The Poisons of Caux: The Hollow Bettle (Book I) (25 page)

t was quickly decided that the threesome would attend the dinner together and that Axle’s reputation for eccentricity was such that arriving with not one, but
two
tasters to the grand affair would not be out of character for someone of his high regard. Peps liked the idea of showing up at the palace with an entourage and quickly set about making preparations for outfitting Ivy as a junior taster.

Gudgeon scurried about here and there along the Knox, making purchases for the three. But he was, if he stopped his hectic pace to admit it to himself, of two minds about the whole business. He was not a man who enjoyed taking risks and didn’t like to see his friend do so, either (although how he overlooked Peps’s questionable dealings for so long is another matter entirely).

He found the appropriate robes for the young girl, as well
as the requisite tools: tongue scrapers, atomizers of distilled water, and golden flatware. And then he set about on more pleasant tasks. Peps had requested a glamorous suit for his debut at the palace. And everyone agreed there were a few alterations the children would need to their appearance—something that Gudgeon, who was, after all, the Royal Prosthetic Cobbler, might see to nicely.

At the Knox, the guests strategized.

“So you take the smallest bite—always with your right hand—and play it about on your tongue.”

Rowan was giving Ivy a crash course—an irony that was not lost on the two, considering Rowan’s past tasting failures.

“Why your right hand?”

“It just
is
. Ivy—” Rowan was getting flustered with explaining each minute detail. “It’s always been that way. Stop asking questions! I’ve got to impart eight years of training into one lecture!”

Ivy apologized, and shifted in her seat. She was left-handed, and it would be a task to remember to use her right. She couldn’t wait until the day after tomorrow—with her uncle so close, her stomach was in a constant state of butterflies.

“You’re looking for anything, any hint of taste. But let’s focus on behavior, since we’ll agree that taste is not my strong suit. It’s sufficient to nod, like this”—Rowan nodded to Peps
wisely—“to indicate the food is fit to eat. At large dinners—especially ones that follow all the courtly protocols—it would be too distracting if each taster were to speak to his charge, so in the politest of society, like here, tasters are expected to observe the Rules of Silence.”

“How do you tell your charge the food is poisoned, then?” Ivy wondered.

“If you detect something, there is a sign. Usually, the taster will drop his fork on the table.”

“Why not just say something—after all, the food is poisoned!”

“Well, often enough the food has been poisoned by someone at the table—and intended for one of the guests. The poisoner could even be your charge, and it is not our job to judge—merely to taste and inform. That’s the Tasters’ Credo: ‘Taste and Inform.’” Rowan smiled.

“I’m familiar with it.” Ivy grinned.

She popped a small bite of potpie in her mouth, trying her best to taste the morsel—to really
taste
it in a new way. And indeed, something interesting happened. For a moment, the world dropped away, and Ivy was aware of only the medley of flavors on her tongue. The butter, the salt, the thick gravy—each one was distinct, yet together a symphony of taste. The components disassembled further on her tongue (the cream of the butter, the flour of the pie, the plump, juicy fowl), and instead of immediately following it with another
bite, she felt no need to eat more. And as the complexity of flavors drifted away, she could sum up quite successfully the ingredients of each, because she had truly and successfully tasted her food.

“Your years as Poison Ivy have well prepared your palate.” Rowan was appreciative. “You’re a better taster than I am—without a day of training!”

“Let’s eat,” Peps interrupted impatiently. “The problem with tasters is that by the time you can get a bite in, everything is cold!”

The meal was indeed one of great delight and temptation, delivered in person by the chef of Templar’s most luxurious eatery, Trindlesniffter’s. The chef, a round man with flame-colored hair named Trindle, was delighted to see the trestleman. Apparently, this was Peps’s regular fare, since by his own admission, he was the only trestleman he knew who couldn’t, or wouldn’t, cook a bean. Peps nodded appreciatively at his plate, and soon the two old friends were boisterously cheering their fortunes.

