Foundling ft-1 Page 14

  Rossamund's overtaxed mind cogitated the sums: There's twenty guise to a sequin and sixteen sequins in a sou. So-two lots of six sequins was twelve sequins. A carlin is a ten-sequin piece and a tuck a two-sequin piece. Ten and two makes twelve-twelve sequins, again. I reckon it's right-sure is a lot, though… He thought his head might burst. "Aye… I think. Uh… thank you."

  Mister Billetus held out his free hand, palm uppermost.

  Rossamund looked at it dumbly for a while, then realized the proprietor was wanting payment now. The foundling fingered about in his purse, finding only the gold Emperor's Billion coin he had received on entering the lamplighter service, three sequins and a guise coin. He frowned, thought for a moment and then handed the gold billion to Billetus. The proprietor looked down at his payment with astonishment.

  "Does-" Rossamund's voice caught in his throat. "Does that cover it?"

  "Um… it's a little… irregular, but yes. It's certainly legal tender and covers the fare amply. It will even buy you breakfast for the mornings." Billetus pocketed the coin while he opened the door.

  The room beyond was large and of a luxury the foundling did not think possible. There were two beds, their highly decorative heads against one wall, billowing linen and eiderdowns of the softest cotton. The floor was wooden boards polished till they were slick, the white walls and high ceiling-richly decorated with flutes and twirls-made buttery yellow in the lantern's glow. In the foundlingery a room of this size would have been used to bunk twenty, where this was meant for just two. Europe was being laid on the farther bed as Rossamund and the proprietor entered. A worn-looking blanket-looking out of place in its fine surroundings-was stretched upon this bed to stop the coverlets from being ruined by the fulgar's travel-grimed gear.

  A maid, two tubs and several pitchers of steaming water arrived.

  Mister Billetus excused himself and Rossamund bathed behind a screen while the maid attended to Europe behind another. He almost fell asleep in the tub, but the maid, finished with her attentions on the fulgar, woke him with an impatient cough. Before too long he was clean-cleaner than he had ever felt in his whole life, dressed in a nightgown and lying in a bed, the very softness of which swallowed him whole. Europe lay, much like he, bathed and in her bed, in a borrowed nightgown.

  "Is she better?" Rossamund managed, vaguely aware that the maid was hovering about doing who knows what.

  "She fares as well as she may, considerin'…" she hushed. "You can sleep, little boy-her state won't change just on your attentions."

  Lamps were doused. The maid left. In the dimness of a growing dawn Rossamund watched the feverish Europe. He could not tell when or how, but in that soft, warm bed of the smoothest cotton, sleep finally took him. He awoke with a deep fright, released at last from churning nightmares of Licurius' bloody end. The room was too white, too bright, the ceiling too florid and the bed too strange. Then he realized where he was. Rossamund was beginning to tire of waking in strange places. Some comfort it was then that the bed was so soft and so warm. He stretched luxuriously, wrapped in its wholly unfamiliar feeling, then sat up and looked about. There was a tall window at the far end, its two panes flung open, letting in cold air and the birdsong of late afternoon that had brought him to reality. The world beyond it, of straight trunks and bare, tangled twigs, was wintry but golden with afternoon sun. The choir of birds-the soft, insistent cooing of some type of pigeon, the twitter-twitter of many small beaks and an unusual call going warble-warble-warble-chortle-was strangely loud and altogether foreign.

  The room itself was empty, inasmuch as there was no one else walking about in it. However, the bed near him, on his left, before that open window, was occupied.

  In it, of course, lay Europe.

  He clambered out of his own and went to her side. She lay on her back, her head cushioned upon many marshmallowy pillows, the covers tucked right up under her chin. Her long hair had been gathered under a maid's cap just like one Verline would wear. Shivering as cold air blew in through the open window, bringing with it the smell of mown grass, he reached out, touching her smooth forehead with his forefinger.

  The fulgar did not stir.

