Foundling ft-1 Read online

  Soon she made Rossamund douse the lantern. "The light will be more harmful than helpful," she whispered, "and lead the grinning baskets right to us."

  He complied eagerly at this warning. What hope did an everyday boy like himself have if a lahzar was cautious and wishing to avoid any new confrontations? In the dark he vainly tried to see into the benighted forest, to see past the straight pale trunks of the pine saplings that lined the road, to find warning of any possible ambush. He could feel that Phoebe was up and shining, but deep in that narrow channel of high trees, her light helped but a little. Oh for Licurius' nose now! After they had trod for many hours and what was surely a great distance, Rossamund was most certainly tiring. His feet dragged, and the valise, normally so light, pulled meanly on his back and aching shoulders. His lids drooped as his thoughts lolled with warm, comfortable ideas of stillness and rest.

  Europe seemed to sag as well; eventually, to his great relief, she stopped near the top of a steep hill and sat down clumsily. "Aah!" she wheezed so very quietly. "I am flagging terribly… How about you, little man? You have kept pace with me admirably till now."

  He dropped next to her, dumping the valise on the verge, and took a long swig of water from his biggin. Only a few mouthfuls more remained when he was done. Taking this as a wordless but definite yes, the fulgar offered him a whortleberry procured from one of the many black leather satchels and saddlebags. Then she chewed on one herself. He took it gratefully. They sat some minutes in silence while the internal glow of the berries restored them enough to allow them to push on. Rossamund's senses sharpened again and with them his fears of another attack by the grinnlings or, perhaps, worse things.

  A firm conviction was beginning to form in his deepest thoughts: that it would be the grandest thing to return to the safety and forgetful ease of a city and leave all this threwdish wild land behind. How could anyone have ever thought it prudent to put a road through such a place as this haunted region?

  The land fell away sharply from the northern edge of the road and upon its steep slope no trees grew, affording them a limited view. At last Rossamund could see the moon, ocher-yellow and setting in the west. He turned about quietly where he was and observed the white line of the road they had already traveled as it emerged from the trees. He looked with dread at the impenetrable black of the tangle-wood valleys directly below and, beyond that, the low dark hills further north. He quaked slightly-anything could be stalking about out there. The world was so much bigger than he had ever thought: wilder, and full of threats and loneliness and dread. He hugged his knees to his chest and waited, afraid, staring at the fulgar's shadow.

  As they sat, she fidgeted with the scarf about her neck and with the wound beneath. "Are you better?" she whispered.

  "Aye," he whispered back. "Your neck, miss?"

  "It bleeds still… and it is starting to itch awfully. I believe it may well need seeing to by a physic. That will have to wait. Let's be off again. We still have far to go and this place is starting to get me down."

  The dose of whortleberry had invigorated them both heartily: they walked and walked, and walked yet more, Europe leading onward. The road rose over hills and dropped into small valleys. The forest soon closed in again and they were surrounded now by several kinds of pine. The air was still, filled with the strong smell of sap and the hissing of breezes in the branches. Stars continued to shine brightly and shed some little light on their path from the glimpse of sky above. Of the Signal Stars, Maudlin was now absent, having passed beyond view; only orange Faustus, the "eye" of the constellation Vespasia, and the yellow planet Ormond showed, and they showed that it was very late indeed. A frightened baby owl screeched thinly, voicing Rossamund's own lost and lonely feelings. As he read the stars, he heard the fulgar stumble heavily in front of him, and looked down to see her sink to the sandy path.

  He hurried to her. "Miss Europe…?"

  She was on her hands and knees, panting as she had done after her organs had spasmed. "The bite… the bite…" she rasped.

  Rossamund carefully unwound the scarf from her neck and saw, even by dim starlight, that the wound had swollen frighteningly, and even now was beginning to stink of putrefaction. He gasped. "It's going bad already, ma'am. You must surely see a physician, and soon!"

  "It burns…!" She managed to sit, to lift a water skin to her mouth and drink greedily before lying back and panting yet more. "We must go on… you're not safe… we… Not long… must…" she rattled on, though she did not seem able nor any longer willing to move.

