The Tasters Guild

by Susannah Appelbaum

  Chapter Thirteen

  C Is for “Crow”

  What cat?” The Steward of Caux stepped forward in the small shop, and years of accumulated dust fell upon his shoulders. Ivy blinked. Indeed, the curious cat was gone.

  “Yes, what cat?” Rowan asked tentatively. He was highly allergic and sniffed the air nervously. He regretted leaving Poppy at the palace—she possessed the appropriate animosity for just these sorts of wretched creatures.

  “That’s strange.” Ivy grabbed the parchment from the floor. “Never mind. See, here! The girl in this drawing. Doesn’t she look exactly like me? And there—on the fence. The crow! It’s Shoo! I’d know him anywhere.” In fact, a crow was perched upon an ancient and dilapidated iron fence.

  The group peered in at the page. The paper was yellowed and fragile, the drawing made long ago. It was Dumbcane’s attempt at the letter C. In it, a small girl with golden hair stood beside a locked gate with a large crow by her side.

  “Hmmph,” Axle grunted. “It does possess a particular resemblance.” The trestleman turned to the Steward. “Cecil?”

  Cecil looked closely at the parchment and then, with a new urgency, around the shadowy shop. “Apparently this Hemsen Dumbcane possessed a vivid imagination.”

  His eyes came to rest upon a sad collection of flowerpots in the store window. They contained nothing but cobwebs and ash.

  “C is for ‘Crow,’” Rowan realized, talking to Ivy. “And there are cinquefoils pictured, too.” The taster was referring to the flower that made up the Good King’s crest. “Of course! C is for ‘Child’—the Noble Child!” He examined the page closer and could make out some sort of vast garden nearby, but the paper was profoundly faded.

  “Strange, though. This appears to have been drawn a long, long time ago.” Rowan shrugged.

  Ivy rolled the page up and, finding an empty pocket in her apron, stuck it in.

  The adults were busy now rifling through the cast-off documents and odd pens, brushes, and blotters that made up a regular part of Dumbcane’s trade. Axle looked distractedly down at his feet where the calligrapher had carelessly abandoned a stack of scrolls. One lay open, only partially completed.

  “He seems to have been quite a talented forger.”

  “And quite prolific.” Cecil unfurled a nearby parchment recklessly, holding it out toward the small light. A dark look passed between the Steward and the trestleman, and they hastily made their way over to Dumbcane’s chaotic drafting table.

  “There’s only one place I know of where so many ancient, magical texts might still exist,” Cecil said carefully.

  “Rocamadour,” came Axle’s bitter response.

  Ivy and Rowan, from their vantage point, could see the out-of-favor Nightshade seal that still hung from the calligrapher’s storefront. It creaked in the slight breeze.

  “Where do you suppose he went?” Rowan whispered.

  “If there’s a brain in his head, away from the Tasters’ Guild,” Ivy replied.

  “It hardly matters. Once Vidal Verjouce discovers he employed a thief, he’ll stop at nothing to find him.”

  Ivy looked around at the untidy mess of papers, a few now bearing muddy footprints. She saw that Hemsen Dumbcane had an archive of inestimable value and power. What would the Guild’s Director do when he discovered his wealth of magical scrolls were forgeries?

  Chapter Fourteen

  Scourge Bracken

  Something caught the apotheopath’s eye, a small corner of a nearly transparent parchment peeking through the chaos on the tabletop. He pushed aside several stacks of orphaned leather book jackets and various discarded scrolls.

  It was Dumbcane’s final opus—a parchment only partially completed, the original of which was now in the hands of the Taxus Estate. Upon it, surrounded by tiny, impenetrable script, appeared to be the image of a half-finished door. A golden snake lay coiled at its center—a knocker of sorts.

  Axle peered at the piece with interest. At the edges of the document where the scribe had left off working, the interrupted lines seemed to fret and wiggle with a real desire to be completed, pittering about like songbird tracks, nearly alive.

  “They possess a quality of Verdigris magic, although they most certainly are fakes,” Axle muttered. “A complete impossibility. Consider for a moment just what sort of supplies he must be using to create works of such convincing reality.”

