Herb-Wife (Lord Alchemist Duology) (8 page)

Tania
giggled, almost high-pitched; she was as solidly cushioned and pale
as her sister. "Remember, when the house was built – and
the times it was added to – it was customary for
all
the servants to be dramsmen from the older draught, who'd be grieved
to live away from their masters. And not all dramsmen could take the
Vigeur elixirs, so there'd need to be places for old servants as well
as the youngsters. And there'd be more servants at times, too: the
lady's maids, a nanny for children, perhaps even a bodyguard for the
heir. And once they'd grown a bit, well . . . People
sort of
accumulated
."

Kessa
wondered how many Vigeur elixirs
Tania'd
taken. "You've . . .
been here long?"

That
got another giggle. "I suppose I sound like it! No, I
apprenticed to the old cook, who told me much the same story –
though with such a sniff and whine about how improper Iathor was,
getting on with as few servants as he could once his father'd retired
and moved to their barony." Tania forced her voice into a
creaky, higher pitch. "Oh, how could the boy, just letting his
father's orders suffice! A proper heir'd have everyone bound who
walked in the back door!"

It
startled a low chuckle out of Kessa. "Father's orders?"

"'Obey
my son as you would myself,' I wager. Old Mara had her objections to
the country, but the older draught . . . She was
grouchy that she'd been left behind, too. No one could compare to
Iaren Kymus, for her." Tania clucked sadly. "She knew her
craft, though, and took over the stewarding with a tight hand. And
all the years till she died, m'lord never behaved inappropriately –
not like the household my sister was at!"

Kessa
smiled a little. "At least I wasn't totally wrong, when I looked
sideways at the nobility?"

"Not
at all." The cook sounded disgusted. "Man was married, had
grown sons, a favored courtesan, and
still
went groping the
maids. Of course, gossip says his wife went groping the stable boys,
too. Loria was glad to take a position here, for that family was as
trite a collection of canards about nobility as ever there was, down
to the last."

As
they walked through the hall to Kessa's room, she asked, "The
last?"

"After
the baron died, well . . . He'd been living on the
production of his lands, that his own father'd built up to nearly a
county. His heir liked making wagers on horses, or cards, or the
flight of birds – and liked the alchemies which the guild
won't sell, too. So the lands got sold off, little by little, till he
went and fell into the River Eath for some reason. His widow sent her
daughters to the spring blossoming balls, and some of them even went
hunting after m'lord." Tania opened the door. "Ah, here's
this dress on the bed, and . . . your old one?"

Kessa's
belly went cold, for no fathomable reason. "Yes. I asked for it.
I need to check the pockets before it's washed."

The
new dress was a brownish gray that should've looked murky, but
didn't, with dark green accents and embroidering of alchemical forms
at the shoulders and neck. It looked to be good cloth, but wasn't
fancy; she was glad.

Kessa's
old dress hung over the chair: a smock the irregular brown of cheap
dyes, with summer's grass stains at the knees from picking herbs out
beyond the city walls. The shirt was a paler brown, stained by bits
of herbery and sweat.

Both
shirt and smock-front were torn from shoulder to waist. The inner
side of the cloth, when she turned it back, had greenish stains that
seemed to've eaten away at the fabric itself. Kessa ran her
fingertips over one.
My own poisoned spit.
No wonder they'd
put her in a bath so quickly.

"M'lady."

Kessa
shivered at the title.

Tania
touched her shoulder. "Let me help you with the other dress.
That one'll be left as long as you want, or taken out to be rags, or
burnt, whatever you wish."

"Left . . ."
Kessa took a breath, the scent of old sweat and old herbs in her
nose. "Could I have a comb, please? I'll need to put my hair in
order."

"Of
course. I'll fetch one."

Amazing,
how easy it was to get the other woman out of the room. Still, she'd
not be gone long. The need for haste kept Kessa from standing numbly.
She took another breath, trying to sort out the smells. Was that the
bittersweet of a quickened potion?

She
felt oddly queasy as she walked around the chair, crouched a little,
and hooked her thumbs in the dress's hem, shoving it up . . .
there. Perhaps that far. Perhaps this placement of hands. She flipped
the skirt's fabric around and looked at the inside. Nothing?

Scorning
dignity, she bent to sniff, pulling the fabric away from the stain of
her bleeding.

It
was faint, the sweet almost masked by the bitter. But when she
touched the spot, it was rougher, as if the cloth'd been damaged.

With
ice in her belly and chest, she closed her eyes and licked the edge
of the roughness.

So
faint, but . . . bitter and bittersweet alchemy. She
stood, eyes closed, and tried to remember the salts Kymus . . .
Iathor'd given her to taste and learn, in his basement two nights
ago. The education of an immune. Part of her heritage, she supposed.
The only one that'd given true distress was the cleansing clae she'd
taken to rid her mouth of the bitter poison-tastes, and that'd only
numbed her tongue when held there too long.

Bitter
poisons, yes. The strongest note wasn't the sweet of mind affecting
ingredients and potions, nor the silver of enhancements, nor the
taste like blood looked, shared by so many of the body-enhancement
salts. Bitter. A bit "red" and "black," if taste
could have color.

A
body-poison? Why put a body-poison on themselves
there
,
without testing it other skin?
Were they idiots? Or was it a brew
that'd only react to something like an open wound? She could've
smeared the healing ointment over her arm and felt nothing but mild
warmth till it met a cut and burned.

Kessa
flipped the skirt down, making herself take off the robe and start
figuring out how to get into the new dress.

Think,
half-breed,
she told herself.
Just as when Maila died. Know
the options, pick the path.

She
stripped off her old undershirt and put on the lighter, shorter one
that went with the new dress. There were long, gray stockings as
well, with drawstring ties to keep them up.

