by D M Cornish
Though Rossamund did not see how he had done it, Fouracres released the lock, saying, "There yer are, friend o' Rossamund, time ter be moving on."
As he swung open the top of the crate, it was slammed the rest of the way as Freckle suddenly sprung from the top of his old prison, wailing delightedly, "Free! Free! Free! Poor Freckle's had enough!"
At that same moment the rever in the third box-crate shook it mightily and started up a wretched wailing. "Let us out! Let us out! Aeeiii!We want to eat him! Let us out!"
Not even Miss Europe, when she had fought the grinnlings, moved as quickly as Fouracres at these simultaneous eruptions from the box-crates. In a single step the postman both spun about and sprang away, a tomahawk swinging ready in hand.
Quicker than the eye, the glamgorn leaped right over Fouracres and shot up the ladder. All that Rossamund saw of it was a small brown thing all legs and arms and those alien yellow eyes. These eyes caught Rossamund's own as Freckle dashed past-an extremely brief yet strangely meaningful contact-before the glamgorn sprang off the deck and disappeared into the murky liquid of the Grume.
Wide-eyed with shock, "Oh…" was all Rossamund could think to say.
Fouracres blinked up at him in equal surprise and came quickly away from the rantings of the rever. "There yer be, yer friend is free. Let's leave this wild, broken fellow ter his raging."
At the commotion Europe had approached. "Rossamund," she purred with icy malice, "was that your friend?"
The foundling turned to her and, seeing her cold expression, looked at his feet. "Ah… a-aye."
She gave him a look of mild contempt. "You made me come down here to rescue a bogle?… Licurius was right!" she growled quietly. "You really are a wretched little sedorner."
"Look here!" Fouracres declared, reaching the top of the ladder. "There's no need to be spitting such filthy words!"
Rossamund's eyes narrowed obstinately and he scowled at the fulgar. "And Fransitart is right!You're the worst monster of all! You just go around killing no matter what! That poor schrewd did nothing to you!"
"Of all the…!" Indignant, Europe took a step toward him.
This time he was not daunted. This time he was not going to just be meek. This time he would defend himself like a man should.
Fouracres moved as if to intervene.
Europe became still. She looked from the boy to the man, her expression twisting weirdly. She dropped her head and began to make a low, unnerving noise in her throat.
Rossamund glanced at Fouracres, who shrugged.
The foundling took a step toward her and started as she threw her head back at last, and let out a gush of laughter. Great guffaws shook her-mighty, mirthful sobs.
Rossamund froze in bewilderment. "Miss Europe…?"
The lahzar sank to her knees and laughed and laughed and laughed.
Going to her side, Rossamund crouched down and tried to peer into her face. He looked to the postman again.
Shaking his head, Fouracres was just as bewildered.
Eventually Europe's violent glee ebbed. Panting, still chuckling, she looked at the foundling from the corner of her eye. "Ah, little man!" she wheezed softly. "You are about the strangest, bravest little fellow I have ever met!" Taking off her quartz glasses and dabbing tears, the lahzar got back to her feet. She perched her glasses back on her nose, put on warm doeskins against the increasing cold and offered Rossamund her hand, saying, "Now let's find this Mister Germanicus."
Rossamund looked at the hand. He did not know what to think of her. Besides which, what was he to think of Freckle, who had fled with no farewells? This world is too hard, he concluded.
Gripping the lahzar's fingers gingerly, he descended the gangplank off the Hogshead and wished never to see that vessel-or smell it-again. Behind them they could hear the muffled shrieking of the rever, still trapped in its tiny prison.
As they walked back through the moored vessels, Fouracres explained to him their own side of his original liberation.
It had taken Europe longer than the prescribed half an hour to settle up payments that were her due from her clients. By the time she had emerged from the pink building, Fouracres was already concerned whether Rossamund was just being irresponsible, or if something was wrong.
