The Foundling's Tale, Part Three: Factotum

by D M Cornish

  Flash went this blade in the lamplight.

  The lesquins were alert to its power too, and strove to keep well clear of the swordist and his deadly swipes.

  About to leap down to his mistress’ defense, Rossamünd was baulked by at a sudden shiver of frission. The sabrine adepts and the few drab roughs left with them attempted to draw away, pulling back to the farther side of the quadrangle. Barely released from hand strokes, the reduced quarto of lesquins reeled under an invisible assault. Rossamünd could feel the edge of scathing frission centered on the quadrangle below, the vaguest fluttering in the very midst of his head that brought a twinge of pain.

  Yet under such inward violence only one troubardier collapsed, snarling so volubly through the constrictions of his casque that the young factotum heard it from his balcony perch just above. Remarkably, the other bravoes remained on their feet, shaking their armored heads dazedly but very much unconquered.

  How is it possible?

  Europe stood, eyelids fluttering with almost manic rapidity under the impulse of her own puissance, keeping the scathing at bay.

  Presuming their foes unbalanced, the swordists rushed to attack.

  A wordless shout and Europe leaped at them, her lesquins eagerly with her.

  In pure reflex, Rossamünd threw the caste of Frazzard’s powder and another, true and fast, catching several sturdy roughs who hung back from the fight in a shower of popping blue sparks. Startled, the swordists writhed clear of the spray, glaring up at the floors above, trying to find the origin of the chemistry; their assault turned to defense as, with a brute cry, the lesquins pressed the sudden switch of advantage.

  Despite this, from his perch, Rossamünd could see that Europe was being cornered. A swordist in garish vermilion and white and a black arming-cap was pounding at the fulgar with an incessant gust of blows of his heavy wide-bladed sword, bravely endeavoring to dominate the fulgar’s attention while lesser roughs sought to pull her down.

  Eyelids still flickering, Europe turned the swordist’s blade and pounced away to catch one rough with a vigorous revolving kick to the abdomen, then spun aside, to crack him ringing blows to head and arms with her stage.Yet there was no zap, no retaliating arcing flash—the very skill that saved her from the affliction of the scathing prevented the Branden Rose from afflicting others with her own puissance. With all her grace and deadly aptitude, under assault from within and without, Europe could surely not prevail long.

  Rossamünd clenched empty hands and knew that sturdier tools were needed. Dashing back into the hall behind, he snatched up a pair of pistols from the fallen pistoleer, thinking that their heavy barbed handles would make perfect cudgels once they were fired. Darting back to the balcony, he found that in this briefest divagation Europe and a mere pair of her lesquin allies were now left to contend against only two of Maupin’s swordists—the one in garish vermilion brandishing the heavy sword, the other the turbane-hatted wielder of the therimoir, his dread spathidril blade held curving up behind his back as it had been before cutting the Grackle. The three against the two, they circled each about the other among the litter of hurt and dead with wary concentration until now the swordists stood between Rossamünd and his mistress.

  That very moment, Europe looked up and she saw him, knowing him full well in his fancy mask. A distinctly protective fury convulsed for a beat in her face, making her thoughts plain—What are you doing here!—and setting a guilty gripe in Rossamünd’s milt.

  Suddenly, beyond her, a fresh commotion thrust into the quadrangle, bursting from an oblong tunnel set between heavy beams well back in the deep shadows beneath the balcony at the far end. Proofed in deep green, these arrivals were clearly door wards from the Broken Doll, fighting desperately against unseen assailants in the passage beyond, and collected protectively about a singular figure. In the quick glare of a gunshot Rossamünd saw clear that it was Pater Maupin, limping as he came, shouting directions and warnings, stout hanger in one hand, pistol in the other, marvelous wig askew.

  With their appearance the frission ceased, its dread and unseen wielder perhaps overset in the confusion.

  Attention swiveling quickly between the sabrine adepts before her and this new scrimmage behind, Europe must have discovered Maupin too, for she became sudden action, pressing with her last two lesquins to finally get at him.

  Realizing he was beset from in front and behind, the proprietor of the Broken Doll called warning, and the rearmost of his lifeguard faced about to meet this new assault.

  Yet even as Europe went for her prize, the swordists went for her.

