Foundling ft-1

by D M Cornish

  The dormitory master told him to put on both the weskit and the jackcoat. "Ye might as well start getting accustomed to their weight," he said.

  They were a little too big for Rossamund and heavier than normal clothes, but combined with his recently washed black, long-legged shorts-or longshanks-he looked very fine indeed and could be sure he was well protected for his long journey. All he needed now was a sturdy hat.

  "Yer debt is cleared, Meesius," Fransitart said, low and serious. "I 'ope we will never 'ave th' need to meet again!"

  Without another word the tailor hurried off into the shadows beneath the vats. Rossamund and his masters returned the way they had come. Fransitart looked very satisfied with himself as they wrestled and veered through the jostling throng on their way home.

  "Ye've got yerself a stout set of proofing there, lad. A fine harness, indeed." The dormitory master's smug grin broadened. "Ye'll be well safe in it."

  Craumpalin chuckled. "Masterfully done, Frans, masterfully done. Ol' Cap'n Slot would 'ave been impressed."

  Rossamund had no idea what just happened. He had never seen Fransitart so satisfied, so pleased-but he was too astounded at his grand new proofing to give any of it another thought. Verline mended his two shirts and even his smallclothes. She darned several pairs of especially long stockings-called trews-which he was to wear doubled back down from the knee for improved protection. Two scarves and two pairs of gloves were provided against the coming cold of winter. She also gave to him his own turnery (a fork and a spoon made of wood), a biggin (a leather-covered wooden cup with a fastening lid), a mess kid (a small wooden pail from which to eat his meals) and a flint and steel for the lighting of fires.

  From the larder Rossamund was allowed to put into his satchel a block of cured fungus known as dried must, a whole loaf of rye bread, a pot of gherkins that sloshed and plopped quietly when it was moved, three rectangular slats of portable soup (hard black wafers ready to be boiled down to a bland but nutritious brew), some fresh green apples and, for energy or emergencies, fortified sack cheese.

  Traveling papers were arranged for him: a letter of introduction from Madam Opera recommending Rossamund as a fine and useful boy; a waybill, or certificate of travel, giving him permission to move through any land or city-state of the Empire; a nativity patent to prove who he was and where he came from; and finally a work docket, upon which his conduct would be recorded in whatever job he was employed. This impressive wad of documents was put into a buff leather wallet along with (he could hardly believe his eyes!) folding money to the value of one sou-an advance of his monthly wages-and the Emperor's Billion. This was a shining gold oscadril coin given as an incentive to all those entering the service of their Imperial and Pacific Lord. Rossamund gaped at all this money that was apparently now his.

  Old Craumpalin contributed too. The dispensurist supplied several flasks and tiny sacks, declaring them to be medicines to "invigorate both thew and wind"-by which he meant body and soul-and repellents to "fear away the bogles and nickers." Rossamund already knew the medicines-he'd seen them before-small milky bottles holding evander water, marked with a deep blue? to show what they contained, and beneath that the tiny letters C-R-p-N — the dispensurist's mark. The repellents, however, were new.

  "Beware the monsters, me boy! Ye've been safe in here all yer life, but out there…" Craumpalin gestured vaguely. "Out there it ain't safe. They're everywhere, see, the nasty baskets. Big or small, they're as mean as mean can be, so just keep these potives safe and handy and ye'll go right-though I have to apologize to ye for them not being of as fine a quality as a skold brews." The dispensurist pointed to a cobalt vial. "Right! This here is tyke-oil. It don't smell like much to us, but it's good for keeping monsters away, right off. A healthy smear on yer collar and they'll stay well clear of ye. Problem is, it also lets them know ye're there, so don't go applying it willy-nilly, only when ye think they've got yer scent."

  Then he gingerly poked at one of the many little sacks kept within a bigger purse. Though the smell coming from them was faint, it was still unpleasantly sharp. Rossamund hoped he never suffered a faceful of it.

  "These are bothersalts.Very nasty stuff, and the sacks are fragile, so have a care. It will give any bogle-or person, for that matter-you happen on a nasty sting if you throw it at them, bag and all. Frighten them off for hours, but it also makes 'em angry, so be on yer guard for a good long while after. And this! This is a pretty bit of trickery!" Craumpalin unwrapped a package of oily paper to show a large lump of malleable skin-colored wax. An odor something like a very sweaty and unwashed person filled the air.