  Rossamund's mind whirled for a time. This panicked feeling was becoming all too familiar. He forced himself to be even-headed.

  The evander water! He sat down by Europe and dug about in his satchel for the little flasks. He searched for the longest time with little satisfaction-oh no! — he must have hurled them along with the bothersalts in his hurry to help. But then he found what he wanted: just one bottle, buried right down at the bottom, tangled in among the rest of the contents. He gripped it exultantly. Leaning close to the fulgar's ear, he could feel heat radiating from her in a most unhealthy way. "I still have some evander water!" he whispered.

  Europe revived with this intelligence and forced herself to sit up.

  He gave her the little bottle, but her hands shook too much now. Indeed, her whole body was beginning to shudder. He held the flask for her, removed the seal and tipped it very slowly, mindful lest it should spill and be wasted. She swallowed it all as greedily as she had the water and then lay back again. He watched her, holding his breath anxiously.

  With a burst of air from her own mouth-loud enough to startle some night bird, which shrilled terrifyingly three times and flurried off-she sat up once more. "I can walk… We've not… not got far… to… to… go now… Help me up, Box… Box-face." Her words came in struggling breaths. "With your… help… I can… can make it."

  Putting a hand on his shoulder, she pushed herself up to stand. Rossamund grimaced but did not make a sound. When she had righted herself, she murmured, "Lead… on…"

  He struggled earnestly to fulfill this task, at first leading her by the hand, gripping it tightly now, completely heedless of being sparked. Then he began limping himself as she started to lean heavily or pull upon him, often stumbling, silently cursing every stone or rut that threatened to trip one of them.

  Interminable seemed these last few miles, though the way had, mercifully, become flatter. At one point Rossamund thought he heard the far-off tittering of the grinnlings and urged Europe on a little faster. The further they went the more fatigued he grew and the more insensible Europe became. She muttered odd things-often in another strange, musical language-at one time saying clearly, "We've been in many scrapes, haven't we, darling…?" She actually chuckled, then became dangerously louder. "But we get away scot-free every time, hey… hey Box-face? You and me… we… making it large all over the land…" It seemed she might go quiet, but suddenly she blurted, "Oh my! What have they done to you!" and began to sob, great, deep gulps that wracked her whole body. "What have they done to you?" she hissed finally and continued to weep. She said no more that night.

  Soon Europe collapsed completely, toppling Rossamund with her in a flurry of sweat and perfume, stunning him. He lay for a moment half under the fulgar, his head full of spinning lights. He never thought a woman could weigh so much.

  The soft hooting of a boobook went hoo-hoo, hoo-hoo. It was a peculiarly soothing sound and he focused on it to stay awake. There was nothing for it-he had to drag her. Hardly believing where he was or what he was doing, he pulled himself out from under her, fixed a saddlebag under her head, grabbed her by her booted ankles with a foot tucked under each arm and began to walk. Pulling, pulling, finding energy he did not know he had, he dragged the fulgar. Her shoulders ground noisily and her petticoats rumpled and gathered and began to tear, but he could do nothing about either now. He must trust to her proofing, ignore her indignity and simply go on.

  Despite the no
ise and his agony and the desperate slowness of their pace, Rossamund pulled Europe, bags and all, along the road till his fingers clawed and the eastern horizon grew pale. The trees began to grow farther apart, a fringe to the main wood, and as he gradually came around a bend in the road, he thought he saw lights through the sparse trunks. He pulled on a little bit farther and found that it was lights, lantern lights. He stopped to gather himself, gasping in air, and peered at this new sight.

  There, in the obscure gray of a new day, he found what they sought: a long, heavy stone wall of great height on the left, protruding from the thinning trees. In a gap about two thirds along this wall and crowned with a modest arch was a solid ironwood gate. Above it was a post fixed horizontally from the apex of the arch, a bright-limn lantern at its far end, shining orange. Dependent from this post was a gaily painted sign. It showed what looked like a woman running or leaping and beneath this the barely legible letters:

  … It was the wayhouse. They had arrived at last.

