The Poisons of Caux: The Hollow Bettle (Book I) (10 page)

ne of the things Sorrel Flux liked most about his job was the effect his master had upon other people. Generally, as with most people who are drawn to power, Flux felt a little surge of his own worth when his master was so feared and respected. But Sorrel Flux had never had the pleasure of the company of the king or queen—most of his duties kept him in Rocamadour shuffling papers and overseeing the petulant subrectors, which he did with a giddy authority. And until today, Vidal Verjouce had always preferred to see Arsenious Nightshade on his own, enacting some sort of private ritual with the King of Caux.

So it was that Flux made his courtly debut, slinking in the Director’s shadow, a place where he was unlikely to be noticed with the Director towering over him. To anyone in the room, he would have appeared completely unremarkable—except for the odd yellowish cast of his waxen skin.

The Director wore his dress robes, a stiff boiled wool, which fell to the floor in precise pleats. Tied neatly around his neck was the taster’s collar, and in startling contrast to his drab wool, a substantially large and beautiful bettle dangled from his long neck—a splash of brilliant orange. This was suspended in a cage of gold filigree, and immediately King Nightshade’s eyes were drawn to it hungrily. It was simply enormous, even with all the ostentation of their current surroundings—and rarer still, it matched in both color and brilliance the one that gripped the Director’s cane.

Sorrel Flux was not a subrector and did not wear a bettle. In fact, he never really took much pains with his appearance—a fact that bothered him at present. He could not disguise that he was completely consumed by nervousness at his proximity to royalty. Specifically, the queen—who struck fear in the hearts of every taster. Flux arranged himself as much behind Verjouce as he could, attempting to dodge the deadly looks Her Highness now directed at his master.

“It’s time for my tour of the grounds,” she announced, eyes lowered into slits. Each year, the Nightshades’ seasonal arrival meant a great deal of work for the servants—Queen Nightshade would have it no other way. Artilla personally insisted on examining the royal silver and china, and cross-checking the inventories for thievery, and being generally difficult. It was time for her surprise inspections.

The queen exited in a cloud of perfume, and although
Verjouce made no effort to step aside as she passed, Sorrel Flux found himself falling into a bow so deep it surprised his stiff back—allowing him an eyeful of the pitted stone floor and leaving him wondering how he would rise.

“I think I’ll start with the head butler. He really should have announced our visitor,” Artilla called.

Verjouce stood for a moment silently, taking in the room that for him held many memories.

“You are well?” he finally asked the king after the queen’s departure.

“Hardly,” he scoffed. The subject of his health was one on which the king felt confident in his own expertise, even when addressing the Director. “You’re late. I was expecting you over an hour ago.”

The king kept his eyes even with the Director’s bettle, which was a fine place, he decided, since the alternative was the Director’s frightening face.

If there was one person to make the wicked King Nightshade cringe, it was Vidal Verjouce. For one thing, the Director was very old, and that reminded the king of his innate fear of antiques. His age—anyone’s old age, including his own impending—made the king uneasy. Old people are in the way most of the time was the king’s thought. And like antiques, they have a funny smell.

Vidal Verjouce’s association with the old king Verdigris,
too, made him uneasy. Verjouce at one time held the honor of being the old king’s most trusted confidant before traitorously conducting the coup that brought him, King Nightshade, to power. Reasonably, this made the king uncomfortable.

But most of all, the fact that the king needed Vidal Verjouce for a very private and secret reason made King Nightshade very, very uneasy.

“I am
decidedly
not well,” sniffed the king morosely.

“Foot cramps again?”

The king gave the Director a nasty look. To Sorrel Flux’s surprise, he watched as the king’s face graduated into a full grimace and was joined by his hands waving ridiculously atop his head. It took Flux a moment to realize what he was seeing: King Nightshade was making faces at the blind Director. He watched, completely aghast, as the king tried on several childish contortions involving tongue-waggling and ear-pulling, finally interrupting himself when he noticed Flux.

“Who goes there? Is there someone
hiding
behind you?”

