The Foundling's Tale, Part Three: Factotum

by D M Cornish

  Retching on the greasy waters, Rossamünd flailed for the shore, vaguely aware that Quietis had ducked low and was now under the sagging beast’s pendulous abdomen. Pulling himself to slightly firmer sludge, he could see the older pelt-trapper chop at the nearest worm-formed leg, hewing at it over and over.Yet with each blow new worms descended from the belly to cover over and support their wounded fellows.

  Face smeared with phlegm and tears, Bodkin let fly another musket shot, striking the sapperling’s coiling neck, giving it such a smart it collapsed forward on its weakened leg, Quietis barely tumbling clear. Yet as the creature fell, Rossamünd could see Agitis’ now motionless body still being consumed, drawn in by abrupt stages through belly-folds of worms until only a single gaitered leg protruded—then that too was gone.

  Still tossing arcs from one palm to the next, Europe stood before the sapperling. As it toppled, it fell toward her and she grabbed at the head, letting all her collected charge out with a mighty ZIZzzZACK!—a blinding glare, blasting the members of the head and neck apart in gouts of hissing orange mess and flapping worm bits.

  She’s done it!

  Carried away by the rush of the fight, Rossamünd yelled wordlessly in victory as the sapperling floundered, single worms losing grip and rearing individually from the deforming bulk to hiss at her silently.

  But Quietis was not finished. Desperate for his brother, he began to slash and gouge blindly at the beast’s pulsating belly, seeking to hack his way in.

  “AWAY WITHYOU, SIR!” Europe roared with a volume Rossamünd had never known her use before. “Had you left it in the first, your brother would not have been taken!”

  The peltryman just snarled at her and kept at his chopping. He lifted his orange-gored hanger for yet another cut and a new pair of reforming worm-limbs suddenly sprang out from the sapperling’s shoulders. The first took the ferocious peltryman midswing by his sword arm, lifting him, though Quietis would not be so easily subdued and flailed wildly, striking the limb repeatedly with his tomahawk as he was hoisted high.

  Exhausted of a more potent charge, it was all Europe could do to keep the second limb from coiling about her as she drew quickly back, slapping zick! zick! zick! at the wriggling fingers that clutched and writhed and tried to end her as they had poor Agitis.

  Rossamünd hurled his last handy caste of beedlebane, the sharp burst of falsefire scoring the base of the arm that harried the fulgar. It recoiled, leaving the Branden Rose free to withdraw.

  Quivering, the worms pulled tightly back together and the sapperling heaved itself to stand once more, keeping its grip on the struggling elder Furrow.

  Europe did not give ground too far. Mounting a half-submerged log only a handful of yards away, she put some rock salt in her mouth and began once more to swap an arc from palm to palm. “Your intervention would be timely, little man,” she called across to him with preternatural poise.

  THE SLOE SAPPERLING

  Quick as he could, Rossamünd snatched a caste of asper—the strongest potive he possessed—from its digital niche and shied it at the raging monster. The repellent hit the sapperling low on its side with a singular black gust, forcing it to stumble once more as it tried to escape the radiating sphere of acrid oily stuff. That same instant Quietis, shouting in a fury of success, amputated the arm that still held him, falling free, a single worm still gripped to his waist. Yet, as the asper boiled into a blistering inky froth that sent a veritable rain of stricken worms tumbling to the sludge, still another limb formed on the sapperling’s opposite flank. Snatching the peltryman about his legs before he hit ground, it jerked him high over its lofty bulk and before anything could be done to stop it threw the madly bawling fellow down to the sod with deadly might.

  “NO!” Rossamünd and Bodkin Ease cried together, the young factotum despairing as to what it would take to best this crawling-fleshed horror.

  This at last was too much for the lone surviving peltryman; wailing, Bodkin Ease ran into the mire without pause or a backward look, fleeing in mad terror and misery.

  Reduced in size now, yet still thrice a tall man’s height, the sapperling shrank from the seething residue of the asper. Oozing back, it seemed to pause, swaying, Europe’s fuse still protruding from high on its left flank. All about it, single fallen worms hurt but not slain began to wriggle back to the main mass. The long-necked head slowly reformed.

