by D M Cornish
The postman did not look at her. "Indeed I have, ma'am, though I am sure a near sight fewer than thee!"
"Hm." Europe lapsed into silence once more.
After two hours, with the scene changing little, they passed a milestone, a squat block of white rock upon which was carved High Vesting, and beneath that, 6 miles.
Behind this milestone grew a small, scruffy olive tree. As Rossamund looked, he was sure he spied movement within, a subtle shifting within the bush. He glared into its deep shadows. There, within, he was certain there was a figure obscured by boughs, a little person with a face like an overlarge sparrow and round, glittering dark eyes. A bogle! It shrunk noiselessly into deeper shade, but its eyes remained fixed on Rossamund, blinking occasionally with a pale flicker. The foundling stared back in breathless wonder, craning his neck as the landaulet rattled past and moved on.
"It's only a milestone, little man," Europe's curt voice intruded. "Surely you've seen one before?"
The horse whickered.
The eyes disappeared.
Rossamund sat back quickly. Thrilled as he was by such a sight, he felt no inclination to tell Europe of it. He did not want to see this one destroyed as the Misbegotten Schrewd had been. Thinking on the encounter just past, he decided he must have seen a nuglung, one of the littler bogles, so the almanac said, often having an animal's head on a small, humanlike body-what the almanac called anthropoid, or like a man. Rossamund almost couldn't believe it: he had seen a nuglung, a real one. There were stories from ancient times that told of some of these nuglungs doing good things for people, though folk now would never believe such a notion. His almanac was typically brief on them, saying, as it always did about any kind of bogle, that avoidance was the best policy. The foundling reckoned such advice probably helped the monsters as much as people.
Opening a black lacquered box, Europe took out a soft drawstring bag with a stiffened circular bottom. It was a fiasco. Rossamund had seen them before. In them he knew women kept their rouges, blushes and balms: the tools of beauty. He did not think a fulgar would need such things, but, when she had finished dabbing and daubing at her face with the aid of a small looking glass, even a young lad like himself could not help but be amazed by the simple yet profound transformation. He did not think a little rosying of the cheeks and lips and whitening of the nose could be so flattering.
"A girl's got to look her best for the city," she offered simply to his gawping.
Fouracres turned in the driver's seat to say something and was visibly stunned, turning an unmanly red from earlobe to earlobe. He quickly resumed his original position and muttered over his shoulder awkwardly, "We'll… er… be at High Vesting in an hour or so, miss."
Europe smiled weakly. "Yes, we had deduced that for ourselves. A mere stone told us the distance about a mile back-but thank you for the thought." She hummed happily and watched the passing scene.
Recovering his composure, Fouracres once more spoke over his shoulder. "So, Rossamund, ye're going ter be a lamplighter, are yer?"
The foundling did not know how to answer this. Was he a lamplighter or was he now Europe's factotum? He looked at her quickly. Muffled in her thick coat, she paid him no attention whatsoever, returning to her usual regal reserve.
"That's what I am supposed for, sir," he ventured, glancing at Europe once more. "Though I am not really wanting it. Do you know much about them?"
"A little," answered the postman. As he spoke, he would spend some of the time looking at Rossamund from the corner of one eye and at the road with the corner of the other, or turn his back completely and focus on the path ahead. "I was thinking of becoming one myself, yer see, when the choices were afore me. As yer can see for yerselves, it didn't take my fancy."
Here was the proof of his dull future. "Too boring, Mister Fouracres?"
The postman paused, appearing bemused. "That's not so much it… as the reverse."
This was not the answer Rossamund had expected. He sat up. "How do you mean?"
"I chose the quiet life of a strolling postman, for the lot of a lamplighter was a little too dangerous for mine."
Rossamund found he was holding his breath. "Dangerous? I thought they just went out, lit the lamps and went back home."
