Chapter Eighty-nine
Dumbcane
he inkworks were vastly
expanded since Rowan last set eyes on them with Ivy on their way to
Pimcaux.
Coils of copper tubing, performing mad twists and studded with zigzagging rivets, crowded the upper reaches of the tall space, and beneath them a mayhem of industrial machinery was unleashed. He skidded to a halt.
The former taster oriented himself with the enormous set of bellows that breathed air upon a great fire pit, which in turn warmed immense vats of Lumpen’s water. The dreaded scourge bracken was brewed in these and in a series of smaller vessels that followed. Any steam that was produced was captured, and when it condensed, it was ushered into a drip hose and returned to the mix to be refined, capturing the volatile oils. A series of pumps pushed the clotted brew through to a rasp and strainer and finally to a wooden screw press. Through a maze of receding glass pipes set upon glowing flames, the ink gradually darkened, becoming ever more concentrated, until it reached a minuscule funnel, which emptied its bitter contents into a tiny beaker. Here Dumbcane had a worktable erected. The ink was tested for potency and then sealed in a glass ampoule for the Director’s pleasure.
As Rowan inspected the dizzying array, he gripped the brown box from Grig. He had planned to disable the inkworks the old-fashioned way—with the aid of his borrowed club—but this was much, much better. Stepping up to the largest of the open vats, Rowan suppressed a wave of nausea. The putrid smell was overpowering, and the former taster’s eyes began watering in the heat and stench. A few stray tufts of dandelion silk caught upon his cloak. He wrenched Ivy’s box open as the roiling brew spewed out its deadly scent.
Too late, he saw a movement just behind him.
“Rowan Truax.” A hoarse whisper was at his ear.
A splattered arm snaked its way around the former taster’s neck. Rowan was coughing now, his lungs rebelling against the foul air. Whoever it was that held him seemed unaffected by the stench, quite at home in the inhospitable room.
“I couldn’t believe my fortune when my lady called your vile, worthless name!” the raspy voice continued. “I thought: What luck! What destiny shines upon my wretched soul! Tru-ax, Tru-ax …” The voice sang a small lullaby of hatred. “I swore in that dank cell my vengeance on you—how I planned your suffering. Those Taxus brutes, their lien upon you, brought me utter misery! It is all your fault, Rowan Truax! I am here, in this befouled city, because of you.”
Shooting specks of light erupted before Rowan’s eyes as Dumbcane’s arm tightened around his neck. He summoned up a last, urgent surge of strength and elbowed the forger, aiming for the ribs, but found nothing behind him but empty space.
In his last few moments of consciousness, Rowan frantically dropped the open box of powdered staunchweed into the simmering vat before him, and, falling back, he met the ground in a disturbing heap.