“It’s merely Flux, my trusted assistant.”

“I see,” said the king, as if he really didn’t, uninterested.

Sorrel Flux prepared for the introduction of his life, to the wicked ruler of all of Caux, but it did not come.

Instead, King Nightshade limped back to the window, drawing Sorrel Flux’s attention—against his better judgment—to the king’s monstrous left foot, the sight of which provided Flux with his first great shock of the day. He forced himself to
look elsewhere—anywhere—and found his gaze upon a series of family portraits hanging showily on the wall.

“Did you bring them?” The king’s tone was attempting to be casual.

“Yes.”

“Ah. Good.”

The Guild’s Director took from a hidden pocket in his robes a plain muslin bag and handed it to Flux. When Sorrel realized it was his duty to cross the parlor with the king’s delivery, he felt slightly faint. The air in the castle was stale and damp, and his sinuses were already acting up. He couldn’t leave soon enough. But he did as he was bid and handed the clinking sack into the outstretched damp palm of the king, falling immediately into another backbreaking bow. Somehow he remembered to walk backward, shuffling away in a slightly less-impressive bow but without breaking protocol and turning his face from the king. Not that King Nightshade would have noticed—he was almost giddy with the delivery and skipped, to the best of a clubfooted man’s ability, across the room.

Opening the bag, he inspected its contents—drawing in a sharp breath.

“Amazing, Verjouce, you’ve outdone yourself.”

The king seemed emboldened with new life and confidence. He slipped, unthinking, into the padded seat of the offending old throne. No sooner was he seated than he jumped
to his feet shrieking—the insult of finding himself in Verdigris’s throne too much for his nerves.

He quickly settled into the queen’s more delicate and feminine throne—it was softer than he’d expected and just the place to rest his weary bones. Although the picture this created was decidedly unkingly he was far from caring. Verjouce was helping the king untie the straps that secured the plain sack, and just then Sorrel Flux got the second shock of his already stimulating day.

King Nightshade produced from the small bag a collection of priceless bettles and selected one—a translucent rose—and, with shaking hands, dropped it with a clink into a marble receptacle on the tabletop. He felt around the embroidered tablecloth for his pestle, the tip of which seemed to catch the light.

With a quick stab, he splintered the priceless bettle and began grinding the shards into a fine rosy powder. Sorrel Flux nearly dropped to the ground with astonishment at such decadence. King Nightshade was humming a little excited tune.

The powder was now transferred to a heavy chalice reserved for this purpose, and the contents of a gleaming pitcher were poured on top. King Nightshade stirred the concoction with a golden spoon.

“Drink it, before it thickens,” he muttered to himself.

And he soon thought no more about the unfortunate encounter with the antique throne or his menacing company.
After a moment of anticipation, the king reclined, awaiting the mellowing results of his terrible tonic.

“Oh, Artilla needs another taster,” the king remembered.

“Of course. She can take Flux here.”

The Director had said it so casually, Sorrel almost didn’t understand he’d just been handed his third awful surprise of the day.

he thing about Southern Wood, the thing that both her uncle and Axle had always told Ivy, was that it was to be avoided at all costs.

Growing up with it looming darkly right across the Marcel, she never once had any desire to disagree. The edge of the Wood ran right to the riverbank, where it formed an uneasy truce with the water. In the summer, when the sun set over the enormous trees, there was hardly any deciphering of the forest floor—Southern Wood seemed intent on keeping its secrets.

It was an unlikely place to find herself, Ivy thought. But it was the best way to go—other than by train—if Ivy was to get word of her uncle.

It was hard to tell just what time of day it was. The Wood existed in a sort of permanent twilight; the enormous canopy of treetops was interwoven into a vast veil, allowing hardly any
true sunlight through. Everything floated in an amber light—dust motes and a preponderance of wasps and bees, flying fretfully with the end of their year.

