Foundling

by Cornish, D. M.

  The leer ignored her completely. “Come on, little girl, squeal like you did when I had yer by the ankles . . . !”

  His arms jerking uselessly, Rossamünd tried desperately to squash the man’s hand between his chin and throat.

  “How dare you, leer! You serve my ends, not I yours!” The fulgar half stood, her hair beginning to bristle with static, the book sliding from her lap to the floor of the landaulet with a thump. “Let go your hold and step back! We have not the time for this and I have not the patience!”

  For a moment longer Licurius seemed set on ignoring his mistress, then suddenly loosened his grip and turned to peer over his left shoulder. He stepped away, then hesitated, hissing, “That’s not right . . .” He plainly sniffed at the air, the sound of it coming clearly from the many holes in the sthenicon.

  Rossamünd squirmed away as best he could, to the other side of the carriage, tears coming from eyes and nose.

  “You wear thin, laggard,” Europe hissed in turn. “What is it now?”

  The leer did not answer but stood for many strained minutes: sniffing, listening, sniffing yet more. Europe began to growl, ever so softly, impatient with his silence.

  “There’s something amiss on the wind, m’lady. Somethin’ unsettling . . . away down there.” He gestured into the trees.

  The fulgar sat back rubbing her face as if she was vexed by a headache. “Well, you go and see what it might be,” she sighed, “and I’ll finish the treacle myself, shall I? Now go on with you then!”

  The leer hesitated again. He gathered his cloak about himself and stalked off, passing quickly through a black gap between rough trunks.

  Rossamünd could not hear anything but the pound, pound, pound of his pulse in his ears, nor, more particularly, smell anything that he might call “amiss” or “unsettling.” He was relieved beyond expression simply to be released from the murderous intentions of that wicked man. Though he breathed heavily, he became still.

  In the quiet the fulgar watched the forest. “He’ll be gone a goodly while, I’m sure, so we have some time to get you all back to how you should be.” Her voice was tired. “Do you have any restoratives or vigorants? I would give you some of mine, child, but that they are made particularly for my . . . peculiar constitution . . . and I doubt whether that crusty old leer would let you at any of his.” She wiggled her arching eyebrows at him as if they were together in some conspiracy.

  Wanting to keep her in this current friendly mood, Rossamünd managed a weak grimace and, with numbness lessening and movement returning, nodded once.

  “And where might they be?”

  Rossamünd grimaced as he tried for the first time to speak. “S . . . S . . . Saa . . . Satchel . . . !” With great effort he tried to sit up. Europe reached over to help him. He shrank from her touch and slid back down the slippery seat. She saw his discomfort and, taking her hands off him with a false-sounding “There you go,” took up his satchel and sat back. A powerful exhaustion settled over Rossamünd as he finally succeeded in sitting up, and he watched as the fulgar fossicked about in his belongings. After a moment she pulled something from the satchel. She held out her hand. There were the sacks of bothersalts, amazingly dry and potent again, after their dunking in the Humour had made them into pointless slop.

  What remarkable things Craumpalin’s chemistry can do.

  “Useful.” Europe cocked her head. “But not what we require.”

  She went back to rummaging, at one point pulling out the mash that had been his traveling papers and folding money, still damp and starting to smell. “There’s a mystery,” she said, placing the sodden lump on the seat beside her. A few moments more and she produced what she sought: small, familiar, milky bottles with the deep blue ∋ and Craumpalin’s mark of C-R-p-N.

  “Ah-ha! I’d recognize these anywhere.” She held one out. “Evander water—‘good for all.’ Somebody likes you, little man, to be prescribing this. Both vigorant and restorative in one happy draft. Glorious day! Open up and don’t mind the taste.”

  Rossamünd knew what they were and blessed the old dispensurist in his heart—as he had already, many times—for his generosity.

