Foundling ft-1

by D M Cornish

  The day became unusually warm and remained so. A southeasterly breeze came, welcome and cool, as luggage and harness began to weigh on him. Eventually the valise became too hard to carry on his back and he resorted to towing it along behind him by the straps, its metal bindings dragging dustily in the sandy gravel. With stubbornness beyond his years, he walked on steadily, his thoughts completely taken with reaching High Vesting. Stops were frequent, and Rossamund always looked furtively about as he rested. The boy found that he was not as alone as he had first felt: cows in sturdily fenced pastures lowed and chewed; birds of many kinds-warbling magpies, shrilling mud larks, tetching wagtails and silent swallows-dashed about, often calling, chasing off strangers, hunting insects that also flitted hither and thither. Of the insects the birds' favorite seemed to be the large wurtembottles. These fat black flies from warmer northern lands insisted on bumbling about Rossamund's face, neck and especially his ears. No matter how often or how furiously he thrashed and shooed them, these wurtembottles returned to their lazy harassment. There was a moment as he stepped along that he thought he spied a person-a farmer perhaps-cutting across the fields far to his left, but he could not be certain who or what it was and dared not call out. Other than this the road had been eerily empty of any other traffic. Having grown up surrounded by people, crowded with them, he had thought space and solitude a golden prize. Now isolated and far from comfort, he wished very much to be pressed by the crowd once more.

  Onward, onward. He had to get to High Vesting.

  Fortunately Rossamund still carried enough food to keep him from desperation, including that day's main meal: a sludge that used to be the dried must and the now almost gluelike rye bread. Craumpalin had once said that hunger was the best sauce, and Rossamund could not have agreed more as he took to the bland slop with relish. The supper was still soggy enough to even wet his thirst. This was important, for although he had enough to eat, he had little water. Rossamund had filled his biggin with the Humour's dark waters and tried to conserve it on the way. It tasted like composting leaves, yet by the unseasonably hot day's end it was almost gone. He did not know exactly what would happen when one had no water, though he knew that it had to be bad. By sundown he could see distant trees growing in scruffy stands along the road and hoped a source of water might be among them. When he finally reached them he discovered no water, and so walked on. When, a mile later, he settled to sleep in a cavelike gap between the boughs of a huge boxthorn, he had drunk his last mouthful from the biggin.

  Huddled in the shelter of the lonely tree, Rossamund stared into the gathering dark with equally increasing disquiet. A nameless fear that something or someone dogged him made every shadow jump and loom. As the unfriendly night weighed down, punctuated as it was by distant, frightening noises, he sought to distract himself by humming happy, peaceful hymns, as he had heard Verline do for a troubled child. Still the deep dark oppressed. He hummed on softly, hoarse with thirst, until somehow he coaxed himself to sleep. A sound stirred him. It was early morning, the sky pale, the still air cold again. His throat rasped with pain, but he had survived a second night.

  The sound came again, unusual and out of place.

  Rossamund quickly blinked away the sleepy grit and listened. Morning birds welcoming the rising sun with their calls-these had not woken him; the buzzing of the wur tembottles waiting for him to evacuate his thorny room-neither had these. Then it came once more, this sound, and remained, getting louder: a jangling, steady clop-clop-clop, then the unmistakable snort of a horse.

  The musketeers of the Spindle have come for me! He turned his body and craned his head as quietly as possible to see if he could catch sight of his pursuers through the spiny tangle of many intertwined boughs. Up on one elbow, neck stretched to straining, he did see something and it was not a company of musketeers, but rather a landaulet-an open four-wheeled carriage with a folding top drawn by a single, heavy-looking and mud-brown nag. It was being driven by a figure with a pronounced hunch, his face hidden behind the upturned collar of a dark maroon coachman's cloak and beneath the shadow of a thrice-high of almost matching color. Behind the driver reclined an elegant passenger of unclear gender in clothes so fine that Rossamund could tell the refinement of their cut from his obscure vantage point. As the carriage came near, the elegant passenger called with the clear ring of an educated woman's voice. "Well, stop here if you must! You know I have places to be and can't be troubled by every quibble or suspicion. But, stop I say, if it will cease your twittering!"

