Foundling

by Cornish, D. M.

  Doctor Verhooverhoven adjusted his monocle. “How did I know, you were about to ask? Because you’ve got the Branden Rose here, my boy—heroic teratologist, infamous bachelorette and terror to the male of our species! She is not, if reputation serves, the mothering type! How, by the precious here and vere, did you come by her?”

  The Branden Rose? That name was familiar to Rossamünd, though he could not remember why. Perhaps he had read just such a name in one of his pamphlets? What a remarkable thing that would be to have fallen in with someone famous! He hung his head, feeling strangely uncomfortable. “She . . . saved me from a thirsty end—will she get better?”

  “She ought to, child, with my skillful ministrations. I have been here since early this morning.You slept, my boy, while I scraped away the necrotic tissue and stitched that nasty gash about her throat. I have also balanced her humours and bled her a little against the disease of the wound. The only thing she needs now is that awful stuff her kind take—plaudamentum I believe it is called. I have sent out word for our local skold to be found, so it can be made. From my readings—which have by no means been extensive—a lahzar cannot go terribly long without it, two or three days at most . . . or things begin to go sour within.” The physician rolled his eyes dramatically. “But, how-now, I need not frighten you with such detail.”

  Unfortunately, he had frightened Rossamünd, though probably not in the way he had expected. Filled with urgency, the boy stood. “Do you mean her treacle, sir?”

  “Ah-ha! That’s the one. Cathar’s Treacle! Just the stuff. When did she last have any?”

  “Some time last night. I don’t know when exactly, though, but I can brew it for her now, sir. I don’t want her innards to go sour, and she’s got all the makings.”

  The physician looked dubious.

  “I made it for her the other night,” Rossamünd insisted. “If I’ve done it before, I can do it again . . .” The confidence in his own voice surprised him.

  “Are you her factotum? You seem to me to be a little young for it.” Doctor Verhooverhoven tapped at his mouth with his forefinger, eyebrows wriggling inquisitively.

  “. . . No—sir, I’m not.” Sometimes Rossamünd almost regretted he found it so hard to lie.

  “No? Ahh. We shall wait for this other to arrive then, shall we? She is a skold, and I am of the understanding that she knows how to make such a concoction.” The physician took a high-backed chair from a corner and sat down on it by the fire.

  “But why does she need it so badly?”

  “A good question, my boy! A good question. Are you sure you want the answer?” Doctor Verhooverhoven looked very much as if he wanted to give it.

  Rossamünd indicated that he did want the answer.

  “Of course you would. Well, you see—as I have read—when someone wants to become a lahzar, they usually take themselves off to a gloomy little city in the far south called Sinster. In that place there are butchers—‘surgeons,’ they insist on calling themselves—who will carve you up for a high fee. Are you following me?”

  Rossamünd nodded quickly.

  “As you should, as you should. So, having gone this far—so the readings report—these surgeons take whole systems of exotic glands, bladders, vessels and viscera and sew them right in with all the existing entrails and nerves. Some say these new glands and such are grown for just this purpose, while others hold that they are ‘harvested’ from other creatures—no one agrees and the surgeons of Sinster aren’t telling. Either way, when it is all done, the person is stitched back up again. Now—here comes the answer to your question—all these strange and exotic glands are wrong for the body. Consequently it reacts, eventually most violently, unless something is done to stop such a thing. That is the job of the plaudamentum—the Cathar’s Treacle. Do you understand? They have to spend the rest of their lives taking the stuff every day to stop their natural organs from revolting against these introduced ones. This morbidity—this organ decay—once it takes hold, will eventually prove fatal. If this lady doesn’t get hers soon, she will die. How-now, I think you’ll find that covers it, anyway.Yes?”

  As Rossamünd took a breath to answer, he was distracted by an animated, angry-sounding conversation approaching the other side of the door that was then interrupted by a sharp knocking.

  Doctor Verhooverhoven stood at this and called mildly, “Enter, please!”

  The door was opened rapidly and a strange woman stalked in, wearing the elegant day-clothes of a refined lady, and on her face a frown of politely restrained anger.