The trees of the forest were ancient things, enormous in girth and height, and now that Ivy was right up next to one, she could really marvel at it. The bark grew in huge shaggy strips, and occasionally it would flake away from the tree and float lazily down to the ground, landing in a muffled thud. These unpredictable noises did much to enhance Ivy’s nervousness—the Wood made her uncomfortable, and she couldn’t help but feel they were not alone. They had slipped silently from Axle’s trestle earlier, but she couldn’t shake the sensation that the eyes of the awful Outrider were turned toward her. The forest floor was soft and springy, and she found herself searching for any signs that they were being followed.

The Wood was also host to a vast array of lush plant life. It was filled with a veritable delight of many interesting specimens—undisturbed and ancient. Rowan was thrilled to pull out his newly autographed copy of the
Field Guide
and research his findings, but it soon started slowing them down. Ivy wanted to make some progress—after all, there was an uncle to find, and she knew that Templar was no easy journey. There was something else, though—something in the air that made her want to hurry.

“Look at this!” Rowan called ahead to where Ivy was.
“This species of vine. I’m almost certain it’s shadow phlox; I’d know it anywhere! A complete rarity, it blooms only in the deep of night.”

“That?” Ivy turned for a quick look. “Common bindweed.
Convolvulus scammonia
.”

“Bindweed?” Rowan scoffed. “Please. I’ve studied this, remember, for
years
at the seminary. It can’t be bindweed. Look, its woody parts are simply way too thick.”

He leaned in for a closer look.

Ivy shrugged. “It’s just a particularly old vine. No one’s come along to disturb it. If I were you, I’d be careful—”

She squinted ahead, trying to decipher the slight path as it wound through the undergrowth.

“—Bindweed moves fast.”

“Thank you,” Rowan replied stiffly. “But since it’s shadow phlox, and since I’d like a cutting to compare with the
Guide
, I hardly think—”

But it was too late. From behind her, Ivy heard Rowan gasp.

“Rowan!” Ivy shouted, turning back just in time. “Step away—quick!”

But before he could do so—his nose was just emerging from Axle’s book—his ankles were immobilized by the quick-moving vine, and the plant was rapidly snaking up his leg. His balance was thrown to one side, and, as bindweed does, the vine was swiftly making its way up to his chest, immobilizing his arms. Axle’s
Field Guide
dropped to the
ground, where soon after, Rowan joined it in an unceremonious lump.

Ivy dashed back and stomped on the advancing weed, putting all her weight into it as it struggled beneath her foot, lashing about. Prying open Axle’s picnic basket, she felt around desperately—her hand finally landing on the neatly organized bundles of eating utensils. She grabbed the first thing she could and poked and speared the ancient thing with one of Axle’s salad forks. Rowan was frozen with fear at the weed’s assault as the tendrils whipped across the path and pulled tightly on his chest. After much effort, the vine finally let go, leaving him stunned and rubbing his wrists and legs. It left welts.

“I told you it was bindweed,” Ivy admonished breathlessly.

The taster sniffed, gingerly recovering the
Guide
from the brush. To his great embarrassment, he found his face a vivid shade of crimson.

“But bindweed can look a lot like phlox,” Ivy conceded, seeing his discomfort. “I might have made the same mistake.”

Rowan smiled weakly. He somehow doubted this, but he felt better. Still, he found he was far less curious after this encounter. He satisfied himself by pointing with a long walking stick each time he saw something of interest and prodding it, with one hand ready to ward off any assault.

After arm’s-length encounters with stinging nettles and crampbark—Rowan knew not to get too close—he grew
tired of his lesson. He bravely poked at a fine specimen of the unfortunately named pukeweed while prudently sidestepping bladderwrack, but all the while his mind was on the picnic basket that he carried.

The earth rose in slight mounds to meet the massive trees, creating tempting little inlets of soft mossy bedding here and there—great places for a rest and a picnic lunch. But the last time he’d suggested sitting for a spell, Ivy coldly reminded him that she wasn’t one to sit and dawdle when her uncle was missing. Rowan could smell something remarkably savory wafting up from the basket—ham and cheese on Axle’s thick pillow-soft bread? Whatever it was, it was time to eat it, he decided. He’d insist—just after they rounded this dark tree.

