The Shepherd of Weeds (11 page)

Babette clapped the book closed and came to the aid of Lola, brushing the moth aside with a brave flick of her finger. She then turned to the hovering gray cloud that remained, and, glancing about Axle’s cluttered desktop, she found what she needed: an old specimen jar in which the trestleman had stored a few broken pencils, a pearl button. Into this Babette coaxed the majority of the fluttering creatures, sealing the jar, which she then pocketed
.

The Mildew Sisters spent a further few uncomfortable minutes cowering as the few remaining moths dissipated, and then looked at their sister appreciatively
.

“They’re gone,” Babette reported
.

Babette wrote something now on a scrap of paper. Rolling it, and tying it with a ribbon from her hair, she presented it to the crow. “For the apotheopath,” she instructed
.

Turning back to her treacherous sisters, Babette frowned
.

“Show me your hands,” she ordered
.

The three held out their gnarled hands for inspection, a fine display of calluses. Large knuckles bulged within wrinkled skin. Veins ran ladders over discolored liver spots, and the deep ridges of the sisters’ palms were maps of uncharted lands. Babette nodded appreciatively, and the room relaxed
.

“Ladies, the time has come again for us to weave!” Babette announced
.

he city of Templar, the ancient walled capital of Caux and once the seat of power for the Good King Verdigris before the Deadly Nightshades assumed power, was a pleasant mix of eclectic buildings, twisting streets, and a formidable bridge upon which most of the city’s commerce was conducted, the Knox. For years, under the tyranny of the Tasters’ Guild, the city languished. It became a favorite for scoundrels and urchins, and most of the respectable storefronts and shops were shuttered or reborn into the poison trade. Spectacles of debauchery were common; the Cauvians of the time were conniving, plotting, and expert at poisoning. And even the annual Festival of the Winds—a celebration under the tranquil rule of King Verdigris—was hijacked into a distasteful occasion for executions.

The last such public execution was to be a heretic apotheopath, under the truly awful charge of quacksalvery.

At one time, before the Deadly Nightshades and the Tasters’ Guild, apotheopathy was a revered and sacred form of medicine, harnessing the forest for its healing properties. Its study took many long years, and the memorization of many arcane charts and tables, but its results could be astounding.

But the execution of this apotheopathic heretic was interrupted, a very fortunate event for the prisoner, a man named Cecil Manx. It was interrupted by his niece, Ivy Manx, and some very potent and ancient words the apotheopath spoke, awakening a set of ancient tapestries.

This very apotheopath heretic was currently crushing a few dried leaves and berries in a mortar and pestle with uncharacteristic impatience. Cecil Manx was mixing a potion he hoped would both alleviate the grogginess from a potent sleeping draught and jog the memory of his current companion. He turned his attention to a shelf of odd bottles, but since few seemed to be labeled, he soon gave up. His long, graceful fingers paused beside a plain box labeled
staunchweed
and stiffened. The lid lifted easily enough, and inside, Cecil inspected the finely crumbled leaves. He sniffed carefully at it, but just as quickly flipped the lid closed and continued his search.

“How my niece finds anything in this mess, I’ll never know,” he grumbled. “It’s chaos. Pure carelessness.”

Rowan opened his mouth to inform the apotheopath that Ivy had often commented on Cecil’s own apparent lack of order—his disorganized shelves and penchant for hiding things even from himself—but thought better of it. Instead, he stifled a yawn.

“She has her staunchweed here—of all places! Devastating, if used improperly. Can ruin a whole day’s work.”

“Then it should fit right in with all her other herbs.” Rowan sighed. Staunchweed, Rowan knew from Botanicals, a dreary class for first years, did have its uses—mostly custodial—none of which would help relieve his grogginess.

Cecil had settled into a moody silence. He had found what appeared to be parsley root, a universal antidote, and was mincing it carefully. Quite wisely, Rowan dismissed Cecil’s foul temper to be what it was: an uncle’s worry for his missing niece. He struggled in the silence to gather his thoughts.

He and Cecil were in Ivy’s workshop in Templar, where, inexplicably, the taster had found himself the previous day—asleep on the stoop of the Apothecary. One minute he was in Underwood, with Ivy, after emerging through the Thorn Door. They stared with wonder at the series of famous tapestries that had escaped their silken boundaries and come alive.

Next thing he knew, he was here in Templar, his head heavy—a crick in his neck from spending the night on the frozen stone stoop.

He had the uncomfortable feeling that he was a great
disappointment to the apotheopath, who had grilled him hopefully on Ivy’s whereabouts (Rowan had no idea) and their accomplishments (no idea, again) in Pimcaux.

All he had to show for himself, it seemed, was the acorn.

“Yes, this acorn of yours is quite remarkable.” Cecil followed Rowan’s gaze, and paused his potion-making to examine the knob of silver on the table beside him.

The taster nodded absently. His hand rested upon a large clump of spiky white bristle and tusk—the sleeping form of his dear old friend, the bettle boar Poppy. Periodic snorts and low growls escaped her long snout as she dreamed of icicles and mountain passes, the frigid terrain she was meant to inhabit. Out the window was an open, cobbled square, and the citizens of Templar were busy upon it. Beyond, the river Marcel had frozen over.

“Solid silver, it appears,” Cecil murmured. The apotheopath paused to examine the smooth shell, holding it up to the light. “To think—this grew upon a tree!”

