The Poisons of Caux: The Hollow Bettle (Book I) (6 page)

his particular train trestle differed little from most in Caux in style and substance. It was built upon fortified stone piers and could endure easily not only the weight of a passing train, but the seasonal assault of floodwaters. On either side, iron gridwork rose tastefully into sweeping arches, which for the most part gathered ivy and sheltered pigeon roosts.

And, of course, it was here that one might find—if one knew where to look—one of Caux’s trestlemen.

So it was that the young taster was pulled just in time through a miniature version of an altogether normal front door, the kind you might pass on a Sunday stroll through any of Caux’s once-genteel cities. It was a tight squeeze. He hardly had time to wonder at what a red-lacquered door was doing in the middle of a train trestle, but indeed, there it was, situated cozily
against the rusted partition. A small brass knocker, a miniature peephole, a potted plant.

He hurtled to the other side safely, rolled—or was he pushed?—down a small set of stairs, and lay crumpled upon a polished wooden floor on the underside of the trestle. Absently, Rowan noticed the floor had a nice beeswax scent to it.

With the train gone now and the roar of it only a memory in his ears, the room seemed golden with silence. After a moment or two, as his hearing returned, Rowan perceived a crackling fire. He sat up, curious as to what such a door, a fire, and a well-waxed floor were doing beneath a bridge.

The room itself was remarkably well appointed, Rowan thought, although there was the question of scale. It seemed normal in every aspect, except for Ivy, who was sitting on a worn and altogether comfortable-looking leather armchair. She seemed suddenly very big—or the chair quite small. And whatever was in the tiny mug steaming beside her smelled utterly delicious; Rowan found himself wondering when he might be asked to have some, too.

And with that, he realized they were not at all alone.

“Oh, courage, courage!” proclaimed a man unlike any Rowan Truax had ever encountered. He was, for one, extremely small. Smaller than Ivy by a great deal. And old—was he old! His face was framed in a mane of gray bushy hair, competing in an unruly way with his lengthy beard, which ended in a blunt line as if someone had taken an ax to it. His head
was topped off by a dark hat with a shiny brim—a watch cap, Rowan decided—the kind you might see on a train conductor in an old photo. The rest of him, too, was in a similar blue-black sturdy wool suit with silver buttons running up and down the chest. His eyes were unduly watery, and over them he wore an old pair of wire-framed glasses that pinched themselves in place to the bridge of his nose. And stranger still, since Rowan had never before met a trestleman, his face looked entirely and distinctly familiar.

“Did you bring it?” the trestleman was asking Ivy urgently.

“Axle—Shoo’s out there, hurt—”

“Did you bring it?” Axle interrupted.

Ivy nodded, indicating the bag, now by her feet.

“Well, that’s a relief, then.” He sighed. In his small hands was a mug he now suddenly remembered. “Here.” He thrust the mug at Rowan offhandedly, and Rowan minded not in the least. It smelled buttery and vaguely like cinnamon sugar.

“Let us see here….” The man was digging through Ivy’s satchel, spreading odd pieces of parchment and various forgotten ornaments that tend to gather at the bottom of dark bags.

“Yes, here.”

He held the bottle tightly to his chest, and Rowan caught a quick flash of red in the firelight. For a moment, as the bettle blazed, an odd sort of light shone upon the trestleman’s face.

“This, you’re sure, is all of it?”

“Except for what I gave Cecil, yes. But why, Axle?”

Rowan, with his mouth fortified by the hot drink, found it working without his intention.

“I can’t
believe
it! You’re Axlerod D. Roux! I’d know you anywhere!
AWWoww!
” The taster, in his excitement, had jumped to his feet—only to hit his head rather forcefully on a low ceiling beam, spilling the contents of his mug on his white collar.

The trestleman examined the young man in his home with no small amount of displeasure. Tasters reminded him of poisons, which reminded him of the state of the world in which he lived—albeit quietly. His was the time, before the current king, when meals were an occasion of joy, not trepidation. He preferred Caux as it once was—really, not that long ago in trestleman terms. To have a taster from the Tasters’ Guild present in his own home was a great inconvenience, and a true test of his graciousness.

Rowan was frantically feeling about the front of his robes. There are many, many hidden pockets for things that tasters find important, such as a little pen and pad of paper, a small golden fork and spoon, a tongue scraper. Rowan found what he was looking for and drew out with some flourish a well-worn copy of
The Field Guide to the Poisons of Caux
. He riffled to the back page and produced for his uninterested companions a sepia-toned photograph of the author and pointed to it excitedly.

“It’s you!” And then to Ivy, “It’s him! Axlerod D. Roux!
Although you seem somehow smaller in person and less blurry.” And upon further recollection, “I thought you lived in Templar.”

He looked from the girl to the trestleman eagerly.

“Really.” Ivy rolled her eyes. “Pull yourself together! It’s just Axle.” Ivy, having been in the enviable position of growing up with a trestleman for a playmate, was unimpressed with Axle’s reputation of distinction.

“You are my
favorite
author in all of Caux!” Rowan blurted, ignoring Ivy.

