by D M Cornish
A rever-man! A revenant! Rossamund knew of these things. They were put together by wicked people taking bits of dead bodies to make new creatures from them, all rotting limbs and ravenous. So that was Poundinch's secret trade, the reason for his suspicious conversations and the crazed flight from the Spindle. At last Rossamund had discovered the truth. Rivermaster-or Captain, if that was how it was to be now-Poundinch was a smuggler for the dark trades, a trafficker of corpses and half-made undead. That was why he pretended to haul such odoriferous cargoes as swine's lard and pungent herbs, to hide the stink of the contraband.
The foundling shuddered once more. He had to get away!
The hold of the Hogshead had now taken on a greater aspect of foul wickedness. Had it not, it still held a rever-man. Rossamund did not care how poorly made it might have been. He did not like the idea of being confined so closely with one. Its rotten reek was beginning to overpower the other rancid airs in the hold-even that of the swine's lard.
"Cut me loose!" he hissed to Freckle. "I have a knife still, hanging on my baldric. See?"
"Yes, I most definitely do see and see I do." There was a tug on Rossamund's scabbard. "Yet my own hands are enough to do a knife's work. Hemp and wood are one thing, Rossamund, but iron just another. I can loose your bonds but mine I cannot, unless you have learned your strength as well?"
The foundling frowned. He was not strong enough. What was the glamgorn talking about? His hopes dimmed, and he sat for a time in a gloom. Gradually he became aware that his bottom was beginning to sting, as if he were being bitten by a thousand little ants.
"Ow! Ow!" Rossamund realized he was experiencing the caustic nature of seawater for the first time. He had been sitting in the bilgewater long enough for it to start to eat at his skin. He stood as best he could, the rope bindings preventing him from achieving more than an awkward stoop. His backside stung.
A wicked, strangled giggle came from the lone crate.
"Not good for clothes nor delicate pink skin either," observed Freckle, ignoring the rever-man's malicious glee. "That's why I like my barky hide. It hides me better from sneaky eyes and stops the stinging of the water."
"Aye, I wish I had your skin," Rossamund agreed with a sagacious nod, "but just on my rear end." Wanting to pick up a previous thought, he continued. "Mister Freckle? Which nuglung do you serve?"
Freckle sniffed in a breath. "My, my-there's an everyman question if ever a question was one. No prying in private things! I've not asked you your private things and you shouldn't go asking upon my private things. They've taught you far too well, I can well see, too well."
Rossamund hung his head in shame. Somehow it made sense that this glamgorn would not want to be telling an everyman child-even one as friendly and open as Rossamund hoped he was being-much of secret bogle ways. The foundling was certain that if he were a bogle, he would not want to say a great deal to a person either-not unless he knew without a doubt that the person could be trusted. He apologized with a mutter, but pressed on to another mystery. "Please, at least, tell why my crying means you know my name?"
The glamgorn laughed his strange laugh. "Knowing, knowing-sometimes there has to be trusting too…" Freckle's golden eyes frowned, then became kindly once again. "I can see you ain't ready and I know there is a time and a place, a place and a time. I might be lowly, but even I know what to say and when not to say it. Yet the time might come for knowing things, and when the need of knowing's nigh, you'll know then what I do now."
This was no help at all. Rossamund wanted to push for more when there came the familiar thumping of boot steps on the deck above.
What now? Rossamund quickly became quiet and the glamgorn's eyes retreated into the obscurity of his prison.
Rossamund followed the steps as they thudded overhead and trod toward the hatch. It opened and Captain Poundinch peered down, his attention darting to each crate before stopping upon the foundling. "Well, Rosey-me-lad, I see ye're still in whole pieces." He grinned leeringly. "I've come back sooner than I said, I know, but I figured ye'll do yer thinkin' just as well upon me other tub, th' frigate Cockeril, as 'ere. Ye'll like 'er, she's a mite more spacious than th' poor ol' 'ogshead."
He waggled a short-barreled pistola hidden beneath his coattails. Eyeing the firelock in fright, Rossamund saw that its barrel was wider than usual-a weapon designed to knock a person down, to bludgeon him to death despite any type of proofing. "And I reckon this might serve as th' best gag for our little stint to the Cockeril. No 'ollerin's or screechin's from ye, an' there'll be no shootin's from me."
