The Tasters Guild

by Susannah Appelbaum

  But Rowan was about to do something he never thought possible: apologize to a cat.

  Six was still waiting under the ribbon tree when Rowan stumbled back toward the town from the lighthouse. It became apparent to the taster that the cat was waiting for him. Once Rowan realized this, he was in a quandary. Should he trust a cat with suspect loyalties? (Didn’t all cats have suspect loyalties?) Did he really have a choice?

  “Have you been waiting for me, then?” Rowan asked.

  Rowan was horrified as Six came up and rubbed his filthy coat upon his legs. Clumps of hair stuck fast to the black suit Wilhelmina had made for him, like burrs. With a mad purr in his throat, Six looked up at Rowan, and stepping away, he slowly blinked. Puzzled, Rowan took a step forward. The cat, too, took a step—toward the small village.

  “After you.” With a resolute sigh, followed by a sneeze, Rowan gave in. He followed the matted beast through the village. Although he had made his way along this very street twice earlier in the day, now, with the growing darkness, it was a passage transformed. Looking about as he kept behind Six, the shops and signs were glowing with an opalescent eeriness, and Rowan found to his great displeasure that the signs were no longer legible—the words were much longer and made up of an impossible number of odd letters and harsh consonants.

  WHYLLSTIBLE FLNKENSTOLIB TA VWOT L’STRUUBE

  read the sign at the end of the small alley that earlier held the Four Sisters’ Haberdashery. Rowan saw nothing as he remembered it, and scowling into the dimness, he could see that there was, apparently, no shop at all but rather an old dilapidated shack, a few torn fishing nets strung up beside it. With growing confusion, he was tempted to explore the alley further, only Six was but a mere lurking shadow ahead and he dared not lose him. Rowan was vaguely aware of being watched, and although he saw no one, he could not shake the feeling that there were people—many people—gathered behind the dark windows that he passed by.

  Cat and taster emerged finally upon a small path at the sandy beach in the twilight. Built of wood slats and lined with fragrant clumps of wild-growth yarrow, it meandered pleasantly along sea- and cliffside. Rowan followed Six for what seemed to be many, many miles, even after the path ended and became rocks, and led them beside a wondrous waterfall that dropped thrillingly from high above, ending in a deep pool nearby. Then, up—up, almost climbing. The cat seemed to wait as Rowan found his way, until they emerged at a beautiful mansion of polished stone.

  Rowan knew at once that Ivy was here.

  “Six,” he said, ignoring the persistent tickle in the back of his throat, “thank you for being my guide. I owe you an apology. How can I ever repay you?”

  To which the cat swished his tail and, of course, said nothing.

  But Six was not finished with his tour. Great shadows stretched out from the lighted windows, sprawling themselves unfavorably upon the lawn. Six walked through these, beckoning in his way for Rowan to follow. Reluctantly, the taster did.

  There was a series of outbuildings to the compound—a gatehouse that straddled the road, a caretaker’s cottage with a small garden, and further away, upon a slight hill, a grange. As they neared the barn, a chill ran down Rowan’s spine.

  Although Six led him on, they never seemed to get any closer. The place was entirely uninviting—dark, broken-down. It smelled of pasture. But that was not the most repellent thing about the eerie barn. Rowan somehow knew it to be occupied. Had he not known Ivy Manx as he did—had he never met her at the Hollow Bettle, had he remained a servant of the Tasters’ Guild for all his days—he could not have understood what it was he was sensing.

  He realized the grange was deeply enchanted.

  Chapter Eighty

  Mr. Foxglove

  Well, well, well.” Mr. Foxglove—or Flux, as the case may be—gestured with a manicured hand as the guard led Ivy and Wilhelmina into the large parlor with the aid of a long, barbed spear. “I’ve been expecting you. Although, I’ll admit, I can’t imagine what took you so long.”

  Ivy stared at her former taster.