At this, there was a slight softening around the trestleman’s eyes. Perhaps this taster wasn’t as bad as he thought. He certainly seemed well educated. Perceptive.

Ivy sniffed. Her mind was elsewhere, and even the revitalizing powers of a trestleman’s hot buttered cider could not lift her spirits. Giving Rowan an unforgiving look, she turned to the trestleman.

“Axle, Shoo looked horribly hurt! I left him out there with that … that—” Ivy shivered.

“Outrider,” Rowan finished her sentence dully. His own mood was instantly dampened by the memory of their tongueless persecutor. To make matters worse, he couldn’t stand up properly in this small house and being in the shadow of his idol was very disconcerting—all of which made him slightly flushed, to his great chagrin.

“Outrider?” the trestleman asked at once—sharply.

“What’s an Outrider?” Ivy asked. Annoyed, she realized Cecil might have a point about the importance of studying.

“An Outrider.” Rowan cleared his throat as if back in the classroom. “An Outrider is a ‘disgraced former taster—made to serve the Guild and its Director for past misdeeds. He shall be forever dishonored and punished in a secret procedure called a’”—here Rowan gulped—“
‘degulleting
. Or the surgical removal of the tongue.’”

“Is this true?” Ivy wondered.

“Of course,” Axle replied. “I wrote it.”

“That
was an Outrider?” asked Ivy. The memory of kicking his face seemed even more pleasing with his newfound importance.

Rowan was somber at the thought of how much he currently enjoyed the use of his own tongue. “I first noticed him in the tavern, although he kept to the shadows. He was with another taster—or at least someone wearing some old ragtag robes….”

“Flux,” Ivy told Axle.

“Flux with an Outrider—how very … interesting,” Axle muttered, more to himself than his present company.

“They were after Cecil’s bettle—I came down just in time!”

“Well done!” Axle again held up the gleaming amber bottle. The jewel caught the light from the hearth, and again the
threesome was dazzled by it. The red stone was lozenge-shaped and appeared to be about the size of Ivy’s thumb, smooth and facetless. The amber fluid flickered like liquid fire.

“It’s … it’s a wonderful specimen,” Rowan allowed. “So unusual—that flaw.” It was cracked in a way that made it look hollow, and Rowan hoped he sounded appropriately knowledgeable. He had in him ingrained from the Guild a deep respect for the jewels—as signifiers of power and prestige, as charms against poison—and although he never, in fact, had held one, he was quite certain that they weren’t supposed to break.

“Indeed.” Axle nodded.

“But—” It was Rowan’s intention to pursue the bettle’s strangeness further, when Ivy interrupted him.

“This one here”—Ivy indicated the taster—“killed off all twenty of King Nightshade’s sentries!”

“Is that so?” Axlerod, who was decidedly less of a fan of the current king than just about anyone could be, was beginning to like his newest guest.

The trestleman looked at his friend Poison Ivy. He took a deep breath. An Outrider in his small corner of Caux could mean only one thing.

o consult Axle’s
Field Guide
for clarification on the children’s current host, you would be quite stymied. Here it is maddeningly incomplete, perhaps from a sense of humility that most trestlemen share, and lists the following simple characterization:

But make not the mistake of thinking all trestlemen are alike—for that would be like thinking all children to be similar simply because they are smallish, and playful, and generally smell nice.

Indeed, Axlerod D. Roux, like all trestlemen, was undeniably small. And quite old. An older race would be hard to find within the boundaries of Caux, or elsewhere. And they are known far
and wide for their profound respect for the solitary life. In almost all respects, they are a breed of clever inventors, with each trestleman’s expertise being as unpredictable as the next’s.

But one of the most surprising things, especially in this day and age, is what simply wonderful cooks they are. If you ever find yourself at a trestleman’s table, you are a lucky soul indeed.

So it was over a bountiful breakfast that Axle sat with his good friend Poison Ivy and the runaway taster Rowan Truax. After assuring the pair that Shoo would be tended to when all was safe, Axle refused to discuss anything further until everyone was seated in front of a generous plate—which he produced somehow in no time at all.

There were honeyed clusters of puff pastry, oozing with fresh vanilla cream and dusted with sugar. Stacks of fruited pancakes dripping with melting butter and warm syrup. Pitchers of frothy hot chocolate and steamed cider. Buttery, flaky ham biscuits. Hot, savory corn scones filled with rich gravy. Tiny, delicate eggs, hard-boiled, in a variety of subtle shades of purple and blue—carefully piled in a simple pottery bowl, with small highly scented violets bursting out from in between. And in the middle, a single beautiful wildflower.

They couldn’t wait to dig in, and each filled up their little plates—stacking the delicacies sky-high. But the small yellow wildflower—with its delicate scent—distracted Ivy.

“Axle, that flower,” Ivy said suddenly, forgetting her mouth
was full. She peered in closer, squinting. “Is that what I think it is?”

Ivy stared at Axle wide-eyed, and Axle, in turn, looked quite pleased with himself.

“What?” Rowan asked the pair, who seemed to be wasting their time on a small yellow flower rather than savoring the delicacies before them.

“It is indeed!” Axle cried.

