The Tasters Guild (12 page)

“Here,” he said as he tore into his satchel. “Put these on.” He hastily threw a mass of dark wool at Ivy and Rowan.

“Tasters’ robes?” Ivy asked, holding hers up first one way, then another. They smelled nice. “Why aren’t they black?”

But Rowan knew. The boiled wool and myriad pockets were once a source of great pride for him. The robes of the Tasters’ Guild, students’ robes. A strict olive drab, they were eventually
to be exchanged for the true black tasters’ attire after the Epistle ceremony.

“Apprentice robes,” Rowan informed Ivy dully. But Ivy was already throwing hers over her head and, with an excited twist, maneuvering the hood to its proper placement.

“I love all these little pockets!” she replied, delighted. She busied herself transferring the contents of her cherished workshop apron into the inner lining of the robe. Her
Guide
, her leather-wrapped poison kit, and an odd cork or two all fit quite nicely inside, with room for more.

The robes were a heady souvenir of Rowan’s former life, and they felt heavy now in his hands. His mind flashed to his least favorite classes—Irresistible Meals and Devouring I, II, and III—and then to his most thrilling of all courses, Advanced Taste Theory. This was taught by a very old Professor named Breaux, and if there was one person Rowan still admired at the Guild it was he.

“Right.” Axle pulled his beard, and Rowan finished dressing. “A pair of waders for each of you.”

“Waders?” they asked.

“Crump has advised me that there is a small stream not far from here.”

“A stream?” Rowan was aghast.

“You’ll hardly notice your wet feet, my young friend, with all that rain slashing down on you. It could be worse. We could have the Winds of Caux at our backs!”

The weather was indeed to prove an impeding factor in their travels. Thunder, lightning, and a miserable rain awaited them for their departure. The thin metallic rails of the train tracks upon the trestle were slick with runoff. The ties were overgrown with bristly grass and necessitated a careful passage. But they weren’t for long on the Toad’s topside, and once they made land, they began trudging along the tracks with a wary eye at the distance.

Thunderheads curdled the sky above them, occasionally dropping a bolt of barbed lightning nearby. Rowan began to consider the scope of his science education, in particular his studies in Terrestrial Disciplines, and he wondered whether the metallic rails were indeed a smart place to be in such a weather condition.

Axle, on surprisingly nimble legs, led the children forward
as he searched around the tracks nervously for any signs of the small stream. On either side of them, the low menace of the forest began, a thick and dark black in which thousands of gleaming needles and knotted branches reverberated with each flash of lightning. He considered continuing along the tracks but knew how exposed they were upon them—exposed not only to the elements but also to the many eyes of the Tasters’ Guild.

“No bearing stones to mark our way this time,” he yelled. “Just fortune.”

Another streak lit up the sky, and with that he gave a loud shout. He had found the small stream. He urged the children on.

But Rowan did not see Axle’s small triumph. For with the same slash of blue light, his eyes were drawn to the area just behind the trestleman. Upon a ruined Royal Cauvian Rail sign, in an evil illusion that seemed to perch upon the jagged edge of the lightning bolt itself, was a vulture. A Rocamadour vulture. The taster was certain he saw it—its eyes eagerly regarding the threesome, its beak pulled back in a gruesome hiss. They were plunged again into the blackness, and the next time the lightning came, the giant bird was gone.

W
ith a splash, Axle plodded into the stream. It cut a small path through the otherwise impenetrable forest, one that they might use to traverse the dense bramble. The way was far from easy, as the travelers had to navigate rocks slick with viscous algae and clumps of phosphorescent slime. They were forced to travel single file, with Axle leading and Rowan bringing up the rear.

Overhead grew a canopy of dark vines and interlocking limbs, blotting out much of the driving rain, so as they made their way, they were at least thankful to escape the worst of the downpour. The thick black lace of barbs and needles from the forest of hawthorns left their spirits downcast and somber.

“Hawthorns”—Axle looked apprehensively over the rim of his spectacles at the surrounding woods—“are quite treacherous. In ancient times, it was said that they bound people, entrapped them. They are thought to contain imprisoned souls.”

The threesome shivered at the thought of the vivid enchantment.

Decomposing leaves sat in piles beside the fetid stream, washed-up detritus from the forest floor. They walked on for some time in a sloshy silence. There was no place to rest—the water’s edge was an inconvenient sheer of mud from which brambles grew up as soon as they might find some earth to cling to—until they met with a large, stout rock. Its tip was flat enough to offer seating and it was, as rocks are, implacable in its position—some giant had long ago placed it in the stream’s midst. The roiling water coursed around it and rejoined downstream.

Axle clambered on top and offered his hand to Ivy and Rowan in turn. Once the group was huddled together, the trestleman set about producing some lunch. Rowan held some special memories of Axle’s picnic baskets—trestlemen are known for their cooking prowess, and during his various travels with Ivy, he had been introduced to some of Axle’s specialties. And even here, in the gloomy shadow of the Tasters’ Guild, the former taster was to enjoy a delicious—albeit hastily collected—meal from the Toad’s cafeteria’s conveyor belt.