  Fury growing in his gorge, rising as a growl, the young factotum took a caste of loomblaze in one hand and Frazzard’s powder in the other and stumbled toward the creature, ready to use all the might he possessed.

  “Wait, Rossamünd,” the fulgar said calmly as he stepped past her, strands of fine hair standing out crazily.

  Certain he could hear the crackle of static in her words and smell it in the air about her, he obeyed, all too alive to the consequences of the reverse.

  “Stay,” she commanded. “I shall be back.”

  Stepping lightly off the half log, the Branden Rose advanced through tufts and stumps toward the sapperling once again. At her approach, the worm-thing bent its head as if to regard her properly. After all the desperate mayhem, the scene seemed oddly tranquil in the failing light.

  Europe raised her arms, holding them up and out to her sides.

  What is she doing? Rossamünd paced as far as he dared to the right, seeking a better view.

  Without any alerting reflex or countermotion, the vermid thing shot out a grasping limb, snatching the unresisting fulgar about her waist and yanking her in to engulf her just as it had poor Agitis.

  “NO!” Rossamünd shrieked a second time. Instantly he was to action, hurling both potives to detonate yellow-green and blue about its shoulders.

  The sapperling tried to reach out and grasp him too but shuddered, the half-fashioned arm twitching, hesitating, retracting. Its sides appeared to flex and bloat.

  Rossamünd finally stood still.

  The tapered head began to whip about violently.The saps that formed it wilted and fell. The legs collapsed, and the bulk dropped into the filth with a loud squelch. Flickers of static forced their way through the mutual grip of the remaining worms, lighting the bog with a dazzling, strobing brilliance. Of a sudden, the distending mass of worms sucked inward. An almighty deafening bang, like the cracking of the back of the world, a stupefying flash and the entire creature was flung apart, its bits thrown wide, Europe’s fuse flying to strike the ground shudderingly not one yard from Rossamünd. A subtle growl like the echo of distant thunder rolled about the sink as a drizzle of orange muck and particles of black hide fell all around.

  The sapperling beast was no more.

  In its place, amid a mess of worm-parts, stood the Branden Rose, arms akimbo, fist clenched, head down, hair loose and hair tine missing, ruffled but unharmed. She looked up to Rossamünd, his cheeks smeared with unabashed tears of relief, then down with vague irritation at the messes that smeared and tearings that dulled her once-sumptuous coat.

  “My best Number 3 ruined,” she said.

  17

  OF FÊTES AND FICTLERS

  fictler(s) worshippers and followers of false-gods, the name coming from the notion that these folk honor fictions, that is, false notions of the false-gods.They are typically regarded as a type of sedorner, yet they hold themselves as entirely distinct from sedorners and outramorines—opposites in fact, seeking the false-gods to rise up to rid the world of the landed monsters, the true foes of everymen. They prefer to call themselves gnosists, that is, “the knowers,” for the higher knowledge they believe they possess, yet are not above the use of human sacrifice in their fervor to summon forth their chosen false-god.

  THE celebration at Europe’s success and defeat of t the worm-formed sapperling was great. At first those left to wait at Scantling Aire had dreaded the worst. This fear was distressingly amplified when Bodkin Ease emerged from the deep of night, bruised and delirious with grief, yammering death and violence and a great black ettin built of worms and muck descen
ding to destroy them whole. In this light Europe and Rossamünd’s dawn return was hailed with an effusion of joy, and none was more delighted than Fransitart, who had not slept a nod, lying fully dressed upon his borrowed cot and “fretting like a fussy old panderer”—as Craumpalin reported it.

  “Well done, lad” was all the dormitory master would say as he gripped Rossamünd firmly by both shoulders.

  Told the very hour of their return, Europe’s account of the victory—spoken as she drank an entire pail of water straight from the well—had been brief, the merest details and a single dead worm the testament to her success. Taking it as his own, the Monsiere elaborated her tale most handsomely to all who would listen. Through his audience it spread, greatly enlarged and with astonishing speed, to other knowing souls who, in their turn, transmitted the story of the slaying with all the confidence and gory clarity of actual eyewitness.

