The Tasters Guild Read online

  Rowan held a thick clipboard and saw to the needs of the lengthy line. He prepared each patient, prepping them with a series of questions. He peered in between toes and under bandages. He inspected tonsils, carbuncles, and boils. And then he moved the citizens along swiftly to Ivy for their cures.

  Upon a little alcohol stove, Ivy was preparing a tincture. She crumbled various dried herbs and, with the tip of a pocketknife she produced from her apron, scraped the spots from a small toadstool and flicked them in, too. The brew exhaled a weak puff of smoke, and Ivy added more of the mushroom, frowning. With a sudden snap, the potion produced a sulfurous cloud, and when it finally cleared, Ivy was regarding her patient thoughtfully.

  “Tonight before bed, drink this. One thimbleful only.”

  The patient nodded earnestly and watched as Ivy drained the mixture through a thin funnel and into a small glass vial, one quivering drop at a time. Thinking for a moment, she pried open a small pillbox she pulled from an equally small pocket and, with a set of tweezers, added what appeared to be a grain of dust. The potion turned a steely blue, and then a brilliant sapphire.

  “Pollen of witch hazel,” she confided, satisfied.

  Producing a cork from her apron pocket, she sealed the ampoule.

  “Repeat nightly for one week, and—” She stopped. Something had caught the girl’s eye, and her outstretched arm froze midreach. She gripped the potion.

  “And?” The confused patient leaned in, trying to retrieve his tonic.

  The odd gathering on the Knox was growing. Some uninvited guests were arriving—from the sky. The dark speck Peps had noticed in the clouds had now descended, and it was bringing friends. Landing about them were great dark birds—enormous vultures. Their ugly heads were naked of feathers and blood-red.

  Ivy blinked.

  She forced herself to turn her attention back to her patient even as the grim creatures continued to arrive from above.

  “Repeat nightly for one week, and—your carbuncles will be gone,” Ivy continued, writing the directions on the label in illegible script. “Guaranteed!” She smiled. “Or your money back.”

  Rowan cleared his throat.

  He had great faith in Ivy’s knowledge of botanicals—he had seen her potions do miraculous things and had sampled them himself. But her blithe guarantee made him nervous.

  Earlier, he had taken her aside.

  “Ivy, must you make promises like that? We won’t even be here in a week!”

  Indeed, they were meant to depart quite soon for Rocamadour—a destination that left a cold feeling of dread in the taster’s stomach. The ailing King of Caux, the Good King Verdigris, was somewhere in Pimcaux. And if they were to help him, they needed to infiltrate the Tasters’ Guild—no easy task—and find the only remaining Doorway to Pimcaux. Only then could Ivy fulfill the Prophecy.

  “Rowan,” she had teased, “have you no faith in my abilities?”

  Rowan must have looked unsure, because a new, sulky pout appeared on Ivy’s face.

  “Besides, the guarantee makes the medicine work better.” She sniffed. “Everyone knows that.”

  He doubted her uncle made such rash promises but thought it an unwise time to remind her of such. In fact, the thought of the famed apotheopath and Steward of Caux was not a comforting one to Rowan currently. Ivy’s uncle was kindhearted and forgiving, but Rowan knew she was being greatly defiant by performing these renegade cures—Cecil expected his niece to follow in his own apotheopathic footsteps, which required patience and study. For the twelfth time that afternoon, Rowan regretted agreeing to assist Ivy.

  These were his thoughts as he finally noticed the shadowy visitors—and the ever-darkening sky.

  Vultures were landing everywhere now, it seemed; the sky was dark with them. Ungraceful when grounded, a few raised their wings in displeasure, shaking out an unpleasant amount of dust and releasing their particular smell—that of decay—throughout the plaza, and it became impossible for the townsfolk not to notice.

  “Where are they coming from?” Ivy shaded her eyes as she squinted at the sky.

  Rowan shook his head. Vultures. They were streaming in from the east. Could it be? He dropped his ordered clipboard, the pages tumbling about the cobblestones. Mad panic settled in, and the townsfolk scattered hastily.

  “There’s only one place I know of,” he shouted, his voice strained.

