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

Not
entirely, though. His red-haired wife, Earl Dhaenoc's sister, was
short and soft: an impediment to fighting. Princess Ceren, Lady
Aeslird, clung to her husband's arm as if she were still a shy bride
instead of mother to two sons and a daughter, the eldest son a more
hunted prize than Iathor'd wish on any man.

Lady
Aeslird's tawny-haired dramsman followed behind Prince Tegar's: a
woman in birth only, trained like a soldier, brought from the old
empire at great expense. Her tunic came below her knees, dress-like,
but was slit up to her hips. A half-dozen lesser servants, some
dramsmen and some not, accompanied the royal pair. One of them . . .

The
page was too young to've been bound, but strove to imitate his elders
in their utter assurance and smooth obedience. As Prince Tegar called
permission to rise, the page bowed to Iathor. "Lord Alchemist,
his Grace bids you attend him upon your convenience."

That
meant
as soon as you've politely ended your conversation,
not
make an appointment.
Iathor stood and inclined his head to
Baron Usth. "By your leave, Sir Usth?"

"Of
course, Sir Kymus." The other man clambered back to his feet and
gave what seemed intended as a heartening salute with his wine glass.

Iathor
followed the page, and waited while the city-prince paid his respects
to Earl Irilye, chatting a few moments while the Ladies Aeslird and
Irilye moved off together. Then Prince Tegar strode over, using his
greater height and royal familiarity to sling an arm across Iathor's
shoulders as if they were kin. Iathor forbore to mention being nearly
a decade older. "Your Grace."

"Lord
Alchemist. Walk with me, mm?"

"Of
course, your Grace." As Iathor turned, he saw Dayn contemplating
the two princely bodyguards with an expression so stoic, it probably
hid dismay. "Where are we bound?"

"A
sitting room'll do. I trust you're well this evening?"

Somewhat
rushed by the taller man's long-legged stride, but otherwise . . .
"Quite, as it happens. And your Grace?"

"Next
spring's my daughter's blossoming. What do
you
think?"

"You've
my deepest condolences, your Grace."

"Ha.
I'm sending an ambassador on the next ship to the old empire."

Seeking
another of the female bodyguards, alchemically sterilized and trained
in combat. In Cymelia, the barrenness potions were illegal; the army
trained no born-women. "I'll make arrangements to brew the
draught, your Grace."

"Good."
Prince Tegar took the second of the sitting rooms off the hall,
gesturing for his dramsmen (and perforce Dayn) to stay at the
doorway. "Now, what's this I hear about you finding some
immune?"

"Ah . . ."
Iathor became glad Kessa'd sensibly rejected his invitation. "Might
I ask your sources, your Grace?"

"Later.
Tell me, Kymus. My parents made sure I understood the role Lord
Alchemists play in Cymelia."

Iathor
sighed. "May I sit, your Grace?"

The
city-prince seated himself on a couch as suited to private politics
as to trysts – possibly more-so. "Yes."

Iathor
took the couch's other end and clasped his hands between his knees,
leaning forward. "I've found a girl. I believe she's immune.
Circumstances . . . She's not yet answered my proposal
yea or nay."

"What
nay
is there? Shall I order her?"

"Blight
and blossom, no!" Iathor choked, and added, "Your Grace."

"If
she's immune, why not? No point in dithering around like a silly
shepherd's daughter mooning over the baker's son."

Iathor
gave Prince Tegar a side-long look. "Your Grace, what've your
sources said of her?"

"She's
an immune herb-witch from poor family. I've long since despaired that
you'll wed for politics or romance, and I can't say your reasons are
wrong."

She
was arrested for illegally dosing someone.
But if the city-prince
declined to notice, Iathor'd not mention it. "She's also a
half-breed, not even knowing which parent was the barbarian."

Prince
Tegar waved a hand. "Poor family. Cymelia'll survive.
Losing
the immunities? There's just two of you, neither leaving little
bastards around, and my cousin the Princeps sends me missives that
imperial spies'll be underfoot any month now."