"Without even waiting to set the landaulet someplace safe, Europe was after yer," Fouracres stated matter-of-factly. "I had to catch her up and we simply walked all over the docks, asked for any sights of yer, turning up nothing for the longest time. Then some fellow with a westerner's accent and the blackest fingernails I have ever seen suggested we might try looking again in the direction where we found yer-took a few sous to wheedle even this from him.
"We had already been searching an hour or more, and had been over several parts of the docks twice. We were in the act of following that fellow's advice, when I spied yer running yer heart out and looking as if all the utterworsts of Loquor were at yer tail. Having crossed and recrossed that particular place several times, we simply made sure we took a way that would cut yer off… and whoever was scaring yer," he added grimly. "The rest yer were there ter witness."
Rossamund could almost not believe that these two had striven so hard to find him, that Europe had led the way in his liberation. How was he to feel about her now? If she was this loyal, he would happily serve as her factotum, but then… she hates monsters so bitterly. Oh, I don't know…! Rossamund was beginning to find his lack of gumption extremely frustrating.
It was Europe who settled the question as they drove on in the landaulet. "Something is not quite right inside me, little man," she declared. "I felt it when I sent that odious bully into the harbor for a bath, and it's got a lot to do with why I let your bogle chum go. The spasm those nights ago has done more harm than I care for. I need to see my surgeon very soon."
"Are you really ill?" Rossamund asked.
Europe smiled gravely. "I'm not dying, but I must set out on the soonest vessel for Sinster." She paused for a moment.
The foundling watched her intently.
Europe returned his stare.
"This is my aim," she continued finally. "You go to Winstermill and serve there faithfully, as you have me, as the lamplighter you are intended to be. I will go to Sinster to get repaired. I have no idea how long that might take, but when I am back to my healthy self, I will come by your way, little man, and see how you're doing."
Rossamund's mind boggled at the thought of what "to get repaired" actually involved. He knew better than to ask, though.
She bent down and filled his senses with her sweet perfume. "Perhaps then, you might consider again the opportunity to become my helper?"
He just smiled and nodded. He liked this and was glad it was Europe who had formulated such a plan. It gave him his task to do right now and offered him time to think further on the opportunities a factotum's life might offer rather than a lamplighter's career.
The Offices of the Chief Harbor Governor were not, a little surprisingly, near the port but in the administrative center of High Vesting. The low marble-white building was so much like all the others in this district that Rossamund was glad he had Fouracres with him, for he was sure he would never have been able to find it on his own.
Within they discovered that Mister Germanicus had left in a dudgeon three days before. However, he had left instructions of his own referring to the appearance of one "lazy marine society boy." These instructions were characteristically simple: he was to make his way to Winstermill forthwith, where he was expected.
With Fouracres there to smooth the way and vouch for Rossamund whenever it was needed, the clerks and sergeants of the Harbor Governor were industrious in their help. They ratified the remains of his existing traveling certificates and identification papers, writing up new travel documents. They even wrote a covering letter, explaining-they said-the unusual state of Rossamund's papers. What a relief it was for him-he had expected a lot of hard questions and suspicious innuendo. He was now at liberty to make his way
to Winstermill.
To avoid any possibility of reprisal by Poundinch or his crew, and in keeping with Mister Germanicus' instructions, it was determined that Rossamund should leave the very next day. They drove to a fancy hostelry known as the Fox Hole. Europe preferred it as her place of repose whenever she was in High Vesting.
Before its facade of grand marble columns, with Europe organizing the footmen in the distribution of her luggage, Fouracres bid Rossamund farewell. "Now I reckon I just might get the courts ter bring some of their burdensome interest ter bear on the Cockeril and her nefarious captain-that's the name of her, ain't it?"
"Aye, Mister Fouracres," Rossamund nodded. "It was the Cockeril all right, and the Hogshead too." He sincerely hoped that such "burdensome interest" might bring the dastardly career of Captain Poundinch to a necessary end.
The foundling stepped closer to Fouracres and whispered, "And what of the glamgorn we saved? It was a shame that he had to run off so fast. Will he be all right?"
