The Poisons of Caux: The Hollow Bettle (Book I) Read Online Free PDF Page B

groaned.
    There was one structure, aside from the stone mill house, impervious to this wind. At a narrow part of the Marcel, just down from the mill, sat an old iron train trestle, and it girdled the frothy brew impassively.
    It was a small trestle as train trestles go—but a proud one. It had stood there for many years longer than anyone could remember and was part of the rail system that brought trains from the Northward Corridor down along the Marcel and onto the old capital city Templar. Because the city of Templar fell out of favor with King Nightshade—it was too old and reminded him of the previous monarch—not a lot of trains found themselves crossing this trestle. Except once a year, when the Royal Cauvian Rail was commanded south again to the walled city, where the royal family waited out the dangerous winds in the ancient stone castle.
    If you looked very carefully, you might catch the warm light of a lantern underneath the bridge burning at most times of the day or night. For beneath this trestle sat the reclusive trestleman and famed author Axlerod D. Roux. On most days, he could be found working thoughtfully on the thirteenth edition of his famed
Field Guide
, but today he was looking out at the dark air. He was a wise man. He knew that there were great forces at work in his tiny little corner of Caux.
    Outside, in the uninvited wind, Ivy Manx discovered she was not alone.
    The little window of Cecil’s back room let out on their woodpile—made up mostly of discarded oak casks and a few pallets. The weather brought with it little of the daylight she’d expected to see, and after pulling the apotheopath’s bag through the window behind her, she turned to spot in the dimness someone rounding the corner.
    To her great disappointment, this person was clothed in dark tasters’ robes, which were flapping vigorously in thewind. He was rushing at her, almost frantic in his pace. Ivy only had time to cringe, clutching her uncle’s satchel, fearing Sorrel Flux upon her.
    But his dark hood suddenly flew back in his flight, and with it came a shock of brown curls, and she instead recognized the other taster from the tavern, the sentry’s boy. His young features were heightened in his panic. He ran blindly, and he hadn’t seen Ivy at all, nor the stack of old barrels she stood upon. This resulted in his colliding noisily with both of them.
    “Shh!”
they admonished each other while looking around the corridor.
    Ivy glared at the boy in the moment that followed.
    “Why don’t you watch where you’re going—or do you want the entire king’s army coming to see what all the racket is?!”
    “I’m sorry, it’s these robes. I couldn’t see anything.” He tried to hug them tighter around him but was thwarted by the wind. He looked simply miserable. “But I think you need not worry about the sentries.”
    “Why’s that?” Ivy asked suspiciously.
    “They’re all dead—every last one of them. It was the soup.”
    “What? The soup! That’s impossible.” Ivy had been making the Bettle’s famed soup for the past year, and she said so.
    “Well, you’ve killed twenty of the king’s sentries.”
    Here the pair met with their first disagreement.
    “I killed twenty—why, who was it that
tasted
it?” Ivy lowered her voice but increased her glare.
    The boy sagged.
    “You’re right, of course. I’m a miserable taster. I’ve killed my very first charge!”
    “Well.” Ivy was feeling bad for the boy. She thought she knew quite clearly who was responsible for the poisoning, and it wasn’t him. “Tough luck.” She sighed. His misery was catching.
    “Yes, yes, it is. Do you even know how many years of school I needed to complete to become a taster? And for what?”
    The wind groaned, and a cluster of the casks fell from their perch.
    “Where are you going?” the taster asked hopefully.
    With this question, Ivy was reminded again of the reality of her plight—the sentries were only one part of the