  She felt cool now, in contrast to the feverish heat she had boiled with so recently. His curiosity mastering him, Rossamund cautiously stroked her spoor, the small diamond drawn so neatly above her left eye. Every side was straight and of equal length, the corners clear points, its bottom just meeting the hair of the brow. He had heard-he could not remember whether it was from Fransitart or somewhere else-that these spoors were made by using some acidic substance which left a permanent, yet somehow scarless brand. Why anyone would want to do something to themselves that sounded so painful was very puzzling: was it just vanity, or was it a warning? As far as he was concerned, the next time he saw a mark like this upon someone, he would be very wary of them. He stared at her blank, sickly face, hugging himself in the insufficient warmth of the borrowed nightgown, rubbing one foot against the opposite shin, then the reverse, to relieve the chill of the floorboards.

  Suddenly he decided it was time to be dressed. He found his clothes in the cupboard, cleaned and pressed. Everything was there but his shoes. Rossamund got dressed, searching quietly all about the room as he did.

  Where are those shoes?

  Under his bed? No.

  Under Europe's bed? No.

  They were not in his closet, and so he went to the one that held Europe's effects. Her clothes had been washed too, and the cupboard was filled with the odor of the aromatics used to clean them. With this hung a sharp, honeylike scent he was beginning to recognize as Europe's own. He was sure he was doing something quite rude by even thinking of looking through the fulgar's belongings. He closed the closet quickly.

  The door at the farther end of the room, of a wood so dark as to appear black, opened. In breezed a maid with a flurry of swishing skirts. When she saw Rossamund standing by the fulgar's bed, she seemed uncertain. She curtsied expertly, despite her burdens. "I've brought the doctor to see you, young master."

  Rossamund ducked his head shyly.

  A very serious and surprisingly young man entered the room. He was richly attired in a wonderfully patterned frock coat, flat-heeled buckled shoes known as mules, and a great white wig that stuck high in the air and left a faint puff of powder behind it.

  "This is Doctor Verhooverhoven, our physician," the maid said, indicating the young man with a tray she carried, a tray holding two bowls of pumpkin soup that smelled so delicious Rossamund was immediately distracted by it. "And this, doctor, is uh, is…"

  "Rossamund," said the foundling matter-of-factly.

  "Ah… right you are, my… boy," said Doctor Verhooverhoven, squinting at him. "Delighted. How are you feeling?"

  "Good, thank you."

  "As it should be. I want you to have some of this soup that Gretel has kindly brought you," the doctor said as the maid placed the two bowls on a small table by the fire with a simpering blush. "I have fortified it with one of my personal restorative drafts, so it will see you righter than ever." He half turned to the maid. "You may leave now, Gretel. If I need anything, you will be the first to know."

  The maid ducked her head, grinned at Rossamund and left again.

  Doctor Verhooverhoven ambled over to the sickbed, hands behind his back. He stood over the unconscious lahzar and rocked back and forth on his heels. He checked the pulse in her neck, felt the temperature of her forehead, hmmed a lot and scrutinized her closely through a strange-looking monocle.

  Rossamund sipped at his soup, which right then was about the sweetest thing he had ever had, and watched Doctor Verhooverhoven watching Europe.

  At length the doctor turned his shrewd attention to the boy. "She is not your mother, is she, child?"

  About to help himself to a mouthful of wonderful soup, Rossamund stopped with a slight splutter and fidgeted. "I-ah… No, sir-I never actually said that she was, though, sir. Others did… How did you…?"

  Do
ctor Verhooverhoven adjusted his monocle. "How did I know, you were about to ask? Because you've got the Branden Rose here, my boy-heroic teratologist, infamous bachelorette and terror to the male of our species! She is not, if reputation serves, the mothering type! How, by the precious here and vere, did you come by her?"

  The Branden Rose? That name was familiar to Rossamund, though he could not remember why. Perhaps he had read just such a name in one of his pamphlets? What a remarkable thing that would be to have fallen in with someone famous! He hung his head, feeling strangely uncomfortable. "She… saved me from a thirsty end-will she get better?"