  “Rocamadour?” Ivy called. She had seen them there, from the safety of a train, hovering in the air around the piercing black tower. “What are they doing here?”

  Rowan felt his stomach sink to the very cobbles of the bridge.

  “I think I know that, too,” he said miserably.

  With surprising quickness, the bridge, and the plaza before them, were emptied—and vultures were perched upon Ivy’s makeshift workplace, tearing it apart. Glass vials, powdered herbs, and alcohol tinctures were scattered, their inadvertent combinations creating a sour smell. Corks and stoppers were lost, skittering beneath the barrels and bouncing along the cobbles. Ivy and Rowan huddled together in the midst of the chaos.

  There was a great cacophony; the vultures appeared to be greeting each other. Feathers flew and dust stung Ivy’s cheeks. Soon Ivy and Rowan became aware of a single cloaked figure amid the unsettled birds. It was hard to tell where he began and the birds ended, since the clouds had stolen most of the morning’s light. As he swung his heavy cloak about him, Ivy thought for a moment that he, too, possessed wings.

  The vultures hissed, drawing themselves up menacingly. The dark figure allowed his gaze to settle upon the cowering pair. He held aloft a twisted cane, and for a brief, horrible instant, Rowan thought his worst fear was before him: here stood the Guild’s appalling Director. He would be made to account for his misdeeds—here, in Templar. Rowan’s mind reeled at the vision of Verjouce’s sightless eyes—awful scarred pits, the result of his own hand.

  But it was not Vidal Verjouce.

  There was no wicked barbed cane but rather a weathered staff of twisted wood. Ivy’s uncle stepped forward, letting his gray hood fall from his head.

  “A token”—Cecil Manx gestured at the uninvited guests—“from the Tasters’ Guild.”

  He regarded the birds thoughtfully, and then his eyes fell upon Ivy’s sign. She felt the color rise in her cheeks. Cecil took in the small plaque and regarded the two children wearily. And then he did something utterly and completely surprising.

  He smiled.

  “Mrs. Pulch thought I’d find you here.”

  Mrs. Pulch. Ivy scowled at the mention of her tutor—the silly woman seemed inclined to withhold nothing—any confidence, any secret, was soon unlocked and displayed for all of Templar to see, and it was Ivy’s great misfortune to have told her where she’d be.

  But Cecil’s smile was short-lived.

  Up on the rooftop behind her, Peps was in quite a precarious position.

  Peps had been holding on to the small flower box upon a nearby dormer, watching Ivy in action, his mouth agape. At first, he could not fathom why all of Templar was so eager for a conference with the girl—but it was not long before he put two and two together and, finding his mouth open, closed it disapprovingly.

  The trestleman was not disapproving for the reasons you might think. Peps had been known as an opportunist—in fact, simply for personal gain he had for years impersonated his famous brother, Axlerod D. Roux, the reclusive author of Caux’s most famous book, The Field Guide to the Poisons of Caux. No, Peps was suddenly feeling inconvenienced by all these people—his big move was stalled, delaying a grand welcoming party, and he had a new and uncomfortable question as to how it was that he was going to get down from the roof and deliver his message to Cecil.

  He tried, unsuccessfully, to get Rowan’s attention—the taster was the closer of the two, and at one point the young man walked within earshot, but he failed to hear Peps’s cries. Looking over his shoulder, the trestleman shivered at the Marcel below. The river was swollen and murky—ho
w had this change passed him by? It was a dark, inky black. He frowned at the odd clumps floating in it, and a foamy scum congealed at the river’s edge, gnawing the shore. But before the trestleman could puzzle over any of this, the sky fell in.

  Large, dark shapes careened down from above in small spirals, coasting on a damp wind.

  Peps shrieked at the arrival of the Rocamadour vultures—they landed roughly, skidding along the rooftops, tearing at the thatch with flashing talons, and hopping as they attempted to fold their enormous wings. He saw, to his great horror, several ratty birds take to his steamer trunk and china hutch. His precious rolled carpets were being trampled and befouled, and several sharp beaks were ripping into his piles of velvet cushions, disemboweling the stuffing.