  She broke the red wax seal and reached over to administer the restorative. If it had not come from his own belongings, had he not recognized his own bottles, he would never have let the fulgar so much as wave the stuff in his direction. Even so, he was still uneasy. As his lips came to the bottle, the smell of its contents rushed up his nose. Strong and sharp, it took away the heaviness and brightened his thoughts. Contrary to its smell, however, it tasted remarkably bland. If Rossamünd was ever to eat chalk, he would have said that evander water tasted like that, a liquid with the flavor of powder. He was dosed with the whole bottle, about three swallows, and quickly began to improve—muscles loosened, vision cleared, the pain in his head lessened markedly. He arched his back and stretched his arms out and up with a groan, twisting his neck back and forth. Finding Europe watching him, he ducked his head self-consciously and offered a muttered thank-you to the lahzar.

  The fulgar waved a hand. “Tish tosh!”

  He saw the little container of whortleberries and, with a cautious eye on the fulgar, took one. She watched him impassively and did not intervene. He ate eagerly. Now he felt much better: able to move once more, though still a little stiffly; no pain; able to see, able to flee—but to where? This forest was surely just as dangerous, and the leer would find him anyway.

  “Well, now.” Europe seemed fidgety. “I absolutely must do the brewing. Stay! I’ll be back presently. Tomorrow we’ll be coming to a wayhouse, so you can have that to look forward to.You’ll be much . . . happier there, I’m sure.”

  Rossamünd did not doubt her.

  As the fulgar climbed down from the landaulet bearing her black occult box, a noise came, distant yet distinct, from the direction of Licurius’ exploration. Looking toward the sound with a frown, Europe stepped to the ground. “That can’t bode good,” she observed.

  The sound came again—a series of sounds really. To Rossamünd it was like someone thrashing about in the undergrowth. He opened his mouth to ask, but Europe silenced him with the palm of a hand. Though she held it there only for a moment, Rossamünd noticed five small lumps upon her bare palm, raised and discolored like moles. He had no idea what they were.

  The fulgar took something out of the black box and put it in her mouth, just as she had before the last fight. She grimaced in much the same way too as she chewed, putting the box back in the landaulet and adjusting the lantern, making it brighter. All the while she stared in the direction of the noises.

  Was there going to be another fight?

  Rossamünd craned his neck, wide-eyed once more at an approaching, invisible threat. They were in a clearing just off the side of a road that crested this hill. All about were closely growing pines with only the narrowest space in between each trunk. The thrashing came closer through those small gaps.

  Europe stirred up the fire, put on another log: she was trying to make more light. Far from wanting to hide from any danger, unlike Rossamünd she wanted to see what was to come, confident of mastering any event. Pacing between the landaulet and the flames, she buckled up the frock coat, never taking her gaze off the wall of trunks.

  There was a flash and a loud fizzing close by—some way to the right of where the leer had departed. Bright and blue, the trees obscuring it shown as black, stark poles. Rossamünd almost fell over in fright and shrank down into the seat, peering over its edge. More thrashing about, the crashing of a heavy thing pushing through thin boughs. Smaller whippings. Closer, closer. Something appeared on the edge of the light.

  It was Licurius!

  The leer’s tricorn was gone, his cloak badly torn, ripped almost from his frame, his sthenicon half wrenched from his face, yet he still clutched a pistol. Shocked, Europe took a step toward him. Bloodied and torn, he staggered into the clearing and, with a shuddering wheeze, rasped in the loudest, hoarsest whisp
er he possessed, “M’lady, we are attacked!”

  The dark erupted in shrieks and yells, one of them Rossamünd’s own as he gave cry to his fear. The landaulet jerked violently, throwing Rossamünd from the seat to the floor as the horse started in fright at this assault and tried to bolt. Hobbled and hitched, it could not get far at all. After only a couple of yards, the carriage halted suddenly with a strangled whinny from the horse, tumbling the boy within about once more. He scrambled along the floor and peeked over the side.

  Shadows dashed and darted on the fringes of the camp.

