Herb-Witch (Lord Alchemist Duology) (16 page)

"No . . .
No, he didn't like saying who owed him. Especially not when it was
someone who'd never want to admit needing a bit extra." She ate
quickly between her answers.

Iathor
leaned back and tapped his fingers on his chair arm. "Mm. I
think . . . I think at this time, it would be
appropriate to put your brother's resources into the hands of someone
who can manage them appropriately. He cannot be kept in the hospice
indefinitely, and you'll need to have access to his funds."
I
can't pay for him forever, Mistress Glasswife. I'm sorry. Besides, my
future bride might murder him in his sleep.

He
continued, "I'll have my secretary arrange things with a judge,
and determine if Darul had any specific provisions in his will.
However, I hope my people can make a more thorough search of his
possessions, to find a clue as to who might've been responsible.
Unauthorized tests of new potions are frowned upon. I understand some
of his belongings might have to be sold, and I'd like to be sure
there's no secret scroll hidden inside one."

"Oh.
My. Yes, of course. You're quite right. Yes, ah . . .
Do you want the key now? The maid and cook left, of course, so I've
the servant's door keys." She patted the pouch on her belt.

"If
you have it with you, that would be very convenient, Mistress
Glasswife." Iathor gave a practiced, sincere smile. "I
assure you, my secretary will get the fastest judge possible to
decide upon the matter."

"Thank
you, Lord Alchemist," the woman said, her mind clearly stirred
around, as she dug out the promised key. "Oh, the guards, they
said there'd been an herb-witch with him, just at dinner-time. Would
that be a clue?"

"Sadly,
no." Iathor sighed again. He hated misleading people, but there
were enough complications already. "I became involved when the
guards arrested her. I've examined her shop, and I doubt she could've
made the alchemical brew."

"Can't . . ."
The woman made a little circling motion. "Can't you brew up a
truth potion, Lord Alchemist?"

He
touched the outside of his robes, feeling the hard lumps of little
vials, cradled in individual pockets. The Tryth elixir was tightly
capped, but only part-full. "Yes. I gave her some. She didn't
like your brother, but gave him no poisons."

Saydra
sighed. "I didn't much like my brother either, I suppose. But
he's family. He'd have taken care of me, had I needed it."

"I'm
sorry I can't offer more hope."

Saydra
Glasswife pulled herself straight. "More hope than I'd be
changing his breeches like a babe the rest of our lives, Lord
Alchemist."

"When
we're sure the mix is purged from his body, there may be things to
try, to help him . . . I can't say 'recover,' but
learn again how to care for himself, and perhaps do chores or simple
work. There are researchers within the guild who take an interest in
helping victims of brain-fevers."

"Thank
you. That . . . That'd be well." She took a deep
breath, probably recalling her planned speeches, and said, "I
suppose that's all I needed, Lord Alchemist."

"If
there's anything else, anything you discover, leave word at the
hospice or guild offices." He stood, and held Saydra's chair for
her.

As
he'd hoped, his playing the gentleman's role flustered her, and she
agreed vaguely while he walked her to the front door. His brother's
man, sitting nearby, hastily opened it for them. Iathor politely sent
her on her way.

Then
he turned to his brother's dramsman. "Exactly why are you
intercepting callers?"

A
look of alarm passed across the man's face. "Ah . . .
M'lord Iasen, he . . ."

"He's
expecting someone? Not another party while I'm elsewhere, I hope."

"No!
Just a visitor. Lord Alchemist, I'm supposed to be discreet . . ."
His pupils dilated, huge and black, irises becoming thin greenish
rings around them.

Iathor
held up a hand. "Understood. Pray tell my brother not to order
you – any of you – to lie to me, or conceal what goes
on in my own house. If he wishes to keep secrets, he may return to
his
place, or to Cym. Am I clear?"

"Yes,
Lord Alchemist." The dramsman nodded miserably.