  He could no longer witness the destruction. Sheltering his eyes, he felt a dark veil blot out the view. Peering from between shaking fingers, he saw the veil take form, a form with craggy black feathers—massive ones—and dark, terrifyingly blank eyes.

  A vulture—safely double the size of the diminutive trestleman—was rearing on him, neck scruff ruffled into deep trenches, bald head bobbing, wings beating a horrible dance. A stale wind licked the trestleman’s nose as the bird neared, and he found himself involuntarily reaching for his handkerchief. With trembling hands, he dropped the fine red silk, and he watched helplessly as it was carried away by the breeze. As he reached desperately in a vain attempt to catch it, his foot slipped, and he lost his balance.

  It was then that Cecil Manx saw Peps take one step, and then another, and finally, off-balance and arms windmilling frantically, tumble head over heels into the dreary waters of the river Marcel below.

  Chapter Six

  Alewives

  As Peps found himself following the billowing red handkerchief over the side of the roof, he thought, not for the first time, of Wilhelmina. Wilhelmina! his mind called out as the wind rushed by his ears.

  Wilhelmina! he thought as the murky Marcel grew closer.

  But Wilhelmina was gone, he knew, as indeed all the alewives were, and there was no hope of her interceding in his doom.

  There had been a time in Caux’s recent and dismal history when the Good King Verdigris was ill, despondent, and weak. His beloved daughter, Princess Violet, had been poisoned in Caux’s sisterland of Pimcaux, where she had lived in a castle by the sea.

  The King’s grief grew so that it was all-encompassing—as grief can do—and soon he left his duties to his trusted advisor. A dark shadow fell over the once-proud King; his posture stooped, his face grew old. This advisor soon saw the King as vulnerable and, possessing no feeling of pity, began to ruthlessly whisper poison in his ear. This was none other than Vidal Verjouce, who was amassing all the kingly powers he could and dispensing them as if his own. Despite impressive efforts (and a showy investigation), Vidal Verjouce could find no culprit in the princess’s demise. Meanwhile, he quietly groomed his pupil, Arsenious Nightshade, to succeed the Good King. And on one awful day this was accomplished—leaving Caux with a new ruler, whose legacy, along with Vidal Verjouce’s, was grim and deadly.

  In the time before the Good King Verdigris departed for Pimcaux to be closer to the memory of his daughter, a great many misdeeds were done at the behest of Vidal Verjouce. One such miserable event was the banishment from Caux of all the alewives.

  If not an alewife, who, then, would see to Peps’s safety as he bore down upon troubled waters?

  The answer, Peps soon realized, was no one.

  He hit the water hard and flat upon his profound stomach.

  Yet, as he sank, he thought he heard in the watery distance the silvery thin chime of an alewife’s bell.

  Chapter Seven

  The News

  Cecil pulled his cloak in tighter, raising his hood. His eyes strayed to the far edges of the quay. All was quite silent, except the sloshing of the river against the tethered houseboats, an occasional squawk from the unwelcome vultures. Rowan held his breath, looking about desperately.

  “Can he swim?” he asked Ivy’s uncle.

  “Somewhat,” Cecil replied, scanning the water’s slick surface. A dead fish bobbed gruesomely before them, caught in a web of knotted rope. Cecil moved away quickly along the bank, with Rowan urgently trying to keep up.

  “Somewhat?” Rowan repeated, more worried than ever.

  “Trestlemen have an uneasy truce with the water. Under ideal circumstances, that is. But the Marcel has changed. It runs dark.”

  Rowan’s panic grew, and his mind cast about for a reason Peps might have found himself so high up on the rooftops—and with a growing sense of responsibility, he realized sickeningly that it must involve him and Ivy. The apotheopath was contemplating a small dinghy when Rowan was distracted by movement.

  “Look!”

  Something was indeed advancing on them—making slow and erratic progress from beneath the bridge. The silhouette wobbled unsteadily and stopped at one point to crouch beside a stone bench—resting, apparently, and gathering strength.

  Cecil and Rowan were quickly by the trestleman’s side, the Steward removing his own cloak and laying the small man down upon it. Rowan’s initial relief was shattered as he eyed the proud trestleman.