Poundinch released the knot that held Rossamund's wrists to Freckle's crate and jerked the foundling after him and back up the ladder. "So follow me lead and a simple jaunt from 'ere to there is all for ye and me to enjoy."
Rossamund strained his neck to try for a glimpse of Freckle. The glamgorn's now sad eyes showed briefly.
"Farewell…" the foundling mouthed, just as he was hefted clear off the ladder by the easy might of the lumbering captain. He caught one last sight of Freckle blinking a solitary sorrow-filled blink.
15
DECISIONS, DECISIONS
Glamgorn (noun) one of the smaller kinds of monster, a true bogle. They come in all manner of shapes, pigmentation and hairiness: big eyes, little eyes; big ears, little ears; big body, little limbs; little body, big limbs; and all the variations in between. Often feisty and jittery, certain kinds can get downright nasty, the worst of them being known as blightlings. One of the bizarre idiosyncrasies of glamgorns is that they like to wear clothes, everyman clothes stolen from washing lines and unguarded trunks. There are rumors that, dressed like this, glamgorns-and worse yet blightlings-have been able to sneak into the cities of everymen to spy and cause mischief.
The cord that once tied his wrists now cut, Rossamund was forced to walk before Captain Poundinch, his fear of that large pistola the only leash.
Mighty thunderclouds boiled in the west and cast High Vesting in early gloom. It was clear that Poundinch thought the hour already dim enough to move his captive. Why else would he have returned to get me so soon? Rossamund reasoned.
One consolation was the fresher air, happy relief from the cloying, rotten fumes of the hold. As he was forced down the gangplank, Rossamund sucked in several headache-clearing breaths through his nose to cleanse it of the stink.
There was hardly another soul about as they went along the piers. Most of those they did pass by paid them no attention, and the few who did saw Poundinch and quickly stopped looking. Generally, the vessels berthed in this region of the docks were in bad repair, similar to the state of the Hogshead when Rossamund had first gone aboard, way back in Boschenberg. There was a strong sense that the authorities did not visit this part of the harbor very often. Consequently, Rossamund guessed that they were likely to be captained and crewed by the likes of the Hogshead's master, and were not places to flee to for help.
Between the stone and the sty, again! And what of poor, lonely Freckle too…?
The foundling walked on with his hands pushed hard into the pockets of his fine frock coat. It occurred to him once more to use his knife. Poundinch had still not taken it from him. Rossamund could not fathom why; perhaps he figured that the pistola, his great size and greater experience would all be deterrents enough. They were, and Rossamund let the idea go in despair.
"So ye met me cargo, then?" Captain Poundinch's rough voice intruded on the boy's calculations.
Rossamund grunted once and nodded.
"Ye see, whether ye knew nowt afore or not," Poundinch went on, playing it as if this were just an amiable conversation between friends, "nows ye do-ye knows it all, I expect, or nears enough-and with that bein' so, I cain't afford to 'ave ye out o' me sight. Don't worry, mind, life aboard th' Cockeril will be a might more interestin' than workin' as a lamplighter."
"I don't think so," Rossamund muttered between gritted teeth. He felt cornered and cheated.
"Come, lad, that's no way t' be!
" Poundinch sounded genuinely hurt. "I'll be sparin' ye all that walkin' back and forth twiddlin' with th' lamps, as th' day goes out and comes back in again, on and on. Who'd want that?"
"I would." Rossamund had been raised to serve on a ram, but not this way and most definitely not with a master like Poundinch.
"What? An' waste all that wonde'ful learnin' ye got from yer society?" The captain clicked his tongue disapprovingly and shook his head. "Turn left 'ere, Rosey-boy."
They stepped onto a main dock way.
Rossamund was getting angrier and angrier. The injustice of his own situation, and even that of Freckle, gnawed at him. I don't want this! I have been letting other people tell me where to go, what to be, his thoughts fumed, I will not let this beggar force me to do anything more!
With that, he sat down right in the middle of the wharf.