  Things with big heads and little bodies were pouring out from between the trees with triumphant yammering—hard to see despite the fire and lamplight. They overwhelmed Licurius as he turned to defend himself. Down he went, firing his pistol as he fell, pressed under a multitude of gnashing, nipping bogles. Europe cried wordlessly, yet before she could intervene, she too was set upon by many small terrors. They tore at her viciously, trying to pull her down too, shrieking “Murderer! Murderer!” in shrill unison. She swatted each one as it came, throwing several off at a time with that powerful Zzack! that declared the fulgar was about her gruesome work. She stepped and pranced with venomous speed, spinning, striking, her eyes wide and wild, her hair standing on end, frock coat hems flying dramatically—as they were clearly meant to do—showing many-layered white petticoats beneath. It was a great spectacle of flickering sparks to see the fulgar fighting in the night. Every nasty, gripping horror that got a hold was soon sent flying, almost every strike she made giving a brisk crack! and a brilliant flash like little lightning. Several times one of the beastly little things was sent hurtling to its end with a great arc of electricity strobing in blinding green between it and the fulgar. In each brief glare the whole night scene would be quickly lit like a glimpse of day. None could best her. Even if they did get a good hold, the needlelike teeth and cruel claws of these grinning fiends proved almost useless against her stout proofing.

  It was not over for the leer either.

  There was a bright, hissing flare from beneath the writhing pile of bogles that sent them reeling and filled the air with a putrid stench—surely some powerful repellent. Licurius stood among them, dark and wet with gore, smashing one a deadly blow with the handle of his pistol. The sthenicon was gone, torn off in the brutal fray. The leer glared about with his terrible eyes and struck out again, causing something to yowl piteously. Amid all the confusion and alarm, Rossamünd was, for a moment, transfixed by the leer’s face! His horrible, indescribably broken face! Little wonder he wore that box! There was another fizzing, hissing flash as Licurius let off another repellent, driving a handful of the nickers hollering in agony back into the woods. But the rest came at him, leaping up, clutching, gouging, tearing at exposed places, bearing the leer down under their ferocity. Licurius disappeared once more beneath the whelming assault.

  He did not rise again.

  Europe fought on and on, heedless of anything but the deadly, desperate dance she played with her many foes. Some of the grinning horrors now lay still and smoldering; many had run off in dismay. Still she faced a baker’s dozen more gathering themselves after the leer’s fall. She saw him then, her factotum, or what was left of him. Rossamünd had watched as the nickers wrenched and ripped at the leer until they were convinced he was destroyed—declaring their success with bloodcurdling cackles and whoops of glee. Now only a dark, deformed pile remained.

  The sight of it brought Europe up short. She stood now, panting, seething, almost growling. With wide, near-maniacal eyes, she stared across the fire at thirteen little grinning bogles who waited and glared back, snickering, poking and prodding each other. These grinnlings had large heads with big, square ears, no noses and lipless mouths crammed with needle teeth. And, remarkably, they wore clothes—small copies of human fashion: shirts, coats, breeches, even little buckled shoes.

  For a moment it remained like this, the enemies eyeing one another. Rossamünd had expected an exchange of words, of taunts or threats, but there was just this dreadful, pregnant hesitation punctuated by the distant wailing of wounded, fleeing grinnlings. The campfire crackled, the small cauldron on it hissing quietly with boiling water.

  The universe waited . . .

  Europe shifted her stance.

  With cacophonous screeching, the thirteen grinnlings suddenly bounded over and around the fire. The fulgar kicked at the first as it vaulted the flames, sending it hurtling back the way it had come with a great blinding lightning flickering from Europe’s boot sole to the bogle. She immediately sprung back, making room, and smote the next two who reached for her: right hand striking left, left hand striking right, slapping one in the face—Zzack!—and thumping the other square in its chest—Zzick!

  Three down, ten to go!

  Rapidly sidestepping to her left, avoiding grasping claws, the fulgar poked the next gnashing nicker right in its eyes, sending sparks from its ears and a squeal from its throat that expired to a gurgle.

  Nine!

  Now the remnant grinnlings pounced as one, grappling with her together—on her back, about her legs, tugging on her arms. Rossamünd waited for them to fall to their sparking doom, but instead Europe appeared to contort violently, staggered by some dark, internal force greater than those nine grinnlings could muster. Her back arched involuntarily. Her head thrown back, she screamed. The grinnlings hesitated but remained unharmed. With cackles and evil whoopings they pressed this new advantage, biting, gouging, ripping.