  Soon the whole region buzzed with it; on their return to the manorburg the landaulet was laden with gifts of sheep-cheese and woolen skin warmers as they were farewelled by cheers from the cottagers. Their whole journey back was attended by huzzahs! from joyful vine dressers and herders standing upon the rough verges.

  Craumpalin declared himself mystified and Rossamünd with him; Europe raised her brows briefly but said nothing.

  Safe again in the Patredike, Rossamünd was allowed to sleep for the remainder of the day, waking in time for supper to learn, firstly, that Craumpalin had tried at Europe’s treacle with only modest success; and secondly, that Monsiere Trottinott, his fellow landed lords and the parish burghers had met that afternoon to decree the very next day a vigil for all staff and workers, calling it Sappis Deflectere.

  “The worm has been turned!” the Monsiere cried in happy explanation. “It shall be marked on our calendars hereafter and your names writ in the parish transactions and on the Register of Distinction! I was just telling your mistress that tomorrow night we shall hold a fête in your joint honor, young sir!” He raised his fine glass to Rossamünd.

  To his great satisfaction, Europe tipped him a nod of her own goblet, her eyes knowingly bright.

  Glad as he was that they had survived, Rossamünd spared some grief for the poor worthy peltrymen he barely knew, courageous fellows who had paid so dear a price for their honest exertions.

  “Hucilluctors and woodsmen know the harshness of their trade, little man, and peltrymen’s lives are consequentially short,” Europe said when he spoke quietly to her of them later that evening, sitting easy in the Dike’s billiard room. “Such a shame their youngest member had to run off so. He could, at least, have received the triple fee due him as recompense, scant as it might be.

  Trottinott barely mentioned the missing Furrow brothers, and the local masters uttered not a word of suspicion or even bland inquiry on them. No one, it seemed, wanted to spoil their delight by mourning for a pair of greasy, anonymous pelt-trappers. These same masters, when they met again that morning in the Monsiere’s large green-walled observatory, were more animated with concern for the evidence of fantaisists in their parish.

  “They can keep to their puzzled ideas up in the rises,” one bluff-browed worthy decried, pausing in his scrutiny of a wide scenograph of the Trottinotts’ entire property that hung among a collection of many delicate water-tints of the local varieties of flora beside the Monsiere’s great desk.

  “Hear, hear, Mayor!” another old fellow in an uncomplimentary black wig enthused. “We have little need for them down here and even less for what they bring with them.”

  “Our constables will ferret them out,” the Monsiere added, “and drive them back to the fells in the east.”

  The corners of Europe’s mouth twitched, the barest tic articulating perfectly what she thought of the stern claim to the efficacy of the local constables.

  Rossamünd harbored a small lament, scarcely admitted to himself, for the passing of the sapperling beast: foul, violent yet bafflingly constructed, somehow wondrous and dire at once. With its end the world to him felt smaller, reduced—such as at the ending of the Herdebog Trought or the Misbegotten Schrewd. He was happy to sink these bitter sentiments in the joyful promise of the fête.

  By servant and ambler, word of the event was sent to all around, yet with his usual harness so badly soiled by the fight and being cleansed by the fuller, Rossamünd had only his old coat as replacement.This was such unfitting garb for an assembly that he feared he might not be able to go. How utterly grateful he was when, upon observing this, Madamine Trottinott insisted he be furnished for the fête with his choice of beautiful coats and suits summoned from Autos’ own wardrobe. In his borrowed room, suit after suit was tried for fit and look, the Madamine fussing over him as if Rossamünd were one of the family.What Autos made of this as he stood watching with large intense eyes from the door, the young factotum could not discern.

  “Such a foolishly brave young man,” she cooed. “It is utterly scandalous to send one so young to contend with such dangers. How you have come back so little changed in countenance I can barely comprehend!” She scrutinized him keenly. “I would never let Autos out on such a risky foray,” she added, to the audible agreement of the panderer waiting nearby. “Not until he is at least fifteen, and maybe not even then!”

  With a scowl, her elder son ducked his head and quickly left.