"There
might be other immune men, keeping silent . . ."

The
city-prince leaned forward himself. "Kymus, if you start your
heir now, I frankly don't care if it's with a full savage. There's a
bleached barbarian or two in my own blood, far as I can tell. What do
you need? Shall Ceren and I have another daughter to betroth to your
infant son?"

"I
need . . ." Iathor took a breath. "I need my
herb-witch's consent, your Grace. I hope to secure it in spring or
summer." If not . . . He'd have to use
ingredients of the heart, promising Kessa her sister's health and
comfort if only she paid with her body. And if his other hopes
evaporated in that brew's quickening, it would be a harsh Fire's
justice.

"A
season or two." Prince Tegar leaned back. "Kymus, that's a
long time, knowing she exists."

"I
hope to live with her for even longer, your Grace." Life with an
angry, bitter herb-witch would only be worse if it was also life with
unending, bland gruel for breakfast, luncheons, and dinner.

Prince
Tegar sighed. "Fine. But with a condition: find a wife before
next autumn, or I'll find one for you."

Iathor
blinked, momentarily outraged, then gave a bark of laughter before he
caught himself. "My apologies, your Grace. And . . .
my thanks." For if
he
felt the pinch of that casual
decree, perhaps he glimpsed Kessa's dismay.

"Huh.
All right." The city-prince stood. "I'll have words with
your brother about his lack of little bastards . . .
The Princeps may be overthinking, but if there's hints the old empire
seeks to retrieve its land-gift from the Cymeli family, I'd be a fool
to discount them."

Iathor
also stood. "Ah . . ."

Tegar
paused, eyebrow lifted. "Yes?"

"Your
Grace . . . My brother opposes my possible bride. I've
not even admitted the girl
is
immune. Mentioning her . . ."
Unwise, impolitic, a bad idea
; things one would rather not say
to city-princes.

"I
see." He nodded to Iathor. "Enjoy the Earl's party, Lord
Alchemist."

Iathor
bowed deeply. "I'll endeavor to, your Grace. I hope you're also
pleased."

"We'll
see." He left the room.

Iathor
sat again. Shortly afterward, Dayn slipped in. "M'lord?"

"I've
been told to find a bride before next autumn, lest I have one
appointed, for the old empire considers lack of immune alchemists an
exploitable weakness." Iathor leaned against the cushions. "I
think I understand some of Kessa's temper. Do you suppose she'd
soften to me if I tell her? Or try to vanish into the slums or catch
a ship elsewhere?"

"I
don't know, m'lord. I hope she'd not try the latter."

"Indeed."
Iathor sighed. "It'd be most irritating to dose my way through
the docks to find her trail."

"And
what potion?" Dayn murmured.

Iathor
touched the vial of the dramsman's draught, defiantly not above his
heart. "Earth and Rain forgive me. I'd brew less Tryth than
loyalty, to get her back."

Dayn
nodded, face somber. "Shall I fetch you anything?"

Hiding
in a dimly-lit sitting room appealed, but . . . "No.
Miss Irilye might find me." He heaved himself up and led the way
back to the fête.

Happily,
no one asked what the city-prince'd discussed – not even Miss
Irilye. Talien was on his brother's arm, introducing Iasen to various
eligible young women. His brother's usual brunet footman, Teck,
trailed behind. Iathor frowned, concerned how baldly the city-prince
might rebuke the lack of little bastards, and how Iasen might react.
Then he saw a page waiting, and surmised Prince Tegar'd not yet
issued any bloodline ultimatums.

As
Iasen was led off, Iathor slipped into the edges of a discussion of
crop yields between the Counts Nearwater and Urnbury. With half an
ear for comments aimed in his direction, he watched the city-prince
draw Iasen toward the hallway – and probably the same sitting
room he'd taken Iathor to.

