The Shepherd of Weeds (12 page)

Cecil continued. “I had that book you requested placed with your belongings. In the meantime, do you have everything you need? Is your new shop satisfactory?”

“I do, and it is,” Grig replied.

Only then did Peps relax, a small smile debuting—a peek of gold shining from his prized tooth.

“I should be able to equip our army with a few tricks. But first—” Grig continued.

“First, we need an army,” Cecil interrupted, squinting out the window at the sky as if one might materialize from thin air. The winter sun chose this moment to barge its way between the mullioned windows and find the apotheopath’s face. Cecil Manx looked at once pained and older.

“What news is there from Rocamadour?” Rowan asked, worried.

Peps glanced at Cecil quickly, who gave an imperceptible nod. “The news is grim, Rowan. They have discovered scourge bracken in the crypt beneath the city. I suppose it was only a matter of time.”

Rowan nodded gloomily. He knew the place. He and Ivy had seen it, too.

It was Cecil who now spoke. “Hemsen Dumbcane has
taken the worst elements of the weed and concentrated it a thousandfold. But Verjouce is perfecting it—and fueling his empire with it. He will stop at nothing, exhaust all resources. Until all that is left are burnt and smoldering fields, blighted and crumbling forests, and the rivers run poisonous and black.”

“We should have put a stop to the weasely scribe when we had the chance,” Peps growled. Turning to Rowan, he asked, “And of Ivy, is there any news?”

Rowan shook his head dismally, his thoughts drifting off to the gloomy city of Rocamadour, the place of his schooling for so many years. Anguish surged through the former taster. There were students and professors
—friends
—who remained there.

The group continued to talk in low voices, and again Rowan found his attention drawn outside, this time to the square. He spotted the vagabond again: he had now slunk into the shadows by a few sparse tables of a small outdoor restaurant. Those who had chosen to dine there huddled protectively over their fragrant stews as the vagabond neared.

The untidy fellow was joined by a companion. Mr. Sangfroid was his name, and he was a curious mixture of nastiness and petty grievances—a trait that lent itself well to his reputation in town as an overbearing complainer. His face bore a pinched look of permanent dissatisfaction.

Together, they made an unlikely pair—the dirty stranger
and a man of some means, dressed in the finery of the day, a gold chain even making an appearance from a waistcoat pocket. But there was an undeniable familiarity between the two. They chatted easily, and as Rowan watched, Mr. Sangfroid periodically would crane his neck about the open square and sink lower in his seat.

If the vagabond was aware of his companion’s ill ease, he did not show it, for he seemed to match the man’s discomfort by raising his voice and gesturing wildly. Behind him on an abandoned table, the remnants of a chicken were piled upon a greasy plate, waiting to be cleared. The stranger reached for these, and hungrily crunched upon a thighbone.

Rowan looked closer at the man’s untidy face, but it was eclipsed by the brim of his filthy cap. There was a stain of a mustache on his upper lip and the beginnings of an unkempt beard—a scant and patchy one. Finishing his stolen meal, the man scanned the remaining tables, but the restaurant was a proper one, and little else remained to eat. He dug his fists into his pockets, his head cocked to one side, relaxing in the winter sun. It was here that Rowan managed to get his first good look at the vagrant’s face. And as he did, two things happened.

First, Rowan saw that the man’s skin possessed a distinct yellowish cast.

Then Rowan’s blood went cold.

he vagabond in the square below the Apothecary’s workshop was draining the dregs of an abandoned goblet when several guards materialized by his side. As he tilted his head back, greedily finishing someone else’s brandy, he was taken into custody.

“Sorrel Flux, you are hereby arrested by decree of the Steward of Caux.”

“What’s this? On what charge?” Flux demanded as two powerful hands clamped down upon his bony shoulders. He looked around, confounded. “That wine was going to waste!” He indicated the empty glass. When no reaction was ensuing, the vagabond took a different tack.

“Surely some
agreement
is possible …? My associate here—” But Mr. Sangfroid had wisely vanished, and Flux’s
protests ceased abruptly. Despairing, he tried one final time to reason with the sentries.

“I demand to see the—the Steward. What’s his name? Cecil Manx, I believe. Yes, I’m quite certain that is what he calls himself.”

Flux need not have protested a moment further, for before him the imposing figure of Cecil Manx now materialized, his long silver cloak flashing.

Flux blinked. “And you are …?” Before him was a man of some impressive stature, not the malnourished tavern keeper he once knew.

“The Steward,” Cecil hissed at the yellowish man, the former assistant to Vidal Verjouce. He towered over him.

“There must be some mistake—” Flux assessed the man confusedly, craning his long neck to see if anyone lurked behind this imposter. Cecil Manx, he knew from memory, was a broken man, beaten down by a year in the Nightshade dungeons. This purported Steward was well fed and dangerous-looking, and Flux did not like the glint in the man’s eye.

