was about to ask Brague for the cup, so a
further dose might be given, the dark-haired man croaked,
"Carak-ihron."

"Tribal
name, that," Cem said, more alert with his hands behind his
back.

"Is
that what you're called here?" Iathor asked, thinking of how
tolerances and truths might intermingle.

"No . . ."

Brague
bent to look in the man's face. "Wolf, is it?"

The
sick expression that flickered past was as much confirmation as the
hissed, "Yes . . ."

"So
that's how you escaped the sleep-smoke." Surprise and protective
rage diffused through his body in cold trails and streamers. "You'd
enough tolerance to hold your breath and run."

"Blighted
bastards. Rotted vixen. Beast-eyed." Wolf pressed his lips
together.

"And
you've been seeking revenge against the herb-witch, my wife, ever
since . . ."

"Almost
had it. Little vixen. Felt the knife . . ." Wolf
stopped; Iathor realized it might be because his own fingers were
digging into the man's neck above his pulse.

He
pulled his hand away. "You burned her shop?"

"She
knows it. She should've worried more, run away, with little death on
her heels."

Boiled
mouse skull hung upon her door; a boiled rat skull the night before
Wolf burned the shop. "And sent men to attack her?"

Wolf
puffed air disparagingly. "With what money? No. I waited till
she was gone, as she was gone once a fiveday, and pried out the
door-lock. Set the bed alight and all her precious potions besides.
She ruined me. Ruined everything. Deserved it, the beast."

She
was right.
The burning of the shop, the attack upon herself . . .
Not connected, she'd said. Iathor asked, "Did you know she'd be
attacked? Did someone hire you, as well?"

Wolf
shook his head. "You think I'd not've been there, made sure she
didn't slip past? I'd have had her, all myself . . .
Hand wasn't numb at first . . . Blight!"

Iathor
walked behind the chair and knelt to look at Wolf's hands. Faint on
the dark brown sleeve . . . purple. Iathor pushed the
fabric up and saw dye marking his wrist.
Twice, he was hit, then.
And he was close to her.
"Who hired you this time?"

"A
blond man. No one knew him, but his coin was good, and when he said
the color of her eyes, no one much cared. What trouble in taking down
a beast? Leave the pale ones alive, and there'd be nothing but noise
from the watchmen."

"You
should've known better. You'd seen her already, here. You should've
known she was dressed too well, for no outcry." Iathor stood and
walked around to face Wolf again, keeping himself far enough away to
resist urges toward brutality.

Wolf
was silent; he'd been asked no questions, given no orders, Iathor
realized. Thioso cleared his throat and said, "Describe the man
who hired you lot."

"Blond.
Longer hair. No beard. Darker eyes than blue or green, I think.
Clothes fit badly, too coarse for his fancy mouth. Something bought
quick, and likely burned after." Wolf snorted again. "Bought
a round for the tavern, late last night. Got everyone happy before he
asked for men for a small job."

"And
that job was?" Thioso leaned against the wall.

"Kill
the beast-woman. Leave any quality alive. Leave any servants alive if
we could. Anyone with her would've been pale, someone the guards'd
get upset about."

Iathor
looked over to Cem, frowning. The local watchman didn't look
surprised.

Thioso
asked, "Did he say why he wanted the girl dead?"

"Not
a bit. Why should he, when she's naught but a walking husk?"

"How'd
you know where the girl'd be?" Thioso was at the
beard-scratching stage.

"Told
she'd be there, sometime that morning. Likely before noon. We were
waiting, around the corner. It was getting tight. Patrol was close.
Would've had time, if the driver'd not slashed Torkil with his whip
and got away. Or if Torkil'd knifed the horse."

"Hm.
Back to Aeston matters. You
know
anything 'bout who attacked
her whilst you were burnin' her shop?"

"Nothing.
Not even to get the gold flower. But I left too soon, lest someone
try to plant
me
for a bloom."

While
Thioso asked after other matters (had Wolf help with the arson? how'd
he gotten out of Aeston? had anyone in Cym refused the job?) Iathor
folded his arms and felt cold. If the attack and fire weren't
connected save for catching her away from her shop, then . . .