  "It's called john-tallow. Smells a wee bit off to us, but it's a mile more appealing to the nose of a nicker than we are… leads them astray. Poke a little lump of this in the bole of a tree or under a rock, walk in the other direction and ye'll get yerself some space." He chuckled into his white beard. "Wonderful stuff. A warning, though: always handle it by the oiled paper. If ye get the stuff on y' hands-or anywhere else come to that-then ye'll stink of it too and the ruse will be ruined. Got it?"

  As the dispensurist kneaded the wax, Rossamund found that, strangely, he liked the smell. He said nothing of this and took in all he was told very carefully, very seriously, imagining a world beyond the city's many curtain walls and bastions filled with all kinds of frightful beasts.

  Craumpalin lifted up a bottle of brown clay. "This here be fourth and last," he said. "It's a nullodour-I like to call it Craumpalin's Exstinker. Master Frans and me wants ye to wear a splash of it on ye all the time, no matter. Keep ye safe from sniffing noses-where ye're going there's no knowing where is safe and where ain't." The old dispensurist took up a long strip of cambric. "The best way to wear it is to liberally apply some to this here bandage, then wind it about yer chest, just under the arms like so." He wrapped the strip about himself several times in demonstration. "A good splash will do for a day and seven will last you almost a whole week. After that I recommend you wash this and reapply more of me Exstinker.Tomorrow mornin', when ye be getting yerself ready, we wants ye to give this seven splashes and put it about ye just like I've shown. Understood?"

  Rossamund nodded somberly. Anything to keep the monsters away.

  Craumpalin grinned. "Good lad!" He handed Rossamund the brown clay bottle along with a piece of paper. "There's enough in there to last ye for a month. After that, give this script to yer local, friendly skold-make sure he's friendly, mind-to make ye more."

  Along with all these things Rossamund took his most treasured possession: a lexicon of words and a simple peregrinat-or an almanac for wayfarers-entitled Master Matthius' Wandering Almanac: A Wordialogue of Matter, Generalisms amp; Habilistics, that is, history, geography and science. Cleverly, it was waterproofed, both cover and pages, so as to be useful to any brave and literate traveler no matter what the weather. It had been a gift one year ago, given on Bookday, when the foundlings at Madam Opera's remembered the entry of their name into the grand ledger-a type of group birthday, and the only time their existence was ever celebrated.

  Fransitart appeared in the afternoon with a valise of shining black leather.

  "Thank you." Taking hold of it, Rossamund was at once struck by the bizarre sense that whoever had made the case had intended good things for its owner.

  It had a lock, and a key that was fixed to a strong velvet ribbon of brilliant scarlet about Rossamund's neck.

  The astounding array of Rossamund's new equipment was then rechecked and finally packed by Master Fransitart, who stowed everything wisely so that it would not rattle or knock when moved. Remarkably, the valise did not weigh nearly as much as he expected it might when it was fully packed.

  Rossamund urgently wanted to ask Fransitart to finish the telling of the fight with the monster and the secret things, the shocking things beyond and behind this. He had the courage now that so little time was left until he departed, but Verline did not leave them alone long enough for him to venture a question.
>
  "I know ye weren't thinking to be a lamplighter," Fransitart said unexpectedly, "but not ev'ryone who studies law becomes a lawyer, lad. Things may change for ye yet. Paths need not be as fixed or as straight fo'ward as they might first show." He looked hard into Rossamund's eyes. "Now ye've got to be especially wary out there, me boy. Ye get me?"

  Rossamund nodded slow and sad.

  "Most ev'ryone is not goin' to be as understandin' of ye as Verline here, or crusty old Craump'lin or meself," the old sea dog continued. "Guard yeself, pick ye friends cautiously and always keep wearin' that brew ye got from Craump'lin. He knows his trade better than most-it will keep ye well protected." Fransitart sniffed. "Take me words to heart, son. It's a wild and wicked world beyond here and I'm loath to let ye out into it. But out ye must go, and ye've got to be sharp and wise and keep yeself from trouble. Aye?"