That
left Talien without a companion in mischief; Iathor hoped he looked
involved enough to ward her off. Finally Prince Tegar (and
bodyguards) re-appeared, followed by Iasen and his dramsman. Iasen
looked irritated.

Rain's
own justice, brother, for slandering Kessa as a copper-leaf
courtesan,
Iathor thought. No reason for such a stupid bet, save
to humiliate Iathor's possible guest.

When
Iasen caught up with him, his brother grumbled, "So, what'd the
city-prince say to
you
?"

"You
first." Iathor sipped his wine.

Iasen
rolled his eyes. "Fine. He said, could be the only thing
standing in the way of his son or grandson being dramsman to an
imperial agent is . . . us. And asked if I'd made
offer for Talien."

"Have
you?"

"No!
I'm not in love with her. Don't fancy an endless parade of
stable-boys and second sons through my bedroom, either. Almost seems
she's
trying
to get caught, and I don't want the scandal."

"And
Cymelia sighs in relief."

"Right,
your turn. Talien said you'd been summoned first thing."

"Nearly.
I've
been given a deadline. By next autumn, I'm to have a
bride, or Prince Tegar assigns one." He left unsaid,
And as
the city-prince values immunities . . .

His
brother's expression was everything Iathor could've hoped. Iasen
wasn't stupid, and the implications were clear. Voice tight –
the city-prince was across the room, and shouts would attract
attention even Iasen shouldn't want – Iasen said, "Excuse
me. I'm going to see if they've put out food. Talien said she's
starving."

Iathor
snorted as his brother stalked off. Talien wasn't as cushioned as the
city-prince's wife, but she was hardly
starving
. If anyone was
starving, it was . . .

Kessa.

Iathor
realized that in the hurry to get to Earl Irilye's ball . . .
He'd left before Kessa could've returned home. Brague'd not've
delivered the dinner basket. They clearly hadn't delivered it on the
way. Brague wouldn't have known Iathor'd not fed Kessa at the Flask,
and they'd all been too distracted for asking.

Which
meant a worried, angry, hungry herb-witch likely waited in a cold
shop for a basket he'd been punctual about sending.

She
wouldn't,
he tried to tell himself.
She'd remember I had to
attend this wretched party, and buy something. The stipend was in
last evening's basket.

It
nearly worked. A merely irritated herb-witch could yell at him, and
he could try a sincerely groveling apology.

Except
she might not've quickly realized he'd forgotten.

Despite
the glare of the Incandescens Stones outside, the windows showed a
dark sky.

If
Kessa'd not realized his oversight till sundown, when people were
returning to homes and beds, she'd have the choice of hunger, or
going out despite the unknown watcher who'd been leaving skulls on
her door.

If
Kessa were harmed because
Iathor
had forgotten her
welfare . . .

He
turned to Dayn. "We're going to make sure Kessa's all right, and
fed. Now. Please have the carriage prepared while I make my apologies
to the earl."

Dayn's
expression flickered, showing his own realization and guilt. "Aye,
m'lord."

Iathor
headed toward Earl Irilye. His coat rippled against his legs.

Chapter
LVII

P
otions
brewed and report given to Master Iste, Kessa and Nicia stood outside
in the near sunset. It was still mild, though Kessa wouldn't be
surprised if it got bitter by morning.

"Oh,
it'll be lovely at my cousin's party," Nicia said, smiling.

"Harvest
festival?" Kessa stretched her stiffened shoulders.

"A
small family one: mother's side, which means my uncle'll be in from
Maraeton, so my aunt'll have to be civil about my alchemy-lessons,
and I suppose Uncle's business partner may come, or send his sons."
Nicia tilted her head. "I hope they'll not be embarrassed that
we used to play together when we were little."

"Make
sure you've had dry tea if you're playing with them now."

"Kessa!"

"What?
You've got the stuff, haven't you?"

"Well,
yes, but–"

Kessa
snuck a look; Nicia was blushing, evident even in the pale sunset.
"So drink some. Won't harm the moon-blood for making dry tea
yourself, if nothing happens."