Poundinch almost walked right over the top of him. "What's this 'ere!" he cursed. Giving a low growl like that of a crotchety dog, the captain then said, thick and heavy, "Get up!"
Rossamund did not stir. He refused to be forced against his will any longer. Master Fransitart, he knew with a certainty, would not have let himself be cowed in such a way. What is more, there were some people at the far end of the dock way that looked as if they might actually come to his aid.
"Geeetttt uuupp…" Poundinch seethed quietly, stepping over the foundling menacingly. "This li'l tantrum won't do ye any good, mucky li'l snot!" The captain leaned low and Rossamund heard the pistola being rattled near his ear as a threat. "Stand, frasart, or I'll make ye one of me cargo instead of me crew…!"
The boy's mind hummed now with a taut, thoughtless energy, poised at the debut of valiant effort. First leaning forward, then pushing up with hefty vigor, Rossamund stood. His crown and the back of his head collided sharply with first the chin and then the already crooked nose of Poundinch, sending sparks through the foundling's vision. The brute captain belched a stunned curse of the filthiest language and toppled clatteringly to the wooden planks of the wharf.
Rossamund did not wait to see what was to happen next. He just ran.
Chancing one rapid glance behind as he fled, he saw the evidence of his work: Poundinch sprawled on the dock way, fumbling between his deadly flintlock and the blood sputtering from his nostrils.
Rossamund dashed on, bounding over and skipping around all obstacles-on toward where he had spied those better-seeming people. They were no longer there! Regardless, he raced on. The sound of scuffling behind, then a steady pound pound told him that Poundinch was on his feet again and after him.
The chase was in earnest now.
With a stumbling skid, Rossamund darted right, up a connecting siding. He quickly saw that he had made a wrong turn. Without hesitation he retreated. Poundinch loomed, blood smeared over his mouth and chin-Too close! Too close!
"Get 'ere!" he shouted, but failed to close quickly enough on the nimble boy. Rossamund scrambled on with a panicked yelp as the captain stumbled, his hands gripping at vacated air.
With Poundinch now so near, Rossamund expected to hear the terrible, clapping report of the pistola and be sent to his doom with an oversized ball foiling his proofing and piercing his spine. He ducked his head without thinking, trying to make his legs move faster. He caught sight of the clock in the square, away to his left, half-hidden by all those masts. Though he was moving too quickly to be able to read its time, it gave him his bearings as he sprinted to the next connecting siding. Before him two figures stepped out, two looming shadows. Rossamund did not know whether to plead to them for help or to avoid them as best he could.
"Stop 'im! Th' thief stole me coin-bag!" bellowed the quicker-witted Poundinch.
That decided it for the foundling. Well aware that most people preferred the assertions of a grown man to the excuses of a child, Rossamund skipped desperately past one of the shadows-who seemed to ignore him, stepping past with a flash of deep magenta cloth-and nimbly into the grasping arms of the second.
He thrashed and squirmed wildly in that strong, steady grip, his panic making him deaf to the voice of his new captor. He looked back in horror to the charging captain closing in fury upon his prey.
"Let me go! Let me go!" Rossamund hollered. "He's a liar! He's a liar! Let me go!"
"Rossamund!" The stranger's rebuke finally penetrated. "Rossamund! I know he's a liar. It's me, Fouracres!"
In an instant the foundling's whirling mind was stunned to a halt.
There was the postman, his normally grinning mouth tight with consternation, his tricorn knocked onto the wharf by the power of Rossamund's struggle.
Utterly confused, Rossamund looked back in the direction of Poundinch, who called to Fouracres, "Well caught, good sir! Ye 'as done me a service!"
Yet between the cruel intentions of the captain and his victim stepped that deep magenta shadow. It was Europe.
They've come-both of them!
On came Captain Poundinch, clearly thinking the chase concluded in his favor, his boots pounding, pounding on the wood. "Thought ye could rob a fellow of 'is rightful prize, did ye?" he gloated, with a smugly grim sneer as he hurried to claim back Rossamund as his slave once more.
Without a word, and without hesitation, the fulgar stepped into the path of the captain. He towered over her, yet she calmly reached out her hand.