  Sorrel Flux, she noticed, had undergone a transformation of sorts. His appearance, once quite an afterthought, seemed to be of some new import to the scrawny man, and he now donned a showy boutonniere in the buttonhole of a slick black suit. Upon his head there was no longer a tatty Guild hood but a small beret at a canted angle. A stain populated his thin upper lip—either an odd patch of hair or some forgotten snuff.

  “You’re Foxglove?” she asked, incredulous.

  “Mr. Foxglove, to you.” Flux sneered. “I’d offer you something—a bite perhaps—but I’m still recovering from our little stay together.”

  “I should have finished you off when I had the chance.” Ivy glared. Her fingers twitched and ached for her poison kit, sitting useless back in Rocamadour.

  “Manners, manners. Is that any way to talk to your host?”

  She looked at Clothilde, standing beside him, her face unreadable.

  “I see you have met my muse,” Flux purred.

  “Muse?” With a jolt, she realized he meant her mother.

  “Every writer has a muse!” Flux condescended. “Someone to inspire them, guide them—fetch them tea.”

  “Mother.” Ivy cringed to hear her voice crack. “Where is the King?”

  But Clothilde had not heard her.

  “She can’t tell you,” Flux announced gleefully. “My darling”—he now spoke to Clothilde—“isn’t it time for your … medicine?”

  He snapped his fingers, and the guard cautiously approached. He proceeded to skillfully dispense a thimbleful of a sickly yellowish syrup into a small glass of water, holding it out to Ivy’s mother at arm’s length. Clothilde grasped the tumbler, and for a moment it appeared as if she might drop it.

  “The poor dear—she was suffering so when she left Caux,” Flux reminded Ivy. “But my many years at the Tasters’ Guild endowed me with a vast repertoire of—shall we say—medicines with which to treat her. How lucky that I came upon her—just in time.”

  It was true, the last time Ivy had seen her, Clothilde had looked unwell, desperate and stricken as she called out to Ivy from the door to Pimcaux.

  “What are you making her drink?” Ivy demanded. Her former taster had a fondness for potions—he had poisoned the visiting sentries at her uncle’s tavern when she and Rowan were fleeing it, as well as countless others in Templar.

  “Your concern for your mother is touching. Misplaced but touching. This is the very woman who tried to drown you in the waters of the Marcel! You were a mere baby—but no doubt just as much trouble. Ah—if only she had succeeded, this tedious conversation could have been avoided.”

  Turning to Clothilde, he coaxed, “Now, now. Be a good girl or I shall lose my temper and require that dreadful child of yours to drink some, too.”

  The fog that clouded Clothilde’s eyes seemed to clear somewhat as her gaze settled on Ivy. But in the next instant, she smiled sadly and swallowed the draft. Her expression again became oddly waxen, retreating to a vacant place.

  Appalled, Ivy narrowed her eyes at Flux.

  “You’ll never get away with this! You seem to have everyone here fooled, but I’ll tell them just who you are—”

  “Then, Ivy, you shall never see another birthday.” He pinched some life back into the crease of his pants leg and yawned.

  Ivy looked at her former taster crossly. Talking was getting her nowhere. She took a deep breath. Ivy had an idea. It was a terrible idea, one that she knew would greatly upset her dear friends in Caux (and one that was surely breaking a promise to a trestleman), but the Prophecy was at stake. She needed to distract Sorrel Flux, and she would do it with ink.

  Ivy summoned a smile to her bright face. “You are a writer, you say? I did not know you were a wordsmith,” she said sweetly.

  “I am.” Flux nodded defensively. “See?” He pointed to what was impossible to ignore—the vast room was filled with the detritus of a scholarly profession: everywh
ere were papers (mostly doodles, it seemed to Ivy), pens and ink bottles, broken quills, all in great disorder. Tacked to the walls were incomprehensible scrawls and half thoughts. Leather-bound journals were stacked haphazardly to the ceiling. In a corner, crumpled balls of parchment formed a small mountain. It was evident that Flux considered his surroundings as proof enough of his profession, for he wore upon his yellowed face a look of complete satisfaction.