  "She ought to, child, with my skillful ministrations. I have been here since early this morning.You slept, my boy, while I scraped away the necrotic tissue and stitched that nasty gash about her throat. I have also balanced her humours and bled her a little against the disease of the wound. The only thing she needs now is that awful stuff her kind take-plaudamentum I believe it is called. I have sent out word for our local skold to be found, so it can be made. From my readings-which have by no means been extensive-a lahzar cannot go terribly long without it, two or three days at most… or things begin to go sour within." The physician rolled his eyes dramatically. "But, how-now, I need not frighten you with such detail."

  Unfortunately, he had frightened Rossamund, though probably not in the way he had expected. Filled with urgency, the boy stood. "Do you mean her treacle, sir?"

  "Ah-ha! That's the one. Cathar's Treacle! Just the stuff. When did she last have any?"

  "Some time last night. I don't know when exactly, though, but I can brew it for her now, sir. I don't want her innards to go sour, and she's got all the makings."

  The physician looked dubious.

  "I made it for her the other night," Rossamund insisted. "If I've done it before, I can do it again…" The confidence in his own voice surprised him.

  "Are you her factotum? You seem to me to be a little young for it." Doctor Verhooverhoven tapped at his mouth with his forefinger, eyebrows wriggling inquisitively.

  "… No-sir, I'm not." Sometimes Rossamund almost regretted he found it so hard to lie.

  "No? Ahh. We shall wait for this other to arrive then, shall we? She is a skold, and I am of the understanding that she knows how to make such a concoction." The physician took a high-backed chair from a corner and sat down on it by the fire.

  "But why does she need it so badly?"

  "A good question, my boy! A good question. Are you sure you want the answer?" Doctor Verhooverhoven looked very much as if he wanted to give it.

  Rossamund indicated that he did want the answer.

  "Of course you would. Well, you see-as I have read-when someone wants to become a lahzar, they usually take themselves off to a gloomy little city in the far south called Sinster. In that place there are butchers-'surgeons,' they insist on calling themselves-who will carve you up for a high fee. Are you following me?"

  Rossamund nodded quickly.

  "As you should, as you should. So, having gone this far-so the readings report-these surgeons take whole systems of exotic glands, bladders, vessels and viscera and sew them right in with all the existing entrails and nerves. Some say these new glands and such are grown for just this purpose, while others hold that they are 'harvested' from other creatures-no one agrees and the surgeons of Sinster aren't telling. Either way, when it is all done, the person is stitched back up again. Now-here comes the answer to your question-all these strange and exotic glands are wrong for the body. Consequently it reacts, eventually most violently, unless something is done to stop such a thing. That is the job of the plaudamentum-the Cathar's Treacle. Do you understand? They have to spend the rest of their lives taking the stuff every day to stop their natural organs from revolting against these introduced ones. This morbidity-this organ decay-once it takes hold, will eventually prove fatal. If this lady doesn't get hers soon, she will die. How-now, I think you'll find that covers it, anyway.Yes?"

  As Rossamund took a breath to answer, he was distracted by an animated, angry-sounding conversation approaching the other side of the door that was then interrupted by a sharp knocking.

  Doctor Verhooverhoven stood at this and called mildly, "Enter, please!"

  The door was opened rapidly and a strange woman stalked in, wearing the elegant day-clothes of a refined lady, and on her face a frown of politely restrained anger.

  Closely behind followed Mister Billetus, looking worried and chattering nervously even as they entered. "… Now, dearest, one guest's money is as good as another's. With these nickers making the High Vesting Way impassable, you know our visitors have been few. Every bit of custom is needful, m'dear, I…"

  "Yes, yes, Mister Bill, not in front of those who do not need to be troubled with the finer points of running such a grand establishment. Good afternoon, Doctor Verhooverhoven." The woman grimaced at the physician in a mockery of a polite smile. He, in turn, bowed graciously, a puff of powder coming from his wig. She put her attention on Rossamund and said stiffly, "And you must be the smaller of our most recent arrivals. I am Madam Felicitine, the enrica d'ama of this humble yet refined wayhouse." As she said "refined," she looked sharply at Mister Billetus.

  Confused, Rossamund simply stood blinking. "Enrica d'ama" was a fancy term for the ruling lady of a household, especially of a court. It was used only by those trying to be very grand.