  10

  AT THE HAREFOOT DIG

  Wayhouse (noun) a small fortress in which travelers can find rest for their soles and safety from the monsters that threaten in the wilds about. The most basic wayhouse is just a large common room with an attached kitchen and dwelling for the owner and staff, all surrounded by a high wall. Indeed, the common room still forms the center of a wayhouse, where the stink of dust, sweat and repellents mingles with wood-smoke and the aromas of the pot.

  The entrance of the Harefoot Dig would not open when Rossamund pushed upon it with his shoulder. Undaunted, he carefully lay Europe's feet down. Without quibbling over whether it was polite at so early an hour, he hammered with the wrought knocker of the ironwood gate as loudly as his exhausted arms would allow. Indeed, he could only just lift them to grasp the knocker.

  Eventually a round grille high in the gate emitted a gruffly quizzing voice. "Whot's this 'ere, then? Whot's yar business at this throodish hour?" It was a strange accent Rossamund had never heard before-a little like Poundinch's yet different again. It was hard to understand.

  "I have a… a friend who's hurt!" Rossamund called up to the grille in his deepest, most certain-sounding voice. "We have escaped an attack in the Brindleshaws! We need help!"

  There were slidings, there were scrapings. There was a muffled conversation.

  "I see…" the grille returned eventually. "An' whot's a scamp like yarsalf doing up so late-or so eerly, if yar'll 'ave it at that-in risky places an' with no hat on his noggin?"

  Rossamund sighed. "I lost it in the river. Please, sir, my friend is very, very ill and she needs a physician quickly!"

  "A lass, yar say? We cain't have a sickly lass stuck out there. Stay yar ground."

  One of the gates opened and a short man came out. He was almost as broad across the shoulders as he was tall, and wearing, of all things, a chain mail shirt over the top of longshanks and jackboots.

  "Let's 'ave a look at 'er, then," this stocky gatekeeper said as he stepped onto the road. He glanced about with a quick but shrewd eye and then down at the stricken fulgar. "Blast me! That won't do at all. Pretty lass too."

  The stocky gatekeeper picked the fulgar up under her shoulders, as if her weight was of little consequence. She stirred, but little more. He directed an "Oi…" over his shoulder. This prompted another person to move out from the shadows of the gateway. It was a woman, a dangerous-looking woman glowering into the dark spaces all about, ready for a fight. She was tall and wore a strange-looking coat-of-many-tails. She looked to the other gater, then at Europe in his arms and, with no further prompting, stepped over with swaggering grace and took the fulgar by the ankles. As this woman obediently hefted Europe by her boots, Rossamund saw that the backs of her hands were marked in strange brown filigree. It was the quickest glimpse but it fixed his vague attentions. Monster-blood tattoos! She was a monster-slayer too. Beneath her left eye was a line of spikes, spoors of some unknown profession.

  Not too gently they carried Europe through the gate, the short fellow saying over his shoulder, "'Ere, grab 'er chattels an' all, an' follow me. I'm the gater,Teagarden-I look after the gate, see-at yar service. Whot's yar name, boy'o?"

  "Rossamund," he answered simply as he gathered up Europe's fallen saddlebags. He could barely grip the straps. His hands cramped, neither shut nor open.

  He was vaguely aware of a brief but pronounced pause.

  "Oh. Yar pardon, lass. Mistaked yar fer a lad in this darkling hour." This Teagarden fellow actually sounded embarrassed.

  Rossamund did not quite know what to say. His exhausted mind offered no assistance. "I, ah… that's all right, I am a boy."

  Another pause, even more uncomfortable than the first.The woman bearing Europe's legs gave Rossamund an odd look.

  Teagarden coughed in a perplexity of even greater embarrassment. "Ah yes, right you are, and I knows it too, boy'o. 'Tis the paucity of light, methinks, playing tricks. This lass with me be Indolene-she's me fellow gater."

  Rossamund, too wayworn to care, offered only what he hoped was a smile.

  Behind the gate was a dim, confined coach yard. A yardsman hurried over with a lantern, his feet crunching noisily in gravel. The light was shone in Europe's face while the two gaters took her to an entrance in the large, low house before them.