“Sorrel Flux,” Cecil continued, his voice as cold as ice. “It appears Mr. Sangfroid has abandoned you. You should choose your friends more carefully.”

“I don’t know who you mean,” Flux sniffed. His lumpy throat bobbled. He peered at his interrogator.

Rowan stepped forward, and Flux arched a brow. The boy he most certainly recognized. Something large and white, with tusks and teeth, was growling at him by the boy’s side.

Flux jumped backward, but Poppy was upon him, hackles raised.

“Where’s Ivy?” Rowan glowered at Flux.

“Call off your beast!” Flux squawked. He never did like that swine—and should have cooked her in a stewpot when he had the chance. But a small and unfriendly smile soon appeared beneath the stray hairs upon his lip. He appeared lost in thought. “Ivy.” Flux shook his head. “So sad.”

Cecil’s face was rigid. He stepped forward, closer. “I am quickly losing both patience and interest in you,” he warned.

Flux paused, looking about the ancient square. He relished such moments. He opened his pasty mouth to deliver some bad news.

orrel Flux was about to do one of his most favorite things. Over the years he had, in fact, been called upon to deliver much unwanted information, factual or not, dispensing it heedlessly and with giddy authority, much in the same way he sprinkled arsenic in a rival’s soup. This was a true perk of his former employment, with his previous master Vidal Verjouce, to make so many miserable so much of the time—but nothing could compare with today’s tidbit. He was finding himself slightly light-headed and for a brief moment wondered if he might ruin the delivery by rushing his words.

“Ivy, you ask?”

A look of alarm crept over Rowan’s face, and Verjouce’s former servant savored it. Poppy stood tensed and unblinking, trained on Flux, but he ignored her.

“I am afraid, my kind sir, I have news of the direst sort.” Flux pulled at his unimpressive wrists, in an attempt to loosen the rope and return what little circulation he had to his hands (although it would be better directed at his heart).

Rowan’s stomach was cold with fear.

“So you say. Be quick about it or I’ll instruct the guards to bind you tighter next time.” Cecil glowered.

The ropes only seemed to be getting tighter the more he struggled, so Sorrel Flux ceased his wriggling and peered out from beneath his tattered hat. His yellowed eyes met those of Ivy’s uncle—with the pretext of grief. But his expression darkened, Flux’s own pleasure pouring forth. Like him, his news was simple, and utterly appalling. He spoke in the voice of a street caller, addressing the crowd.

“The one they call the Noble Child, Ivy Manx, is … dead.”

The entire square fell silent (indeed, it was as if the entire city of Templar was still). And then, at once, the noise returned—to Rowan’s ears, deafeningly so—as Flux continued with his horrid tale.

“There was … an explosion at the safe house her mother entrusted her to—”

“Her mother?” Cecil snarled. “Where? How have you come upon this news?”

But Flux was quiet, a self-satisfied look upon his face despite all efforts to the contrary.

“Speak, you weasel,” Cecil growled, “or I will give you something to make you talk.”

Flux merely blinked his heavy eyelids. He knew a bit about this apotheopath. “I suspect you want to very much—but you couldn’t. I know of your
oath
—you are bound by it. To do no harm.”

Rowan watched a strange look pass over the Steward’s face, an indecipherable expression that was soon lost to rage.

“To the dungeons!” Cecil uttered horribly, in a voice thick with fury. He turned on his heel so quickly he nearly knocked Rowan over.

It was the word
dungeons
that, in the end, had the intended effect upon the yellowish man, as it would most any soul. The dungeons in Templar were notorious—more so than perhaps any other. Cecil Manx knew this personally, having spent an entire year there when the Deadly Nightshades ruled the land (while Sorrel Flux was enjoying the comforts of Cecil’s millhouse and neglecting his niece).

“Let’s not be hasty!” Flux squeaked. He began urgently resisting his binds, even as he was marched across the uneven cobbles by the battalion of guards who stepped forward.

“Wait!” came another muffled cry from the prisoner, but it was lost to the chaos in the square. He wrenched his arms and dragged his feet, attempting to grasp something in his pack. Again the condemned man called, this time with all his voice,
and it was Rowan who finally heard what it was that Flux spoke.

“Stop!” Rowan shouted to the guards—to Cecil. Rowan ran to the apotheopath’s side, breathless. “He has something of Ivy’s!”

orrel Flux was a genius at one thing: staying alive. If there is an art to saving one’s skin, he was its master craftsman. Throughout the years of his miserable life, the world had repeatedly offered up precarious—even treacherous—situations in which other, less ingenious people might have suffered, surrendered, or even perished. His unremarkable childhood was spent honing his craft against fevers and bullies. His later youth saw him learn the true virtues of patience, an evil sort of patience—one concerned only with retribution. He learned to lie in wait. Then his skills were completed at the Tasters’ Guild, under the evil tutelage of Vidal Verjouce—but even the Director could not keep Sorrel Flux in servitude.