The Bone Palace - Amanda Downum [105]
The air was surprisingly clear, considering the hundreds of bottles and vials and jars of ingredients Isyllt counted, but as she or the other shoppers moved she caught whiffs of scent: herbs and spices, flowers and resins and a dozen other notes she couldn’t identify. Delicate scents and harsh ones, cloying and tangy, some that made her mouth water and some that made her fight a sneeze.
A clerk followed the mourning doves, opening vials and dabbing scent on proffered wrists. He cast a solicitous glance at Isyllt but she shook her head; he wasn’t the one who could help her. After several moments, a curtain stirred in the back and the proprietress emerged.
Kebechet—the name of an Assari saint, and unlikely her true one—was a tall woman with a fierce hooked nose. Her hair was a black storm down her back, shot through with the glitter of jeweled pins and combs. Despite the chill, her shawl slipped off her shoulders, baring an ample corseted bosom. Rumor held that she was a bastard Severoi who had taken the family device for her own. Isyllt had never heard a member of the house confirm or deny it.
She exchanged pleasantries with the doves, and commended or corrected their choice of scents. When they departed, her black eyes trained immediately on Isyllt.
“Good morning, necromancer. Looking for a scent? Or perhaps a healing oil—something to help you sleep?”
“Is it that obvious? No,” she amended, “don’t answer that. I’m following a scent and it’s led me here.”
“Then I hope it was a pleasant one, and not some of that trash they peddle down the street.”
“Quite pleasant. Neroli and almond and cinnamon, I think.”
“Ah.” Kohl-lined eyes gleamed. “Yes, neroli is a popular note this year.”
“Do you remember this particular scent?”
“It isn’t one of my standards. I make a lot of personal blends.” She shrugged one bronze shoulder and her shawl slipped another inch.
“And I’m sure you remember all of them,” Isyllt said with a smile, “or have notes. I need to know who you made it for.”
Kebechet stilled, flawless and poised as a statue. “That would be a breach of trust. Not all of my customers come to me publicly.”
“I respect that, but this is a murder investigation.”
“Ah.” She turned to the clerk, who was polishing a counter with great concentration. “Kadri, would you be a dear and fetch us some tea, and maybe some cardamom cakes? There’s no hurry.”
The boy left, a flush darkening his copper-brown cheeks, and Kebechet latched the door behind him. “You think one of my customers is a murderer?”
“Someone wearing one of your blends slit a woman’s throat for blood magic. Most likely more than one woman’s.”
The perfumist swallowed. “All right.” She flipped the sign in the window. “I’ll help you if I can. We can sit down in the back.” She led Isyllt through the curtain, past a cluttered workroom and into a cramped but pleasant sitting room beside an equally cramped kitchen.
“Do you remember who you made that perfume for?” Isyllt asked as she sat. Her shoulders wanted to slump with fatigue, but Kebechet’s perfect corseted posture kept her back straight.
“Neroli and almond and cinnamon? Varis Severos. But,” she added quickly, “I’m hard pressed to imagine Varis killing anyone, especially for magic. He won’t even bind spirits.”
“He may have had nothing to do with it,” Isyllt lied calmly, “but the perfume passed from him to the person who did. Did he say if it was for someone?”
“It must have been—he could never have worn something like that. He often gives perfume to his… friends, nearly always personal blends. He has a wonderful nose for combining scents. I remember that one because he brought me a sample, an old bottle with only a few drops left, and asked me to recreate it. Not my work originally, but still quite nice. The cinnamon was much stronger than is popular now—it burns the skin, you know, and no one wants welts on their cleavage.”
“Did he say who it was