With a small bright-limn in her hand, the bower maid opened the door and curtsied to them, giving a grin. “I’ll take you to the kitchens, just as the physic ordered.” She stepped lightly into the hall and the skold went with her.
Rossamünd gave Europe a last look and followed, a welcome calm settling inside—things were going to turn out well. Still, his thinking turned upon two questions as he followed the bower maid and the skold down the dim hall: How am I going to be able to be Europe’s factotum and lamplighter too? and Where are my shoes?
Gretel took them through a door, down another passage and through another door. Stepping alongside Sallow, Rossamünd became aware that she was surrounded with some very unpleasant smells and sensations. In combination with the treacle-box, these made him feel distinctly queasy.
“Hello,” the skold said softly with a shy smile. “M-my name is Sssallow Meh-Meermoon. What’s yours?”
“Rossamünd,” he replied. She must be kind of important, to have two names. As always, he was half waiting for a strange reaction to his own.
“My, R-Rossamünd, it mmmust be am-mazing to be the f-factotum of the B-Branden Rose!”
She had not reacted. He liked her. Pity she smells so badly. “It must be amazing to be a skold,” he returned.
“Ooh, I w-wish it were.” Sallow sounded deeply troubled.
Rossamünd looked up at her sad face.
“I only j-just got back from th-the r-r-rhombus in Wörms a m-month aa-go,” she went on rapidly. “Three years I was th-there, learning the E-Elements and the Su-Sub-Elements, the Parts, potential nostrum, all the ss-scripts, all the buh-Bases and the Combinations, the kuh-Körnchenflecter, the F-Four S-Spheres and the fuh-Four Humours, Applications of the V-Vadè kuh-Chemica, mmmatter and ha-abilistics. Oh m-my, what a l-lot to n-know.”
Rossamünd knew from his almanac that a “rhombus” was where some skolds went to learn their craft. As to the other things she’d said, he had no idea what she was talking about—except that “matter” was the study of things now past, that “habilistics” was the study of how things work and that the Vadè Chemica was an ancient book—as Craumpalin had told him—full of the most unspeakable things. This girl seemed too polite and kind to have spent three years delving into such a grim volume.
“I have l-learned it all too,” she carried on. “Eh-everything. Achieved hi-igh st-standards, won p-prizes. Oh, but nuh-now . . .”
She trailed off as they went through one last door and came into a very large room full of heat and steam and shouts. Shadows moved within this muggy air, lit glaringly from behind by a large pall of flickering orange. Delicious smells, sweet and savory, hung thickly.
Mmm, the kitchen . . . Rossamünd’s stomach celebrated this discovery with a gurgle.
“Bucket, you little sprig!” a refined but gravelly voice boomed. “Keep that spit turning and turning slowly, or I’ll put you on it and baste you instead!”
There was a clang, then a crash, then a tinkle.
“That’s it! Out! Out!” the voice boomed more loudly.
A small child scurried out of the thick vapors, pushed past them roughly and through the door. A ladle came flying after him, just missing Gretel and bouncing to the cobbled ground with a bang and a clatter that stung the ears. A very average-looking man with a red face appeared from the steam, his expression changing from a fit of fury to shamed apology and finally fixing on stiff reserve as he saw the three newcomers and at their feet the still shuddering ladle. “Gretel. Whom have you brought me? Do they not like their food? Do they want Uda to make it instead, do they?”
He was neither short nor tall, fat nor thin, handsome nor ugly, just very average. He wore an apron of the cleanest white despite all the bubblings and boilings going on around them. It was his voice that had bellowed before.
“Not at all, Mister Closet,” Gretel answered merrily. “You recognize young Sallow, our skold, don’t you? Little Sallow? Went off to Wörms, has come back a proper young lady and a bogle-fighter too? She needs to brew a potive here or some such, under Doctor Verhooverhoven’s orders.”
Mister Closet made no sign of recognition. Instead, he looked ceilingward impatiently. “Well . . . if the good doctor has ordered it, I suppose it must be allowed.” He frowned at Sallow and pointed to his left, his hand clutching a jagged knife. “Use the hot plate in yon corner there and stay out of the way!”