  Closely behind followed Mister Billetus, looking worried and chattering nervously even as they entered. “. . . Now, dearest, one guest’s money is as good as another’s. With these nickers making the High Vesting Way impassable, you know our visitors have been few. Every bit of custom is needful, m’dear, I . . .”

  “Yes, yes, Mister Bill, not in front of those who do not need to be troubled with the finer points of running such a grand establishment. Good afternoon, Doctor Verhooverhoven.” The woman grimaced at the physician in a mockery of a polite smile. He, in turn, bowed graciously, a puff of powder coming from his wig. She put her attention on Rossamünd and said stiffly, “And you must be the smaller of our most recent arrivals. I am Madam Felicitine, the enrica d’ama of this humble yet refined wayhouse.” As she said “refined,” she looked sharply at Mister Billetus.

  Confused, Rossamünd simply stood blinking. “Enrica d’ama” was a fancy term for the ruling lady of a household, especially of a court. It was used only by those trying to be very grand.

  “It has come to my notice,” the enrica d’ama continued, addressing the physician, yet pointing angrily at the inert fulgar, “that we have here, in one of our finest apartments, a pugnator, one of the fighting riffraff. Is this true, sir?”

  “Yes, gracious madam, it is—though to me her calling is of little concern. I heal all comers.”

  “Don’t try to charm me, doctor. You share in this little sham of my husband’s, though how he thought I would not know what was up soon enough is insulting at the least.” She gave the harassed Billetus another quick glare. He offered an apologetic look to both Rossamünd and Doctor Verhooverhoven, but did little else.

  To Rossamünd the scene was quickly becoming very strange and uncomfortable.

  Doctor Verhooverhoven looked bemused. “I assure you, madam, that I am not aware of any sham so as to have a part in it to play. I have come as asked, to tend to an ailing guest. This is not the first time I have done this, as you well know.” He finished his statement with a gracious half bow.

  “Certainly not, but this is the first time you have invited here another almost as bad!” She turned to the door and called, “You may enter now, Gretel.”

  Gretel the maid came in as bidden, looking sheepishly at her mistress. Closely behind her shuffled a stranger: a short, meek-looking young woman—a girl really, younger than Verline—wearing a variation of clothing Rossamünd had seen many times before. A skold! Upon her head was a conical hat of black felt that bent back slightly about a third of the way up. All skolds wore some style of cylindrical or conical headwear as a sign of their trade. About her throat and shoulders was the cape of white hemp with a thick, gathered collar that skolds pulled over their faces to protect themselves from the fumes of their potives. Upon her body she wore a vest called a quabard—light proofing Rossamünd had seen in the uniforms of the light infantry of Boschenberg. One side was black and the other brown, the mottle of Hergoatenbosch, just like Rossamünd’s baldric. About her stomach, over the top of the quabard, was wrapped a broad swath of black satin tied at the small of her back in a great bow. About her hips hung cylinders, boxes, wallets and satchels—most certainly holding reagents and potives and everything else that skolds used in their fight against the monsters. Her sleeves were long and brown and flaring. Her wide skirt of starched brown muslin was also long, and it dragged upon the ground, hiding her feet. Her black doeskin-gloved hands were clasping an
d unclasping uncertainly in front of her.

  He had already seen several skolds in his life, for many served at Boschenberg’s docks to ward off any nickers that might rise out of the Humour and along the city’s walls. Even so, Rossamünd knew less now about them than he did fulgars. What he did know was what everyone knew: that they made all kinds of potions and drafts even more powerful and fabulous than those concocted by Craumpalin and other dispensurists, who were more concerned with health and healing. The chemistry of a skold, however, was designed for harm and violence. He knew that they had served as the Empire’s monster-fighters—“pugnators” Europe had called them—for centuries before the advent of the lahzars. This young lady must have been the skold Doctor Verhooverhoven had mentioned, the one to make Europe’s treacle for her.

  For a pugnator she seemed very nervous.

  With a look like triumph, Madam Felicitine returned her attention to the physician. “Doctor Verhooverhoven!” she demanded. “What business have you inviting such knavish individuals to my peaceful establishment? You know my delicate sensibilities won’t tolerate such liberties, nor will they suffer the presence of such as these!” She pointed a bigoted finger at the skold, whose face reddened.

