The Poisons of Caux: The Hollow Bettle (Book I) (26 page)

eps D. Roux and his two tasters arrived at the Palace of Templar, at the invitation of the queen, to find the guard booths at the castle door quite empty and unwelcoming. In fact, the entranceway was so lonely, with no one there to receive them at all, that Peps grabbed the invitation from his breast pocket and rechecked the date and time. It was in order.

“Hello?” he ventured, and was answered only by the murky bubbling of the moat.

Sorrel Flux’s slow and methodical elimination of the castle’s staff had been comprehensive. Finally, it was a scullery maid, flagged down by Peps, who led the threesome, unceremoniously, to the large ornate doors that marked the court’s receiving room. There she quickly departed, leaving the visitors in an awkward silence. Finally, following the flamboyant
trestleman’s example, Ivy and Rowan made their own way before the fearsome and despicable rulers of Caux.

“Well, then …” The king cleared his throat. He wasn’t very good at small talk. “Which one of you is that trestleman writer?”

“Darling.” The queen rolled her eyes. “It’s obviously the one in purple. The little man.”

“Ah, yes. Now I see. He is a little fellow, isn’t he? Does he do anything? Dance?”

“I don’t think so, dear.”

“Still, I’d like to see him dance.”

“We have your book right here, Mr. D. Roux.” The queen patted a copy of the
Field Guide
. “Lovely little thing. We are so very happy to meet you.”

The room was filled with various guests—a few of Caux’s more terrible ladies and gentlemen who were in the queen’s favor—and Peps thrilled them all with a flouncy bow. Ivy’s eyes couldn’t help but be drawn to the queen’s enormous ring, and she nervously twisted her own sorry reproduction from Mithrodites she wore on her finger.

“You bring to the table two tasters tonight, Mr. D. Roux?” asked the queen.

“Indeed, Your Majesty. It is my habit to never dine without them. I am, after all, a … celebrity.” Peps nodded and smiled at the starched and disapproving faces that lined the ornate wall.

“A
celebrity
, you say?” inquired King Nightshade.

“Yes, Your Highness. A celebrity.”

There was a pause, and Ivy held her breath.

“Highly irregular. Wouldn’t you say, dear?” The queen turned to her husband ever so slightly.

“Hmm?”

“I asked if it wasn’t highly irregular that there are two tasters for one such smallish man.”

“Correction, my dear. A
smallish celebrity
. But really, Artilla. I would hardly hold it against your miniature guest. You do have a reputation that precedes
you
as well.”

The queen, complimented by her husband’s words, returned her gaze to the threesome, and just then a voice—a shrill, yet gratingly
nasal
, voice—bubbled up (as if from under a rock) behind them. A voice that Ivy knew at once and could never in her life forget.

It was, of course, the voice of her former taster and unwelcome lodger, Sorrel Flux.

“Dinner, they tell me, is served,” he oozed.

here remained, in the castle, only one thing—or rather, one set of things—that could be attributed to the Good King Verdigris that had not been thrown into the moldy basement at least once. They defied the king’s decree against antiquities and heirlooms and were displayed on every available space of wall in the formal dining room. They were enormous, and spectacular.

And since they were favored by the queen (indeed, by anyone who was fortunate enough to see them), on the walls they remained: a magnificent set of seven tapestries, made long ago by an unknown hand. Artilla, in a fit of inspiration, had decided that they would serve not only as a wonderful backdrop to the night’s festivities, but as the theme to the entire meal.

Needless to say, the king despised the tapestries. He was made positively ill at the thought of them lurking over his shoulder and materializing within a sidelong glance. He
insisted, as with all antiques, that they smelled funny, and could see no artistry in their woven threads—rather, infinite places for dust mites to hide and multiply. He hated that his wife demanded eating beside them, but try as he might, she was not going to let him off the hook tonight.

He took pleasure in the fact that he would have some revenge to exact upon the party when he gave the toast—he finally had put pen to paper and composed a little something for the evening.

The guests were shown into the formal dining room ahead of the royal family.