"It's the way of those little fellows," said Fouracres, with a fatherly pat on the foundling's head. "Deep in unfriendly places yer can hardly blame the bogle for skipping away quick. As ter how he'll fare, I can't say I rightly know, though I can sure tell yer those little fellows are wily and tough. Trust it ter Providence, Mister Rossamund-it's all yer can do."
Rossamund's burden lightened just a little. He sighed.
Fouracres stood and smiled sadly down at him. "I will keep my eye out for yer, Mister Rossamund. I have reason ter go Winstermill way ev'ry now and then. So ter thee I will say fer now: till next occasion. Don't trust everybody yer meet-though I reckon she might be more honorable than she seems." He indicated the imperious fulgar with a subtle look.
Seeing this, Europe approached them. "Good-bye, Postman Fouracres. Thank you for your help." She gave a very slight, almost curtsylike bow and tried to hand something to him. A bill of folding money.
Fouracres bowed deeply, but did not take what was offered. "As I said when we were hunting fer Rossamund, I have no need fer reward. Ter serve such a fair face and in such friendly company is reward in itself. Thank yer, but no."
With a wry look, Europe retracted her offering and entered the hostelry.
"Off I go now, Rossamund, ter my own abode. Stay safe."
The postman and the foundling shook manly hands.
Finally Rossamund had made a friend, and now they were to part. He began to feel as if he would never settle down, never have loved ones close by, to call his own. "I hope you can come and see me soon, Mister Fouracres. I reckon a friendly face will be really welcome where I'm going. I hope I find some more."
"Surely yer will, surely yer will," the postman answered softly. "The timing of such things is near often perfect. Take care."
With Rossamund watching mournfully, Fouracres walked away, with a wave, into the gathering dark.
16
WITH THE LAMPLIGHTERS
Lamplighter (noun) essentially a kind of specialized soldier, mostly employed by the Empire, though some states also have them. The main task of the lamplighter is to go out in the late afternoon and evening to light the bright-limn lamps that line the conduits (highways) of the Empire, and to douse them again in the early morning. They are fairly well paid as soldiers go, earning about twenty-two sous a year.
After a night spent in as comfortable and as peaceful a sleep as money can buy, Rossamund set out early by coach. The morning was of the clear, bitterly cold kind characteristic of the final month of autumn. Farewells with Europe had been strange. She had insisted on seeing him all the way into the coach and safely started on this final stretch of the journey. He would be traveling alone, trusted with carrying dispatches for the Lamplighter Marshal and his staff in Winstermill. He had wrapped the bundle of documents and letters in wax paper and hidden the parcel at the bottom of his valise.
Now he sat in the clumsy bulk of the coach, another first on this journey of firsts-leaning out of the window to bid Europe good-bye. She had been more impatient than was usual, even downright rude, that is if she said anything at all. Rossamund was wondering why she had even bothered. As it came to the moment for him to leave, she suddenly grasped his hands in hers, placing into them a small purse. Without a word, she looked deeply into his eyes, holding him like this for what seemed the longest time. He did not know what to say to her. He would help her if ever she needed it, but he had no idea how he felt about her. Yet Rossamund wanted to say something. He had shared the most terrifying times in his life with this mercurial fulgar. Surely that rated some comment, some word of understanding between them.
Yet, before he could utter anything, there was a loud crack of the driver's whip and the coach lurched forward, tearing his hands free from Europe's firm grasp. His heart stung with a nameless regret and he poked his head quickly out of the window. "Good-bye, Miss Europe!" he called, his voice seeming small and silly. "Get well again!"
They stared at each other across the ever-growing gap. Europe's hands were pressed together before her mouth, but she did not stir. Rossamund waved again, even more vigorously. "Good-bye!" he cried.
Still the fulgar continued to stare after him. Too soon he lost her in the crowd of intervening traffic. He caught a final glimpse of her, and then she was gone.