Besides the loaves of hearty, pillow-soft bread, wax-coated wheels of cheese, chicken potpies, and chocolate fudge, something else was stuffed within Axle’s sack. Ivy spied the curious things as they finished eating in silence. Reaching in, she
retrieved a small package, part of a larger collection of identical packets. Each was tied with drab canvas strapping, about the size of a young girl’s palm. After she asked her friend what they might be, Axle responded with a word.

“Springforms!”

“Springforms?” Rowan perked up.

“Yes, various springforms. A gift from Rhustaphustian.”

“What do they do?” Ivy wondered.

“It depends, of course.”

“Well, what does this one do?” Ivy indicated the one in her hand.

“Oh, I couldn’t tell you.”

“Well, shouldn’t we find out?” Ivy stared at the small canvas objects with renewed enthusiasm. “Did they come with instructions?”

“When Rhustaphustian gave them to you, didn’t he tell you what they do?” Rowan asked.

Axle looked suddenly sheepish.

“Axle?” Ivy asked suspiciously.

“Well, no. You see, he didn’t technically
give
them to me.…”

“You took them?” Ivy laughed out loud—an odd happy sound in the midst of such a forlorn wood. “Well, let’s see these springforms, then.” She pulled upon the secure bands.

“Be careful!” Axle warned. “They must be opened with great caution!”

“Hardly. It seems simple enough—”

With an enormous
whoosh
, Ivy untied the strapping and released a tensed coil of wire sewn into the seams of the fabric within. The force of the springform opening very nearly threw Rowan from his perch on the rock back into the syrupy murk, but the taster hardly cared. His thoughts returned him to the gallery at the Toad and the small card beside the set of wings he had admired.

“Springforms!” he repeated excitedly.

An enormous sucking sound filled the air between them, and quite suddenly in their midst a sizable balloon appeared. The canvas sacking was interlaced with a hemp net, and as the thing began to inflate, it hung suspended in the gloom. Quite quickly it had completed its transformation. A perfectly round, elegant balloon bobbed before the surprised group. At its base there was a paddle—more like a large pinwheel—which appeared to be its driving force. It turned lazily with a
click click
noise. And then, to the great surprise of the three travelers, it began to slowly rise.

“A weather balloon!” Axle gasped. How he had wanted one of these on board the
Trindletrip
when dealing with the impenetrable clouds!

“Wow,” Ivy added appreciatively.

“Oh,” Axle cooed, reaching up fondly, but it was already out of reach.

“Oh!” Rowan echoed, this time with dread, as the balloon
met the eventual ceiling of the forest, snagging on a fierce branch of thorns.

With a sad hiss—a noise that could really mean only one thing when in the presence of a balloon—it was over very quickly. It was soon shredded by the brambles and became an unrecognizable clump of fabric and wires.

Looking quite helpless, Axle turned to Ivy.

“I think we might practice a bit more prudence when opening another one,” he suggested quietly.

But before Axle knew it, Ivy had a new springform in her hand, and although he shouted at her to wait, she untied the binding and let it go. It instantly revealed itself to be a sturdy coatrack, and Ivy heedlessly jettisoned it downstream. She reached for a third and opened it.

What next lay between the three upon the boulder was, in fact, a most welcome sight.

“A raft, Axle!” Ivy happily proclaimed.

“Not a raft,” Axle corrected. “A skimmer!”

A skimmer is a lovely flat boat with a fan-type motor mounted behind the passenger seats. It is a craft primarily used by trestlemen and is therefore apportioned for their smaller size.

“A springform skimmer! I wonder what else you have in there—”

But the trestleman managed this time to stay her hand.

“I think we should wait to open any of the others until we
know what they are—or at least until we have more space.” Axle pointed to either end of the skimmer, which, like the weather balloon, was being menaced by the dark, needle-like barbs. After wrestling with the thing, and setting it in the water finally, Ivy, still quite pleased with herself, reluctantly agreed, which left Rowan to peer through the trestleman’s curious sack alone.

“And these?” Rowan asked, holding up a handful of tiny packets he had found at the bottom. “Are these more springforms?”

“Ah!” Axle clapped his hands excitedly. “Those! I’d forgotten! I’d packed them before we left.”

Ivy turned to look, grabbing several. “Flintroot sachets!” she said happily. “Perfect!”

“Careful—that’s all there is, and we’ve just begun—” the trestleman protested as Ivy passed out the small silken squares. She had already squeezed hers, and the soft pillow was beginning to glow with a cheery warmth. After showing Rowan what to do, she settled a pair of them in her socks and, replacing her boots and waders, stood on warm feet for the first time all day.

The skimmer was designed to ride along in troubled waters just deep enough for the small set of rear paddles to propel the raft forward. Conceived by trestlemen, it was of course fastidiously made but was, Rowan was soon reminded, of miniature scale. It was intended to carry the standard crew of seven
trestlemen and a captain, which made it just spacious enough for the two children, Axle, and their various packs. Rowan was finding the small bench to be an uncomfortable fit.