  “He would need the tools the ancient King employed,” Cecil was concluding. “The quills, the parchments—those are relatively easy. The ink, now that’s another story.”

  “It was said that in the ink the enchantment lay, that without it the pages would not appear as they do,” Axle added. “But the recipe was lost.”

  “Apparently not.” Cecil scowled, angrily rolling up the forged page.

  Rowan, meanwhile, was drawn to the back of the room, where a thin slice of filtered sunlight was allowed through the thick, faded curtains. At first it seemed that this area was merely for storage—Hemsen Dumbcane had left in such a hurry that his penchant for tidiness was disregarded entirely. The floor was strewn with yellowed, curling papers and ribboned rolls of large, ancient-looking charts. In the corner lay an open and disemboweled filing cabinet.

  Curious, Ivy had joined Axle by the calligrapher’s worktable, and the two stood on tiptoe and looked about the clutter. Reaching across the desk, she grabbed one of the discarded tins, dirty with age and crusted over with a dark and flaky patina. Ivy twisted the lid. She tried again, harder. Then, with all her effort—the thing was cemented shut—the lid released, and at once the room filled with an overbearingly sharp smell, causing the gathering to cough and quickly cover their faces.

  “Aaag! Be careful!” Cecil cried.

  With watering eyes, Axle helped Ivy to slam the cover back upon the tin, but in doing so, a small spill ensued, and the noxious ink puddled in a trembling pool on the desktop. A cloud of flies appeared, as if from nowhere.

  This was quite a quandary.

  “Scourge bracken!” Axle choked on his words. “Dumbcane has been making ink from the scourge weed!” He took several steps back from the offending pool. Indeed, Axle’s worst fears were realized. In his efforts to duplicate the ancient works and successfully replace the originals with his forgeries, Dumbcane had been using ink made from scourge bracken, the most potent and dangerous plant known—one of great volatility and impetuousness. Axle profoundly feared it. One need be a powerful and mighty King indeed in order to handle its dark and unpredictable character.

  “Scourge bracken? Where did he find it?” The weed, Ivy knew, was long thought to be extinct. She felt suddenly lightheaded.

  The threesome watched the dark blot hesitantly. There it sat, refusing to bleed from its borders, a plump little puddle with an altogether unusual sheen—a shimmer like quicksilver, and behavior to match. A small air bubble remained on the surface, and it mirrored the three concerned faces of the party mockingly. It had a gelatinous jiggle, as if it were syrupy and thick—which made it all the more surprising when suddenly the bubble collapsed and the liquid rushed in a quick rivulet over the table’s edge and onto the floor below, where it broke into a hundred perfect spheres and disappeared in the grim light of the shop.

  For a moment the room was completely silent.

  “You must leave today,” Cecil Manx spoke finally. “Our errand can no longer wait.”

  “Today?” Ivy cried. “But I’m not ready!”

  “No, your uncle is right. We can’t depart soon enough.” Axle nodded seriously. “The boat is being readied as we speak.”

  “But why?” Ivy crossed her arms defiantly.

  “Dumbcane has somehow come upon scourge bracken, and it, beyond anything else, must not be allowed to fall into the hands of Vidal Verjouce, or—”

  “Or what?

  “Or all of Caux’s green earth will be reduced to ash. There will be no Prophecy to fulfill, no Doorway to Pimcaux.” Cecil walked over to Dumbcane’s window and upended
the dead potted plants to illustrate. “Just blackness and destruction.”

  Ivy’s heart sank.

  “Er—” Rowan called unsteadily from the back of the room, where he’d made slow progress with the filing cabinet. “I think I might have found something important.”

  The former taster turned to the others, holding a slim packet in shaking hands. “There’s a file here with my name on it.”

  Chapter Fifteen

  The Elevator

  Suddenly Cecil crossed the gloomy shop and flung open the door, exchanging foul air for fair. Looking out at the bridge, he saw that the vultures had retreated, preferring the rooftops and balconies to the cobbled roadway, but he could hear their ugly chatter from above. Ivy’s scattered medicines lay abandoned and disheveled beside the old iron elevator. The donkey stood stoically alongside a pillow of hay, chewing vigorously.

  “To the Trindletrip!” Cecil called, urging them along.