  The physician looked very ill at ease.

  “Dear wife,” Billetus ventured bravely, forgetting her warning on saying things in front of those who did not need to know, “their account is well paid. They have been no real trouble, rather quiet in fact, as needs must. What possible harm is one hardworking, well-paying lahzar occupying a room she and her factotum can afford?”

  The enrica d’ama’s thin lie of civility failed her at last. “Oh frogs and toads! Because of the principle! She cannot . . . !”

  “Please,” the physician interjected in a low, insistent voice. “You’ll wake her.”

  Madam Felicitine eyed him coldly but continued with deliberate calm. “She cannot stay here because if guests of genuine refinement were to learn that a person of violence and infamy was bunked in the suite next door, they would never return and advise others to do the same. I will not have this, oh no!” With a dark look at Doctor Verhooverhoven, she forced herself to be collected again. “No, no, the billet-boxes are the place for her, though I prefer the servant stalls for the likes of these, if they must stay here at all.”

  She then looked gravely at Rossamünd, who was looking very grave himself. “Now it pains me, child, it truly does, but things must have their right place and order, people have their rank and station; some should not assert themselves above their betters. I know you’ll understand one day.”

  “Now, now, dear . . .” Billetus tried again.

  Her momentum building, the enrica d’ama went on. “That is quite enough from you, I would say! You, who let her—” That accusing finger now stabbed at Europe, unconscious on the bed. “—stay here!” Her arms now gestured wildly at the whole room. She began to go pale. Her cheeks wobbled apoplectically. “Did you think I wouldn’t find out? She simply has to go!”

  Mister Billetus now fumbled and stumbled but offered very little else.

  “Oh my bursting knees! Keep her in the billet-boxes if your tender heart won’t allow eviction!” the enrica d’ama hissed. “Either way, get her out of this room!”

  In the awful, echoing silence that followed came a soft, icy voice. “My money glitters as well as another’s, madam, and here in this bed I will stay!”

  Everyone looked in wonder to the bed where Europe had lain apparently senseless just moments before. She was still tucked in, her head still half-buried in the midst of the many, too-soft pillows, but her eyes were open now, bloodshot and baleful—and regarding Madam Felicitine with cold disdain.

  Unexpected relief burst within Rossamünd.

  At last Europe had woken.

  11

  WHAT THE PHYSICIAN ORDERED

  skold (noun) the term for a teratologist who does the work of fighting monsters using chemicals and potions known as potives. They throw these potives by hand, pour them from bottles, fling them with a sling or fustibal (a sling on a stick), fire them from pistols known as salinumbus (“salt-cellars”), set traps, make smoke and whatever else it takes to defeat and destroy a monster. They typically wear flowing robes and some kind of conical hat to signify their trade.

  MADAM Felicitine did not appear to know how to answer such cool and obstinate certainty as she found in Europe. Suddenly rendered powerless in her own wayhouse, she quit the room with a great shower of tears and a great show of wailing.

  Mumbling incoherent apologies, Billetus hurried after her, closing the dark door as he left.

  Gretel and the skold looked at each other awkwardly, and then the bower maid busied herself by moving about the room lighting candles against the growing dark.

  Doctor Verhooverhoven stood and stared at the floor impassively.

  The skold looked from him to the bed and back, then behind her at the door. “I—I . . . I am s-s-sorry if I have d-done s-s-something to offend, Duh-Doctor Hoo-over-hoven,” she offered, appearing truly troubled.

  This roused the good physician. “Not at all, not at all, girl.You were only answering to my call—and fair enough at that. Let us think no more on what has just passed—this lady needs your aid.”

  A look of great relief lit up her face. “A-Absolutely, yes, let’s.You know I’ll always he-elp as b-best I c. . . can.”

  “And a great commendation it is to you too, my dear.” The physician smiled grimly.

  Rossamünd was at Europe’s bedside in a dash, full of hopeful concern.

  She looked at him placidly, her red eyes ghastly within the oval of her sickly face. “Hello, little man . . . Have I been away for long?”