  Rossamünd’s thoughts raced. He had to do something! He looked about wildly for a weapon—something, anything. The bothersalts! Snatching up the satchel, he leaped from the carriage, madly digging about within the bag for the small hessian sacks. He dashed to the fight, the bothersalts still undiscovered. In the dimming light he could see Europe being pulled to the ground just as Licurius had been.

  Shortly it would be over.

  There they are! He grabbed at the sacks roughly, ripped them out and hurled them in one complete move—all thoughtless, terrified instinct. The repellents flew remarkably true, bursting their powder over the murderous gang just as one of the grinnlings caught sight of the foundling. There was a great chorus shriek as the bothersalts did their work. Some of the grinnlings left off their rending to paw instead at their now burning faces. Others were simply distracted by this attack from an unexpected quarter. Europe too was engulfed in the acrid assault, but through her pain and her dazzled senses she still had enough pith to give one final, might-be-suicidal burst of electricity. Several grinnlings fell, expiring instantly. For the rest, this was too much: wrathful sparks from one side, bitter chemistry on the other. They fled screaming, every last one, their howls diminishing as they retreated farther and farther as fast as their little legs could carry them.

  They had done it! They had won . . .

  On the needle-matted ground, with many dead grinnlings sprawled about and a tendril of smoke rising from her back, Europe had collapsed, dreadfully still, dreadfully silent.

  9

  DABBLINGS IN THE DARKNESS

  factotum (noun) personal servant and clerk of a peer or other person of rank or circumstance. Whenever the master or mistress goes traveling, so the factotum must follow. Lahzars too have taken to employing a factotum, so as to take care of the boring day-to-day trifles: picking up contracts, collecting fees owed for services rendered, looking to food and accommodation, writing correspondence, heavy lifting and even making their drafts.

  TREMBLING, and ignoring the dead bogles, Rossamünd crept closer to the fallen fulgar. His heart teetered on the brink of complete terror at the thought of being left alone in this malignant place. As he neared her, he bent lower and ever lower, trying to see her face, trying to gain some hopeful hint of her condition. She lay twisted, limbs carelessly poking every which way, long hair a wispy mess obscuring her whole head. Holding back for just a moment, he knelt beside her and gingerly poked some of her chestnut locks away from her throat, cheek and b
row. She was deathly pale.

  Grinnling cries in the distance.

  Rossamünd scurried to the landaulet, took the lantern and dashed back to where the fulgar lay. He knelt and looked to see if she was still alive, wanting to weep but holding it in—he had cried enough on this journey. Blood was running from Europe’s nose. There were nasty bites upon her neck where the proofing did not cover. Breaths did come: short, shallow puffing. She lived!

  Rossamünd leaned closer and whispered, “Miss . . . ! Miss . . . Miss Europe . . . !”

  The fulgar’s lashes fluttered and slowly parted, her vision clearly swimming. They shut again and it seemed she might slip into insensibility. Rossamünd pressed twice, sharply, on her shoulder, not wanting her to pass out. She groaned and shifted, opening her eyes again to peer at him.

  With a gasp, Europe pushed herself up on her arms and sat, head lolling, hair drooping. “What happened?” she panted.

  Rossamünd sat back. “You won . . . you beat them all.”

  She looked about, blinking heavily. Her eyes were streaming with ash-colored tears.

  Rossamünd winced. He had hit her with the bothersalts too.

  After a long pause and a deep sigh, she whispered, “Good . . . They were . . . difficult.” Sitting up straighter, she flexed her shoulders and rolled her head about, grunting and grimacing. “My organs have spasmed,” she breathed cryptically. “Not the best time for it, at all . . . I thought I was done for.” Pausing for a rattling wheeze of air, she muttered, “Never advisable to . . . start a fight . . . when one is missing a . . . a dose of treacle.”

  Though he did not follow what she said, Rossamünd nevertheless understood that something had gone very wrong somewhere inside her body, that her electrical organs had somehow failed her in a most terrible way. He shuddered. This must be what dear Master Fransitart had meant when he said that there was nothing more wretched than lahzars made sick by their organs.