  Peps was a sad sight indeed. His clothes—his fantastic cloak with pearl embroidery—were in tatters, and his face and palms possessed unseemly and painful abrasions. He was completely beside himself and for the first minute could not find the strength to voice anything more than a high-pitched squeak.

  After composing himself as best he could, the trestleman looked down at his cloak, and the shock of his presentation sent him yet again into a mute panic.

  “My—my cape!” Peps finally managed, fingering the once-splendid detailing along the collar. As his hand passed over the lovingly assembled pearl beading, the gems disintegrated upon touch into dust. The trestleman recoiled.

  His eyes were burning from the fetid water, and he reached for a small pocket, searching for his handkerchief, but stopped, remembering it was lost. He sagged, dissolving suddenly into tears.

  “Peps, what were you doing on the roof?” Cecil asked.

  Peps sobbed. “I was trying to find you to tell you the news.”

  “The news?” Cecil’s brow lifted.

  “Dumbcane. Hemsen Dumbcane.”

  “The calligrapher?” Cecil demanded, wary.

  “You asked me to keep an eye out for any suspicious behavior, you know, and just this very morning Dumbcane packed himself up and left the Knox. It struck me immediately as highly irregular, and I had no doubt you’d wish to know. He had a sack of scrolls with him, and he seemed in a hurry.”

  “Hemsen Dumbcane,” Cecil repeated sharply. “Did you see where he went?”

  Peps shook his head. “I came straight here to report to you.”

  “By way of the river,” Cecil replied kindly.

  “One other thing …” Peps paused, trying to formulate his thought.

  “Yes?”

  “There was something odd.” Peps’s whisper was fading, and he could barely be heard. Cecil and Rowan leaned in. “As he went along the Knox, it seemed—I don’t know how this could be, but it seemed as if everything he passed withered and died.”

  Chapter Eight

  The Tapestries

  Rowan was being punished. He had been remanded to the palace for his part in the morning’s curing capers. He was to have no further contact with Ivy, who was similarly assigned to the Apothecary to complete her studies with Mrs. Pulch.

  Being punished at a palace had its benefits, Rowan was realizing. There were many places to entertain oneself, many treasures to admire. He was sure he had gotten the better of the deal.

  He stood now quite still before a panel of an enormous tapestry.

  The seven tapestries—all marvels of creation and relics from the magical reign of King Verdigris—depicted a series of garden scenes, and the particular one that interested Rowan was the final in the sequence. Amid the lush forest and
abundant plant life, a young lady in a cloud-white dress stood so lifelike that she might have very well stepped out of the scenery if Rowan had but extended her his hand.

  Yet Rowan was not interested in her. He stared at the woven wool, at a black gloss that perched upon the lady’s delicate shoulder, so dark that the light from the flickering lamp he held was gobbled up in its small, starched form.

  Rowan was staring at the image of Shoo. Ivy’s old crow had been so full of life when he knew him, and had rescued them on more than one occasion. Now he was captive to these tapestries, taken hostage when Cecil had spoken the ancient words that made the gardens within the weave come briefly to life.

  He tapped on the darkness, the scratchy wool warm with his breath, and his lamp revealing—could it be?—a flicker of life in the bird’s inklike eye. For the briefest of moments, the taster was certain he saw the room behind him—and his own likeness—reflected in the crow’s eye. But then it was gone, only fiber and weave remaining.

  “You’ll catch the thing on fire if you get any closer,” came an old voice from behind the former taster.

  Axlerod D. Roux’s small steps were soft, and he hadn’t meant to startle Rowan, who jumped back in alarm. The famous author of Caux’s most treasured reference book, The Field Guide to the Poisons of Caux, and informal sage and historian, stood beside the boy.

  “Courage!” Axle grinned at his young friend, but his smile faded at the sight of Shoo, captive in the intricate weave. “One last look?” the trestleman asked.

  Rowan nodded. “He’s off—the whole thing’s off to Underwood today.”

  By decree, Cecil Manx was having the entire seven magisterial panels reinstalled in the underground palace of the former King, where they had been confiscated by Queen Nightshade. (She had indeed been quite fond of them—particularly the ever-so-lifelike image of her namesake, the belladonna plant.) Finally, the panels would be back where they belonged.