  The Knox, in a glorious example of commerce, had in its collection of shops and stalls several taverns. It was the group’s misfortune that their way took them by The Deadly Dose, where, bolstered by Mrs. Pulch’s tall tales of Ivy’s healing powers, a boisterous crowd of earlier would-be patients overflowed into the street, having exhausted their purses inside.

  “It’s her!” one cried from the throng, pointing at Ivy with a stubby finger. “The healing girl!”

  “Stop her! She’s getting away!”

  Ivy’s clientele surged upon the bridge, insisting they be mended. Whereas earlier in the morning their line was somewhat subdued, now, as Ivy emerged from Dumbcane’s shop, they were a much more untidy group of unhappy townsfolk. They elbowed each other for prime position, shouting and unruly.

  “Er—” Ivy eyed Cecil apologetically.

  “Let us pass!” Cecil commanded, his voice booming.

  “Cecil Manx, the Steward of Caux, has given you an order!” Axle growled.

  For a moment it looked as if the Steward would get his wish, but instead, after a brief delay, the crowd erupted in complaint. They advanced on the foursome, and Ivy and her group found themselves retreating—one step, two steps—and then running as fast as their legs could carry them.

  “Over there!” cried Axle, who was beginning to lag behind. “The elevator!”

  It was the only way.

  Behind them, Mrs. Pulch had joined the fray, her curious nature being one that would never allow an angry mob to go uninvestigated. She stood scolding anyone with two ears—waving her carpetbag menacingly—appalled at the undignified behavior she was witnessing. Spying her wayward pupil retreating on the Knox, she froze in surprise and was lost in the surging crowd.

  Cecil wrenched open the rusted cage as the donkey watched indifferently. He ushered first Rowan, then Ivy, and finally Axle into the small enclosure. The thing creaked alarmingly.

  “There’s only room for three!” Ivy called to her uncle, panicked.

  “It’s not me they want.” His eyes twinkled as the iron gate slammed shut and the small latch caught. The apotheopath looked over his shoulder at the advancing crowd.

  “Be well, Ivy.” Cecil turned to her. “May you lay your eyes again upon Pimcaux—and may your feet follow this time.”

  With a resounding clap, he banged his staff against the donkey’s hay bin—sending the animal into a clatter of action.

  “Uncle Cecil—” Ivy cried.

  Down, down they went, lurching and spiraling dizzyingly.

  The last thing Ivy would see of the Knox for some time—or of her uncle, for that matter—was a forest of boots, soles worn thin and scuffed with years of wear.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Departure

  The river Marcel—its placid surface betrays none of its deeper secrets. To dredge it would bring up an assortment of collectibles, odd shoes, vials, lost hollow rings. But it is the journey that concerns us here. The waters twist through the heart of the land of Caux, originating from small underground streams in the north, not far from Rowan’s family farm, and flow by countless trestles (and over a fair few aqueducts). The river dampens strange woods and fields of verdure alike. There are calm parts, brisk parts—deep eddies and narrow, limestone-edged passages. The Marcel flows by Ivy’s childhood home—the Hollow Bettle—and beneath Axle’s beloved trestle. And, yes, it winds its way through the capital city, Templar. From there, to the sea.

  With one important stop along the way.

  The Trindletrip made barely a noise upon the water—an unsettling glug-glug was all Ivy, Rowan, and Axle heard as they departed the quay. Then, as Trindle, the ship’s captain, coaxed the engines into a forward gear, there was nothing but a soft purr. With little fanfare, and as quiet as thieves, they departed for Rocamadour.

  “That was close,” Rowan admitted as he and Ivy navigated the boat’s crowded hallways to their separate quarters.

  Ivy agreed. She was feeling a lot of things, none of them relief. Who knew when she would see her uncle Cecil again? The last time they were separated, he had been locked in the Nightshades’ dungeons for over a year. Surely Rocamadour—even with its Doorway to Pimcaux—held many more awful possibilities. It seemed she was never to have a proper goodbye with her uncle.