"And
if he's any problem with the matter . . . He'd best
take it up with me, not the messenger."
Or perhaps I'll go
before a judge and invoke the ancient laws of heirs, to have Iasen
forbidden to take more dramsmen.

"Yes,
Lord Alchemist."

"He
should take more responsibility for his men," Iathor growled,
stalking off before the poor dramsman was forced to say
Yes, Lord
Alchemist
again.

In
the kitchen, he gestured to Loria. "My brother's ordered his
dramsman, out front, to let someone in 'discreetly' – that is,
I gather from the conflict-reaction, not let
me
know who's
visiting. Perhaps a lady, but . . . I'd like someone
in the waiting room, as discreetly – ha! – as possible,
to see who that visitor is. Preferably without being seen, but at
least concealed enough not to drive my brother's man into a seizure."

Loria
tightened her lips. "I'll put someone there with the mending."

"Good.
Thank you. And I . . ." He looked out the back
door, cracked open while one of Tania's kitchen-girls fetched cooking
herbs. He groaned. "I've lost the time to visit Kessa. I'll have
to send the basket with Brague and another note."

"Off
to your office, then," Loria said, and gave him a gentle shove.

Iathor
went.

Chapter
XV

N
ot
only was there an egg-crepe and cheese for breakfast, there was
enough food for lunch. Kessa wrapped up some, tucking the package
into her basket before her errands. A few deliveries of prepared
ingredients, to older herb-witches who didn't like doing their own
chopping. A stop by Jontho and Laita's apartment. And then . . .
she'd go to a little store down near the dock and part with a bit
more coin for things she should've collected in the summer, when
they'd have been free in the earth.

It'd
warmed slightly, so she wore her sandals. The boots were getting thin
at the toes, and she wouldn't have money for new ones for some time.
She stepped out briskly against the last bits of chill.

From
the narrow alley across the street, she scented a meat pie, and
briefly saw bits of steam coming from someone's hands. Seemed too
tall for a woman . . . Could've been a baker's
assistant, sneaking breakfast he didn't want to share. Still, Kessa
kept a wary eye on that gap, till she'd have had to turn to watch it.

No
one followed her that she saw, but she zigged and zagged after her
deliveries, till she got to her siblings' apartment. She knocked
quietly, waited. Knocked again, in the patterns of safety.

Eventually,
Jontho opened the door, yawning. "Heya, Kessakin."

"Laita's
asleep?" Kessa whispered.

"Aye.
She was . . . out, last night. Catching up on sleep
now." Jontho glanced over his shoulder, but with only normal
concern for his frail blood-sister.

Kessa
pulled the bundle of food and dry tea from her basket. "Here.
Get the jam-jar back to me later. Empty's good."

Jontho,
despite looking half-asleep, didn't drop anything. "How'd . . .?"

She
glowered at him directly, till he hunched his shoulders in
mostly-mock submission. "Don't ask. It's fine. I've sniffed it
over."

"All
right . . . Don't
you
get caught filching,
Kessalan."

"I'm
not filching. It was delivered." She grimaced. "Go back to
sleep, Jonno."

"Aye."
He nodded. "Good day to you, sister."

That
made her smile. "Good day, brother."

She
kept a sharp eye out as she left the rickety apartments, but the only
people loitering were expected ones.

There
were more and more – loitering, gambling, drinking – as
she worked her way to the dock district, and more of them had
horse-dark hair and tanned, sunburned skin. There were shorter, wider
paths to the docks, with brick paving instead of packed dirt, but she
didn't feel like sharing them with everyone else who had legitimate
business. She glared down a too-fit "beggar" who started
towards her, and felt the strap of her knife-sheath under her skirts.
It lent confidence. Tanas'd had his crèche play chase-and-find
games . . . Even when apprenticed to Maila, Kessa'd
snuck out with her crèche-siblings when she could.

She
shouldn't be thinking of playing "find me" with her Guild
Master. She'd walked out of places like this. It shouldn't feel
familiar, like a hare's bramble-thicket home.