“Wow!” Ivy leaned in to smell it. “How did this happen?”

“It bloomed just this morning.” Axle’s eyes sparkled.

“A cinquefoil!” Ivy sighed. “But what does that mean, Axle?” she asked, suddenly quite serious.

Rowan searched his memory of the
Field Guide
for any reference to a cinquefoil.

“Um. Excuse me. But isn’t that flower … criminal? I mean, prohibited by Proclamation of King …
er …
Nightshade?” Although he couldn’t say why, Rowan felt suddenly foolish using the king’s name at such a feast.

“You have much to unlearn, taster.” The trestleman’s eyes flashed, and Rowan instantly regretted speaking. But Axle relaxed momentarily, the effort of his bitterness exhausting him. He sighed deeply.

“The cinquefoil is a noble flower. It was chosen, after all, to be upon the Good King Verdigris’s own crest. And, in turn, became the symbol of every apotheopath. Now, like apotheopaths, they are a thing of great rarity.”

“I’ve never even seen one bloom!” Ivy added.

“The thing about this flower, the cinquefoil, is its peculiar nature. Plants—all plants—have secrets. To unlock them is power, as the apotheopaths knew. Many plants seek out specific conditions. We know certain mosses favor the north sides of trees—surely a helpful fact for anyone lost in a forest. But did you know some grow where gold is buried and can make your fortune? Others bloom only in ghostly moonlight, guarding lost or buried secrets. And some plants, well, some can even make you king. But the little cinquefoil is truly rare.” Axle looked from Ivy to Rowan and continued in a hushed tone.

“Ivy has never before seen one bloom, because the cinquefoil only grows in the presence of magic.”

Rowan looked around, as if he might spy some magic himself.

“Apotheopaths?” he repeated the word thoughtfully. He knew them to be quacks, snake-oil salesmen at best. The Tasters’ Guild had taught him over the years how dangerous a trip to these hacks could be—they were hardly respected physicians, after all, preferring instead to rely on ancient teachings, consult books in the old tongue, and gather their medicines from the countryside rather than an approved druggist.

“I was taught that apotheopaths were a sorry chapter from the history books—none exist today thanks to the diligence of King Nightshade,” Rowan said quietly.

“King Nightshade’s diligence is a discussion for another time. But I can’t fault you for believing the teachings you received at the Guild—you are a victim of an education of half-truths. I can, however, offer to correct your misperceptions. Apotheopaths exist. But they are a dying breed—of which Ivy’s uncle is one.”

“Ivy’s uncle is an
apotheopath
?” He whistled. “I thought he was a tavern keeper.”

“Well, he’s both,” Ivy managed amid a mouthful of potato fritter.

“And a far better apotheopath than a tavern keeper.” Axle smiled.

Rowan sat back to listen, determined to keep still. Yet he did notice that it was becoming increasingly hard for him to understand how the subrectors at the Guild could be so wrong.

Axle’s eyes came to rest upon the amber bottle framed neatly in his tiny dining room window. “Rocamadour wasn’t intended to be at all as you know it,” he said flatly.

At the mention of the Tasters’ Guild’s dark headquarters, Rowan found himself shuddering involuntarily.

“What do you mean? It wasn’t built for the Guild?”

“Of course not,” said Axle, irritated. “It was built many, many years before there was ever a taster to taste a questionable meal. It
was
built as a school, actually, but the Good King Verdigris had a different sort of learning in mind.”

“King Verdigris.” Rowan hesitated. “I thought all his good works have been discounted.”

“Is that what they teach you? I suppose it’s not in King Nightshade’s interest to teach his predecessor’s history. He and Vidal Verjouce—your Guild’s Director, but really a man in many ways more dangerous than your king—have seen to it that the legacy of the old king is buried and forgotten. As with most things he touches, Nightshade made Rocamadour into the dark and foreboding fortress it is today. At one time, the Good King Verdigris even held it up as his most treasured accomplishment—and that’s saying quite a lot, as the man lived the length of many lifetimes, and from his hands came a great many things.”

Rowan thought about Rocamadour, its dark clusters of stone buildings, its perpetual gray weather. The streets were thin and paved in cobblestones covered in a dark, creeping moss that grew up and over most everything—even the massive black spire atop the cathedral. This was where most of the Guild’s learning took place.

It was hard to think of the place as anything other than severe, and Rowan told the trestleman so.

“It’s true. Although I haven’t been there in a while, I can’t imagine it’s changed too much. But Verdigris meant it as a school of learning, where all distractions might disappear. Perhaps that is why it was built so. It was meant in its day as an academy for apotheopaths, a place to study the art of healing.
It was said to have the largest library in all the land.” Axle glanced toward his study, sadly. He knew what little was left of that famous library could be found in it.

“I mentioned the fortress was said to be the king’s greatest accomplishment, but I have my own favorites.”

“Oh, Axle, do tell us about your favorites!” Ivy pleaded.

“Perhaps another time. Right now, we should help this young Guild graduate unlearn his years of schooling, and teach him the proper way to eat!”

And with that, the trestleman reached in and served himself an enormous plateful of cream puffs.