Back
then, the options'd been to stay and keep her head down, stay and
kill her teacher's poisoner, or leave and keep her head down. She'd
walked away from the Shadow Guild, pretending she'd only been Maila's
student to please Maila's low-husband, who'd raised Kessa in his
créche.

Think!
Kessa scowled at buttons that didn't deserve it, going down the back
of the dress. Her hands moved on them; her mind worried at other
problems.

She
was sure Iasen was behind the attack. He'd the hatred, had taken the
buggy, had been so very positive she was no maiden. And they'd had
alchemy with them.

So
what would
he
have wanted them using? What would he have
brewed?

Knowing
what I know of him . . . Aphrodisiac?
Something to
let them abuse her beyond human limits? Her belly was cold, queasy,
and cramping. She paused for another spoonful of the hornflower paste
to ease the last. But Iathor'd once told his students, when
pressed . . .
Aphrodisiacs are sweet. Not bitter.

Fine,
then. Iasen'd been shouting at his brother in the night, about
"whelps." Something to make her
conceive
in that
nightmare?
He'd have had to hold me prisoner, away from Purgatorie
and stronger preparations, till the child'd quickened, or longer.
And . . . that would make no sense. True, they'd a
cart, and planned to kidnap her till she struggled so much that
carrying her off was more difficulty than cold air on their privates.
But their easily changed plan suggested they'd not been hired to
keep
her, after.

She
supposed he might be stupid enough, or confident enough of his
recipe, to think such a planting mightn't be uprooted. But even
so . . .
A year's delay in Iathor's own heir, at
the most. Unless
Iasen
thought the bearing would
kill me?

She
supposed he might be ignorant of women's herb-witchery. Still, the
taste was bitter, suggesting
poison
, not fertility.

So . . .
the opposite? Salting the fields rather than making them bountiful?
Ensuring that, married or no, there'd be no heir to threaten Iasen's
title?

She
wasn't sure that would work on her; the immunities protected against
anything that changed how her body was supposed to be.

But
what matters is if he
thinks
it'd work.
Kessa worked on getting into the dress without jostling the belt or
ties that held the cloth bag of moon-flow padding in place.

Kessa
knew of illegal preparations to blight a woman's womb, but only the
herbal ones. She'd have to look for alchemical recipes, and mix them
to taste which matched.
Bitter. Black-red.
She fixed the taste
in her mind.

The
buttons up the back were wretched. Even with a former roof-rat's
flexibility, Kessa fumbled, losing the correct hole several times and
having to start over again.

Tania
knocked, and entered to Kessa's plaintive
come in
, saying,
"Took me a bit to dig this up, I fear. How are you managing
those buttons?"

"Badly."

Tania
laughed, handed her the comb, and set a small bag on the bed. "Let
me."

With
help, the blighted buttons were easily sorted. Kessa combed her hair
and tied it with the ribbon so it fell in concealing wings past her
cheeks. Then she sat and got on the stockings. "I suppose I'm
presentable."

"We've
a cloak ready, and I've a bag here with extra pads and a rag to wrap
a used one in, if you're gone long."

Kessa
took up the handles of the carry-bag. "Thank you."

Tania
gave her a one-armed hug, strong and cushioned. "For what you're
doing for m'lord . . . Thank
you
."

I'm
not doing it for him. This is
my
vengeance.
She made an embarrassed noise and looked aside. "Will it be a
hired buggy?"

"No.
None of those for you anytime soon, I wager, and the one what left
you's going to be lucky to keep his hide. And that's if m'lord spares
him." The cook's voice was firm and angry. She softened again to
say, "M'lord and Dayn went with Herbmaster Keli in her hired
buggy, so you'll have the carriage, Jeck, and Brague."

A
reassuring trio indeed. She was, momentarily, quite charitable
towards Iathor. Then she felt awkwardly confused, and managed only
mumbled, distracted acknowledgments.

Brague,
dressed warmly, took the footman's perch, rather than riding inside
with her. She supposed that was good; the rear cushion, that she'd
bled on, was missing, leaving a wooden plank over small storage
areas. She took the front cushion. All the other times, Iathor'd sat
there.

It
was dim inside, with thin strips of woven wood across the windows to
keep the cold out. They'd held glass last night, but those panes were
likely too expensive to risk for everyday use. Better to be warm than
see out, anyway.

But
frustrating, with no one to talk to and her body too sleep-sated to
drowse. Kessa went on her knees and edged open the sliding panel that
let one talk to the driver. If she clung carefully, she could watch
out the front. She wasn't a noble's daughter, to fear a bruise or
three from a tumble.

She
could smell when they were close. The burned, ashen odor was
overwhelming. She slid the panel closed, feeling as if there were a
hole somewhere inside her. She wished she could run and run to a
place where all of this hadn't happened.

Instead,
the carriage stopped. Bounced as Brague got off. The door opened,
with him there to help her out. She managed to take his offered hand
and step down, skirts held in one fist. She slipped a little on a
muddy, icy patch; her worn boots hadn't held up well from going over
roofs in the night. They didn't match the quality fabric and dye on
the dress. Neither, she thought, did her too-dark, coppery hands.

Brague
caught her. "Will you be wanting to go to a shoemaker's, miss,
or shall we fetch one to the house?"

"As
high-handed as your master." She wasn't sure if she was quashing
tears or laughter.

"That's
not one I've heard, miss," he replied, and she thought she heard
amusement in his voice.

I
can amuse a dramsman. Small gifts.
She took a breath and lifted
her head to look up and around Brague, across the street to where her
shop had been.

The
weaver's workroom, to the right, was mostly standing. Somehow, the
bucket brigade and the weaver's overworked apprentices must've gotten
the rugs, tapestries, and bedding to safety before they kindled the
entire block. To the left had been apartments, and those were . . .