Herb-Wife (Lord Alchemist Duology) (58 page)

"Well,
don't do it again," Dayn said, matter-of-fact enough that Kessa
had to hide her own twisted chuckle beneath the blankets.

There
was nothing distinct for a short while after. Hunger drove Kessa to
pull her robe closed and push back the bed-curtains. The wooden rings
clicked on their rail, and Bynae appeared immediately, wiping at her
face. "M'lady?"

"I . . ."
Half a dozen wry, self-mocking thoughts passed through her mind, and
none could get further. Kessa bit down on stupid tears. She'd nearly
been as clear and cold as when Maila'd died. Then it all crumbled,
thin ice.

"M'lady
needs food," Dayn said, behind the still-closed bed-curtains.
"I'll see to that." The door opened and closed.

Kessa
combed her fingers through her hair, trying to shield her eyes. The
tie in back had tangled; they'd not thought to pull it out for the
bath.

Bynae
said, "M'lady, he's to bring breakfast to the sitting room.
Unless you'd rather have it in bed?"

Kessa
made a vague gesture. "Where's . . ."
Iathor, Kymus . . . Master Kymus. The Lord
Alchemist.
She didn't know which to say. It hurt.
Fool
half-breed. You knew caring about him was a mistake.

Though
dramsmen weren't supposed to hear their master's thoughts, save
perhaps in legends, Bynae said, "Master Kymus has been drafting
letters and . . . stalking about. Till I said he'd
wake you. A messenger came yesterday, and early this morning."

"Messenger?"
Kessa let the girl lead her to a chair.

Bynae
untangled the ribbon from Kessa's hair and started brushing the knots
away. "Twice, yesterday. The first time, Master Kymus left
Brague and went off by himself. Late in the evening, he'd everyone
looking for spare heatstones."

Baffling.
She shouldn't have expected anything else from the man. "And
this morning?"

"Just
a messenger. Not the same as yesterday, I gather. Tholo? Thiolo?"

"Thioso.
He's a watchman from Aeston." Who'd seemed willing to suspect
nearly anyone. "He came both times?"

"Yes,
so I hear. I've . . . stayed in the guest rooms."

Close
to me.
Bad enough to've acquired a dramsman against the girl's
will. Worse if it were the older draught. She whispered, "Is it
upsetting? You thought me a monster before."

Bynae
was quiet, working on Kessa's hair. Then she slipped around to crouch
down. She looked up at Kessa before Kessa could turn her head.
Bynae's pupils flared and contracted twice, but she didn't flinch or
seem disgusted. Then she frowned and stood again. "I'll be all
right, m'lady. I feel worse that I thought such things."

And
if I cry, she'll fret.
Kessa pressed a hand to her mouth. "I'm
sorry. It's all right. I never took it to heart anyway."

The
girl made a small noise. "What would m'lady like to wear?"

"It
doesn't matter. The gray, perhaps." Since the gray and green
dress was torn and bloody. Even if given to the Chemstone servants,
Kessa suspected mending wouldn't be prompt. The brown dress, Kessa'd
liked well enough that she didn't want to wear it in misery.

"Yes,
m'lady." Bynae went to fetch it, and do all the helpful,
near-necessary things maids did when ladies got dressed. Eventually,
Kessa looked at least slightly better than a donkey draped in
half-rag skirts and sent fleeing through the streets.

Food,
and Dayn, waited in the sitting room. Kessa was glad she didn't have
to brave the breakfast table. Dayn, for whatever reasons, pulled the
chairs and sitting room table into the somewhat more spacious
bedroom, setting them against the foot of the bed. He held the chair
for her while Bynae poured tea. Then he said, "M'lady, m'lord
asked me to inform him when you wake, and ask how you're feeling."

Broken.
She wrapped her hands around the warm teacup. "I'll live, I
suppose."

He
might've looked at her a long moment. "Might you convince him to
eat more than half a roll, m'lady, if I reminded him that late
breakfast exists?"