  "It has come to my notice," the enrica d'ama continued, addressing the physician, yet pointing angrily at the inert fulgar, "that we have here, in one of our finest apartments, a pugnator, one of the fighting riffraff. Is this true, sir?"

  "Yes, gracious madam, it is-though to me her calling is of little concern. I heal all comers."

  "Don't try to charm me, doctor. You share in this little sham of my husband's, though how he thought I would not know what was up soon enough is insulting at the least." She gave the harassed Billetus another quick glare. He offered an apologetic look to both Rossamund and Doctor Verhooverhoven, but did little else.

  To Rossamund the scene was quickly becoming very strange and uncomfortable.

  Doctor Verhooverhoven looked bemused. "I assure you, madam, that I am not aware of any sham so as to have a part in it to play. I have come as asked, to tend to an ailing guest. This is not the first time I have done this, as you well know." He finished his statement with a gracious half bow.

  "Certainly not, but this is the first time you have invited here another almost as bad!" She turned to the door and called, "You may enter now, Gretel."

  Gretel the maid came in as bidden, looking sheepishly at her mistress. Closely behind her shuffled a stranger: a short, meek-looking young woman-a girl really, younger than Verline-wearing a variation of clothing Rossamund had seen many times before. A skold! Upon her head was a conical hat of black felt that bent back slightly about a third of the way up. All skolds wore some style of cylindrical or conical headwear as a sign of their trade. About her throat and shoulders was the cape of white hemp with a thick, gathered collar that skolds pulled over their faces to protect themselves from the fumes of their potives. Upon her body she wore a vest called a quabard-light proofing Rossamund had seen in the uniforms of the light infantry of Boschenberg. One side was black and the other brown, the mottle of Hergoatenbosch, just like Rossamund's baldric. About her stomach, over the top of the quabard, was wrapped a broad swath of black satin tied at the small of her back in a great bow. About her hips hung cylinders, boxes, wallets and satchels-most certainly holding reagents and potives and everything else that skolds used in their fight against the monsters. Her sleeves were long and brown and flaring. Her wide skirt of starched brown muslin was also long, and it dragged upon the ground, hiding her feet. Her black doeskin-gloved hands were clasping and unclasping uncertainly in front of her.

  He had already seen several skolds in his life, for many served at Boschenberg's docks to ward off any nickers that might rise out of the Humour and along the city's walls. Even so, Rossamund knew less n
ow about them than he did fulgars. What he did know was what everyone knew: that they made all kinds of potions and drafts even more powerful and fabulous than those concocted by Craumpalin and other dispensurists, who were more concerned with health and healing. The chemistry of a skold, however, was designed for harm and violence. He knew that they had served as the Empire's monster-fighters-"pugnators" Europe had called them-for centuries before the advent of the lahzars. This young lady must have been the skold Doctor Verhooverhoven had mentioned, the one to make Europe's treacle for her.

  For a pugnator she seemed very nervous.

  With a look like triumph, Madam Felicitine returned her attention to the physician. "Doctor Verhooverhoven!" she demanded. "What business have you inviting such knavish individuals to my peaceful establishment? You know my delicate sensibilities won't tolerate such liberties, nor will they suffer the presence of such as these!" She pointed a bigoted finger at the skold, whose face reddened.

  The physician looked very ill at ease.

  "Dear wife," Billetus ventured bravely, forgetting her warning on saying things in front of those who did not need to know, "their account is well paid. They have been no real trouble, rather quiet in fact, as needs must. What possible harm is one hardworking, well-paying lahzar occupying a room she and her factotum can afford?"

  The enrica d'ama's thin lie of civility failed her at last. "Oh frogs and toads! Because of the principle! She cannot…!"

  "Please," the physician interjected in a low, insistent voice. "You'll wake her."

  Madam Felicitine eyed him coldly but continued with deliberate calm. "She cannot stay here because if guests of genuine refinement were to learn that a person of violence and infamy was bunked in the suite next door, they would never return and advise others to do the same. I will not have this, oh no!" With a dark look at Doctor Verhooverhoven, she forced herself to be collected again. "No, no, the billet-boxes are the place for her, though I prefer the servant stalls for the likes of these, if they must stay here at all."