  Eyes fixed in horror on the gore-smeared white of the therimoir blade, Rossamünd leaped the railing to drop down to the quadrangle floor, springing forward the very moment his feet slapped on the flagstones and sprinting at the adepts. He gave a shout to draw their attention away from his mistress, which for a moment appeared to succeed. Thinking themselves properly ambushed, the pair of swordists looked to him in surprise, expressions quickly composing in realization of their error.The therimoir swordist gave a disdainful scowl and, showing his back to Rossamünd, set himself against the Branden Rose, leaving a mere boy to his vermilion-clad brother-in-arms. The vermilion swordist came at Rossamünd directly, swatting at him with many mighty swings of his broad, heavy blade. Tripping back, the young factotum fired a pistol at the adept, the shot striking the man square in the bosom.Yet the bullet was foiled by stout proofing. Pointing the second firelock directly into the swordist’s scowling face, he fired, his aim knocked aside in the very moment of detonation by a deft sweep of the vermilion adept’s arm. Driven into the shadows beneath the balcony from which he had just sprung, Rossamünd was nearly ended by several strokes, contorting himself left and right, scarcely fending each artful blow with his borrowed pistols. Desperate to get to Europe’s side, he could see her, alone in a press of green door wards, twisting, skipping, striking left and right, the therimoir swordist trying to close, her arcs free again and keeping all at bay.

  Beyond, a confused swelling melee began to once again fill the quadrangle: fistdukes in their bizarre pot helmets and yet more green-clad door wards striving against the fury of a company of staunch lesquins, their gloriously harnessed captain—the very fellow who had visited Cloche Arde—at their lead. A leap of hope in his innards, Rossamünd barely glimpsed Lady Madigan, Marchess of the Pike, in the fray. Her face a bloody mask, the lahzar was locked elbow in elbow with Threedice, her factotum, the two pivoting on each other in splendid unison amid their enemies, Madigan’s arcs flashing, Threedice’s own pistols popping.

  Tall among Maupin’s foul defenders was a woman in a wide lustrous black dress, the pastiness of her bald head framed exquisitely against her gauzy fanlike collar of black, the flesh about the left eye dark with great diamond and arrow spoor—a dexter’s marking.

  Anaesthesia Myrrh!

  All this Rossamünd saw in a twinkling even as he defended himself, dodging and thwarting the swordist’s blows, one block leaving a spent pistola hacked clean in two. Darter Brown swooped down to pester and curse in the swordist’s face, checking the relentless fellow for the merest beat. That was all Rossamünd needed. Throwing the intact pistol at the swordist, with a bark of fury he launched himself at the startled man. Calling all the strength he could muster, he drove his fist into the vermilion swordist’s middle, amazed at the heave and turmoil of sinews beneath his knuckles. With a wheeze of wind and crack of bone the wretched foe was lifted clear off his feet, tumbling back several feet to collapse.

  ANAESTHESIA MYRRH

  Rossamünd did not wait for more but, attention fixed upon his mistress, took up the hefty blade of his fallen opponent as easily as if it were but a butter knife, and with it sought to win to her through the stouche. Even as he did, he saw Europe, pressed on all sides, artfully dodge yet another thrust of the swordist’s white blade, only to be struck from behind by a cudgel-wielding door ward. A viper-quick contortion of her body and the Branden Rose ended t
he fellow with a flash of levin. In that very instant, the soft-hat swordist sprang to the fulgar’s left, and, dancing somehow under her guard, swung about behind the Branden Rose to cut at her. In complete horror Rossamünd witnessed the white spathidril incise through the fulgar’s superior proofing and bite deeply into her side. Crying out—and Rossamünd with her—Europe recoiled from the aggrieving hit, instantly swinging her stage to whip the swordist viciously about the head once, twice, thrice, until the weapon bent and broke. Snarling, the Branden Rose gripped the fellow, stunned and bleeding about the throat, stiffening the swordist dead with her sparks. Letting the lifeless man drop, she swooned herself, tottered . . .

  Heedless of anything but Europe, Rossamünd shoved some obstructing figure aside—friend or foe he did not know or care. He could see Pater Maupin realize his chance and pounce with two door wards, intent on finishing Europe where she faltered.

  Her stage now two useless ungainly parts connected by unraveling copper wire, the fulgar flung it at Maupin, rapping him smartly on the cheek.