  She still breathed! Rossamund could see her cheeks puffing as he followed closely. However, her skin was a ghastly pale green, showing the deep blue spoor vividly. Great bruised rings sunk beneath each eye, while sweat ran freely from her brow and hair. She was unrecognizable. She was getting worse.

  The yardsman gasped, ever so quietly. "Oi'll be! She's a lahzar!"

  The lady gater seemed to scowl but continued in her work.

  Teagarden whistled softly. "Upon me 'onor! Yar keep yar comp'ny strangely, boy'o. Still, thass neither here nor there-get her inside sharply, she looks fit to expire!"

  The door they approached opened, casting an oblong of light on the scene. A lanky man in a maroon powder jacket and stocking cap stood there, looking tight-faced and beady-eyed. "What is all this huff and scuffle?" he demanded tetchily.

  "We've got two new arrivals, sir," Teagarden offered respectfully, "an' this lady is poorly. Physic-needingly so, sir. She also be a lahzar, sir, so I'd thunk it best we come through the back ways to avoid raising an unnecessary alarum."

  "Well, good, good, Teagarden, no need to wait for my permission, man, if you see a physician is needed." The lanky man, who was obviously of some importance at this establishment, seemed the type to be peeved no matter how he was answered. "Bring them in, man, bring them in. Don't wait for me to invite you. Hello there, my boy-you look most weary. Welcome to the Harefoot Dig. I am Mister Billetus, the proprietor.We will do all that we might for your mother, and for yourself too."

  Mother?

  This Mister Billetus, the proprietor, took Rossamund by the hand and gave it a stiff shake. Europe was carried on within and down a passage of white daub and many doors. It looked very much like a servants' entrance.

  "Now, fellows," Mister Billetus continued, "take the boy's poor mother to the Left Wing, Room Twelve." He addressed Rossamund. "'Tis the only room we have left for persons of quality as yourselves. Quality which, if I may be so bold, I can see you have in spades. Will it do?"

  Rossamund had no idea if the room would or would not do. Any room was good as far as he thought. "Any room will do, sir. I just want her to be seen to by a physic…"

  "Excellent, excellent. Of course, certainly. Go on, fellows," Mister Billetus said, turning to the gaters and yardsman, "the mother needs seeing to-get her to her room! Properato!"

  Teagarden seemed reluctant, but said, "Right you are, sir. Ah…?"

  "Yes, Teagarden?"

  "Like I said afore, sir, she be a lahzar."

  The proprietor's eyebrows shot up. After brief reflection he recovered. "Well, I didn't make her that way, man. Money is money. Keep her hidden from my wife for now. What Madam Felicitine doesn't k
now won't hurt us! I'll sort the rest. Off to their room, now, now!"

  Holding a pale bright-limn, Mister Billetus led them through a labyrinthine confusion of dark passages and darker doors.

  A boy joined them and Mister Billetus said to him, "Ah-ha! Little Dog! There you are, you scamp! Now hurry and quick to Doctor Verhooverhoven's estates and bring the good physician back with you. No dawdling! Lives are in the balance."

  Despite his fatigue, Rossamund thought it mightily untoward to send such a little fellow out while it was still dark. Little Dog did not seem happy about it either. Nevertheless he dashed off stoutly.

  "The physician should be here within the hour," Mister Billetus said with open satisfaction. "Good, good, to your room we go."

  Mister Billetus stopped by a door and looked at Rossamund just as a cat might coolly regard an agile mouse. "You, er, can afford these lodgings, can't you?"

  Rossamund's heart skipped a beat. He thought on the expensive foods and fine upholstery of the landaulet-all of Europe's flaunted wealth-and declared, with a quick-witted rattle of his own purse, "Absolutely."

  Billetus looked powerfully relieved. "Wonderful! So you won't object to settling a portion of your board in advance, then?"

  "I, ah… no." The foundling hoped he was doing the right thing.

  "Good, good. One night's billet, board and attendance for a room of such elegance-and I do believe, by the cut of your clothes, that elegance is in order-the board for such a room is six sequins, paid in advance for two nights. If you leave after the first night, then we happily reimburse you. So, we should count this as your first night-since indeed it is not over yet-and say, with a carlin and a tuck, that you will be paid up to the morning of tomorrow night. Agreed?"