Zzzock! There was the briefest flash of green fire as she sent the suddenly amazed Poundinch, despite all his forward momentum, hurtling backward into the oaken side of a sailing ship. He hit it hard, the wind driven from his lungs with a belching cough. His eyes fixed in shock, he dropped through the gap between the hull of the boat and the planks of the wharf. There was a muffled splash… and that was all.
Her expression masterfully serene, Europe walked back to Fouracres and the now elated foundling. Taking Rossamund by the hand, she continued back along the wharf. "Come on, let's find this Mister Germanicus," she said quietly.
As they led him out of the docks, Rossamund's heart was a song of freedom. They've saved me! They've saved me! She saved me!
While they went, he answered all their questions, giving an excited account of who Poundinch was, of why the rivermaster had been chasing him, of what had been intended for him. Then he thought of Freckle-poor Freckle-more friendly and genuine than most people the foundling had ever met. His glee at his own liberation entirely evaporated. Perhaps Miss Europe is still in a rescuing frame of mind?
He stopped and said, "Miss Europe? Mister Fouracres? I have a friend back on the Hogshead who needs saving."
Europe let go of his hand and folded her arms. Pressing her chin against her chest, she looked at him shrewdly. "Really?" was all she said.
"Aye, Miss Europe, aye! I can't be free and him not!" Rossamund implored. "I can show us the way-I remember it, it isn't far! The boat's most surely still deserted. It was when I was there, and that was but a few minutes ago."
Fouracres pursed his ample lips. "Ye're asking a lot of us, Rossamund."
The foundling swallowed.
"And what of this Germanicus fellow?" quizzed the lahzar, with a deepening frown. "Is not your need to see him urgent?"
"But my friend helped me!" Rossamund cried. "We've got to get him free!"
"You make friends too easily, little man," Europe murmured.
Fouracres sighed. "But when in straits, yer prove yer mates," he mused. "I for one will help yer. Miss Europe must shift fer herself. Lead on, let's get this done before that brute swims his way clear!"
Rossamund did not entirely follow what Fouracres was saying, but understood his meaning. Grateful, he started back along the way he had run, looking back at Europe.
She had not moved.
"Miss Europe…?"
With a long-suffering look, the lahzar rolled her eyes. "All right, little man! I'm coming… I'm coming," she said, and mouthed a sour complaint as she followed. She showed no inclination to hurry, despite the possibility of Poundinch's emerging once more from the vinegar waters. Th
e fulgar lagged as they hurried back to the Hogshead, getting tetchy when Rossamund made a single false turn.
Yet he found the rotten, sinking cromster easily enough.
Nobody was apparent on deck.
With cunning grace, Fouracres crept aboard to check the hold below. Watching him from the berth, Rossamund could well see how the postman had survived the dangers of his employment.
Europe sat on a bollard, crossed her legs and made as if where she was, was just where she meant to be.
The postman quickly reappeared and quietly declared the Hogshead uncrewed. "She's a bit of a stinker," he added, "and a sinker too, by all evidence."
Rossamund hesitated for just a moment, overcoming his revulsion for this vessel and all the unhappy things that had happened to him aboard her.
Covering her nose with her handkerchief as she came aboard, Europe refused to go near the hold. "You were on here for how long?" she marveled.
Fouracres went below again and called, "Which cage, Rossamund?"
The foundling went to the hatchway and pointed to the prison that held Freckle, then to the third box-crate. "But watch out for that other one over there," he warned. "It's got a rever in it."
The postman rapidly took a step away from the dangerous crate. "Yer what?" he barked. "I can see why yer didn't much like being on this bucket!" Several times he turned a nervous eye to it as he crouched down and tinkered with the lock of Freckle's own cage.
Rossamund had no desire to go down into the hold while the rever-man remained, and stayed at the top of the ladder. It was only then it dawned on Rossamund that Europe-or even Fouracres-might not appreciate rescuing a glamgorn, a monster. He almost panicked. What will Miss Europe do? Yet whatever might happen, he would rather chance this than knowingly leave Freckle in the certain misery of his current condition.