The Tasters Guild Read Free Page B

worrisome.
    But, Peps reflected as he scrutinized his loutish movers, he wasn’t really sure that anything was amiss, was he? Might this wait until a better time, like over aperitifs and finger food at Trindlesnifter’s later? Surely that would be more civilized. He pictured himself with Cecil Manx, the Steward of Caux and famed apotheopath, at a lovely table at Templar’s finest restaurant.

    His gaze returned to the retreating calligrapher.
    Odd. A haze of small, annoying flies was retreating with him. They swarmed about in a daze, pressing on with the diminishing figure of the scribe. And then he noticed something that made his blood run cold. At first the trestleman mistook it for the lazy cloud of insects. But no. It was as if Dumbcane brought along with him a residue of darkness from his shop, a sort of peculiar shadow emanating from his coattails, tingeing the very air a deep gray.
    Dumbcane pulled his hood up and threw his heavy satchel over his bony shoulder. In his wake, the newly planted window boxes and flowerpots of the Knox—all part of the bridge’s face-lift—shriveled and withered, and soon were nothing but an inky black ash.
    Peps turned to run, still with his armload of fancy cushions, his leisurely day of overseeing his move to the
Trindletrip
forgotten.

Chapter Four
Thwarted
    P eps sprinted, watching the receding Dumbcane and his particular dark blight upon the bridge’s potted plants from over his shoulder. Running forward while looking backward never accomplishes much, and indeed, he soon met with the rear end of a large, burly worker—sending his cushions scattershot about him. Yet the man barely noticed the intrusion and continued to peer eagerly ahead into the deepening gathering.
    “Move along!” Peps shouted up at him, but no answer came.
    An enormous crowd clogged the Knox. Peps darted around with great agitation, trying to find a place to squeeze himself through trousered legs, but when he was greeted, it was roughly and he was admonished to wait his turn.
    “Wait my turn?” Peps huffed. “I am on an errand for the Steward!”
    “Errand or not, I been waiting all morning on this lame leg—an’ no one’s busting in to see ’er before me!”
    Appalled, Peps took a measured look about him.
    There was simply no passage.
    Above him, he noticed, was the new and terribly exciting sign announcing the ancient city of Templar’s return to its proper place as capital of the land. Earlier in the day, it had been hoisted high into the air with the help of a thick length of rope and an overworked donkey. Both rope and donkey were an integral part of an elevator system on the bridge, lowering an iron cage to and from the water below. It was meant for passengers—a small few at a time—but more often than not, it was overloaded with supplies and wares arriving from various water routes.
    Peps regarded the plaque for a moment. Gold leaf proclaimed in glorious script:
    Templar
,
Capital of Caux
    It was a celebration of a sign, one signaling the banishment of the evil King and Queen Nightshade. Poison was no longer the way of the land, and the citizens of Caux had reason to be proud—not only of their long heritage in the healing arts but also of recent triumphs over the darker side, the Deadly Nightshades, who had ruled with such greed and spite.
    But this was one celebration that for Peps would have to wait. He noticed that the crowd thinned a bit to the sides, and therePeps spied a rickety wooden ladder leaning against a nearby storefront. He glanced again behind him at the blighted flowerpots—but Dumbcane was no longer visible. With a heavy heart, Peps began heaving himself upon the rungs.
    He was uneasy with heights. There were many of his kind who lived below wondrous trestles that spanned dizzying gorges and glorious cliffsides, but not Peps. Ballads had been written about such men, and in better times were sung at trestlemen gatherings, functions that had ceased entirely under the