  "I will, Master Fransitart, I will," Rossamund said with all the earnestness he could muster.

  The dormitory master took something out of his pocket and passed it to the boy. It was a long and thin-bladed knife in a blacked leather sheath, a tool much like the ones Rossamund had seen fishermen use when cleaning their catch on the stone-walled banks of the river.

  As he gave the knife, Fransitart fixed Rossamund once more with a serious eye. "Out in the world a knife is an 'andy thing to 'ave. Mark me, though! If ye must use this 'ere in a tussle," he said, wagging his finger, "then make certain ye means to, or else it'll get taken from ye an' used upon yeself instead!"

  Rossamund nodded, though he did not really understand. He had no intention of using the knife for anything but the cutting of food.

  To his dismay, Rossamund was made to have another bath, though he had had one only two days earlier. "Make you nice and fresh for your great going forth, young man," Verline declared as she sent him to the tubs. Smelling like lemongrass soap, he returned to the dormitory. As all the boys were piped to bed, Weems and Gull, two of the next-oldest, who would be leaving themselves next season, and who always did things together, teased him for his flowery smell. Rossamund just shrugged. Tonight would be the last time he would have to put up with them.

  Restless with dreams and worries of what was to come and a keen suspicion that Gosling might try some horrid final prank, he slept little that night.

  Finally, at the start of the morning watch, Rossamund was roused by a silent Fransitart. He followed the dim guide of the dormitory master's shuttered bright-limn and bid good-bye, with one lingering look, to the dormitory. Snores and whimpers and sighs replied in unconscious, uninterested farewell.

  So this is what it feels like to be leaving for good, he marveled.

  Master Fransitart left him at the basins to wash his face and put on all the fancy new things that were waiting there for him. He was especially careful to apply one-two-three-four-five-six-seven splashes of Craumpalin's Exstinker to the cambric bandage. Seven days' worth. He wound it tightly around his chest just as the dispensurist had shown him before donning the rest of his attire.

  In the dining hall he found a breakfast of rye porridge with curds-and-whey and sweetened with honey. A lantern sat on the side to light his last meal at the foundlingery. It was as fancy a breakfast as he had ever had, and it spoke of Verline's care. He was just a little sad as he ate alone, the tap of his spoon against the bowl echoing in the lonely dark. Verline's love would be hard to live without, but at last he was getting out!

  With the early glow of approaching dawn showing through the high windows, Fransitart returned. He came into the dining hall carrying Rossamund's satchel and valise.

  "Time to be going, lad," rasped Fransitart, his voice sounding pinched and strange.

  Rossamund followed him to the vestibule by the front door where Madam Opera waited. Standing before the front doors, Rossamund was granted his baldric. A leather-and-cloth strap that went over the right shoulder and looped by the left hip, it was given to all lads when they were declared to be passing from boyhood into manhood. Typically it was marked with the mottle-the colors-of one's native city. This one was patterned in sable and mole checkers-that is, a checkerboard of black and brown, the mottle of Boschenberg. Master Fransitart, solemn and still silent, put it on Rossamund and, that done, plonked a handsome black thrice-high upon his head. At last he was completely equipped.

  Madam Opera grimaced tightly. "You do look well set up-perhaps too well," she added with a sidelong glance at Fransitart. She gave Rossamund a single pat on his head. "Step forward strongly, boy, like the hundreds have done before you. This world does not reward tears. Time to be on your way."

  Rossamund wrestled on the valise, fixed his new knife to his new baldric, slung the satchel containing the food, turnery, the biggin and the repellents and the rest across his other shoulder, and pocketed his purse of small coins.

  Master Fransitart held Rossamund by the shoulders. "Good-bye, lad," he said at last.

  "Good-bye, Master Fransitart," Rossamund whispered. "Tell Miss Verline and Master Craumpalin good-bye," he added.

  Madam Opera made a small disapproving noise, but Fransitart smiled and replied, "I surely will, lad. Now! Step lively, new duties await ye!"

  Rossamund took up his old stock and the peregrinat, doffed his hat as he thought a man might and stepped reluctantly out into the foggy autumn dawn.