Rowan, sensing a private moment, leaned across to Ivy and whispered, “You still haven’t told me how you plan to cure the king.”

This was the question that had been plaguing her since the elixir bottle broke. She didn’t have a plan, but more of a hope … an idea. But not one she was about to share—yet.
First she needed to get herself into the fortress-like palace, and just as Axle promised, Peps was helping her.

“I need to use your kitchen, Peps, if you don’t mind,” Ivy said, fingering her stolen vial of nightman’s skullcap through her pocket.

She was excited to get back to her old tricks.

utside Gudgeon’s store it was a pleasant temperature, and although the Winds had yet to ebb, there was an unusual amount of citizenry walking the bridge this early evening. Peps—as Axle—and his two tasters slipped out the front door and onto the cobblestones. The trestleman, with his richly dyed purple cloak wrapped tightly around his stout body, was dwarfed by his two friends, who flanked him. They set off through the crowd.

The tasters were outfitted in generous fashion by Gudgeon’s talented hand, and Ivy considered herself lucky to not be wearing the restrictive corset he had hoped she would. Rowan, too, had dodged some of the more eccentric looks—Gudgeon was hoping for the chance to outfit him with a lump somewhere, a hunchback or perhaps a throaty goiter. Instead, the children managed to look presentably healthy. Ivy, head covered by her dark tasters’ robes, wore a change in eyelashes and a becoming
beauty mark that Gudgeon had added in a flourish of theatrical makeup to her cheek. Rowan stumbled along in a pair of ingenious shoes that made him several inches taller and a small fashionable beard. Together they made a respectable team, and if they kept their heads down, no one would recognize them.

If possible, the Knox crowd had grown rowdier since the last time Ivy and Rowan were on the bridge. And it was clear that it was the anticipation for the Nightshades’ annual Festival that drove most of the bridge’s visitors. The wind—never one to be ignored—was clacking street signs on their high poles and whipping everything not tied down into a frenzy. Garbage and debris blew against the threesome’s ankles and swirled off into the night. Ivy managed to catch an eyeful of a yellowed parchment pamphlet as it struggled to free itself from a lamppost. It featured an engraving of a madman—hair flying and twisting in every direction, his eyes inscribed with a look of complete cartoonish lunacy.

With a jolt, Ivy was reminded of their desperate errand.

It was just over an hour later, as the last of the dusty gray light was being swept away by the wind, that Gudgeon found himself still standing in Peps’s darkened loft, staring at the magnificent view of the Marcel. The scenery comforted him. That is, until he saw a small boat drift into view—from the north—and dock haphazardly on the city side. That was unusual. With the dockmaster celebrating, there was no one to collect the tariff, and Gudgeon peered more closely at the curious arrival. From inside the cabin emerged an odd threesome. A tall, aristocratic lady in a thrilling red ball gown, quite a sight even on her own. Next the small unmistakable form of another trestleman—the two of them were enough for Gudgeon to gossip about for weeks. But the third—the third figure to disembark made Gudgeon’s blood run cold. Someone—something—rarely seen, even in the city. And then only at night. A hulking figure in a ragged robe, wild hair escaping the hood on all sides.

An Outrider, Gudgeon realized, an Outrider was here in Templar!

Turning quickly from the window, however, he missed the last arrival. A clever eye indeed was needed to catch the figure of the sleek black stowaway keeping mostly to the shadows, flapping his tired wings into the city’s night air.

he thing about taste, as any first-year attendant of the Guild might tell you, is its close reliance upon the sense of smell. And, of course, miserable Sorrel Flux and his swollen sinuses could smell not a thing—not his own foul breath, not the musty curtains on his bedroom wall.

Any taster in this predicament, other than he, would be in a state of high anxiety at performing his duties for the queen. He knew she would take pleasure in testing him publicly; it was her very nature to poison—she could hardly be expected to resist her treacherous urges.