Despite his confusion, despite her brutal way of life, he felt a great weight of sadness at the parting. With a heavy heart he sat down again and looked inside the purse she had given him. A vague determination somewhere within him vowed never to part with this gift. There were coins within-gold coins! — and a fold of paper. He gave a furtive look at the other passengers. In the coach with him was a thin lady in rich satins bundled up against the cold in a dark violet cloak; sitting opposite her and to Rossamund's right was an equally thin man in simple black proofing who made a study of completely ignoring the other two passengers. Neither of these paid him any mind, and so he counted the coins. Ten sous!
Uncreasing the paper, he saw that it was folding money written up to the value of a further five sous. Here he held more money in his hands than he had ever even seen before! It made him feel very strange. There was another leaf of paper, a note, wrapped up with the folding money. It was written in a delicately elegant hand, the mark of a highly ranked lady, and it read:
For Rossamund, to buy yourself a new hat with.
A fair portion of the reward for our adventure.
You have been a revelation.
With more affection than I am used to,
Europa, Duchess-in-waiting of Naimes.
Rossamund's eyes went wide. Europe-or "Europa," as he had just discovered-was a duchess-in-waiting! He had been spending his time with a peer, a highly ranked noble, and one in line to rule a whole city-state! He had rescued, and been rescued by, one who was apparently so far above him in rank, she should never have to even think on him. It was little wonder she was so confident, so self-possessed. Europe had become an even profounder mystery.
Feeling faintly uneasy about being given money earned in the slaughter of an undeserving creature, Rossamund buried the gift-purse down at the bottom of his satchel. North out of High Vesting went the coach, only a day after he had arrived, and back up the Gainway, whipping past the vegetable sellers. Rossamund was on the wrong side of the vehicle to be able to wave at them. They traveled faster than the landaulet had on the contrary journey and arrived at the Harefoot Dig by midday. Here the horses were changed and his two traveling companions went into the wayhouse to buy their lunch. Rossamund remained within the transport and dined on some of the supplies Europe had provided. These included withered ox kidney on expensive dark brown crust and a sachet of small, crescent-shaped nuts that the fulgar had called cashew stalks, with a taste wonderfully salty and exotically sweet.
Soon enough the journey was resumed. They soon made it to Silvernook, passing through with only a pause to pick up mail. Then on they went and entered country Rossamund had not yet seen. The woodland of the Brindleshaws extended much f
urther north, then stopped quite abruptly as the hills dropped away sharply to an expanse of cultivated flatlands. They looked familiar to the foundling and, from what he could gather from the map in the almanac, he guessed this area to be just another part of Sulk.
Twice more the coach stopped: once by a great hedge, behind which Rossamund could spy a grand manor house, to let off the silent woman; and a second time in the middle of what appeared to be a great expanse of swampy fields and nothing more. Here the sullen man disembarked, saying "Good afternoon" as he did, catching the foundling so unawares he was not able to respond in time. With both traveling companions gone, Rossamund had the rare privilege of traveling in a hired coach on his own. He kicked off his shoes and lounged about on either seat, staring at great length at the passing scenes on either side. They went through several small settlements, each one guarded, fenced and gated.
As the coach continued on, the cold clear day became overcast in a thin sort of way, making the afternoon sun a dull off-yellow and turning the veil-like clouds gun-metal gray. The land was becoming wilder here, less well tended and fertile. There was something eerie about its arid breadth. Threwd brooded here, and while the day's orb was setting, it was a great relief to see the final destination come into view. There, still a few miles distant around a long bend, window-lights twinkling, sat Winstermill Manse.
The name of Winstermill was-so Rossamund's almanac read-a corruption of a more ancient title, Winstreslewe, given to a ruined fortress upon the high foundations of which the manse now stood. It was built right by a long line of low, yet steep-sided hills and at the beginning of a great gorge which cut through this same range. The manse looked like a country house, yet so much larger, squatter, mightier and much more solid. It had a great many more roofs of heavy lead shingles rising higher and higher as they receded from the front of the structure like a complex range of ever taller hillocks. From the midst of these, lofty chimneys even taller than those of the Harefoot Dig pointed heavenward in baffling profusion like blunt spines. There were several round, crenellated strong points projecting out from a roof's myriad slopes, the barrels of great-guns showing from some of them.