  “Am I a dog, oh thorn-ed Rose, that you come at me with sticks!” Europe’s adversary spat, making light of the stunning hit as he blundered in reverse.

  Winning through the mayhem, Rossamünd stood over the lifeless therimoir adept and spied the malignant blade lying discarded upon the flags. Ignoring the offensive taint of its touch, he seized the ancient monster-destroying weapon in his other hand and, Darter Brown chattering passionately just above him, threw himself at his mistress’ foes. Cutting down one door ward with shocking ease, he drove Maupin back with great sweeps of heavy sword and poisonous white blade, flourishing them like a mad thing. Here now he could himself end the proprietor cowering before him and bring this terrible night to a close.

  In the very moment of a final upswing, a crushing frission smote Rossamünd, a driving agony that bore searingly into the very crux of his soul. Dropping the swords, the young factotum was forced to his knees.Yet as quickly as the tempest arrived, it cleared, replaced by a strangely effervescent sensation in his brain and belly that set his eyelids flickering. Blessed with this buzzing clarity he first saw, then felt, the Branden Rose’s grip on his wrist.

  She is vacillating me too! he realized.

  Half prone, Europe pushed herself up where she lay by her other hand, a grimly ephemeral smile dancing like a small triumph upon her worryingly pale lips. Yet her attention was not on Rossamünd. Rather it was in Maupin’s direction, fixed with murderous intent upon Anaesthesia Myrrh standing protectively in all her silken swar t-clad glory before the proprietor of the Broken Doll. Her hand lifted to her sallow temple, she regarded Europe with narrow scorn, a contemptuous smirk visible through the gossamer vent the dexter wore over nose and mouth.

  Pressing hard upon Rossamünd to stand, the fulgar remained clasped with the dexter in their invisible wrestle.

  Suddenly the lesquin captain stepped into the gap, flourishing a heavy war hammer in his steel-armored grip. A snort and a flick of her hand, and the black-hearted dexter struck the lesquin with a peculiar glaucous flash, the same combined witting-arcs Rossamünd had seen her use at the rousing-pit long weeks ago. Stoutly the captain stood his ground, ducking as if walking into a headwind, seeking to swat the woman down. A second time the dexter struck and the sell-sword staggered.

  Still acting as a crutch for his mistress, Rossamünd reached into his rightmost pocket to find a thennelever of glister. Grasping the flute, he tossed a measured dose of mild repellent at the dexter, the glister scattering in an effervescent crackle about her. In a beat, Rossamünd shook the thennelever and strewed yet more of it, a veritable fog of tiny detonations that balked their foe despite her vent.

  In the brief reprieve the lesquin captain came at the dexter anew, but, twisting away from the glister-fume, Anaesthesia struck the fellow a third time with her disembodied arcs and sent him toppling lifelessly away.

  Barely on her feet, the Branden Rose let Rossamünd go and lunged, leaping at the dexter through the glister. Leading now with her left, the Duchess-in-waiting of Naimes began pounding upon Anaesthesia, sending out arcs at every clout, yet the dexter, unharmed, seemed to catch each hit and return it with arcing knocks of her own. Blow after crackling, coruscating blow they pummeled at each other, boxing and blocking punches with deft pivots of arm and torso, catching hits with a flash and throwing them off again, neither able to do real harm to the other.

  Abruptly, shockingly, Europe shouted in pain.

  Anaesthesia had found the fulgar’s worst wound and was striking at her opponent’s flank again and again.

  Rossamünd pounced to his mistress’ defense, Darter Brown with him.

  “Rossamünd!” Europe cried, her voice thin. “No!”

  The dexter flung her arm at him, and he was instantly smitten with the bizarre and fiendish amalgam of witting and arcing. He was hurled away, thrown clear across the quadrangle yard, the thennelever he yet held flying from his grasp as he skated along his rump to collide with a shock into a heavy supporting post in the gloom well under the floor above. The world convulsing, Rossamünd shook his head and squeezed his eyes to try to bring clarity.

  Emerging from behind the protection of his deadly dexter spurn, Maupin approached as quickly as his injured gait would allow.

  Rossamünd tried to rise on legs rebelliously unstable.

  “Hello, little bird,” the proprietor of the Broken Doll purred. “You are a very small little bird to have a place in this fight.”

