The Tasters Guild by Susannah Appelbaum Page B

beams and rained down upon them like sludgy wet beards.
    “I see they’ve fallen behind on the upkeep,” Peps sniffed, watching a trail of green slime slide down the old window.
    They did arrive, finally—the elevator’s topside alighting with a thud upon a set of spring-loaded trapdoors, and then, in a final crescendo of metal against metal, through the underside of the hotel. With a pop, the old thing reached the lobby, bobbing perkily.
    The doors opened to a chamber devoted to stone and mirror. Yet it seemed that at some time previous, light and mirror had quarreled, and light had retreated in a sulk. What remained was mirror and polished stone with little sparkle. It was a remarkable room in that the visitor expected to encounter his reflection at every turn but never did—imparting the odd sensation of wonder at one’s own existence.
    Ivy stepped forward onto a rich red rug, and the rest followed. Before them, a desk.
    Peps was the first to ring the small attendant bell, which he did impatiently as he looked around the lobby.
    “What kind of greeting is this?” he asked to no one in particular, ringing the bell again for good measure. He ran a gloved finger along the tabletop and inspected for dust.
    “You know,” Axle began, “I don’t like to think about how long it’s been since I was here last.”
    As if to illustrate the passage of time, they were now joined by an impossibly old and brittle trestleman whose uniform had been laundered with entirely too much starch. He lookedas if he wished very dearly to stoop but was being supported in his upright position by the sheer crispness of his attire. This man was the concierge, who, like the hotel, had surely seen better days.
    “The card said ‘No Vacancy,’” the old man whispered in a creaky voice. He cleared his throat and, with great effort, repeated himself, but only managed it slightly louder.
    “We can read,” Peps replied dryly. “So every one of the hundreds of rooms here is filled?”
    “Excuse me.” Axle stepped forward. “Surely there is some place for us? We will take whatever you have. A storeroom, even? We’ve traveled from Templar. Our errand is urgent.”
    “Master D. Roux,” the concierge, a trestleman named Crump, began wearily. He knew the face of every guest who had ever stayed at the Toad.
    Axle nodded happily.
    “Your errand is of no concern to us.”
    This was a surprise indeed, and Axle’s smile stalled upon his face.
    “If I m-might respectfully disagree,” Axle stammered. “It is of
great concern
to you, and the others, and in fact all of Caux.”
    Crump paused. His uniform was losing the battle with his posture, and he seemed to be distracted by his shoe.
    “The winds of change have blown, old friend. The Deadly Nightshades no longer rule! The great MasterApotheopath Manx is now Steward of Caux while his niece Ivy—here—journeys to Pimcaux to restore the Good King Verdigris to full health!” Axle’s enthusiastic speech now stalled.
    A strange look filled the entirety of Crump’s sagging features, but not exactly one of relief or liberation.
    “Forgive me, sir. But you are wrong.”
    “Oh, I think you will soon see—” Axle began. But Crump was not finished.
    “You have made it decidedly, horribly, worse.”
    There was a stunned silence. Finally, when it became quite clear that Crump had nothing further to say, Axle drew himself up and produced from his waistcoat a small card of thick stock upon which, in raised oxblood ink, was written his name. He thrust the calling card at Crump.
    “Announce our presence to Rhustaphustian. Now.”

Chapter Twenty-six
Rhustaphustian
    C rump shuffled away holding Axle’s card, leaving the mood in the lobby distinctly darker than he had found it.
    “How have
we
made it worse?” Peps scoffed.
    Axle was frowning, and Ivy began to notice she had an awful feeling in her stomach.
    She turned to examine the nearby wall and was introduced to numerous panoramic,