With a chuckling snort, Fouracres looked sharply at Rossamund. "That they do-on stretches of road traveling the fringes of civilization, at times of the day that bogles love best ter move about in, contending with bandits, poachers, smugglers, mishaps on the road itself, living with only a handful o' others in isolated places. Then you have ter go about changing the water in the lamps themselves, regular as the seasons-that part, I'll grant yer, ain't interesting at all. Mmm, not the job for this fellow." The postman pointed to himself with his thumb as he returned his attention to the road. "My hours are long and strange enough and my pay as low again as any should bear, without having cause ter make any o' this worser by joining the lamplighter service." He gave Rossamund a cheeky, sidelong smile. "Ye, however, Mister Rossamund, seem ter be made of sterner stuff. Well, good for yer. It's a good thing yer harness is so fine, else yer might have something ter worry about. Howsoever, I'd get yerself a well-made hat afore yer venture up ter Winstermill."
Rossamund did not answer. His thoughts were turning on all the postman had just revealed. Bogles! Bandits! Perhaps the life of a lamplighter might be a whole lot more worthwhile after all? This clarified his path for him: now he was actually curious, even eager, to work his official trade. How do I tell Miss Europe this? The fulgar had said little more on her desire for him to become her factotum since the first day at the Harefoot Dig. He looked at her once more. Though her expression was resolutely aloof, she seemed sad-not momentarily unhappy, but troubled with deep, suppressed grief. How different she was from the talkative, boastful woman he had first met on the pastures of Sulk End. A tiny ache set in Rossamund's soul. He felt sorry for her loss of Licurius, however foul the leer had been, and he had an inkling that his devoted service might take that grief away. He was confused again.
Pondering intently on these things, he did not notice three crusty folk sitting by the side of the road with their rambling carts and rickety donkeys till the sound of their chatter caught his attention. They were sellers of vegetables of many kinds.
Fouracres hailed them as the landaulet passed. "Hoy! Gentle eekers, do yer have any letters ter send?"
All three smiled with genuine, almost bursting joy, one of them crying, "Ah, bless ye! Bless ye, Master Fourfields. No letters from us today." She marveled at the landaulet. "What a pretty pair o' legs ye're travelin' on this ev'nin'! Much easier on the boot leather than yer usual ones!" She tossed a large pumpkin to the postman.
"And blessings ter thee, Mother Fly! Mother Mold! Farmer Math! Sorry, I can't stop, but these 'pretty legs' have places they're taking me!" He grinned back, slowing the landaulet and catching the vegetable skillfully. "I'll be back along here termorrer. We'll have a good natter then. Thanks for the fruit, madam-t'will make for a fine soup ternight."
"Then I'll save me quizzin's fer anon," the old woman returned in a hoarse too-loud whisper, rolling her intensely curious gaze over Rossamund and, more especially, Europe.
The fulgar did not even stir, but continued her cool stare at the country on the opposite side. The foundling, however, smiled happily at this rustic dame and her companions, who all returned his friendly expression.
"Save them all, Mother, and get yerself waddling home at the right time," Fouracres said cheekily. "Darkness comes too early this time o' year, and the chance of bogles with it."
Mother Fly laughed a dry and crackling laugh. "And ye'd better pass on yerself, fancy-legs. Ye've still got a-ways to rattle before ye can make yer soup. Till tomorrer!"
"Till termorrer."
With that they passed on, Mother Fly waving cheerfully.
When they had gone a little farther, Fouracres informed him quietly, "They're some of the eekers I was telling yer about. Good people, as hospitable a
s they get." Rossamund wondered how it was such happy folk as these could bear to live in those tottering cottages out in this bare, haunted place.
They crested a small rise in the road and before them the land spread out and down in a large basin that found its way to the sea. Rossamund assumed it must be the mighty Grume-though he had never seen it before. So much water, and as sickly a green as Master Fransitart or Master Heddlebulk or Master Pinsum had ever described. Rossamund marveled and stared fixedly. The sea! The sea! The cloudy surface seemed to be shifting constantly, much more than the Humour ever had. Flecks of dirty white danced, reared up, then disappeared-the tops of waves-and the smell of it blew to them from the basin below. It was like no other odor Rossamund had ever encountered. Sharp and salty, yet somehow sweet as well, almost like a hint of orange blossoms in spring.
Europe wrinkled her nose with a look of mild distaste.
Fouracres turned to them beaming with satisfaction. He breathed in deeply. "Ahhh! The stink o' the Grume. Nothing quite like it. They say that the kelp forests just offshore improve its stink somewhat, that out in the deeper waters it does not smell so sweet. Makes me glad I'm not a sailor. Now look there, my boy. That is High Vesting."