  “Since last night . . . um, very early this morning.” Rossamünd’s voice quavered slightly in his eagerness.

  The fulgar closed her eyes. “So we made it to the wayhouse, then? . . . Am I all delirium or are my senses turning hard rocks and sharp pinecones into a soft, warm bed?”

  “Aye, aye, we made it here, ma’am, and the kind people helped us.”

  Europe chuckled weakly. “I’m sure they did—except maybe that screeching woman. Tell me now, how much has this help cost?”

  The boy’s face fell. He had not thought of it quite like that: that they were ready with assistance only as he was ready to pay. “Ah, twelve sequins for two nights.”

  Her chuckle grew louder, but that stopped with a soft gasp. “And you paid from my purse?”

  “No, ma’am.” Rossamünd puffed his chest just a little. “I paid with the Emperor’s Billion, which was given me to start work as a lamplighter.”

  “An Emperor’s Man, are we? Good for you. How interesting . . .” She seemed to fade for a moment, then shuddered. “I am sick, Rossamünd. I must have my treacle and very soon.You’ll have to make it for me again . . .”

  While they had talked so, Doctor Verhooverhoven stood by, rocking on his heels once more. Now he came in quickly. “And you shall have it, madam. Here I am, the local physician, Doctor Verhooverhoven—how do you do?—and here is the delightful Miss Sallow, our own skold, who can make you your plaudamentum. Am I right, dear?” The physician turned his attention to the skold, who stepped forward, obviously in awe of the fulgar now invalid in the bed before her.

  “W-why yes. I n-know all the k . . . kinds of drafts n . . . needed by l-lahzars. A g-good ssskold all-lways does.”

  The fulgar turned her mizzled attention to them both and squinted. “Ah, mister physician, you’ve got me a skold—how kind. Such . . . tender mercies, I thank you. However, the boy could have made it for me, sir. He’s much cleverer than he looks.”

  Ducking his head, Rossamünd did not know whether to be pleased or offended.

  “I am sure he is and more, dear lady, but I would prefer to trust to my own methods and know it’s done as well as I know it can be done.” Doctor Verhooverhoven nodded his head in agreement with his own statement.

  “However you want it. I’l
l not argue with a man of physics.”

  “As it should be, madam.” He smiled ingratiatingly. “I shall recommend a soporific be brought to you as well, to help you sleep. Take both this and the plaudamentum and then heal with that most ancient of cures—rest.”

  Europe closed her eyes, a knowing grin upon her lips. “And tell me, dear doctor. At what price does your warm concern come?”

  Rossamünd could not be certain, but it seemed that Doctor Verhooverhoven actually blushed. “You do me a disservice, madam. I seek to help you purely for the satisfaction of knowing another human creature is strolling easy once more upon the path of health.”

  “Certainly you do, sir,” Europe softly sighed, “and what will be the account waiting for me upon my departure? We all have to put food in stomachs and clothes on our backs—I’ll not begrudge you your pay.”

  “Two sequins pays for it all,” the physician relented.

  Europe raised an eyebrow.

  Rossamünd thought her still very sharp and feisty for one so very ill.

  Doctor Verhooverhoven quickly went on. “But enough of this unflattering talk of fiscal things—you must be easy now, and have your draft when it’s done.”

  Rossamünd found that disturbing black lacquer case—the treacle-box—poking from a saddlebag at the bottom of the cupboard. Once again it gave him dread chills as he fetched it out. He took it over to Europe, who roused herself and smiled weakly.

  She looked to Sallow, who blushed brightly from ear to ear. “Let this little man help you, skold. I trust him.”

  The fulgar gave Rossamünd a strange and haunted look. “He’s my new . . . factotum . . .” she finished almost in a whisper.

  The foundling was stunned—her new factotum? Where did that leave him with the lamplighters?

  Doctor Verhooverhoven gave a slight bow. “As it shall be, ma’am. Take your ease.Your drafts shall be ready presently.” He raised his arms in a broad gesture to the skold and the foundling. “Come! Sallow. Young sir. Off to the kitchens now and do your duty. Gretel will show you the way. Tell Closet that I have sent you.”