Ivy’s heart was beating hard, and its echo pounded in her ears. The surprise of seeing Sorrel Flux caused her legs to weaken momentarily, and she found herself wishing—not for the first time since the Abbey—for the comfort of her red bettle. Gudgeon’s genius at cloaking clubfoots and hunchbacks translated into an equal ability at disguise, but even though the children were well augmented and prepared, Ivy—draped in her taster’s cloak—wondered in one horrible moment if Flux might see right through her.

Tonight, what little remained of the castle staff were dressed for the hunt. Indeed, the party could have been occurring in a picture-perfect woodsy clearing, except for the fact that there were four walls and a ceiling (although the camouflage was nearly complete). A chatter of caged birds—mostly
woodland songbirds and some odd waterfowl—rose up in a thunderhead of sound to greet them. Once the noise had subsided somewhat and the smattering of floating feathers had settled, a lonesome lute took over. Everywhere were the markings of an outdoor meal; even the floor was strewn with reeds and twigs and crunched convincingly underfoot.

As the threesome made their way to the enormous oval table, they were joined by a few of the other guests: a handful of visiting dignitaries and a low-level ambassador from Kruxt waiting out the Winds, each with his taster. Peps stopped to nod and greet them while Ivy and Rowan stared impassively at their counterparts. Ivy stole a glance at the room. The cloth that draped the dining table was exquisite, hand-stitched of delicate leaves in a living patchwork The table was set with wooden platters and polished bowls, while dark moths fanned their wings on the centerpiece—a heap of skulls upon gnawed crossbones. A jagged vine snaked in and out of the empty eye sockets.

With a nudge from Rowan, Ivy tore herself away from the scenery, trying to remember her hasty lesson in protocol. There, on the table, in golden ink, was a succession of dried fig leaves scrawled with the names of the invitees. Ivy scanned for Axle’s, and Peps took his place—the place of honor—beside that of the queen.

The side door opened, and through its archway came the Deadly Nightshades. Queen Artilla had changed into a spectacular deep-green gown—a hunter’s green, she called
it—which was little competition for the greenery of the room. Her crown shone evilly, amassed with dozens of crystal-clear gleaming bettles.

The queen had had less luck outfitting the king.

For him she laid out a matching hunter’s costume, but he had been unwilling to wear it. She had, however, been successful in convincing him to don a crown of antlers—this he wore
only
because they were dipped in gold—and she had done her best not to produce a mirror in which he might glimpse himself. The effect of the crown was a startlingly ridiculous one: it was ill fitting and caused the ruler of Caux to resemble a drunken stag. Plus, it tended to catch upon everything it could, and the scenery in the room was quick to fetch a ride atop his head.

So it was that the king’s entrance was less spectacular than his wife’s. Having to do battle with the mean and gnarled branches of a tree, he came away with a wisp of hanging moss dangling from an upper antler. He wore on his feet Gudgeon’s new green shoes and might have generally admitted to the room that he found them to be the most comfortable thing about the entire event.

“May I present for your admiration the king and queen of Caux!” announced Sorrel Flux, performing a job normally reserved for Lowly Boskoop.

Peps was the first to rise and bow, and with his tasters by his side, finally drew Sorrel Flux’s consideration. But Flux’s mind was on other matters, and his fancy was caught not by Ivy, but by the other taster. The young man beside the teensy author seemed vaguely familiar. His hair seemed different, true, and the unusual beard he possessed for such a young man was confusing. The youth’s face blandly resisted recognition—it niggled at him, but soon the furrow over his waxen brow was eased by the commencement of the meal.

A lone hunter’s horn sounded from somewhere far off—cheerless and forlorn. Again it blew, and Ivy realized it was a mournful indication that dinner, and with it her taster duties, was about to begin.

t pleases the queen to dine tonight with the theme of the hunt,” Flux announced with a smile that showed off his large and crooked teeth.

Even with his arms open wide, Sorrel Flux could not fill out his robes. If the king had earlier been wishing for a jester, he might have been satisfied with Flux in his dress attire—a sight rife with hilarity. (The king, however, would have been quick to discover that of the many virtues lacking in Sorrel Flux, a sense of humor and the ability to turn a phrase were two.)

The queen drew their attention to the famed tapestries, and Ivy realized what she had mistaken for a mossy and inviting glen was actually a wall and, in turn, mere woven thread upon that. There was no doubt that these tapestries were crafted with an ancient and lost art. With a low voice, Queen Nightshade lectured on the various plants she found amusing,
taking particular care to point out the depiction of her namesake, the deadly nightshade.