Could
this attack have been a third incident entirely, only chancing to
involve Wolf? Could the Princeps have wanted one result for official
precedent, and an unofficial resolution otherwise?

Surely
not, if, as Prince Tegar said, he wants more immunes in Cymelia. And
he'd surely have sent more tolerant men, rather than this
chance-found quarter-breed, knowing alchemy was involved.
But if
not him, then who? Someone Iasen'd riled up, balked when the Princeps
wouldn't annul the marriage? Would anyone in Cym
care
about
the wife of a "jumped up merchant," mere lesser nobility,
over in Aeston?

How
long had the plan been brewing?

Iathor
left Thioso to his questions and went to Cem. "Watchman, who was
at the warehouse?"

"Er?"
The young man stood straighter. "Ah, the tribesmen, of course.
Eight of them. You mean the qual– er . . ."

"The
quality. Yes. My wife, apparently. My dramsman. A driver. Anyone
else?"

"Just
the ba– the lady's maid, m'lor'."

Bynae.
Odd indeed. "Did they say why they were there?"

"Not
to me, m'lor'. Sorry. Our squad leader went with them, see if they
were welcome where they said they'd be."

"Because
apparently no one here believes it's real gold in my wife's ear,"
Iathor said acidly. He waved his hand, trying to fan his mood away
like foul smoke. "And it was the driver who fetched you. And my
dramsman who was injured. Was the maid hurt?"

"Didn't
seem to be, m'lord. She had a big plank of wood, poking the last pair
your man was fighting. Not much skill, but brave enough. Then she
went to tend to . . . your wife, m'lor'." Cem at
least tried to avoid calling Kessa a barbarian. "Driver said
they weren't lying in wait – not that it'd be hard to do, what
with the roof all broken in. Nor hidden behind, neither. S'pose
someone might've seen them there. Sometimes Millwell lets trappers
put skins in his warehouse for the winter, or someone finds their
boat needs repair, and has it hoisted up. Or we might've patrolled
by, put our noses in, and seen 'em inside."

"So
this place, this plan . . . Someone who knew the area
would've had to make it?"

"Ah . . ."
Cem looked taken aback. "I–I s'pose, m'lor'. Not so hard to
find out we patrolled it, though, and most of the tribesmen could've
known."

"Mm."
Iathor stepped to Thioso's side. "A question for him, if I may?"

"Of
course, Sir Kymus. It's your brew he's drifting on."

Iathor
said, "Wolf, whose plan was it, to wait around the corner? The
man who hired you all, or someone else's?"

"Ours,"
Wolf said, slightly dreamy expression curling back into a sneer. "He
gave the place, the time he thought she'd be there, and we set the
rest."

Iathor
frowned. "And . . . Was anyone around, like the
man who hired you, to confirm the job was completed? Were any
lookouts employed?"

"Not
that I saw . . ." Wolf's unfocused glower went
softer.

"What
are you thinking?" Iathor asked.

It
earned him a glare. "Back door was open, when I got in. Thought
the vixen might run for it. Dunno why she hadn't."

Likely
too much concern for Dayn's safety, and Bynae's.
But why wouldn't
they all have run? Or barred the door so no one came in the back?

Unasked,
Cem said, "The warehouses, they're all of a piece. Long, with
few places to get through. Cheaper to share a wall, Millwell thinks.
If the back'd been un-latched, only two directions to go." He
added, "Though if they'd gone to the hunters at the far end,
they'd
not've wanted trouble they weren't paid for. We already
pulled a few of them into the cart and put them in cells; question
'em later, make sure they didn't know anything."

Darker
ones, no doubt.
Iathor said, "Wolf, did the people at the
far end know anything about your plan?"

"No.
And with someone screaming like a fox in a hole? Bah. Tried to get
everyone in fast, before they saw it wasn't just a man and his woman
arguing."

Iathor
looked over his shoulder. "Watchman, I believe you can release
the hunters. Wolf's still flushed enough that the brew's working."

"Er . . .
I'll tell Officer Maern, m'lor'."

Thioso
cleared his throat. "Sir Kymus."

"Yes,
watchman?" Iathor didn't like that neutral tone.