There
were two plates upon the table, one still covered for warmth, and a
bread-basket. She'd not expected choice of whether or not to see him.
She cradled the teacup. "I don't know, Dayn. Do better reminding
him
you
worry about his health, like as not."

The
footman made a discontented noise, bowed, and slipped out.

Kessa
ate her own egg-crepes more out of concern for Bynae's fretting than
her own hunger. So she was only half-done when Dayn got back. The
dramsman drew Bynae into the servants' room, and on his heels . . .

It
became clear why Dayn'd moved the table from the tiny sitting room
when Iathor stalked in. "Good, you're eating," he said,
with absent-minded lack of manners, and took a roll from beneath
their cloth cover. Then he paced, scowling, as the cramped sitting
room wouldn't have allowed.

Eventually,
poking at her own food, Kessa said, "Will you sit?"

He
sighed explosively and flopped into the other chair. "I'm not
hungry," he said – complained – and tore open his
roll. Then he pinched bits out of its middle.

"Dayn's
worried about you. Brague too, I wager." She tried to make her
voice neutral.

"I'm
fine!" He dropped the mangled roll on the table, propped his
elbow beside it, and put his forehead in his hand.

Perhaps
a
fine
that was too familiar for Kessa to believe. "Bynae
says there were messengers, while I was asleep."

Iathor
groaned. "Blight, yes. Thioso, yesterday. Twice. That fool Iasen
ran. Left two of his men and went to visit some noble or other.
Couldn't be bothered to tell them who, or hadn't decided himself, I
gather. He got past the city watch at the gate, but they sent someone
on skis to see where he stopped when the snow got too high. Then
Thioso came back to ask for warming Stones, for himself and the local
watchmen who'd trek out to take him. Wouldn't let me go with
him . . ." He brooded.

She
wondered how Thioso'd convinced him to stay. "The dramsmen told
you the truth?"

"Somewhat."
His voice settled into a lecturing tone. "The Cym watch got
their usual alchemist first, but he claimed he didn't know how to
tell an dramsman's ordered truth from a real one, and it would take
me or my . . . It would take someone with experience
with the draught. Likely he didn't want the political taint. It's
simple enough to read the signs of conflict in a dramsman. The eyes
are the most obvious – the reaction is much like when the
draught is first taken. Even if they can remain silent under Tryth,
lies don't work."

It
was almost normal to listen and make a little noise of interest. He
went on, "Viam wasn't in conflict when he said he didn't know
which noble his master'd picked to descend upon. Nor when he admitted
he'd taken the spare draught on his own initiative. He'd been told to
keep Bynae from betraying the plan, apparently."

Her
listening-noise was half-hearted, and apparently the lecture was over
anyway. Kessa sighed. "Tragedy on both sides, for them."

"Mmph,
I suppose so." With another snorting sigh, he uncovered his
plate and addressed himself to eating like a chore. After several
bites, he said, "Thioso swore he'd send a messenger when the
squad got back with . . . This morning, one skied in
from the village. If the snow doesn't start up again, they expect to
be back around noon."

"What
then?" Kessa cut bits of food with her fork, trying to think of
eating one and failing.

"I'll . . .
go, I suppose." He set down his fork. "Thioso sent word
with the skier. He wants me to bring you."

The
tea'd gone cold, but the cup was too full to refresh it. She drank
some anyway. "Will you?"

Iathor
set the cover back over his plate. "Your choice."

Ironically,
Kessa didn't feel up to choosing anything. Covering her own plate
seemed the only decision she could make. "What would the right
choice be?"

"Blight."
He propped both elbows on the table, his forehead on the backs of his
hands. "I wish I knew."

Am
I the person who sits in the house and waits?
"I should've
stayed here yesterday."

Iathor's
shoulders drooped. To the table, he said, "It's hardly your
fault Bynae lucked onto the one tale that could draw you there. And
if you'd sent her alone . . . Like as not, she'd have
been held hostage, draught-bound to Viam after all and cooperating in
her kidnapping. Or worse."

The
very reason why servants were made dramsmen in the first place, lest
they be made someone
else's
, and sneak in at night with a
knife. And Dayn and the driver might've been hurt more, or killed.
"Then I suppose I'd better come."