“The tapestries, so very realistic, no?” she purred.

The king muttered something under his breath.

“The king has a completely different word in mind!” the Royal Diarist announced brightly.

In total, there were seven panels depicting a series of gardens. But what gardens were these? Some were lush and welcoming, while others were eerie and uninviting, and in the last of them stood a beautiful maiden in white. Yet, in all, the colors of the woven threads, after so many years, were still vibrant and remarkably preserved, and the very air around the tapestries seemed to pulse.

“If you would be so kind as to take your seats, the dinner will begin at once!” Flux announced, seemingly from behind a shrub.

The lush table was populated, and Prince Francis, snoozing comfortably, was wheeled in beside the king. Sorrel Flux moved to take his position as the queen’s taster while the servants tended to the preparation. There was indeed a shortage of staff, and the few that now appeared looked harried and overworked.

“The king will now grace us with his genius!” the Royal Diarist called from the corner.

“Yes, indeed, I have written a toast in your honor for this occasion, my dear.” He cleared his throat. “Do you wish me to begin?”

“No,” the queen replied hastily, thinking of her guests’ appetites. The ruler of Caux looked cross.

“The king will now remind the queen just who’s boss around here,” the Royal Diarist predicted.

“Darling”—Artilla recovered smoothly—“shouldn’t we wait for the drink to be poured?”

A cask containing his favorite brandy sat invitingly beside the king. It did seem wise to wait for it before making the toast. After a moment’s pause, he agreed.

At this juncture, while the hopes for the evening were still high, the appetites of the table’s occupants were pleasantly alive, and their senses were not yet spoiled by overbearing perfumes or the like—at this juncture, it was possible to forget one’s bearings and lower one’s guard. Rowan knew this. He was taught this at the Guild, that distraction from the simple act of tasting was the taster’s biggest challenge. He tried very hard to steel himself against anything that might divert his attentions, and he felt suddenly light-headed at the task. But he had little time to contemplate much else as the room suddenly erupted into chaos—in the form of a large pack of hounds that had been loosed on the chase of some seemingly invisible prey.

The chamber was filled with their barks and howls, and they streaked after one another so quickly and furiously that they appeared to be one blurry mass unto themselves, snarling
and growling in their mad rush. Foam slathered their jaws and was thrown about the air.

It felt as if they might carry on this way until they’d exhausted themselves, but just then the dogs suddenly halted, to the apparent surprise and displeasure of the queen. Something had spooked them greatly, and now, with their tails between their legs, they huddled together, whining.

From the entrance where they had made their way not long before came a voice that so terrorized the hounds.

“King Nightshade,” Vidal Verjouce said, “I do hope dinner has not begun without me.”

The terrible effect of Verjouce’s presence was not felt solely by the hounds. Sorrel Flux was clearly unhappy at the sight of his former employer, and this time it was difficult disguising his shock. He had a horrible moment when his suspicion got the better of him, and he allowed himself to wonder if somehow Verjouce knew what he intended, if his former master had somehow intuited his plan—and a private terror rose up inside him.

“What is the meaning of his presence?” the queen hissed at Flux—although Flux was not the source of the trouble.

“Your Highness, I assure you—” Flux stammered.

Verjouce made his way over to the table, the tip of his ruthless cane barely grazing the ground. (If the theme of the dinner and the occasional tree in his way surprised the blind man, he showed it not in the least.)

The dogs were cowering under the table, making a general nuisance of themselves—stepping on toes and pulling down a corner of the tablecloth, causing an arrangement of poisoned apples to clatter to the floor.

“Forgive my tardiness.” The Director addressed the king. “I was delayed on the mountain. There was a little incident with my sled.”

Ivy allowed herself a quick peek at Rowan, who looked pale and sick.

Queen Nightshade sighed and clapped her hands, and several costumed staff appeared and began coaxing the hounds out from their hiding spot—an ungraceful process that took much longer than she would have liked and involved bribing them with scraps of raw meat.

It was now time for the entertainment.

“Bring in the prisoner,” she ordered.