The Poisons of Caux: The Hollow Bettle (Book I) (24 page)

he shoemaker Gudgeon’s family had owned and operated a business from the same building for many generations. It hadn’t always been a respectable one—you can’t get much more respected than to be the king’s Royal Prosthetic Cobbler, with an imperial seal to prove it—but the family business had always operated in one form or another in the slim but desirable location on the Knox.

Gudgeon had built it up from a run-down, second-rate crispin shop to what it was today, and of this he was quite proud. But his work with King Nightshade—specifically, his intricate shoe creations—was not his first love. Although he had created a display of King Nightshade’s formal footwear for all to see, he preferred to dabble in the oddities that he showcased in his other windows, which were lit with spotlights and spun on mirrored carousels. Gudgeon created
prosthetics: not just shoes for clubfooted kings, but anything from intricate hernia belts to artificial limbs. A passerby might stop—and many did—to wonder at Gudgeon’s peculiar skill. And most would find it a little off-putting. Most, of course, except the king.

But behind his brightly displayed spinal corsets, neck braces, wooden teeth, miniature wheelchairs, and tastefully arranged skeletal feet was another more ancient secret: Gudgeon’s storefront also doubled as the entrance to the Knox’s nether regions—that is to say, to the living compartments of many a trestleman. Over the years, though, their numbers had dwindled. And today, the bridge’s lone occupant—one Peps D. Roux—still could be found beneath the Knox carrying on in the trestlemen’s tradition.

Not that Peps was at all upset about inheriting the entire bridge as his own. It was, in some respects, his own orchestration. Over time, he had widened and expanded his once-small apartment into what was now an enormous and quite grand loft, with river views on either side and all the latest of luxuries one might find in a bustling city like Templar. He was inarguably very much at home with the finer things of life, and his friend Gudgeon, as it happened, was happy to provide him with the flashiest tailored clothes that he could create.

But today was not the best of days for Axlerod’s brother.

He had undoubtedly been favored by great success over
the years—if measured in material wealth—but today it had caught up with him.

For years, Peps had taken advantage of his famous brother’s reclusiveness. He had benefited immensely, and without Axle’s knowledge, by pretending to be the famed Axlerod D. Roux when it suited him and his pocketbook. It was an innocent enough crime—Axle never left his quaint little trestle in the middle of nowhere and seemed to desire nothing in return for his writing efforts. In Peps’s view, his brother was an odd homebody, forever tinkering with his retractable pincers and ancient volumes of unreadable gobbledygook. Now and then, in an act of contrition, Peps would come across some obscure and impenetrable encyclopedia and send it off to his brother, a gift purchased with Axle’s own money.

Over the course of Axle’s long career, Peps had arranged for the royalty checks for the
Field Guide
—a great sum—to be directed to his own address on the Knox. And it wasn’t beyond him to impersonate his brother should he dine at an upscale and expensive restaurant. When asked directly by an adoring fan—or a banker—if he was indeed the reclusive author, Peps would merely shrug and bow his head in a much rehearsed fashion. People, Peps knew and often took advantage of, believed what they wanted to believe. He just helped them along.

And now, as he sat in his sitting room with his friend and
advisor, Gudgeon, he lamented the years of borrowed identity. He held in his hand an invitation from the queen.

“What am I to do? There’s hardly a way to refuse such a summons.”

“And if you go, you’re likely to be exposed….” Gudgeon was nervously twisting his hands, in which was a moist handkerchief.

“Not necessarily.” Peps shot his friend a look. “Give me a little credit, please.”

“I only meant—”

“Never mind. I obviously can’t go—what will I wear? I’ll need a taster; have you considered that? Where will I get one of those? And not one of the raggedy ones for hire outside, either. Someone believable.”

“What does it say again?”

Peps read from the gilded card.

“No exceptions.”

“No. No exceptions,” Peps said miserably. “I particularly dislike that part.”

“Festival’s Eve! But that’s the day after tomorrow!” Gudgeon’s reminder was met with a cold stare.

Upstairs, a distant bell rang, signaling a customer’s arrival. The shoemaker was more than happy to excuse himself at the current juncture—he had experienced Peps in this mood only once before in their many years of friendship, and he wished never to again.

He trundled up the grand wrought-iron spiral stairs that Peps had installed years ago and was greeted by the youngest pair of customers he had had in some time.

“Excuse us,” Rowan said to the impeccably dressed man who greeted them. He had been hoping to find a store a little busier than this in which to pass some time.

“Yes, young man. What might I do for you today?” Gudgeon looked him up and down for any sign of a limp.

“Well—” Rowan didn’t really know where to begin.

“I practice the utmost in discretion,” Gudgeon assured the boy. Perhaps he was here for his sister? She seemed, although a touch pale, quite well herself. They both were too young for a hernia. Neither had a hunchback that he could see.

“You really need to confide in me if I am to outfit you,” Gudgeon prodded. This was the tedious part of the job.

Ivy cleared her throat.

“Could you tell us where we might find a trestleman named Peps? Peps D. Roux?”

Gudgeon was so unused to questions regarding Peps that he blinked once, then twice, very slowly. Hardly anyone knew Peps as Peps, and the few who did were not small strange children. But Rowan quickly clarified.

“This is Ivy Manx. His brother sent us. He said Peps would help us.”

vy Manx? Ivy Manx …” Peps was mulling over her name, trying to revive a distant memory.

