The Poisons of Caux: The Hollow Bettle (Book I) (8 page)

he trestleman had left the pair in the company of mugs of steamed milk and a plate of meringues, which did much to better only the first few minutes of their wait. They were both quiet, the mood a thoughtful one after their experience in Axle’s study Ivy watched as Rowan stood and fidgeted uncomfortably from foot to foot, and they both separately wondered at Axle’s whereabouts. Rowan found himself drawn to the brightest thing in the room—the cracked red bettle in the old brandy bottle. It still rested upon the window ledge and, for the taster, imparted upon all the proceedings a sense of legitimacy.

When finally the trestleman returned to the parlor, he seemed to bring in a bit of the cold with him, and he held beneath his small arm a tight package of some sort.

“Pardon my delay,” Axle began. “I had to wait until it was safe.” He set down his package on the table with bright
eyes. He began unwrapping the shroud that covered his parcel.

“Pass me that, please,” the trestleman ordered.

Rowan looked helplessly around.

“That,” Axle said, looking up. “Ivy’s bottle! Quickly!”

Rowan did as ordered, watching Axle remove the cover of the balsa box he held. At first in the low light the box appeared empty, but peering in closer, both Ivy and Rowan gasped. It was, in fact, quite full, containing a knot of the deepest black feathers in the shape of a motionless crow.

“Oh, Shoo!” Ivy reached to touch.

“Is he…” Rowan couldn’t finish his sad thought.

“He’s alive. But just barely.”

Axle busied himself with the delicate wire that laced the cork securely in the bottle, and once it was freed, he pulled the stopper deftly, resulting in a satisfying
pop
. Retrieving a small glass the size of a thimble, Axle poured a mere token of a drop into it and, finding the crow’s beak, transferred it again ever so carefully into the animal’s mouth.

“That should do it,” the trestleman muttered.

“Axle, what in the world are you doing?” Ivy demanded.

Rowan’s eyes widened at the cloying scent that filled the room. “That smell!” the taster whispered.

“Appalling, isn’t it? Stopper it up, why don’t you?” Axle ordered.

“No—I mean, I think I recognize it,” said Rowan.

Axle waved his small hand dismissively.

“It’s not what you think. It’s Ivy’s attempt at Aqua Artilla.”

“My
last
attempt.”

“I’m sure Rowan would agree the scent of the queen’s perfume lacks all subtlety. Your uncle, when he interrupted you, saw you pour the infusion back into the bottle—but he need only have used his nose.”

“The queen’s poison! That’s the worst kind!” Rowan’s voice was shrill.

“Hardly. It doesn’t do a thing,” Ivy answered glumly.

“In fact”—the trestleman looked at Ivy—“just the opposite.”

The children watched Shoo closely for signs of distress.

The crow had slowly come to look as if it had been placed in the sun—the ruffled and dust-coated feathers unified again into a lustrous ordered pattern, gleaming with a light of their own. A ripple of life swept up and through them, like a wind blowing against the grain, and tiny dust motes spun crazily in the draft. As the two watched, a small black eye opened like a shiny button, blinked once, and then again. The old crow let out a small caw.

Rowan whistled. “What’s
in
that?” he asked, turning to Ivy.

Ivy’s face was quite pale. Stunned as she was at Shoo’s miraculous recovery, she was even more surprised at the part her elixir played in it.

“Nothing that should do that!” she croaked.

Axle turned his attention to Shoo and whispered softly, and Ivy held out her arm. Soon the crow was perched upon it unsteadily.

“Remarkable,” Rowan muttered.

The three were silent as Shoo began the job of preening himself. Rowan stared darkly at the amber bottle.

“Did Cecil know what my elixir could do?” Ivy suddenly wondered.

Axle nodded.

“So that must be why he left his medicines behind,” she figured. “I found them when I was running from Flux and the Outrider.”

“He had all he needed,” Axle replied.

While Ivy busied herself with the reunion with Shoo, Rowan stepped closer to Axle.

“Mr. D. Roux—”

“You can call me Axle.”

“Um, Axle. Something’s been bothering me. I was wondering just what exactly an Outrider was doing chasing us in the first place.”

“Yes, yes. A good question. Any ideas of your own?”

“I don’t know.” Rowan was thoughtful. “Because I poisoned all those sentries …”

“An Outrider? He hunts bigger game than uncollared tasters.”

“Yes, I suppose.” Rowan was relieved.

“Outriders are first and foremost servants of the Guild. They do only Verjouce’s bidding.”

“Well, what did he want, then?”

Axle paused and seemed to consider his words carefully. He stared fondly across the room at Ivy’s back, her light hair a fine contrast beside the crow. She brushed her knuckles on the underside of Shoo’s beak, talking softly to the bird. The trestleman wanted so very badly not to alarm the girl, and leaned in to the taster.