  Accordingly the vehicle was pulled to a halt just before the boxthorn.

  Rossamund froze.

  There was a pause, and then the woman's voice spoke clearly again. "Go on then, I shall wait!"

  The driver obediently got down and began to swing his head about as if searching, revealing his face-or what should have been a face. Instead it was a rectangular wooden box pocked occasionally with small round holes on its front and two larger openings, one on the lower end of each side. Thick leather straps held it to his head. A sthenicon! Rossamund stared, horrified. The driver was a leer! Rossamund knew there was no escaping a leer: the sthenicon revealed every scent of every living thing big or small that moved within an area of a mile or more. What is more, they were reported to be able to see things everyday folk could not, to peer into secrets and search in hidden regions. The box-faced driver shuffled nearer to the overgrown boxthorn bush and peered within, his head swaying and poking forward. He became still. Rossamund sucked in a breath and lay very still, every nerve and fiber straining, waiting.

  How he wished he had not lost his cudgel. How he regretted the spoiled bothersalts.

  Eventually the box-faced driver stepped back to the landaulet and appeared to address the elegant passenger, as the latter leaned over and both heads nodded, at times with pronounced emphasis. A conclusion seemingly reached, the woman alighted from the carriage and, straightening her fine clothes, stepped with determined poise over to where the driver had stood before the boxthorn. She wore the most luxurious and unusually cut frock coat of deep scarlet, buttoned and buckled at the side, and the shiniest, blackest equiteer boots Rossamund had ever seen. The hem of the coat hung low and flared extravagantly, rustling as she approached.

  She stopped and squinted vaguely into the little grove. "In here, you say?" she asked over her shoulder. Her chestnut hair was gathered up behind her crown in a bun, held with a pointed comb pinned by a hair-tine ending in a clenched crow's claw. Long wisps of flyaway fringe danced in any small movement of air.

  A frown.

  A sigh.

  She leaned forward. "You in there, little one," she called quite softly.

  Rossamund did not know what to do.

  "We've certainly no intention to harm you, so you can stop pretending you're not there and come out."

  Maybe she spoke the truth? Maybe she had water? Rossamund was about to act when his leg was gripped and tugged. Involuntarily he screamed and kicked with his free foot. This too was grabbed and he was pulled out from his hiding-hole into the blinkingly bright morning, hanging upside down-valise and all-in the irresistible grip of the driver. Rossamund squealed like a little piglet, struggling violently-but all his twisting and writhing did not alter his position.

  "Put me down, you looby!" he spluttered, serving up the worst curse he knew.

  The box-faced driver ignored his almost foul language and carried him around to the roadside, where he held him out in much the same way someone might have held a frantic, just-caught fish. Rossamund continued to twist and writhe.

  The elegant woman approached him as someone might approach a cornered snake.

  "Now, now," she soothed, "put him down, Licurius. We've said we'd not harm him, so we had better not now, had we?"

  As soon as his ankles were released, Rossamund scissored wildly with his legs for a moment to make sure they stayed free, then rolled over frantically and sprang to his feet. He looked left and right, hoping to dart away and escape. The
woman regarded him closely for a long while, and he became still under her keen stare. Rossamund was not so young as not to see that she was a great beauty, but there was a hardness to her and a darkness. It was then that he noticed a small blue mark above her left eye-a diamond-shaped spoor. She was a lahzar-one of those fabled monster-fighters who went to some far-off place to have secret surgeries done to their bodies, secret surgeries that made it possible for them to do strange and terrible deeds and fight monsters. He knew immediately by the spoor this elegant scarlet woman wore that her special talent was to generate and manipulate electricity and lightning. Among lahzars, this group were known as fulgars.

  The lady fulgar smiled. The smell of her wafted about Rossamund, a strange scent-sweet, yet salty and sharp too.

  "Hello, little man," she offered, in what was probably her kindliest voice. "My name is Europe. This is my factotum," she said, indicating the box-faced driver. "His name is Licurius. What do they call you?"