But Sorrel Flux was long past worry. He was of equal scheming temperament to Her Majesty. He had consulted his friend Lowly Boskoop, who in turn kept a close inventory on anything unusual that went into the king’s kitchen. (Flux was
expert at humoring Lowly’s servant’s pride and gleaned various tidbits concerning the menu for the evening.) The meal tonight promised to be a momentous event—dining with the royal family, after all, appealed to Flux’s vanity, and for it he was well prepared.

Now, with the final event nearly upon him, he sat with a towel over his head and a bowl of hot water beneath his yellowed face. He was attempting to clear his sinuses, but as soon as he rejoined the stale air of the castle, it would be all for naught. Condensation dripped from the tip of his long crooked nose.

If the evening was going to be any success, he needed the coast to be clear. It was imperative to his grand plan. Now quite accomplished at poisoning sentries, Flux administered a basket of particularly potent mushrooms to the large population of the castle’s guards—sprinkling it in their fragrant stew—and the resulting quiet was well worth the effort. Next Flux poisoned the staff supper. The palace was nearly vacant.

As he readied himself for the dinner party, Flux could barely contain his growing excitement over his own cleverness. Tonight, he would be putting his sorrowful years of servitude behind him. Soon he would walk free in paradise—the Doorway’s secrets now were his.

He had but one more person to call upon before the guests were set to arrive. Sorrel Flux, after smoothing down his thin wisps of hair with a remarkably calm hand, went out into the corridor in search of his associate Lowly Boskoop.

King Nightshade detested his wife’s get-togethers.

The anticipation gave him indigestion, and the polite chitchat was always so forced. He craved a more entertaining setting, where he might find himself accidentally amused.

Remembering the guest of honor, he yawned. It was to be some small and dislikable trestleman, someone, no doubt, who had little if anything amusing to say. Hadn’t he tried to outlaw the entire lot of them? He would have succeeded, too, if he pressed the issue, but Artilla had a soft spot for the author of that poison book she so admired.

The trestleman was a writer, thought the king, and undoubtedly the conversation would be very high-minded and bookish—unlike his own brand of prose. It was just these sorts whom the king shunned. What he really needed was a court jester, but his last attempt to fill that position had been such a shocking disaster.

He allowed himself a moment to recall the likable fellow. The man had an ear for rhyme—a true and enviable gift. He was also quite hairy, an amusing trait in anyone, especially a jester. So completely covered in hair was he, he resembled more wolf than man. After the jester’s eventual demise, the queen, inspired by the man’s animal appearance, had the Royal Taxidermist set to work upon him. So convincing was the Taxidermist’s work—the glint in his eye, the pep in his frozen step, the reach of his arm as he forever grasped his flute—it
took the king a fair few hours to realize the man was no longer of the living (all the while the king was waiting politely for the stuffed man to amuse him). Sadly, that led to the king’s next horrible realization: his hairy jester had been preserved very much like an
antique!
This conclusion so frightened the king, so completely revolted him, he resolved never, ever to find humor in someone funny again. (All was not lost on the experience, however, as it provided the inspiration for one of King Nightshade’s particularly morbid poems.)

The king pondered his ability to turn shock and misfortune into poetry as his brother snored from across the room.

Which reminded him.

Earlier, he was relieved to have received a message from Vidal Verjouce, answering his query concerning a new taster. Verjouce had written to assure King Nightshade he was sending only his best for tonight’s occasion—a note that both pleased the king and made him nervous. Vidal Verjouce wrote in vagaries that confused him, often making him irritable.

In the meantime, the king thought he might compose a toast for tonight’s meal and sat himself down at his elegant writing desk with a blank mind.

But how elusive was his muse! As he waited, and indeed nothing came to him, and indeed nothing again still, he wondered offhandedly if he might, with some help, be able to find a mite-infested mattress in the castle. He pictured himself
reclining upon it, pen in hand, and experiencing the plight of the poor and downtrodden in a fit of inspiration.

But seeing as the king was not one for sympathy or sacrifice—even for his poetry—he did not ring for a sentry.

Of course, none would have answered.