Herb-Witch (Lord Alchemist Duology) Read Online Free

asked, "Dayn,
could you open the shutters?"
    "Of
course, m'lord."
    The
resulting light undoubtedly saved Iathor from ignominiously stubbing
his toes on the heavy worktable in the middle of the room. He set the
basket with the remaining rolls upon that table and prowled, using
his nose as much as his eyes. The herbs hanging from the support
rafters smelled of exactly what they looked like, concealing neither
other ingredients nor mold. The moon-rack, covered in thick, black
fabric, was in the window ledge where Kessa leaned, arms folded.
Iathor was careful to only sniff that; prodding might let sunlight
in, ruining nights or even months of moon-steeping. The shelves,
nailed to the walls in slightly erratic levels, held jars and
sachets – all with identifying marks, and all smelling as they
should.
    One
shelf, set high for his reach, held unmarked jars and vials. Most
looked or smelled familiar: the golden tincture that went into
curatives, a nose-biting paste to relieve congestion, carriers for
sunburn-balms, the mint oil that could lower a lip-blister . . .
One jar, striped in red, defied identification with eyes or nose.
Iathor frowned at it and set the jar on the counter, pulling his
white-glazed spoon from a pocket to get a light dusting of powder
into his hand. Then he licked it up.
    There
was a muffled noise from the herb-witch. He wondered, as he sorted
the powder's ingredients by taste, if she'd been about to warn him
against unwary sampling. How else would I command a guild full of
eccentric alchemists? Without the immunities, there'd be scheming
ranging from practical jokes by apprentices and journeymen, to lust
and loyalty potions, to poisoning. The first were a nuisance to be
quashed patiently. The middle could be mitigated by a dramsman bound
to the city-prince or the Princeps. The last . . .
required immunity.
    The
powder's taste was still odd, though with the bittersweet of a
quickened preparation. He lapped a slightly larger sample out of his
hand. Earth-water edge . . . Almost-numbness of the
tongue . . . He glanced over; Kessa dropped her gaze
before her eyes could be seen. "What is this?" he asked.
"It's somewhat like clae , but you've added river-root."
    She
took came and put the lid back on the pot. "It's for beer. It
takes away what makes people drunk. Only for a glass or two, though.
Any more and you . . . And most people'd get queasy.
It might work on wine, but beer's cheaper to test."
    "Hm.
Why not–" –use a Vinkest's pill? he didn't finish.
Vinkest's sobriety pills were popular at the alchemical school in Cym
that Iathor and his brother'd attended as journeymen. They were,
however, pure alchemy. This concoction . . . was pure
herb-witchery. "You developed this recipe yourself?"
    She
went on tiptoes to put the jar away. "Yes," she said,
sounding oddly resigned.
    "Fascinating.
How much is a dose?"
    "For
a single glass? One, mayhap two of your spoonfuls there."
    "And
its cost?"
    "For
the pot or the dose?" she asked. Her tone held mystification at
the edges.
    He
folded his arms. "What you're selling it for." Not that she should be selling any, unless Master Rom'd approved it, but he
tasted no harm in the thing.
    "Copper
half-flower a dose. Two more leaves for two. And only to those who've
been warned what happens if they take too much."
    "Mm."
He went to the door, obtained money from Dayn (who was better
equipped to fend off cutpurses), and returned with a copper tree,
flower, and leaf. "Ten doses?"
    Kessa
took the coins, weighing them in her hand; he nearly thought she'd
taste them to see if they were real. Then she nodded and fetched her
own spoon and paper squares (apprentice-work, from their uneven hue
and texture) to measure out the doses with as steady and smooth a
hand as Iathor's own mother had ever displayed, when he was eye-high
to tables and watching in fascination.
    That
train of thought could only lead to more suddenness; he'd already
startled Kessa overmuch. He went