Her
mood wasn't improved when she finally got to the little shop, picked
out some ingredients, and had to wait for two sailors to finish
dickering over the price of men's tea and crotch-cures. She placed
her chosen packets on one side of the stooped, wrinkled herb-dealer's
counter, and coins and some of
her
preparations on the other.
Then she waited, eyes neither hidden nor quite challenging.

The
man looked her up and down, muttered
Thought you'd died
, and
shoved her purchases at her without haggling.

She
scooped them into her basket and left. Let him tell stories about the
ghost of Maila's apprentice, if he wanted. So long as none reached
the ears of any legitimate alchemist, it'd be safe enough.

Walking
back, she stayed wary, once flattening herself against a door as one
of the "gray watch" blonds turned down a corner in front of
her. She'd not recognized his anonymous, pale hair until she glimpsed
his profile.

He
didn't see her.

She
moved to better streets as soon as she felt safe to be noticeable in
that part of town.

There
was still someone in the alley across from her shop, out of sight
till one was directly in front of it. She kept her head down, hair
veiling her sidelong gaze, as she walked past. She kept her body
between her door and the alley as she examined the lock and slid her
key in gently to test if the tumblers'd been left oddly-pushed.

It
didn't seem anyone'd tried to get in. Perhaps someone was interested
in the baker's? She'd have expected an herb-witch to have more money,
had she not known better.

If
the "gray watch" had found someone'd fingered them, they'd
want to know who.
Of all times to have fancy visitors.
It was
probably good Master Kymus
hadn't
shown up recently.

And
none too soon for her to start preparing defenses. She drew the
curtains to conceal her without entirely blocking the light, brought
out her packets, pulled a recipe from memory, and picked up a
tarnished silver knife. The tarnish was important, to have this
steeping in a sealed jar by the time dinner – and a Guild
Master – might appear.

It
was, in the end, a near thing. The scent of it seemed thick in her
nose when she answered the knock at the door. But it was Brague
again, carrying the basket and apologies from his master, who'd been
dragged to dinner by his brother. Kessa was beginning to like Brague.
He didn't linger, and was polite to a half-breed. If she'd not feared
the gray watch spied upon her, she'd have asked him in and picked his
brains about his master.

Later
still, she was glad she'd not. Tag's little roof-rat might've been
hard to explain.

"Meat
again?" Tych asked, scooting onto the stool and looking avidly
at the basket.

"More
stew, more bread, and a wedge of cheese." Kessa set out the
offerings. "Tag wants us running messages again?"

Tych
eyed her. "We
gotta
? Can't I just tell
you
?"

Kessa
waved the stew-spoon in mock threat. "Play the game."

The
child sighed. "Fine, fine. Tag says, tell you t' tell Kellisan
he's got someone else says You Know Who – an' I sure don't –
goes to th' Emerald Cat and Crimson Birch, an' not the usual like Red
Pearls or Parsimony's Best. Doesn't take anyone home, near as Tag
hears. On th' other hand, he ain't
kicked out'a
th' Cat nor
Birch. An' Tag's not heard he visits Siren's Call nor Eager Maiden."

That
last was a relief; only the Shadow Guild's patronage kept those
latter two open. "Tag hear what end of their toys he likes?"

"Didn't
say." Tych absorbed stew like a sponge. "He's askin'
'round. Says he's got a few trails, but nothing worth talkin' 'bout."

"Not
much for you to come all this way."

Tych
mumbled, through a huge bite of bread, "Came f'r th' food, not
th' leaves."

"Well,
be careful. I think someone's got the alley, catty-corner 'cross the
way. Hmm . . ." Kessa smiled. "Do me a
favor, look it over? I'll give you the rest of the cheese."

"What
kinda watcher?"

"Not
sure. I'm thinking the gray watch from some days ago. I had to rat
them out – not that they'd given reason not to. Far as I know,
they're freelancers. Suppose some guard might've talked."