Read Online Herb-Witch (Lord Alchemist Duology) by Elizabeth McCoy - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Elizabeth McCoy
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bed.
He
stood. Paused.
The
Lord Alchemist moved to the corner of the store-room, below where
she'd hidden her accounting books . . . and the
remaining sweetflower. He leaned on the wall, and her breath stopped
a moment. Had he scented it?
Could
she, if she tried?
She
called, "Is something wrong?" It was a natural question.
He'd been looking in her shelves, and her ceiling wasn't one. (For
all that his hands might be fine enough to get into the niche, too.)
He
looked around the doorframe. Kessa looked back for a moment. Is
his nose better than mine? Or could he teach . . . Foolish thoughts. She slapped them with memory's heavy hands. Even
the easiest of masters would wonder at her family: thief and
courtesan, smuggler-thug and fagin . . . But they were
her family, and she'd not give them up.
He
answered, "I hope not," and for a moment she was confused
by her own thoughts.
"Mm,"
she grunted, feeling trapped and tiny.
Almost
as conversationally as he'd first spoken in the prison, he said, "I
trust that whatever else is in here, you don't intend to make . . ."
He paused. "Disreputable brews."
"I'm
not–" hiding anything , finished instinct; that
stupid , finished her outrage. The conflict helped her strangle
both. "No. Master Kymus." She didn't know if the title were
accusation, surrender, or both.
"Thank
you." He walked to her. His clothing rustled, as if he reached
to touch her shoulder or hair.
She
twitched, as much from her own confusion as from wariness. She
supposed she could fend him off if he became some base thug (he was
built like a clerk, not a dockworker) but he'd his men. Surely he'd
no taste for force, or he'd have used it already. She'd never rate a
lust potion from anyone, not like Laita . . .
Her
Guild Master sighed, perhaps misreading her flinch. "I found
nothing that smelled to be part of the other three potions. You
offered only half his blighting."
Had
I known what other potions Darul had, I'd have offered all his death,
and a better plan for it. She barely saw the counter she stared
at, barely thought of who listened. "He blighted himself
entirely."
But
it wasn't Jontho's rich voice – nor Burk's deep one, nor Tag's
near-whine – unhappily asking, "Are . . .
Will you be all right?"
She
looked up through her hair, confused. "Why not?"
He
paused. "Indeed." There was bafflement to match hers in his
voice. "I'd best find my men and depart, then."
How
does that follow? But no reason to delay him. "There's a
tavern at the end of the block."
He
opened the door, cold air drifting over her feet. "Which would
apparently send mugs with patrons, if paid enough." He looked
over his shoulder. "I'll be by in the morning, with more food."
Gratitude. Autumn was a bad time to be indebted. She watched her counter. "I
suppose I'll try to be awake, then."
"Good
evening to you, Tradeswoman Kessa." As if it'd been a social
call, with innocent tea and little biscuits.
"Good
evening," she made herself say. "Master Kymus." She
still didn't know if that were surrender or a slave's accusation.
Kessa
waited until the carriage left. She checked her brew and frowned. The
preparation was fine. The situation . . . was
something she couldn't handle alone.
Perhaps
there was another reason to wear the pants and tunic of cutpurse
black. The coat, fastened, was heavy enough to obscure her gender.
She didn't have any suitable preparations in it, though. Probably
good; such things weren't approved of by "reputable alchemists,"
and she wasn't thinking straight about whether she wanted to be
reputable.
She
dug the clothes from under the bed, changed, and slipped into the
night with her dagger outside her clothes. She remembered how to
move: half swagger, half stalk. It was harder, to glance around with
narrow eyes that didn't care who flinched. It helped to be angry.
Not
that she could vanish into the shadows, and accept the recipe of a
life she'd thought she'd escaped. Someone else might've,
He
stood. Paused.
The
Lord Alchemist moved to the corner of the store-room, below where
she'd hidden her accounting books . . . and the
remaining sweetflower. He leaned on the wall, and her breath stopped
a moment. Had he scented it?
Could
she, if she tried?
She
called, "Is something wrong?" It was a natural question.
He'd been looking in her shelves, and her ceiling wasn't one. (For
all that his hands might be fine enough to get into the niche, too.)
He
looked around the doorframe. Kessa looked back for a moment. Is
his nose better than mine? Or could he teach . . . Foolish thoughts. She slapped them with memory's heavy hands. Even
the easiest of masters would wonder at her family: thief and
courtesan, smuggler-thug and fagin . . . But they were
her family, and she'd not give them up.
He
answered, "I hope not," and for a moment she was confused
by her own thoughts.
"Mm,"
she grunted, feeling trapped and tiny.
Almost
as conversationally as he'd first spoken in the prison, he said, "I
trust that whatever else is in here, you don't intend to make . . ."
He paused. "Disreputable brews."
"I'm
not–" hiding anything , finished instinct; that
stupid , finished her outrage. The conflict helped her strangle
both. "No. Master Kymus." She didn't know if the title were
accusation, surrender, or both.
"Thank
you." He walked to her. His clothing rustled, as if he reached
to touch her shoulder or hair.
She
twitched, as much from her own confusion as from wariness. She
supposed she could fend him off if he became some base thug (he was
built like a clerk, not a dockworker) but he'd his men. Surely he'd
no taste for force, or he'd have used it already. She'd never rate a
lust potion from anyone, not like Laita . . .
Her
Guild Master sighed, perhaps misreading her flinch. "I found
nothing that smelled to be part of the other three potions. You
offered only half his blighting."
Had
I known what other potions Darul had, I'd have offered all his death,
and a better plan for it. She barely saw the counter she stared
at, barely thought of who listened. "He blighted himself
entirely."
But
it wasn't Jontho's rich voice – nor Burk's deep one, nor Tag's
near-whine – unhappily asking, "Are . . .
Will you be all right?"
She
looked up through her hair, confused. "Why not?"
He
paused. "Indeed." There was bafflement to match hers in his
voice. "I'd best find my men and depart, then."
How
does that follow? But no reason to delay him. "There's a
tavern at the end of the block."
He
opened the door, cold air drifting over her feet. "Which would
apparently send mugs with patrons, if paid enough." He looked
over his shoulder. "I'll be by in the morning, with more food."
Gratitude. Autumn was a bad time to be indebted. She watched her counter. "I
suppose I'll try to be awake, then."
"Good
evening to you, Tradeswoman Kessa." As if it'd been a social
call, with innocent tea and little biscuits.
"Good
evening," she made herself say. "Master Kymus." She
still didn't know if that were surrender or a slave's accusation.
Kessa
waited until the carriage left. She checked her brew and frowned. The
preparation was fine. The situation . . . was
something she couldn't handle alone.
Perhaps
there was another reason to wear the pants and tunic of cutpurse
black. The coat, fastened, was heavy enough to obscure her gender.
She didn't have any suitable preparations in it, though. Probably
good; such things weren't approved of by "reputable alchemists,"
and she wasn't thinking straight about whether she wanted to be
reputable.
She
dug the clothes from under the bed, changed, and slipped into the
night with her dagger outside her clothes. She remembered how to
move: half swagger, half stalk. It was harder, to glance around with
narrow eyes that didn't care who flinched. It helped to be angry.
Not
that she could vanish into the shadows, and accept the recipe of a
life she'd thought she'd escaped. Someone else might've,
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