  Rossamund did not answer.

  Europe pursed her lips, glanced at Licurius and sighed. "As I have said, we really have no thought of hurting you. Indeed, little man, you are of little consequence to us. I might care enough to help you, but not nearly so much as to hurt you." She gave a mirthless chuckle and then became serious. "You see, I believe you have to particularly care about somebody to put the effort into harming them. Now, tell me your name and when you've done that you can tell me what a little fellow like yourself is doing out here in the hinterlands without his hat?" She smiled in a knowing way, an expression that promised either malice or friendship, depending upon what might happen next.

  For the briefest moment Rossamund weighed his options. He relented and said, "My name is Rossamund Bookchild and I lost my hat in the river."

  "I gave you your chance, boy!" Europe was suddenly lit with a powerful yet suppressed rage. "If you're going to dash it with saucy nonsense, then this is where we part ways!" She turned on her heel as if to leave, coat hems swirling.

  "I-fell-off-a-boat-bound-for-High-Vesting-and-swam-ashore!" Rossamund yelped in one frightened breath. He continued almost as quickly. "And my name really is Rossamund, and I know it's not the right kind of name for a lad but I was given it while I was too young to argue and now it is written in the ledger and there is no going back on that…"

  Europe stood still, cocked her head and made a wry face.

  "I am a book child-a foundling-and I'm supposed to be in High Vesting so I can start my job and now I'm probably lost and I've got no water to drink and… and…" Rossamund trembled on that awful verge where tears begin and poise is lost.What is more, he had revealed more about himself than he had intended. He was sure that if Fransitart could see him now, his old dormitory master would be shaking his head in dismay.

  "I see." The fulgar pondered for a moment. "You have very fine proofing for a foundling, little man. Did you happen to steal it?"

  "No, ma'am!" Rossamund was simultaneously startled and offended.

  The fulgar shrugged. "Either way, maybe I can be of help to you after all. If it is water you need, there is plenty on the carriage." She paused sagely, then smiled an oddly cheeky smile. "I could even do as much as cart you to High Vesting, if you would like, though you will have to join me as I work. What do you think, Licurius? Shall we aid this poor, lost, well-dressed book child? You never know, with your poor eyesight an extra pair of peepers could be handy on our way."

  Licurius nodded just once.

  "There you go!" Europe kept grinning in mild triumph.

  So they climbed into the landaulet, all three-Licurius handing his mistress aboard-and set off down the Vestiweg once more. Rossamund's thoughts sang happily as he drank his fill of water and the flat fields rocked by. Whatever anyone else said, he thought lahzars were the finest folk he had ever met.

  7

  SORROW AT THE BRINDLESTOW BRIDGE

  Fuse (noun) six- to twelve-foot pole of cane or wand-wood, tightly coiled along its entire length with copper wire and capped with copper, brass or iron fulgurite; the fuse is the longer of the fulgaris-the weapons used by fulgars. The shorter fulgaris is called the stage. A fuse extends the reach of fulgars, allowing them to deliver their deadly jolts while staying out of reach themselves.

  It was supremely comfortable in the landaulet: the seats were pliant and easing, the upholstery and trimmings all wrapped in thick, glossy leather of a scarlet almost as rich as Europe's sumptuous frock coat. And there was indeed as much clean water as Rossamund needed, stored in black lacquered panniers hanging from the back of the carriage. There were also several bottles of claret, of a rather cheap variety, so Europe informed him, mixed with apple pulp, "and not meant for small boys!" All in all, he thought it a fine way to make the rest of his way to High Vesting.

  Not long into the journey, however, they crossed over a small wooden platform under which bubbled a happily babbling runnel, probably a drain for the fields. It was enough water to quench any thirst and not so far down the road that Rossamund would have perished before he found it. This really struck him: had he pushed on, he might have been all right on his own after all. He thought life's twistings very odd.