Ivy, meanwhile, was recovering from the startling family resemblance between the two trestlemen. Indeed, for a moment, as she laid eyes upon Axle’s brother, she thought she was seeing her old friend once more—a welcome sight. But Peps was in every way a sophisticate to Axle’s studious personality, and their similarities ended at their faces.

“Yes, I think I know now. There was that little girl my brother was so fond of. Rescued her from the river, I seem to remember. A lot of fuss—never could understand what he was on about. Yes, it’s coming back to me now.” Peps peered closer at Ivy. “Is that you, then? I seem to remember he had quite a soft spot for you.”

Ivy and Rowan had been shown down to Peps’s spectacular living quarters only after Gudgeon had checked with the trestleman first.

“Have you ever seen anything like this?” Rowan whispered in Ivy’s ear. This sort of luxury was usually reserved for the Guild’s most favored subrectors.

Peps looked from one to the other of his little visitors expectantly.

“Well, what is it that I can do for you?”

Ivy’s heart sank.

“Axle didn’t send word? A letter, perhaps? Anything, maybe, about my uncle?”

“Send word? Whatever for?”

Peps’s mind suddenly entertained the thought that his brother might have sent these two as collectors for his years of trespasses, but he soon realized the absurdity of sending children for such an end. He scanned his mind for any word from Axle. In truth, he was in the habit of ignoring anything that came from his brother—so tedious and wordy were his missives.

“Sir—I think perhaps Axle thought you might—”

“And who are you?” Peps turned to Ivy’s companion, interrupting him impatiently.

“This is Rowan. Rowan Truax.”

“At your service.” Rowan bowed politely.

“Hmm,” Peps sniffed. Rowan was still quite a spectacle in
his tasters’ robes, and Peps looked him up and down. “Young man. You are a taster?”

“
Was
a taster,” Ivy clarified, assuming Axle’s brother would possess the same dislike for the Guild position.

But the news of Rowan’s training had an unusual effect on their host. Peps suddenly spun around from where he was standing—beside a small coffee table tastefully piled with rich, lush-looking illustrated books—and produced for the pair an incredibly winning (and quite surprising) smile. It positively sparkled, and Ivy was made acquainted with Peps’s prized golden tooth. And whereas his initial welcome was one of distraction, now he deigned to focus his entire attention upon the two—in a way that brought Ivy, for one, incredible relief.

“A taster! A taster, you say? So young. Are you a recent graduate of the Guild? Please, sit down. The two of you. Gudgeon—what are you waiting for? Get the tea tray!”

As the pair set about trying to get comfortable in the miniature chairs, Ivy couldn’t help but ask again of any news.

“Excuse me, sir. But are you sure you’ve heard nothing about Cecil? Nothing’s come from Axle—nothing at all?”

“Hmm? No. Nothing, I assure you, my dear. Not a tidbit. Do tell me, though, how is my brother faring? Well, I hope.”

Ivy nodded, crestfallen.

“Good, good. You’re not a taster, now, are you, dear? No,
of course not,” Peps muttered, annoyed at Gudgeon’s slow progress. The cobbler was carefully balancing the heavy tray.

Ivy sagged and looked miserably at Rowan.

“Your uncle, you say. Is this that outlaw—that apotheopath my brother was friendly with?”

“Yes.”

Gudgeon was seeing to the tray’s contents. He carefully placed the colorful sugar cubes favored by Peps into a bowl beside the fresh cream. But something occurred to him now. He hadn’t bothered to mention it to Peps before—there were so many prisoners he’d encountered working for the Nightshades. At times he had even been forced to step over them, if the queen’s dungeon overflowed as it sometimes did. But Peps had said something about an apotheopath, and that reminded him. It wasn’t a word one often heard these days, and perhaps it was no coincidence.

“Peps,” Gudgeon began casually. “I meant to tell you. At the last shoe fitting there was talk of a prisoner the queen discovered in the dungeon. He’d been there all year, completely forgotten! Funny—they said he was an apotheopath.”

“A prisoner!” Ivy gasped. “Where? What did he look like?” She looked from Peps to Rowan hopefully.

“Well …” Gudgeon struggled. “I thankfully left before they summoned him. But if he spent the whole time in the dark, dirty basement, I’ll bet he was in need of a bath.”

“Really, this sort of information is something you don’t
just forget. How very irresponsible. An apotheopath! Hardly an ordinary prisoner. What
else
have you neglected to tell me?” Peps admonished. “What do you have to say for yourself, Gudgeon?”

Gudgeon felt his temples constrict in a familiar way that he knew meant a migraine.

“Oh, it must be him! It must be!” Ivy cried. “A whole year—that’s just when Cecil left!”

“Let me think, let me think! Stop chastising me so, Peps.” Gudgeon looked quite upset. But he thought for a moment.

“They were going to have him brought up as soon as I finished my measurements for the king’s newest pair of shoes. The green ones. The queen said he had come to cure the king’s foot but was thrown in the dungeon before he could get the chance. The whole thing made me quite uncomfortable—and I was ever so relieved when I left the entire scene behind. But I remember now, the queen said something about a speedy execution and how sorry they should feel for keeping him waiting like that.”

“Execution?” Ivy panicked. “When?!”

“I think … I think it’s set for the Festival. For the big celebration.”

“Oh, Peps—you must help me save him! Axle said you would! How do we get into the castle? It’s a fortress! That’s why the Nightshades come here during the Winds—it’s the only safe place!”

“And all those sentries,” Rowan added.

Peps gathered himself up and leaned back with his short arms behind his head—a great look of satisfaction upon his face.

“Well, it just so happens I have an invitation right here.”