Gretel went to leave and saw that Rossamünd was padding about the place in just his trews. “I am so sorry—you haven’t had your shoes returned. Sitt, the rascal, has taken his time. I will fetch them for you,” she said and left them with a smile.
A silent, portly lady in an apron as filthy as Closet’s was white gave the skold a small clay pot to mix in.
Rossamünd fidgeted. The uncomfortable sensations coming from the treacle-box were beginning to become unbearable. It was a great relief when Sallow took it from him. As he gave it to her, he asked, “Um—Miss Skold—ah—Sallow. Doesn’t it make you feel . . . nervous, to hold all these reagents?”
“N-no, not r-really,” she answered absently. “This is a w-well laid out b-box. Very ha-andy. Do you n-know where sh-she got it from?”
“Uh, no . . .”
With great concentration Sallow busied herself in the preparation of the treacle. The skold went through all the steps just as Rossamünd had done, muttering to herself all the time. “F-first the . . . bezoariac, then . . . the . . . r-rhatany . . . then . . .”
When it was finished (and Rossamünd thought it a little too lumpy), Sallow poured the treacle into a beer tankard and carried it back to the room.
Europe drank as greedily as she always did. Almost before their very eyes her face flushed with renewed vigor.
As she finished the last of the treacle, Doctor Verhooverhoven turned to Sallow. “I have good tidings for you, my dear.” The physician smiled at the skold. “You see, this fair fulgar has told me—while you were brewing—that she has slain those troublesome bogles in the Brindleshaws!”
Sallow looked as if she had just been freed from a terrible gaol sentence. “Really! Oh ruh-really!” She turned from the beaming doctor to the impassive fulgar.
Europe smiled in a cool, regal way, and nodded. “I hear from the physic that you were doomed to fight them yourself, girl. I am glad to rid you of the burden. The big fellow was a doddle, but those I believe to be his little masters gave me the . . . hardest time. A mercantile league in High Vesting hired me to do it, so you can thank the Signal Stars the unhappy task is done. Back to brewing and books for you.”
“Oh my! Oh m-my! What a r-ruh-relief,” was all that the overjoyed Sallow could manage for the moment.
The offhand mention of the death of the Misbegotten Schrewd gave Rossamünd a sharp jab in his gut. The sorrow of it returned to him.
Europe lay back, closing her eyes. “I won’t need your soporific, Doctor Verhooverhoven. I feel sleep coming to me anyway.”
“Good to hear—just as it should be.”
Taking up a candle, the physician shepherded Sallow toward the door with upraised arms. “Time for we less sleepy folk to leave. I must return to my own abode—things there also need attending to. Sallow, after you.” He smiled at Rossamünd. “When you are done here, my boy, I recommend you to the common room, and get yourself a hearty meal.”
The foundling nodded. “Aye, doctor, I shall.”
“Good night, madam!” The physician bowed gracefully to Europe. “I expect you to be in much better spirits tomorrow.”
“And good night to you too, good doctor,” returned Europe with equal grace. “Sleep well.”
The physician and the skold left.
Feeling a little awkward at being alone with the fulgar, Rossamünd fidgeted and looked at her shyly. She still held the tankard in which her treacle had been served.
“I could take that back to the kitchens for you, Miss Europe,” he offered.
She looked at him sleepily. “That’s a servant’s job
, little man.” She held it up to him anyway. “But if you must.”
As he took it from her, he saw that there was a whole battery of marks running down the inside of each wrist, a tiny X flaring at each end. They were the same deep, dried-blood color as the leering monster’s head drawn on Master Fransitart’s arm. He hesitated. “Miss Europe . . . ?”
“Yes?”
“What are they?” he asked, looking meaningfully at her wrists.
The fulgar turned them about to show the small marks more clearly—arranged four by four in distinct sets. On the right wrist three complete sets went halfway up her arm; on the left there was only one complete set and another well on the way.
Rossamünd did a quick calculation. There must be more than seventy!
“These?” she queried mildly. “These are just my cruorpunxis.”
“Your what, miss?”
“Cruorpunxis,” she repeated, growing slightly impatient. “Kroo-or-punk-siss. Monster-blood tattoos. Each little mark a monster I’ve slain.”