“I assume you are familiar with the Prophecy?” Axle asked after some inner debate.

Rowan thought hard.

“The Prophecy of the Noble Child?” Axle prompted impatiently.

“No.” Rowan shook his head, quite sure. Nothing of the sort appeared in the
Field Guide
, and as he was readying himself to make just this point, Axle interrupted.

“No? I don’t supposed they’d teach you that at the Guild. The Prophecy was written long ago, but the ancient pages have gone missing from their binding.” Axle paused. “It is said that a child of noble birth—a child of extraordinary circumstance—will banish the darkness from the forests, evil from where it dwells, and restore Caux to truth and light.” Axle peered at the taster intently.

“How will this happen?” Rowan was wide-eyed.

“The child must cure the king.”

“Oh.” Rowan frowned. This seemed entirely unlikely, but he held his tongue.

“The Outrider was not searching for you, Rowan Truax. Look to the Estate of Turner Taxus, if you fear being followed. You abandoned your charge, your Oath. The Taxus family are an …
interesting
clan—and they will surely search for you. And it’s their right. They are many in number, as I’m sure you know.”

Rowan nodded glumly.

“No, the Outrider was here performing Verjouce’s bidding”—Axle’s voice soured at the Director’s name—“and in search of the Noble Child.”

he trestleman left Rowan to squeeze into a small daybed in the parlor while he walked Ivy down the narrow hall, Shoo perched comfortably on her shoulder. It was agreed they should leave for Templar posthaste, since it was there that Axle thought Ivy’s uncle to be found, but he insisted that the children rest before they departed. Stopping at the entrance to a little guest room, Axle opened the door.

Although unaccustomed to guests, he was impeccably prepared for them. The room was a vision of hospitality, but it was a delicious little bed that Ivy saw first, and although it was trestleman-sized, it was wonderfully suited to the proportions of an eleven-year-old girl.

The room had a small window, and Axle reached to discreetly close the curtains against the hive of Nightshade activity at the tavern. Shoo flew to a side table, where the little
yellow cinquefoil now rested. Axle placed a pile of seeds from his waistcoat pocket beside the crow.

“There. That should do it. Are you sure there isn’t anything I can get you—some warm milk? Sweet tea?”

“Oh, Axle, I’m just fine.” She stifled a yawn. “I think I’ll just rest now, for a moment.”

Ivy sat back on the softest, fluffiest bed she’d ever felt. It seemed to be made entirely of eiderdown, and the second she settled upon it, she nearly disappeared within it. Her eyes were having trouble remaining open. The small man sighed deeply.

“Now, with the arrival of the sentries, I must say it confirms my fear that your uncle’s errand has failed. He is, at best, waylaid.”

Ivy was of the same opinion and managed to mumble so. The day’s events had caught up to her.

“He went in your stead, you know. To Templar. He hoped to cure the king with your elixir and thereby have you avoid the destiny that now calls you.”

“What destiny?”

Shoo let out a low, throaty grumble.

“Cecil was always very hopeful of your abilities. He saw in them an opportunity for greatness. But he was worried you weren’t prepared.” Ivy thought that sounded a lot like Cecil. She thought of the tavern, her workshop and secret experiments. Her accidental elixir—it had healed Shoo! It seemed
to her that Cecil, once she found him, would have less right to be so demanding about her studies.

But for now her destiny would have to wait while she rested. Her eyes were closing despite themselves, and Axle covered her gently.

“I’ve always wanted to go to Templar,” she announced dreamily. “But the Deadly Nightshades …”

“There is nothing to worry about—not now. Trust this old man when he says things are not often as dreadful as they seem. Haven’t I always told you that you are meant for even brighter prospects than you can imagine or dream? Sleep now, so that you will awaken closer to them.”

It was in these dreams that Ivy finally got her first look at Cecil’s apotheopathic remedies. She unwrapped the soft leather that enclosed the clinking ampoules and, heart beating, ran her fingers along them. And, in the way that dreams have, Cecil was there, too, smiling at her thoughtfully, and she knew what he was about to say. That only with time and practice would she be able to master them.

orking with Turner Taxus had involved a lot of travel, but the taster never got used to the disconcerting feeling of waking up and not knowing where he was. The tiny bed hadn’t been a restful match—he’d curled up on it anyway, yet somehow his eyes would not shut. Rather, they were drawn to Ivy’s elixir in the brandy bottle, and the red bettle inside it, sitting on the small table. His dreams finally did come, anxious and fleeting. In the morning, he staggered from the parlor.