  Europe chatted gaily at first. She talked about the weather and then about the strange dress-sense of the women from the Considine, the Emperor's second capital far away south. She talked on and on about a great deal more, usually about herself: great conquests of fearsome nickers and even greater conquests of certain "stupid, wealthy dolts," as she called them-whatever that meant. Rossamund found it all rather hard to follow, but nodded as politely and as attentively as he could. While she talked, she offered him expensive foods in an elaborately offhand manner, dainty morsels the likes of which he had only ever seen in the quality street confectioners of Boschenberg. There were nibbles of many types of nut; strips of rare cured meats-gazelle, ibex, harp seal-delicately flavored with expensive spices; and sachets of dried fruits-peaches and strange yellow triangles she called "pineapple" which tasted so oddly and delightfully sweet he could not stop picking at them; and a small profusion of little bruised things. He asked what these were.

  "Those? Oh, they're whortleberries," she said simply, but with that one statement Rossamund's eyes went wide. How rich could one person be! Whortleberries were the absolute king of way foods: one little dried berry, though not able to relieve the pangs of hunger, could give a full-grown man energy for almost a whole day. They grew in very remote and threwdish-haunted-places and their cultivation and trade were vigilantly guarded. All this made them astoundingly expensive, but here, now, in this luxurious landaulet, was a small fortune's worth.

  "May I try one?" he asked timidly.

  Europe gave him an odd look. "Certainly. They're there for the eating-though not too many, mind, or the top of your head might blow off as you run giggling down the road."

  He took just one and examined it closely. It was a withered berry no bigger than the fingernail of his little finger, the color of a plum gone bad. Very unimpressive. He plopped it quickly in his mouth. It tasted flat and disappointingly bland, but when he swallowed, a tingling started in his belly and a happy, lively warmth spread to the top of his head. Rossamund blinked and grinned. He changed his mind and thought it the nicest thing he had ever eaten. With this new pulse of energy and surge of well-being he started to fidget and shift about in his seat.

  Europe watched his antics with amusement. "Works wonderfully well, does it not?" she observed.

  "Aye, ma'am! I reckon I could run all the way to High Vesting and back!" he enthused.

  "Yes, well…" Her expression became a little mocking. "Let us not go too far."

  This was a little deflating, but the whortleberry made Rossamund's spirits so high he was not downhearted for long. Forgetting himself a little, he began to poke about the interior of the carriage, prodding at the upholstery. On the seat beside him was a plain-looking box-a case really, quite large and long and flat and lacquered a glistening black. Rossamund went to pat its
smooth surface, but pulled his hand away quickly as he felt a faint, queasy dread emanating from within it.

  Europe quickly became stern. "Nothing in there, little sneak!"

  She took up this box and poked it away between her and the side wall of the landaulet. "Didn't they tell you at your bookhouse that curious eyes rot in their sockets and curious fingers wither to their knuckles?"

  After this the lady fulgar became quiet and ignored Rossamund, quickly growing sullen and staring at the distant windmills and featureless land, her chin cupped in hand, elbow propped on knee. "I hate this place…" she muttered. This was all she said for quite a long time.

  Rossamund had no idea what to do, and sat perplexed. Eventually he offered the lahzar one of her own whortleberries, thinking this might cheer her, but she just looked at it blankly, frowned at him and went back to her listless maundering. Rossamund became suddenly and painfully aware of the strangeness of his surroundings and of the two people with whom he shared the carriage. He sat very still and very, very quiet.

  Later that day it rained, and this seemed to improve Europe's mood considerably. "This is more like it," she grinned. Sitting up straighter, she called to Licurius, "Fighting weather, hey, Box-face! And let there be more of it too!"

  Once more, Rossamund had no idea what she was talking about. Licurius ignored her as he had ignored the rain-and most everything else, it seemed.

  Europe pulled the broad, bonnetlike canopy up and over them, keeping them and the plush interior dry while Licurius, at the front, was left to soak as he stoically dictated the landaulet's course. This made Rossamund uneasy and unhappy, reminding him of the times when Madam Opera bullied and badgered dear Verline. He did not understand why one person should have all that he or she needed and dictate to others what they have or have not.