  Held in the high vaulted glass and stone of the Trottinotts’ pageant-room, the fête that night was as much a spectacle as Rossamünd hoped. Conveyances, drivers and footmen near filled the great yard as everyone in the parish of even slightly worthy station gathered, invited or otherwise, to rejoice in the salvation of their pastures. It was more folk than Rossamünd thought possible in such a broad and seemingly empty land. And here he was, in a silvery satin frock coat over a suit of weskit and longshanks cut from the same cloth, and—for the first time in his existence—stockings with buckled slippers, an honored guest among them all.

  Seated beside him on a curling gilt highback at one end of the hall, the Branden Rose was marvelously conspicuous among all the wide skirts and bustles and stays. Dressed in finery brought against such an eventuality, she wore a sleeveless frock coat of royal carmine velvet, its broad frock splitting apart at the waist to show the tunic of supple milk-colored linen she wore underneath. The exposed sleeves of the tunic bagged just above her elbows and spilled out wide and loose, falling back to reveal her bare arms and the sets of tiny X’s puncted in rows upon them. Her chestnut hair was gathered in a basket plait out of which radiated several hair tines like the sticks of a fan.

  Dressed in full courtly attire including his grandsire’s colorfully embroidered caudial honor hanging from his waist, Monsiere Trottinott stood upon the other side and introduced the Duchess-in-waiting of Naimes to a long line of leading families. There was the Marchess-dowager of the Midden: “Ah, my dear, please send my felicitations to your mother!”; the Reive and Reivine of the Trim: “Our most humble admirations . . .”; the Reive and Reivine of Pedester: “Well-a-day to you, gracious lady, are you acquainted with the Duke-Originaire of Haquetaine?”; the Armige of Uffing Lee and the Lady Grey: “Delighted”; the Mayor of Angas Welcome and his large family: “Welcome biddings again, oh Gracious Saving Lady!” ... And on it went for much of the night.

  Every invitation to dance, whether from senior lord or young master, Europe declined with, “I am a little battered from my victory.”

  Yet many of the most elevated, however happy they were of their release from their distress, seemed to evince veiled yet supercilious disapproval of their deliveress. Rossamünd was sure he caught several disdainful gazes sent Europe’s way by the congregations of gloriously refined women that collected between each dance. With such creatures the Branden Rose, duchess heir or not, would never fit. The young factotum wondered wryly how many of them might have gossiping aunts or sisters or daughters writing them from Brandenbrass.

  Such grim turns of mind did not last long against the compelling melodies of the half orches
trato on loan from the Earl of Holly. Turned out in pristine white wigs and gorgeous golden livery, the musicians played almost ceaselessly from an elevated gallery. Beneath them sat a great covered trestle spread with food, its centerpiece a disturbing replica of the sap fashioned in blackberry flummery. Peering at this remote feast hungrily—though keeping his gaze from the flummery—Rossamünd became aware of a giggle of young girls assembled among the tall white and blue urns that stood between the windows of the left-hand wall. They were staring at him and bending toward each other to whisper behind pretty hands. He did not know what to do with such attention but redden about the ears and try to keep his show of solemn concentration resolutely on the dizzying sway of merry dancers strutting a saraband so finely across the wide space before him, or on the many glimmeralls bright overhead.

  At a lull in the music, a tall girl in a gown of shimmering silvery white, with wood-dark eyes and hair the hue of rare honeycomb, detached herself from her corner of friends and approached, quiet defiance in her mien. Cheeks aflame, Rossamünd made to be suddenly and very seriously fixated on somewhere else. Yet his play was foiled, for she stood right beside him and, to his mortal embarrassment, said with many blushes of her own, “I-I would like it very much, s-sir, if-if you would ask me to-to dance ...”

  Had it been Threnody before him, she would have made the whole operation simpler by demanding, but he was being asked to ask. In a panic as terrible as one caused by a ravening nicker, Rossamünd looked to Europe for help, but she was occupied with the fuss being made of her by some septuagenarian dame in an enormous silver-pink wig. Swallowing hard, Rossamünd fumbled and, heart skipping uncomfortably, managed, “W-would y-you care to dance, miss?”