  “How wonderful!” Ivy enthused. “Writers command such great respect.”

  “Indeed.”

  “What do you write?” Ivy asked shyly. “The biography of the King?”

  Flux eyed the girl evilly but could not resist answering. “Something like that.”

  “Of course, it is such a lonesome profession, one filled with self-doubt and anxiety. So very difficult.”

  Flux hesitated.

  “What would you say if I told you I knew of something that would make it infinitely easier?”

  Flux polished his nails upon his shiny vest. This child was so immensely tedious, he thought. How he had endured her company for an entire year, he had no idea. She was persistent, and pesky, and needed to be punished.

  “Vidal Verjouce has this special ink—”

  Flux’s pasty mouth snapped shut at the mention of his former master; his eyes grew wide and calculating.

  Ivy paused modestly.

  “Yes?” He leaned forward.

  “Well, whoever uses it finds himself capable of great genius—and amasses incomparable fortunes. No more toiling over the empty page—the ink will instead do all the work for you, while you collect the glory.”

  Ivy watched as Flux digested this information.

  “What is it made from, this ink?” he asked, skeptical.

  “Oh, it’s the simplest thing. Scourge bracken!” She smiled agreeably.

  “Scourge brack—” Flux coughed the words. “But that’s impossible! It is long extinct.” His pasty face had settled into a look of suspicion.

  “Apparently not! And your former master has great vats of it,” she continued, warming up to her deception. “I’ve seen them myself, in Rocamadour. In fact, he’s making more as we speak. He’s amassed an army of Outriders to assist him. I, for one, don’t see why he should have it all for himself.”

  “Rocamadour. You don’t say.…”

  “But first,” Ivy continued piously, “about King Verdigris …?”

  Flux drummed his fingers for a short second. If what this awful child said was true, his former master had been successful in uncovering the most potent weed ever known. Vanishing were his scholarly ambitions, replaced by ones of tyranny and power—kingly dreams.

  Ivy held her breath. She had come to her own conclusion about her former taster. Were he to get his hands on the deadly weed, he would be no match for it. And, certainly, nothing would be worse than it was currently—with Vidal Verjouce already in possession of its powerful forces.

  “That is easy,” Flux sniffed dismissively. “Try the grange. Something moved in there a while ago and is scaring the animals. I thought it was a specter.”

  Chapter Eighty-one

  The Masquerade

  Although Mr. Foxglove was masquerading as a writer—in particular, the King’s biographer—he had never interviewed the royal ruler. In fact, he had never actually seen the King directly. Mr. Foxglove assumed, rightly, that the King was dangerous and unpredictable before his illness, but now the old man’s great magic was undeniably deranged.

  He was also, quite to Flux’s liking, missing.

  Arriving on the sandy shores and golden pastures of Pimcaux from the bleakness of the Templar palace was like discovering a new color, or taste—or both. The thrill lasted approximately as long as it took Flux to shed his tattered robes and steal something slightly more suitable from a schoolboy. (He also pilfered the poor boy’s sack, in which he found the genesis of his new identity—a small notebook.)

  He set out to do what he did best: to find the most powerful person he could and insinuate himself into his lavish life. He was most certainly up for the challenge. And challenges there were, for the King’s magic was fearsome, and he had in place some difficult obstacles.

  There were three tests.

  Upon his arrival at the King’s retreat, Flux drew closer to the stone compound only to find great, gnashing trees that knit their ancient branches—in a symphony of cracking and straining—before him and threatened to carve deep gashes in his yellow hide. But his figure was slight, and he had little problem passing.

  Next he came to a pool of incredible tranquility, and as he gazed upon himself within it (remarking on several occasions at his own good fortune for being so easy to admire), creeping, viny tentacles from the picturesque water lilies slithered up and around him, and he was nearly drowned.

  Finally—and here he noticed he was no further along in his journey; if anything, he seemed only to be getting further away from the manor—an orchard sprouted before him. A patchwork of dappled moss led through it.

  He sighed.