She’s killed more than seventy monsters!
“Not every one is here, though,” she sighed, looking intently at her forearm. “Sometimes it is impossible to get at the beast after it’s done in. Like that big brute at the bridge . . .”
He was glad she would not be able to mark the Misbegotten Schrewd there. “I thought they were always drawn in the shape of those you killed?”
“Oh, well, that’s the way of rude and vulgar fellows. I have preferred something a little more comely and suitable.”
Rossamünd frowned. He did not like Master Fransitart being called a rude, vulgar fellow.
Europe roused herself. “Listen now,” she said, heedless of his inner fuming. “While you were in the kitchens, I made an arrangement for the retrieval of . . . dear Licurius . . . and . . . the landaulet too. I expect it to be done by tomorrow evening—please, come and tell me as soon as it is.”
Yes, your blasted, wicked Licurius, went Rossamünd’s thoughts.
“Aye, Miss Europe,” went his mouth.
Rossamünd did not look at Europe as he walked to the door. All the bad he had witnessed her do was a heavy, black pall in his thoughts. Just inside the door he spied his shoes, thoroughly clean and shining black. Over them Europe’s high, violent-looking equiteer boots loomed. Rossamünd took his shoes out from under their shadow and put them on. Without a word or a backward look, he left the room.
12
A TROUBLE SHARED IS A TROUBLE HALVED
Imperial postman (noun) a walking postman’s or ambler’s life is dangerous, and he is forced to be skilled at avoiding, and protecting himself against, monsters. Frequently customers of skolds, postmen invent clever and slippery ways to make sure that the post always gets through. Mortality rates are high among them, however, and the agents who employ them prefer orphans, strays and foundlings who will not be missed by fretting families.
EARLY the next morning, Rossamünd found Europe sitting quietly on a stiff chair by a newly lit fire, staring at the struggling flames. She held a soup bowl of Cathar’s Treacle, meekly sipping at it rather than gulping it down. Waiting till she had finished her potive—feeling that this would be the best policy—he began.
“Miss?”
Europe turned her hazel gaze to him. “Yes, little man?”
He fidgeted. “What . . . what do you think of my name?”
The fulgar looked annoyed. “How do you mean, think?”
“Well, it’s not a name meant for a boy. Did you know that?”
Her expression relaxed. She laughed her liquid chortle. “Oh, I seeee! So, some would have it meant for a girl? What concern is it of mine how your sires chose to label you? Things are more than their names. If you were anointed ‘Dunghead,’ I’d still call you that without teasing or embarrassment. It’s just a word, little man.” She gave him a soft look—faint, but unusually kind.
Rossamünd’s heart sang a little. The fulgar might have gone some small way to redeeming herself for the harm done at the Brindlestow Bridge.
For a time she did not speak, and Rossamünd went to leave. Europe reached over and touched him on the arm. She said, very quietly, “I understand why you asked me this, though, and I’m sure it has been a great inconvenience to you for much of your life.”
He blinked at her capricious kindness. After a moment he answered, “Aye, ma’am, it has at that. They would call me ‘Rosy Posy’ or ‘Girly-man’ or ‘M’lady’ or . . . or more things besides.”
The fulgar contemplated him with a serious eye. “Hardly surprising. Children begin the cruel career of the untamed tongue almost as soon as they can talk.” She paused, and continued to look at him intently. He took the bowl from her to give himself something to do under that uncomfortable gaze.
“I hope you learn to master your hurts, little man.”
Rossamünd kept his eyes on the black dregs in the bottom of the bowl. “Oh, I just ignored them, stayed out of the way as much as possible. Master Fransitart and Verline looked after me very well, anyways, so I don’t mind.”
Europe shifted in her seat. “So, who are these—Master Fransitart and . . . Verline?” she asked, pulling out a small, black lacquered box.
Rossamünd relaxed. “Oh, Master Fransitart is . . . was my dormitory master, though not the only one: there’s Craumpalin and Heddlebulk, Instructor Barthomæus and Undermaster Cuspin . . .”
Europe’s eyes glazed and she went back to looking at the fire. It appeared that she had lost interest.
“. . . and Verline is Madam Opera’s parlor maid, but she took special care of me,” Rossamünd said, finishing quickly, wanting at least to answer her original question.