  As he turned to go on his way, he caught a glimpse of some of the children who remained, woken early and watching from the high windows of the foundlingery. Among them was Gosling. Rossamund was certain he would be fuming with silent jealousy.

  Good riddance, he thought.

  He followed the Vlinderstrat toward Hermeneguild and the river district, quickly reaching the point where tall shops and high apartments obscured Madam Opera's Estimable Marine Society from view. His heart swelling with sharp, nameless regrets, he joined the dawning hustle of Sooningstrat.

  4

  ON THE HOGSHEAD

  Cromster (noun) one of the smallest of the armed, ironclad river-barges, having three-inch cast-iron strakes down each side and from four to twelve 12-pounder guns upon each broadside. Generally single-masted, though the biggest may have two masts. Below the open-deck is a single lower deck called the orlop. Forward of amidships (the middle of the craft) is typically hold space for cargo. Aft of amidships the orlop is reserved for the gastrines and their crews

  .

  Mister Sebastipole was waiting as he said he would be, standing in the fog at the top of the Padderbeck Stair. He was wearing his telltale coachman's cloak and black thrice-high. He had his own satchel hanging across his body together with an oddly ordinary-looking box on a thick strap. Rossamund tried not to stare at the box. Inside it would be the leer's sthenicon. He had expected it to be much more unusual, and he was just a little disappointed to see that it was so very plain and ordinary. Sebastipole had been holding a small portable clock or some other such device when Rossamund arrived, and now secreted it away.

  "You are late, young fellow," he stated flatly. "A lamps-man's life is punctuality-'twould be best to start forming that habit soon, don't you think?" There was no ire in Mister Sebastipole's voice, just honest, unself-conscious reproof. Rossamund had never encountered anything like it before.

  "Uh… Aye, sir," he puffed and set the valise down.

  "Well, at least you have come lightly packed. Bravo."

  The lamplighter's agent pulled out an oblong of sealed paper and another of folded paper. He handed the sealed paper to Rossamund first, saying, "This is my endorsement to our mutual masters." He gave him the folded paper, saying, "These are my instructions to you and to those who will meet you at the other end. Stow the first safely and read the second carefully." The lamplighter's agent folded his arms and stared with his disturbing eyes. "Your first destination is High Vesting and from there a fortress known as Winstermill. It is a manse, the headquarters of we lamplighters. You will be escorted thither from High Vesting. Your instructions say as much." He squinted. "Hark me, now! Do not dally on you
r way, but make directly to Winstermill, for my superiors are awaiting you and others like you to begin your 'prenticing. Agreed?"

  "Aye, sir." Rossamund carefully stowed the precious documents in his buff leather wallet.

  Mister Sebastipole took out his little clock again, opened it and pursed his lips. With a snap of its lid, he declared, "Well, the sooner you start, the sooner away." The leer pointed Rossamund toward steps that went down from the high wall of the canal-side street to the Padderbeck itself. The fog had become almost impossibly thick. Rossamund could barely make out the tottering buildings festering on the other side of the narrow canal, their brooding window-lights of red and green showing only faintly.

  "Down there-though you probably cannot see for all this fume," the lamplighter's agent continued with a frown at the muggy air, "down there along this very pier you will find a certain Rivermaster Vigilus waiting to take you aboard his cromster, Rupunzil. The vessel is sound and your way is paid."

  Rossamund could see nothing but fog in that direction. "Ah… Aye…"

  Mister Sebastipole gave a surprisingly warm smile and bowed. "Well, lad, the moment of departure has arrived, it seems, so I shall bid you a safe journey and leave."

  Rossamund was stunned. The lamplighter's agent might not have been the friendliest chap, but such a prodigious journey as that upon which Rossamund was about to embark was, surely, better done with the leer's company than without.

  "I… I thought you'd be coming too?" he ventured.

  Mister Sebastipole smiled again. "I have other tasks to attend to here in Boschenberg. You will see me again some day not too distant, I'm sure. Just head down the stair and along five berths. A lamplighter's life is independence of thought and deed, my boy. You will need to get used to this as soon as possible. Welcome to the lamplighters!" With that the leer bowed again and walked back up Sooningstrat. Mister Sebastipole waved once from the top of a rise in the street and, with a turn, was gone.