“It—and the thousands like it—nearly killed us,” the taster explained. He and Ivy had been pelted by them in a windstorm of oaks on their way to find the King in Pimcaux.

Cecil’s eyes narrowed as he thought.

“Acorn”
—Cecil was pensive—“means
eternal life.
”

“Or
imminent death
,” Rowan added glumly.

The apotheopath and taster were referring to an arcane and ancient communication based on botany, called Flower Code.

Page 746 of Axlerod D. Roux’s famed
Field Guide to the Poisons of Caux
(titled “The Secret Language of Flowers”) begins a long treatise of various meanings assigned to Caux’s rich plant population. While the origin of the coded meanings remains unclear, Flower Code was said to come from a time when plants behaved in their true natures, and their names illustrated these natures variously. Axle maintained that with the help of his book, it was entirely possible to carry on a secret conversation
in complete silence
while enjoying one of Caux’s many gardens or woods, or by simply fashioning and delivering the appropriate bouquet. The Code had delivered them to the doorway to Pimcaux.

“Ah, it seems you are learning that much of what’s important in life comes with a range of meanings—some agonizingly contradictive. And that includes the Prophecy,” Cecil said pointedly. Straining his mixture through a fine cloth, he held out his hand, a small chipped glass within.

“Drink this.” Cecil’s tone was kind. The glass contained a pale green misty syrup. “It should do the trick.”

Rowan did—it was tart and sweet and not at all bad—and then slipped into silence.

“Perhaps, when spring finally comes,” Cecil mused, “we shall plant this acorn with Ivy, and see what it might bring.”

If spring comes
, Rowan thought.

If
Ivy
comes
.

The window seat upon which he sat was crowded with
Ivy’s potted plants, and their earthy presence reminded him of her. His stomach sank.

Where is she?

The Prophecy hung over the room like a deadweight. It was troubling in many ways, but mostly because it was secretive and vague, and seemed to occupy the arcane realm of adults. Rowan knew that much of what was predicted long ago was lost to the ages. But what was known was this: a child of noble birth was destined to save the kingdom—and to do this, she must cure the ailing king. This child was Ivy Manx—Rowan’s friend—and currently, the future of Caux was not looking so hopeful.

Rowan’s eyes fell upon the square below, and the Marcel beyond. A few children were skating upon the river’s surface, playing some sort of game. Rowan watched them idly as another skater approached the children from upriver—an adult, and one lacking the children’s confidence and grace.

Cecil had returned his attention to exploring Ivy’s medicines—disorganized unguents, powders, snuffs, and gargles of which he could make little sense. Rowan leaned in further to inspect this new arrival.

He saw the stranger—a ragtag salesman—race into the midst of the skating children, unapologetically knocking several down. The stranger then turned to snicker as he kept for the shore. After a moment, he alighted upon the quay of the capital and bent to remove his blades.

The man was dirty, which was hardly unusual. His skates were tied with crooked knots to a pair of misshapen boots and a rope secured his pants where a belt might normally be found. On his back was an unusual contraption, a skin of sorts, with a brass spigot on the bottom; Rowan had seen his type before—he was a lowly wine merchant.

Yet before Rowan could contemplate the vagabond further, the door to the workshop opened and the apotheopath and the former taster were joined by a very welcome sight.

h, if it’s not Master Peps D. Roux,” Cecil greeted the tiny man who stood before him. “How they packed so much bravery into such a small package, I’ll never know. A trestleman, surely, who will be the subject of many a ballad before our time is over.” Cecil winked.

Peps flushed generously at the compliment.

Indeed, Peps had just completed a journey worthy of an epic poem—with helping hands he had been directed through a secret passage behind a neglected stables, through dismal, twisting tunnels and hidden empty vaults. Yet he managed to bring word from inside the Tasters’ Guild.

“And Grig. Welcome,” Cecil greeted Peps’s companion.

Rowan smiled at Peps, but rose eagerly at the sight of the trestleman Grig, upending a pot of snapdragons.

“Master Truax!” Peps greeted the former taster with enthusiasm. “A welcome sight, you are!”

“Peps!” Rowan gasped. The last time he had seen this particular trestleman was in the dark crypts beneath the city of the Tasters’ Guild, and Peps’s escape—and return to the land of the living—was in itself remarkable. Rowan made a point to quiz his friend as soon as he could, but a bitter look had overtaken Peps’s face as he turned to Cecil, and Rowan knew that now was not the time.

“Have you further news of my brother, Cecil?”

“I have dispatched three very worthy associates,” Cecil replied. “We shall find something of assistance at his trestle.”

“These three, are they swift-footed and trustworthy?” Peps demanded.

Grig cleared his throat loudly at the impertinence of the question.

The apotheopath paused. “They are long in my debt. They do as they are tasked.”

An anxious look hardened Peps’s face, and for a moment he seemed as if he had something further to say, but the moment passed.

“And Grig!” Cecil turned to the other guest. “My weatherman.”

Grig smiled; his gray hair was wiry and defied gravity at his temples, where it stuck out like a set of whiskers. Grig was known, like many of his kin, as a fine inventor. He specialized
in weather-themed inventions, but was equally adept at tinkering with fabric and wire. These small packets, when loosed, released tensed coils of canvas into incredible—and useful—creations called springforms.