“Madam Opera, now?” Europe’s attention fixed on him again and she lifted one brow in her characteristic manner. “Enough names.Your first years sound almost as complicated as mine were. Go away now, little man. A woman must have her privacy. Let me know as soon as . . . Licurius’ body . . . and the landaulet are fetched back.” Her shoulders sagged and, even though she had just risen, she looked very tired.
Rossamünd nodded a little bow and, holding the soup bowl in one hand and picking up his almanac in the other, went to leave. As he opened the door, Europe called, “And tell them not to disturb me.”
“Yes, Miss Europe.”
As confused as he had ever been after a conversation with the fulgar, Rossamünd went to the common room. Strangely, he also felt lighter than he had for many days. He read his almanac and sipped on a mug of small beer. In the afternoon Gretel came to him while he still sat in the common room. Dank, the day-watch yardsman, was with her and announced to the foundling that the landaulet had been retrieved.
Rossamünd went out to the yard and found the carriage to be as much in the state they had left it, as could be expected. He asked after the corpse of the leer.
“Well, ye see,” said Dank, scratching his head, “there was no body, not the horse’s nor this Licurius fellow’s.”
Rossamünd’s heart sank. The growing lightness within him evaporated, without even a memory of it ever occurring at all. His face must have shown his sinking spirits, for Gretel put her hand softly on his shoulder.
“’Tis the way of things,” the day-watch yardsman explained. “Monsters love their meat, and the skin and bones of people most of all. Sorry, lad. I’m sure your mistress will understand. She seems a worldly woman, if her reputation has it right.”
With a heavy sigh, Rossamünd made his way to his room, Gretel and Dank—hat humbly in hand—accompanying him. When they were permitted to enter, Europe seemed in good spirits. With much “um”-ing and “ah”-ing, Rossamünd gave her the grim news.
Dank confirmed his report almost as awkwardly. “We searched as long and as far as we dared, ma’am, but turned up nought . . .”
Black gloom immediately descended upon the fulgar, and she ordered everyone from the room with a chilling whisper. As Rossamünd left, she called to him. Her eyes were hard and her expression
brittle. “We will need a new driver,” she said.
Rossamünd hesitated, the question of how forming in his mind and making its way to his mouth.
The fulgar’s eyes narrowed.
“Y-yes, Miss Europe,” the foundling said, and left quickly.
He sought out Mister Billetus about such a task, and the proprietor told him that the town of Silvernook, a little way to the north, was the best place to find coachmen, wagoners and other drivers.
“Just go to the coachman’s cottage of the Imperial Postal Office,” offered Mister Billetus. “’Tis where all the drivers spend their time waiting their turn to drive the mail from town to town.”
As it was deemed too late in the day for him to proceed, Rossamünd was forced to wait till the next day to seek a driver in Silvernook. Instead he went to the common room to have dinner. Just as the night before, a maid served him and he chose a meal from a list upon a large oblong of card she held.
At the top it read “Bill of Fare” . . . and beneath the dishes were categorized under subheadings: “Best Cuts” and “The Rakes.” The difference Rossamünd could not fathom. Last night he had chosen lamprey pie from the list headed “The Rakes” because he had had it once before and did not recognize the names of any of the other meals. It did not taste very good. Tonight he picked the venison ragout, and also asked for an exotic-sounding drink listed as “Juice-of-Orange.” When this beverage arrived, it had a flavor that, yet again, amazed the simple tastes of the foundling. Sharp, sweet, tangy, refreshing, the juice was like the best orange he had ever eaten. The venison ragout, on the other hand, he found a bizarre flavor in his mouth, making it tingle and smart, but he pushed it down all the same. Not even the fussiest book child ever left food on a plate.
A woman dressed in an astounding display of peacock feathers and blued fur stood at the other end of the common room and sang so sweetly Rossamünd forgot to eat for minutes at a time. Apparently her name was Hero of Clunes—so he heard people about him say—a famous actress from faraway south. Rossamünd wondered what she might be doing in this remote region. Looking for “Clunes” in his almanac, Rossamünd found to his amazement that it was so far south it did not even show on any of his charts.
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