Below and before them, on the shores of the Grume, was a cluttered knot of marble, granite and masonry that made the high protecting walls and buildings of the fortress-city of High Vesting. It was not nearly as big as Boschenberg, but somehow seemed far more threatening. Great white towers, taller than any buildings Rossamund had known, stuck up from all the usual domes and spires. Out in the water giant blocks of stone had been laid out in a great groyne that protected the harbor. In this harbor, which the almanac had named the Mullhaven, were ships, actual ships! Even from here he could tell what kinds they were from his lessons under Master Heddlebulk.There were low, menacing rams; solid, blocklike cargoes and grand-cargoes; and sleek ships still running under sail in this age of the gastrine-many being guided and poked about the harbor by small gastrine craft known as drudges. He had been told of the great size of these vessels, but was not prepared for just how big they were. He could not wait to get to High Vesting now, to go down to its docks and stand near these monstrous craft. It might well be the last time he got to see ships.
He looked back at Europe, who had been so quiet the whole way. She too was staring at the fortress-city and looked bored. She turned to the foundling and seemed to search his face, heavy thoughts stirring inexplicably in her expression. Her attention remained fixed so for only an instant; then she went back to gazing at their destination.
As they drove down the southern side of the rise and into the basin, the Gainway became much broader, its paving smoother. On either side grew unbroken lanes of tall, leafless tress with smooth silver-gray bark and high curving branches. This late in autumn, their fallen leaves were piled in great drifts along the verges. Other roads and paths joined from the surrounding farms and villages, and with them more traffic. Some of their fellow travelers gave the landaulet a curious or suspicious inspection. Soon enough they joined the queue of vehicles and pedestrians waiting to pass the scrutiny of the gate wardens-who wore a uniform similar to the soldiers of Boschenberg-and enter High Vesting by her massive iron gates. Before long they would be within the walls.
With vague apprehension Rossamund wondered if, after all this time, Mister Germanicus would still be waiting for him.
14
AN OLD FRIEND RETURNS
Frigate (noun) smallest of the dedicated fighting rams, usually having twenty or twenty-four guns down one broadside (guns-broad). Nimble and fast, they are considered the "eyes of the fleet," running messages, performing reconnaissance and guarding a fleet's flanks. There are oversized frigates called heavy-frigates, having up to thirty-two guns on one broadside. These are popular among pirates and privateers.
Passage into the city had been easy. Fouracres had simply grinned at the gate wardens, said some pleasant words, and they had let them by with no more than a nod. Once beyond the gates Rossamund's head was swiveling left and right as he sought to see as much of this strange new place as possible. The buildings in High Vesting were generally taller than those in Boschenberg and made of a fine white stone, often with their foundations built of granite. Windows were taller, narrower, their panes rectangular rather than small diamonds. The streets, however, were wider and in better repair than those of Rossamund's home city.
Fouracres steered the landaulet nimbly through the throng of other vehicles: wheelbarrows, sedan chairs, carts, wagons, coaches and carriages as fine as Europe's, and some even finer. The smell of the Grume wafted up every south-facing street, brought upon breezes of frosty air. Europe covered her nose and mouth with a gloved hand.
As they went, Fouracres made arrangements. "Now what is to be yer destination here?"
Europe roused herself and spoke first. "I need to attend the offices of Messrs. Ibdy amp; Adby on the Pontoon Wigh," she said.
"Very well," the postman replied politely. "… And, Rossamund-yer mentioned something about Mister Germanicus at the Harbor Gov-"
"You can leave what he does and where he goes to me, postman!" Europe interrupted with a scowl. "You're my driver and you drive. He is my factotum, and even if only for now, he attends me! When I decide it is time, his needs shall be met. Till then, serve me!"
Rossamund blinked.
Fouracres scowled in return. "Last I knew, madam, he and most definitely I worked for the Emperor! So till I make a declaration otherwise, yer can keep yer 'serve me's' to yerself. I'm doing yer a favor, and I'll see it through, but I ain't yer servant by any more than common decency allows!"
Europe, her eyes slitted and glaring, looked as if she could say more, much more, but then she sagged and returned to her blank stare at the passing scene. "However you want it… Just drive, will you?" was all she said.