Ivy was already up and, judging from appearances, had been for some time. Her face was alive with excitement at her reunion with Shoo, and the old bird shifted back and forth on his spindly legs. Axle had hot cocoa ready for Rowan, and Ivy was already holding hers, blowing on it impatiently.

“Morning,” Rowan offered, but then wondered just exactly what time it was. It was a bright day; the morning’s subtle tones were gone.

“Did you sleep well?” Axle asked the young taster. “I am sorry if the train disturbed you. I must say I was quite surprised to hear one come through—highly irregular. Back in the day, trains kept to schedules.”

“Train? What train?” Rowan was bleary-eyed—it seemed he’d dozed off after all.

“Ah—you’re a good sleeper, then! Ivy was less fortunate.”

Axle was putting the finishing touches on an enormous picnic basket. “I’ve taken the liberty to pack some provisions for the trip.”

It was handmade by tiny fingers, woven of delicate river fronds, lightweight and indestructible. Rowan couldn’t help but picture Axle out for an afternoon’s scavenge, harvesting the reeds that pleased him. As he stared happily at the basket, Axle retrieved the bettle bottle from the parlor.

“You must hurry to Templar. But you’ll have to be ever mindful of the Estate of Turner Taxus, of course. Mindful, really, of
everything
.” He looked pointedly at Rowan. “The tongue is your lone guardian.”

Ivy smiled at him. “He means, watch what you eat.”

“Won’t you come, too?” Rowan cried.

“Me?!” Axle was taken aback. He looked from Ivy to the taster and back again.

“Axle doesn’t get out much,” Ivy offered. “Trestlemen don’t like leaving their trestle. They get, well,
nervous
.”

“Trestlemen get nothing of the sort. It’s just—it’s highly
unnatural
, that’s all. Besides, I am hard at work on the thirteenth edition—with a strict deadline.” Axle adjusted his pince-nez and looked at Rowan uncomfortably, clearing his throat. “I did, however, inscribe you something inside your
Guide
. You’ll have to be content with that, until the next time we meet.”

Rowan jumped to his feet, nearly hitting his head again, and clutched his beloved book as the trestleman returned it to him. Indeed, within the front cover was a flourish of thick ink in small and neat handwriting, followed with a valiant autograph.

“The Tasters’ Credo.” Rowan looked up from the page.

“Good instructions.” Axle nodded. To Ivy, the trestleman said, “You carry that bettle, remember, inside the bottle. People are attracted to it—and never the right people. And above all, guard the elixir. Your success depends upon it.”

She stowed the small bottle in her waistband carefully.

“Start through the Wood,” Axle continued, referring to Southern Wood—the dark expanse of ancient trees to the south of the mill house. “It is still the only way to avoid Rocamadour. If you get lost or are ever in danger, know that you have safe passage wherever you might find a trestle or bridge.

“But I offer this piece of advice: make haste! Head to Templar before the Winds hit. There is a bridge there—a truly
spectacular bridge, quite an old one. The Knox. It leads you into the city of Templar. There are shops and restaurants built right upon it, and many generations of trestlemen call it their home. The Knox is an ancient place for honest trade and exchange of conventional ideas. A gathering place. And my brother lives there.”

At this, Ivy was surprised. “You never told me you had a brother, Axle!”

“Yes. Ask for Peps. Peps D. Roux. If there’s any news of Cecil Manx, I’ll have it waiting there with him. I shall write him to expect you.”

Without much more delay, the children were to leave their friend’s house, with a renewed spirit of adventure upon them. Shoo was to stay behind, ostensibly to complete his recovery, but Rowan thought perhaps Ivy worried the trestleman might suffer from loneliness at her departure. And since Ivy had much to learn before she might employ Cecil’s medicine kit, it, too, would stay with Axle and await its rightful owner.

In his home below the tracks, with the olive-colored water flowing softly beneath the floorboards, Axle retreated quietly to his study and his desk.

From the window he watched the scarlet birds as they dipped in flight, sipping up small bugs on the water’s surface. A fine mist rolled about, hitting the caked mud walls and tumbling against itself. The fog cleared, a sheer glass revealed
beneath—the water only disturbed in small circles where fish were feeding. The reflection was perfect—the trees overhanging mirrored in the water, the large waterfowl flying upstream in the distance. The trestle’s belly reflected back at itself.

He found the beauty of the river could still send a wave of emotion through his old bones.

It is of some note that the train that had earlier roused Ivy from her sleep was destined for Templar.

It was a lush train for this day and age, still with a good polish and kept up quite well. It was filled with every amenity
that the Guild’s Director desired. The lettering on its side, in a rich gold script, proclaimed its name to be Ambrosia. And aboard it was Ivy’s previous taster, Mr. Sorrel Flux, who after wrestling with the wind on the little footbridge was now treating himself to a spiked cup of hot marigold tea.