As they did so, the forest retreated from view.

“Look!”

The pair had come to a stop before the strangest sight.

It was a tree like any other. But impossibly, where the old and gnarled trunk met the forest floor, there bulged a squat and very inviting little cottage, growing—inconceivably—from the living wood. The massive tree and the bungalow had formed some sort of agreement many, many years ago.

“How completely and utterly peculiar!” said Ivy.

“I wonder who lives here,” Rowan replied somewhat nervously. He had a particular dislike for strangers lately, especially ones without tongues or descendants of the Taxus clan.

There it sat, a small wooden structure, snugly in the
middle of the tree. In between massive tree roots, the chimney, an old stone stack, jutted lopsidedly. Green honeysuckle vines with broad pink florets covered most of the cottage’s front view, a picture of coziness. The shutters were open, and even from where they stood, they could see there was another window on the back side, and through it the forest continued on normally.

“What a great place for our lunch!” Rowan suggested, his stomach winning the battle between hunger and trepidation.

Ivy was at the door already and, shaking her head, said it was locked.

“Well, we’ll just have to sit on the front stoop,” he said firmly. His stomach was rumbling uncomfortably. As he set about clearing the moss and dirt from the stone stoop, she looked through the little window into the single room beyond.

“There’s a table! It’s set for two.” Indeed, a small rustic table awaited unknown occupants beside the vast hearth, which took up most of one side of the cottage. Everything was covered in a fine dust, undisturbed. After trying the door once more, she pulled herself away—and caught sight of something else.

“Look at this stone!” She was referring to the stoop that Rowan was preparing as their table. Rowan had cleared most of the debris.

“It says something!”

The pair peered at it, Ivy using her hands to pull off one persistent clump of lichen.

“It’s a marker of some sort,” Rowan decided.

“‘506 knarls’—what’s a knarl?”

“Got me.”

“506 knarls, and then there’s this arrow.”

“A knarl must be a unit of measurement.” Rowan hoped that this sounded educated. The Tasters’ Guild was especially strict with its many courses on weights and measurements—and Rowan excelled at none of them.

Ivy was still clearing the last of the moss, which came free finally, leaving a puff of fine dirt floating in the air.

The two stared wide-eyed at what remained.

Rowan forgot all thoughts of Axle’s fine food.

“Wow! Maybe a knarl is just a few paces!” He started walking enthusiastically around looking for something that might resemble a lost and forgotten land.

“Somehow I doubt it,” Ivy decided.

But whatever a knarl was would have to wait for the time being.

His path had taken him to a clearing behind the cottage, and it was here that Rowan saw evidence that they were not
alone. Before him rippled a span of seamless white, startling his eyes, which had grown accustomed to the dimness of the forest. For a moment, he just blinked. Then, as he squinted, Rowan found himself staring at a remarkable-looking gossamer tent—a dramatic enclosure with roof peaks and streamers and generous front flaps tied closed with white ribbons.

“What is that doing here?” Ivy asked as she joined him. The tent was billowing in the softest wind.

“Hello?” she called. Ivy didn’t really think anyone was inside, seeing as the fabric had a sheerness about it, but she thought it polite to try. After calling again, louder, she approached the tent and tried the flaps.

“I can’t get hold of them!”

It seemed simple enough to untie the loose knots, but there was something unusually slippery about the ribbons, and Ivy found them uncooperative. Shifting the precious bottle in her waistband, she bent down. Rowan tried, too, and together they hardly managed to loosen one.

“I don’t suppose it would be okay to just cut them?” Rowan thought of the cutlery in the basket.

Ivy thought that under the circumstances, a little vandalism was in order.

But Ivy had been right, it turned out, about her worry that they might be followed. The forest floor was too soft. With their backs to the path, neither one knew what hit them—and
before they could gather themselves properly, they were separated.

The last thing Rowan remembered seeing before Ivy disappeared into—and somehow down below—the tent was a snuffling and snorting mass of white bristle.