  Golden light peeked from behind a thundercloud, bathing all before him in temptation. There were many trees, profuse with fruit. But Flux was not hungry (he was never hungry) and had spent long years of his life at the Tasters’ Guild, where his appreciation for untested fruits had been extinguished.

  (Had the King only constructed an enchanted beer garden, it would have most certainly successfully ensnared him.) Instead, he took a small, overgrown footpath into which he had seen a weasel dart, and it passed through a crumbling stone wall and brought him out upon the sea. A fortress of polished stone rose from a cliff, and Flux slid into residence quite easily, posting some papers he called his writing credentials, and brandishing a quill he had found at the bottom of the schoolboy’s sack.

  “I will begin today on the King’s biography,” he announced to the pale and sickly Clothilde. “And should I uncover the identity of the person responsible for Princess Violet’s poisoning”—the taster paused dramatically—“then it will be my humble pleasure to mend the King’s broken heart.”

  Writing this part of the King’s biography would be easy. Flux smiled, for he knew quite well who the killer was.

  Yes, life was to be a whole lot easier here in Pimcaux for the turncoat Flux—or Foxglove, as he soon made himself known.

  Chapter Eighty-two

  Reunion

  Having told Flux everything she knew about Verjouce’s ink (and much more that she didn’t), Ivy was outside with Clothilde in a matter of moments.

  “Leave the midget here, as insurance.” Flux had pointed at Wilhelmina.

  The alewife winked at Ivy and nodded encouragingly, so, taking her mother’s hand, Ivy led her down the marble steps and out into the moonlight.

  Flux had sent along the guard, a man named Moue, who lagged behind with tentative footsteps. Moue was decidedly unenthusiastic about his new assignment—the kitchen servants had said the barn was full of bad spirits, and he was in some doubt as to whether a visit there was part of his job description. (If there were such a thing as a clock that told the time remaining in one’s life, Moue’s would be winding down quite quickly.)

  Inwardly, he decided to follow the two just until the barn doors and go no further, and this was made easier by the fact that the visitors were already ahead on the short path that led up the hill.

  Moue had fallen behind, and from this point of disadvantage, he heard a shout. Hurrying (why was he hurrying? he wondered), he soon suffered a shock too strong for his poor system. Rearing above him at the hilltop was the most awful of specters. Moue knew from his childhood that a spirit might take any form it so desires. Giant lizards, half men, sea serpents. The one before him now was a wild-eyed and great-toothed tiger, with slashing talons and awful, festering black sores upon his skin.

  Moue expired upon the spot, leaving Six to sniff him uninterestedly. Behind the large cat, Rowan had emerged from the shadows and, after a happy reunion with Ivy and a moment of expl
anation, joined her and the docile Clothilde at the barn doors. They pondered what to do next.

  “I think I should go in alone,” Ivy finally said. The barn looked quite old, even in the darkness, and she realized she had always had a fondness for barns. Honeysuckle grew weedlike at the entrance. The night wind was picking up and blowing through the gaps in the wooden siding.

  “No,” Rowan said firmly. “I’ve come this far by your side—and I made a promise to Axle never to leave.”

  Ivy looked to her mother, who was standing back. A dazed frown creased her forehead; her now-black hair had come loose from its neat bun and was blowing wildly.

  “Someone needs to watch her,” Ivy pointed out.

  “She’ll be fine,” Rowan responded curtly.

  “Mother?” Ivy called, but the word sounded false on her lips. Ivy turned to Rowan and, reaching for his hand, pushed open the sagging door.

  Together, they entered the domain of the King.

  Chapter Eighty-three

  The King

  Hello?” she called, for nothing else came to mind. “Great-grandfather?”

  Rowan and Ivy gripped each other as a slight dizziness struck them both. They felt as if they had passed through an invisible mist of sorts, which tingled as it clung to their skin. Blinking, they saw it was an unlikely twilight. Before them was not the interior of a barn at all but a vast forest of ancient oak.

  Rowan peered behind them. The door was gone—Clothilde, too—and the forest stretched out in all directions, endless.