The Shepherd of Weeds (16 page)

Upon a small outcrop of winterthorn sat Teasel, waiting.

Here the stone walls converged, and the small bird knew it would not be long. His little bones, light and airy, tingled in anticipation. All was wintry and desolation.

And then, on the horizon—there it came!

What, to the uninitiated, appeared to be an immense storm—a whirlwind of specks, a roiling brew of a cloud—was
overtaking the sky. A swirling thunderhead, full of lightning and mischief.

From the balcony of Jalousie, Ivy saw it, too.

Lumpen paused, and whistled.

Behind them, the ink monkeys were rattling the doors, but as this new weather phenomenon grew closer, they shrieked, abandoning their pursuit. And then, from the silence devoid of birdsong, the world erupted. The swirling mass of air was upon them; Ivy’s golden hair was a tempest in its own right, stinging her eyes, blinding her.

The group huddled against one corner where the balcony met the exterior wall as Ivy’s eyes strained upward to the rebellious sky. A shattering sound reverberated around them as the earth welcomed the birds of Caux to their caucus, and indeed, every available space was soon inhabited by a winged creature. The bare branches hung low with their weight; the open moor was a blanket of feathers.

There were birds of all sizes, birds of all temperaments. Sharp-eyed hawks perched beside trilling bluebirds. Waterfowl rested comfortably on the hardened fields beside ridge-dwelling falcons. Downy snow geese tolerated the showy parrot’s vanity in the interest of fraternity. All differences were laid down—forgotten—for all bird quarrels were abandoned to their one joint cause.

There was an air of expectation in the chatter. In a slight rise, where the crumbling stone walls parted into a stricken
gateway, a lone signpost stood, its lettering long erased by wind and rain. It was upon this that a large crow alighted, surveying the caucus he had called.

At Jalousie, Ivy did not see her crow, Shoo, for she and her friends huddled fearfully, fretting at the sky above—this strange, unearthly event. So many birds in one place was not only unnatural, it was incomprehensible. To Ivy, it was all noise and agitation. The language of the birds was a difficult one for anybody to master, but the dialect of the caucus was a formal, arcane one full of rules and diplomacy, and, above all, it was deafening.

Then, a final pair of arrivals. Two simply enormous birds were directly above, their graceful arc of wing gliding them lower and lower from—seemingly—the heavens.

Rocamadour vultures
, Ivy thought desperately.
They have come for me
.

In the twilight, she braced as the pair of shadows found them easily, alighting on the balcony’s rail.

is first inclination had not been to arrive in Templar loosely disguised as a wine merchant, whispering about for the location of his old comrade Sangfroid—or for anyone who might point him in the right direction of the Knox scribe called Dumbcane.

No, plans had changed.

Specifically, his plans had changed when he saw a silver flash as Clothilde had been toying with her hair. They had together departed Mrs. Mulk’s orphanage and had stopped at her suggestion at a roadside tavern. Clothilde had removed her silver hairpin from its place in the knot behind her head, and Flux had been distracted by her lush length of moonlight hair, its sheen reflecting the flickering candle. And then, another flash of light as the hairpin had arced across the
darkened corner booth, piercing his neck like a viper.

“But …” was all he had managed before his lips went cold, the rest of his face numbing quickly after. He blinked at his would-be assassin.

“Change of plans.” She shrugged, securing her perfect silver hair again in a bun. Clothilde rose, her evening-sky dress a crisp sound of frost and leaves, already thinking of the journey ahead. “You didn’t really think I would ever help you, now did you, Sorrel?”

Flux slumped in his high-backed wooden chair, a slight gurgle escaping his lips. She stepped away into the shadows, and would be gone forever in a moment. What Flux’s paralyzed mouth could not say was a small pip of a sentence—an undignified thought, he would realize later, when it became obvious he was not to die.

Why me?
he wondered pathetically.

He realized too late, he should not have trusted Clothilde, that no one could ever trust such a woman. But in the verdure of Underwood, he had approached her while Ivy and Rowan were admiring the transformation brought on by the tapestries, and a plan was hatched.

The former taster was left alone to ponder his wicked existence, his body immobile.