The postman drove on while Rossamund intently studied the right toe of his shoe, not daring to look up.
They came to a great square: an enormous paved area cordoned off from traffic and filled with fountains and commemorative columns. At each corner was a massive statue of the Arius Vigilans-the Vigilant Ram-a heavily horned he-sheep in various poses of stout defiance or regal repose. These were the representative animal of Rossamund's people the Hergotts, and seeing them so boldly displayed made him feel proud. Glamorous crowds filled the area, their energy and foreign costume a spectacle of its own.
On the opposite side of this grand square was their destination. Messrs. Ibdy amp; Adby, Mercantile amp; Supercargo was situated in a lofty building of glossy pink stone. Its front was an almost windowless mass of giant pilasters with an impressive door of dull brown bronze in their midst. Immediately above the door were two columns of windows, as narrow and tall as any other in this city. Rossamund counted the windows by row. Thirteen! He had never seen such a large structure, but from what he could gather, there were several about High Vesting.
As Fouracres stopped the landaulet in the common courtyard before the office tower of Messrs. Ibdy amp; Adby, Rossamund, unable to contain himself any longer, asked eagerly, "May I see the rams? Miss Europe? I might never get to see them ever again."
Gulls cavorted above. To the south, out over the Grume, great bales of pale yellow cloud boiled and piled up into the sky. Their flattened undersides were a dark and ominous green-gray.
Europe looked at him, then to the postman, who shrugged and said, with a weary smile, "May I suggest this, miss, that I wait here with yer fancy carriage while you do yer dealings and Rossamund be allowed to have a peek about. Aye?"
With a sigh, Europe pointed to a big clock upon the facade of an equally large building across the square. It was easily visible, and Rossamund had been taught his timings at the marine society. It was a little after the half hour of two.
"Be back here in one half of an hour, not later," she allowed, sternly.
"I will! I will!" Rossamund's heart raced as he leaped down. About to dash off, he remembered that
morning and skittered back, holding out his hand to help Europe alight.
"Well done," she said, with a wry look. "You're learning."
He beamed with joy and hurried off. He had a smile for every person he passed: elegant couples out for a Domesday stroll; stevedores bearing loads; striped-shirted vinegaroons taking shore leave; flamboyantly wigged rams' captains in gorgeous frock coats doing much the same; important-looking men stuffed into stiff, ludicrously high collars talking on important things beneath feathered and furred thrice-highs. How wonderfully strange it felt to have that little time of liberty in this gorgeously foreign city!
With awe he stepped through the great iron gates that split the mighty seawall and allowed access to the city from the piers and berths. The wall's foundations were blackened by century-long lapping of the bitter waters of the Grume. All along its lofty summit were batteries of cannon; catapultlike devices called tormentums-for throwing great smoking bombs of the most venomous repellents; and lambasts-machines of war that flung spears dipped in various wicked poisons. As with all coastal cities, High Vesting was in deadly earnest about keeping the cunning monsters of the deep away.
Rossamund skipped past the seawall and down a long stone pier way. It was intersected by many long, high wooden wharves and lined with many smaller craft, some ironclad, some with hulls of wood. So many vessels were there, with their clutter of tall masts, that walking among them was like moving through a strange forest. Out beyond all this, however, out in the deeper waters of the Mullhaven, were the rams. It was these mighty vessels of war that he wanted to see. It was upon these that he had been expected to serve.
At the end of the pier, moored on a low dock that went out to the right, he discovered a frigate. These were one of the smaller oceangoing rams, with a shallow enough draft to be this close to shore. It was about the length of a monitor, but sat much higher out of the water, so that it could survive the swell of the sea. Fascinated, he happily let his head swell with all the instruction he had received and reading he had done on them. He inspected the single row of ports out of which the cannon would be run, counted each one-twenty-eight in all; he admired the graceful curve of the bow, which gave these warships their name as it ran out and down to the ram; he read the brass nameplate fixed to the fo'c'sle. Surprise, it said. Rossamund almost swooned. This vessel was famous! It was the fastest of its type in the whole navy, perhaps even the whole world. He had read of it in pamphlets and had even been taught of it at Madam Opera's. It had served faithfully for over one hundred years!