  Ivy and Rowan were finding that the houseboat was surprisingly well prepared. It had plenty of rooms and low hallways, but still it was cramped with the many unpacked items from Peps’s move—for this was indeed the trestleman’s new home. Boxes, wardrobes, and the occasional velvet couch had been placed at odd intervals, making getting around an adventure in itself.

  Ivy skirted an overstuffed footstool and came upon an impressive marble bust. It bore the distinct likeness of Peps (although much larger than the original) and somehow even managed to capture the trestleman’s haughty smile.

  “Rowan—” Ivy remembered. “Peps must be here, somewhere!” Ivy had yet to see her friend since he had taken ill. He would surely be a welcome addition to their travels—he could be counted on to provide them with many distractions. Trindle, she knew, would be busy steering the boat, and Axle would have his nose in a book the entire time.

  A cascade of lace doilies fell from somewhere above.

  “Yes. But good luck finding him,” Rowan grumbled.

  There, directly after a teetering stack of polished luggage, Ivy and Rowan finally found their quarters. Each was laid out with their belongings, and their trunks awaited them, but Ivy’s spirit of adventure was dampened by their abrupt departure, which in her quiet room now seemed suddenly more absolute. There was a round portal through which the banks of the river drifted by, and Ivy thought to go above and search out Peps.

  She found Axle instead, sitting thoughtfully on deck recording observations in a small notebook. Rowan was already there—apparently he, too, did not feel like being alone belowdecks.

  “Ah, good.” The trestleman adjusted his pince-nez. “You’re both here. I was just reviewing my notes.”

  Ivy sighed, settling in beside Rowan, who was dabbing his nose with a moist hankie.

  “Time is, of course, of the essence. Rocamadour exists at the foothills of the Craggy Burls, and, besides its many other defenses—stinging nettles and the usual giant thistles—it is surrounded by an impassable forest of hawthorn trees and impenetrable bramble. Trindle can bring us only as far as the Toad—” At this, Ivy and Rowan exchanged confused looks. “And then he and Peps will return to Templar. But we shall be welcome at the Toad—it has a special place in my heart, and I will be able to sort out the remaining details there. It lies in the shadow of Rocamadour, where, as you know, we will find the surviving Doorway.” The trestleman looked at them expectantly. “But know this. The Doorway to Pimcaux is a Verdigris door.”

  “A Verdigris door?” Ivy asked.

  Axle was consulting the chaotic stack of papers by his side, and finding the one he wanted, he looked up. “Made of parchment.”

  Rowan blew his nose and coughed. “I’m sorry. I could have sworn you said the Doorway to
Pimcaux was made of parchment.”

  “Why, of course! Whatever would you expect it to be made of?”

  Ivy was about to answer the various materials she might encounter when faced with a door—wood, stone, even the amber-like glass in Underwood. But Axle continued.

  “The Doorway is made of parchment because it is in a book! I believe you have some, er, experience with this?”

  Indeed, the pair had encountered just such a book in Axle’s crowded study, and Ivy’s heart leapt at the memory—a dark curtain, and the odd tingling of magic.

  “Weren’t all the Verdigris books destroyed in the fire?” Rowan asked glumly.

  Axle grew serious.

  “This one wasn’t. It was hidden.”

  “Hidden! Where?” Ivy asked.

  Axle looked suddenly bashful. “That remains to be seen.”

  “Too bad we can’t ask Dumbcane,” Ivy said thoughtfully. The scribe seemed to know where all of the Guild’s valuable paper was kept.

  “Axle, why all this fuss because some calligrapher is making inks from scourge bracken?” Rowan wondered suddenly. “If King Verdigris wrote with these inks, what makes them so dangerous?”

  The trestleman narrowed his eyes. “Scourge bracken is not used lightly—in fact, it is not used at all. It uses you. It was reckless and negligent of Dumbcane to employ such a potent force for his personal gain. Once King Verdigris realized its true nature, he made it his task to extinguish the very last of it.” Axle paused. “And consider, if you will, its other name.”

  Rowan nodded, mollified.

  “What other name?” Ivy asked.

  Axle turned to Rowan, who quoted easily.

  “‘Scourge Bracken—var. Scourge Weed. Avoid at all costs. Easily accomplished by the fortunate fact that the weed is extinct. Obsolete moniker: Kingmaker.’”