Ah, but she was returning now—he saw by the tavern’s dim lights. His frozen heart soared. Surely she was back with
the antidote; if only his treacherous lips might move, he would but beg.

She advanced again into the low light of the candle on the table, her hair glittering like armor.

“That was for Pimcaux,” Clothilde whispered in his cold, helpless ear.

And then she was gone.

But die he didn’t. He came to, in a hovel by the side of the road—and soon he thought of his associate in Templar. Mr. Sangfroid was just the man to help him. In a small piece of fortune, there had been a rusting pair of skates in the hut, which, while too big, he’d lashed to his feet and, following the river Marcel, he had made his way to Templar.

t was said that Mr. Sangfroid was a self-made widower, after the introduction of a dose of antimony into his wife’s porridge. In Mr. Sangfroid, Sorrel Flux had chosen a friend quite well.

Flux felt Mr. Sangfroid was, in fact, perfectly poised to assist him, as the man was stubborn and resistant and wanted more than anything for the return of the old ways. These old ways, it should be noted, are not the same old ways that such ancients as Axle and his brethren wished for, and that were foretold in the Prophecy. No, Mr. Sangfroid wished every moment of his living day—when his devious eyes opened at the leisurely hour of those unaccustomed to children in the house to the minute he extinguished his lamp at night—for the return of the Deadly Nightshades. (This was a time when, it
must be said, he had enjoyed a particular, addictive notoriety.) And to this end, he was willing to devote all his resources to mounting a campaign to discredit the Noble Child, who he believed should be but a footnote in the history books.

He had some powerful friends.

As he decried the ancient Prophecy through gritted teeth, he could be seen often at a printshop upon the Knox, conspiring to produce pamphlets and posters to this end, which he then paid young urchins to distribute throughout the town. A selection of the headlines that clung to the lampposts with a thick layer of wheat paste:

Under the Deadly Nightshades, Mr. Sangfroid had held the position of unofficial curate of Templar. For those who enjoy titles, this was a nice one, although a curate was a person of no particular importance in society. As curate, Mr. Sangfroid
comforted those in need: the sick and the aging—particularly the ladies of Templar, the widows. He was a staple at every burial, a practiced mourner and occasional confidant. A reliable dinner companion, with a proven (and discreet) taster. If he gleaned, through his years, the occasional tidbit of information that might prove valuable, he would sell it to the highest bidder. From his entourage of widows, he would not decline the incidental gift of art, a rare and ancient book, a box of jewels. Mrs. Leatherstocking, his dear, dear friend, had been persuaded to change her will to benefit the curate and had thereafter met with an unfortunate turnip-and-hemlock supper. Mrs. Leatherstocking’s neighbor, Mrs. Tattle, fell ill only after donating the inventory of her departed husband’s rare coin collection to Mr. Sangfroid (and toasting the event with a bitter-tasting cocktail of brandy and oleander).

It was only natural that two like-minded souls such as Flux and Mr. Sangfroid would strike up an acquaintance.

Yes, Flux’s association with Mr. Sangfroid was quite an opportune one, contrary to what Cecil Manx believed. While agreeing with Mr. Sangfroid about the days of old, Flux harbored one notable difference of opinion. He did not wish for the return of the Nightshades—he wished nothing of the sort. Sorrel Flux wished Caux all for himself.

Achieving this end would be the easiest of things.

He just needed to pay his former master a visit.

t was Flux’s good fortune that Cecil Manx had decided to keep him close by—the better to keep an eye on him. Nothing was worse than a stay in the terrible Nightshade dungeons. Well, perhaps there was one thing. The monstrous boar that was trained on him, guarding his every move, might be deemed a fair runner-up. Still, the pig was preferable to the rusted bars and stench of the nightmarish cells beneath the palace. A bettle boar must sleep sometime. A bettle boar must eat.

Flux watched Cecil from his corner of the workshop. The tiresome man was bent over an old parchment of some sort, a mortar and pestle and various other workshop essentials weighing down the curling corners. Two tiny men on tiptoe examined the thing alongside. Flux yawned as he listened to
their mutterings. It seemed that the apotheopath was attempting to wage a little war.

“We need an army,” Peps growled.