Chapter Sixty-five

The Approach

umpen Gorse privately did not see the merits of searching a thousand scarecrows for one sneaky rat. She was one to believe that silt would eventually settle to the bottom of the pond. Instead, while Rowan and Rue attempted the inspection, Lumpen wandered over to the paler-than-usual trestleman Peps.

“You ready, then?” she asked, pulling on her pipe.

Peps sighed, nodding. He wrapped his fine velvet cloak about him and climbed up upon the wide cart beside the well keeper, picking his way carefully along the straw floor. Cecil had ensured that the cart was laden with rain barrels, of the sort water is transported in.

Lumpen turned to Ivy. “We go now, miss.”

“But Cecil hasn’t arrived!” Ivy panicked.

“In the end, it is water that conquers all.”

“Peps?” Ivy looked desperately at her friend for counsel.

“Lumpen is right—there’s nothing gained by waiting. Cecil will come when he can. Miss Gorse and I will go to the gates and announce our delivery. They know Lumpen. They have bartered for her water—and they will again. Only this time, I will be inside a barrel. And tonight, when all is quiet, I will let myself out. In the morning, you will find the gates of Rocamadour open and welcoming.”

Peps did a small, flouncy bow, and Ivy couldn’t help but smile.

Shortly thereafter, Ivy watched an impressive demonstration of Lumpen’s strength, for she approached the forward end of the cart, designed to be pulled by a team of donkeys. Bending low, she hoisted the heavy yoke upon her shoulders and, setting her sights on the distant gates, lumbered off.

If there were two things Flux disliked in life, one was to be itchy. (The other was to be thirsty.) What more uncomfortable escape could Sangfroid have devised for him than this? The man must have made a study of his secret pet peeves and chosen to outfit him in a sack of straw thusly. He was happy he had taken his vengeance upon the old man—and he hoped his eternal rest beneath the waters of the old moat was wretched and cold.

Flux’s yellowish skin, normally quite sensitive as it was, was a carpet of red welts. Yellow skin, red welts—he looked as if he were a walking toadstool! And now, such a long walk! His feet were swimming in sweat in his leather shoes, but their high quality—he congratulated himself—had prevented any blistering. He despised these strawmen and cursed the very fact that his fortunes were currently tied to them. An army of weeds. Guttersnipe. Particularly that two-faced one directly before him—what nonsense was this? The thing had been given two faces, and the backward-facing one regarded him with an irksome expression. What was it? He tried to pinpoint it, but the blank look was elusive—which produced in Flux more annoyance.

The first chance he got, he relieved the thing of its gold pocket watch, and, whistling, he secured it to his own sacking.

When they finally stopped their tedious adventure, the former taster congratulated himself. In the distance, the gates of the Tasters’ Guild stood like a beacon to his bitter, unlovely heart. Sorrel Flux had lived, had served, at the Guild for many long years, and he knew every crevice of the place. But service was no longer in his future. It was to be quite a homecoming.

The large, imposing gates caused him no dismay. At the opportune moment, with nightfall, he would simply slip away without a trace. He knew a way. He had seen it used before by that wicked, duplicitous woman—Clothilde. Yes, Flux knew her well. The woman had so captivated his Director, but Flux had seen through it all. Even then, when Clothilde called Rocamadour her home, her loyalties were suspect but her errands and absences never questioned. Hers was a position rife with indulgence. She had borne Verjouce that wretched child, departing soon after with the tiny thing through an unguarded passage—returning empty-handed and arrogant. Together, mother and infant were the source of so much bother, so much inconvenience. Had Flux been able to drown the child, as he had offered to do out of the kindness of his heart, he would not be here today, itching and thirsty. Perhaps it was not too late.

At that passage’s end, Flux knew, he might safely discard his straw stuffing—for it let out into the city’s abandoned stables.

When his opportunity came, it did so accompanied by a little, angry-sounding hummingbird flitting by his side. These awful birds, he thought. The sky is filthy with them.