  Limbs needling painfully, the young factotum labored to his feet only to be instantly witted; a stifling trammeling frission drove the young factotum back to his knees.WHERE IS EUROPE? his galloping thoughts screamed, they alone free of the dexter’s wicked work. He was suddenly aware of the dark form of Anaesthesia looming over him, bleeding and bruised.

  She snatched Rossamünd by his hair and tore his sparrow mask and vent away.

  “Our prize has come to us, it seems!” Maupin declared, his voice exhausted yet triumphant. “ ’Tis a brave little mouse who dares trespass into the mouser’s den . . .”

  Tormented, the young factotum writhed and swatted at the dexter spasmodically as she scratched and clutched to keep a hold on him. A wicked jolt zapped through him, driving down into his very core. His vision narrowed to a dazed circular slot filled with oddly writhing checkers.

  “Try not to kill him, dear,” came Maupin’s cool voice. “His living bones will fetch good price; I might yet salvage something from this shambles.”

  This will not be! With a vigor called from the very depths of his milt, Rossamünd forced out a cry. Hoarse at first, it rose to a bellow that sounded like the roar of some wounded ettin in his own ears, banishing for a glimpse the worst of the writhing frission. He planted his feet and refused his abduction, gripping the hands that gripped him, tearing them free of his hair, feeling follicles go with them. Instantly he was an agony of sparks.

  At a clap of pistol shot the arcing abruptly ceased.

  Rossamünd was released.

  With another roar, the young factotum twisted his whole frame, and with another roar joined by the tiny ferocity of Darter Brown threw the dexter bodily in a blur of black gauze and satin into a near post, the vile woman colliding with such force that wood cracked as she sagged lifelessly.

  Liberated, stumbling, Rossamünd was instantly dealt a mouthful of some foul repellent, burning down his wind-pipe before he could react and shut breath away. Lurching backward, he grasped at the air, retching powerfully as his vision swayed. There came a strangely loud slap! right in his face. Rossamünd felt something clout him powerfully in the throat through his stock and collars, and could make out Maupin pointing a smoking pistol directly at him. I’m shot! flashed through Rossamünd’s mind like panic. Grasping his neck, the young factotum swooned and sat with an inelegant flop on the cold stone. Convulsing, he struggled for breath—even a single gasp of cleansing air. His sight narrowed to a pivoting, pulsating slot, and in it loomed
Maupin, the venomous therimoir now in his grasp, its tip hovering mere inches from Rossamünd’s face.

  “If you will not come easily living, I will have you dead!” Maupin seethed, all scruples for the sake of salvage clearly abandoned.

  In a rush of deep, desperate fortitude, Rossamünd sucked in a rattling gasp of wind. Forcing himself to move, he scrambled away from the proprietor and his dread weapon, trying to put a balcony post between him and a ghastly end.

  “You truly are a monster . . . ,” Maupin breathed with all the passion of a damning accusation as he rounded the pillar in pursuit.

  Glowering in utter fury, Europe emerged from the thinning fight, gripping her abdomen, the tingle of growing power already about her as her disheveled hair stood on end. Snarling, she bore down on the chancery proprietor.

  “No, you filthy blaggard,” she spat, “we are the monsters . . .”

  Lurching away, Maupin tried to hack her with the therimoir but tripped on a wounded lesquin’s legs, his wig tumbling from his crown to reveal his clothbound head.

  Catching the once-relentless fellow by his coattails, Europe hauled Maupin to her. Seizing his head in both hands, she cried out—somewhere between triumph and despair—and poured all the power she possessed into the wretched man. Eyes forced wide by the currents arcing through him, unable to voice his agony, Pater Maupin, owner of the Broken Doll and patron of the roust, suddenly blackened, and with a look of exquisite dismay burst into a flurry of ashen atoms and flying empty clothes.

  28

  A LIFE OF ADVENTURE, A LIFE OF VIOLENCE

  occludile of lazarin one of the rare scripts employed by transmogrifers immediately upon inserting memetic organs into a person to make them a lahzar. Its rarity is in part attributable to the illicit and very difficult-to-obtain parts in its constitution, and also the limits of its use. As any transmogrifer worth his or her fee will tell you, it also can serve as an aid for fortifying the memes (foreign organs) already within a lahzar’s body.