"What?"
He sounded grouchy and confused, looking up.

She
flinched. It'd been easier to be brave when she hadn't cared what he
thought of her. "It doesn't matter."

"Blight,
Kessa . . ." Iathor dropped his head back into
his hands. He sounded defeated. "As you wish."

Kessa
wrapped her arms around herself and felt too miserable to stay, too
timid to leave the bedroom, and too much
something
to speak at
all. Nor shout, nor weep, nor try to explain she couldn't make any
sense while her heart bled.

Eventually,
Brague knocked. "M'lord, the messenger's come. Says Thioso asks
for you, if you and m'lady would."

"Thank
you, Brague." Iathor pushed himself up, went to the wardrobe,
paused, then called down the servants' hall, "Might someone
return Kessa's cloak, please? And her boots?"

Kessa
managed to channel her confusion into standing. "My cloak?"

He
waved a hand. "I'll explain in the carriage. Daleus eventually
agreed to let me borrow it, so long as we stay away from the
warehouse district."

"Oh."
Kessa finally wanted to shout at him, now that she didn't have
anything coherent to say, and fled to the water-closet instead.

Afterwards,
Bynae all but pounced upon her with boots and cloak. From her own
cloak and hat, she was clearly coming along as much as Dayn was,
though not on the outside perches.
I should've gotten a footman of
my own,
Kessa thought, and wondered what Iathor'd say in front of
someone else.

As
she'd feared, hoped, expected . . . little. The
Chemstones' carriage was uncomfortably quiet, with Kessa and Bynae on
one side, and Iathor on the other. Brague and Dayn both rode outside,
in fur-lined boots and leather-palmed mittens; Dayn in back, and
Brague up with the driver.

Iathor
didn't explain why Kessa's cloak and boots hadn't been in the
wardrobe. After a while, she thought someone'd wanted to keep her
from going anywhere in the snow; nothing she wanted to talk about.

It
took most of the ride to realize her silent misery made Bynae as
twitchy as a cat with wandering kittens. That only added to the
weight, though Kessa tried to hide it better for the girl's sake.

The
Cym watch-station was much taller than any Aeston one –
lacking underground cells, probably – and fronted entirely in
gray stone. With snow heaped up around the sides and a manure-mixed
slush on the road in front, it was a depressing building.

The
young man who met them, in his Cym-watch tabard and coat, had at
least been told which woman was the lady; Kessa'd half-expected
everyone to assume
Bynae
was the wife. But the man gave a
short bow to first Iathor and then Kessa. "The Watch Commander
expects you, sir," he said, and led them within.

The
inside was whitewashed, less grim than outside. Kessa clutched her
cloak around her shoulders and tried to tell herself there was no
weight, now, to old fears of jail cells.

The
room they were brought to wasn't an office, but a larger, sparser
place, filled with benches and a long table at the front with benches
around it, too. She recognized Thioso, but not the other two men: one
was older, hair and beard a mixed gray-silver; the other was as
golden-haired as Bynae. The guide said, "Commander Braenen.
Officer Maern. I've brought Sir Kymus and his wife."

Dramsmen
rated no mention, as usual. Kessa glanced over her shoulder and
flipped her cape out a little, to keep Bynae behind. Dayn was
watching Kessa, Brague was watching Iathor . . . So
Kessa's maid had none to watch after
her
, save Kessa herself.

Her
backwards glance let her look through her hair at the men at the
table. Thioso seemed weary, grim, and pleased all at the same time.
The blond man looked disgusted and stiff. The third, presumably
Commander Braenen, was spectacularly neutral. He stood and sketched a
bow. "Sir Kymus."

"Commander
Braenen." Iathor stayed standing, but nodded back and leaned on
the table. "You have . . . Iasen?"

The
Commander sat again. "He's been separated from his men and is in
a comfortable cell. We've not questioned him, but waited on your
arrival."

"I
see." Iathor's voice was tight. "What would the usual
procedure be?"