Foundling ft-1 Page 15

  She then looked gravely at Rossamund, who was looking very grave himself. "Now it pains me, child, it truly does, but things must have their right place and order, people have their rank and station; some should not assert themselves above their betters. I know you'll understand one day."

  "Now, now, dear…" Billetus tried again.

  Her momentum building, the enrica d'ama went on. "That is quite enough from you, I would say! You, who let her-" That accusing finger now stabbed at Europe, unconscious on the bed. "-stay here!" Her arms now gestured wildly at the whole room. She began to go pale. Her cheeks wobbled apoplectically. "Did you think I wouldn't find out? She simply has to go!"

  Mister Billetus now fumbled and stumbled but offered very little else.

  "Oh my bursting knees! Keep her in the billet-boxes if your tender heart won't allow eviction!" the enrica d'ama hissed. "Either way, get her out of this room!"

  In the awful, echoing silence that followed came a soft, icy voice. "My money glitters as well as another's, madam, and here in this bed I will stay!"

  Everyone looked in wonder to the bed where Europe had lain apparently senseless just moments before. She was still tucked in, her head still half-buried in the midst of the many, too-soft pillows, but her eyes were open now, bloodshot and baleful-and regarding Madam Felicitine with cold disdain.

  Unexpected relief burst within Rossamund.

  At last Europe had woken.

  11

  WHAT THE PHYSICIAN ORDERED

  Skold (noun) the term for a teratologist who does the work of fighting monsters using chemicals and potions known as potives. They throw these potives by hand, pour them from bottles, fling them with a sling or fustibal (a sling on a stick), fire them from pistols known as salinumbus ("salt-cellars"), set traps, make smoke and whatever else it takes to defeat and destroy a monster. They typically wear flowing robes and some kind of conical hat to signify their trade.

  Madam Felicitine did not appear to know how to answer such cool and obstinate certainty as she found in Europe. Suddenly rendered powerless in her own wayhouse, she quit the room with a great shower of tears and a great show of wailing.

  Mumbling incoherent apologies, Billetus hurried after her, closing the dark door as he left.

  Gretel and the skold looked at each other awkwardly, and then the bower maid busied herself by moving about the room lighting candles against the growing dark.

  Doctor Verhooverhoven stood and stared at the floor impassively.

  The skold looked from him to the bed and back, then behind her at the door. "I–I… I am s-s-sorry if I have d-done s-s-something to offend, Duh-Doctor Hoo-over-hoven," she offered, appearing truly troubled.

  This roused the good physician. "Not at all, not at all, girl.You were only answering to my call-and fair enough at that. Let us think no more on what has just passed-this lady needs your aid."

  A look of great relief lit up her face. "A-Absolutely, yes, let's.You know I'll always he-elp as b-best I c… can."

  "And a great commendation it is to you too, my dear." The physician smiled grimly.

  Rossamund was at Europe's bedside in a dash, full of hopeful concern.

  She looked at him placidly, her red eyes ghastly within the oval of her sickly face. "Hello, little man… Have I been away for long?"

  "Since last night… um, very early this morning." Rossamund's voice quavered slightly in his eagerness.

  The fulgar closed her eyes. "So we made it to the wayhouse, then?… Am I all delirium or are my senses turning hard rocks and sharp pinecones into a soft, warm bed?"

  "Aye, aye, we made it here, ma'am, and the kind people helped us."

  Europe chuckled weakly. "I'm sure they did-except maybe that screeching woman. Tell me now, how much has this help cost?"

  The boy's face fell. He had not thought of it quite like that: that they were ready with assistance only as he was ready to pay. "Ah, twelve sequins for two nights."

  Her chuckle grew louder, but that stopped with a soft gasp. "And you paid from my purse?"

  "No, ma'am." Rossamund puffed his chest just a little. "I paid with the Emperor's Billion, which was given me to start work as a lamplighter."

  "An Emperor's Man, are we? Good for you. How interesting…" She seemed to fade for a moment, then shuddered. "I am sick, Rossamund. I must have my treacle and very soon.You'll have to make it for me again…"

  While they had talked so, Doctor Verhooverhoven stood by, rocking on his heels once more. Now he came in quickly. "And you shall have it, madam. Here I am, the local physician, Doctor Verhooverhoven-how do you do? — and here is the delightful Miss Sallow, our own skold, who can make you your plaudamentum. Am I right, dear?" The physician turned his attention to the skold, who stepped forward, obviously in awe of the fulgar now invalid in the bed before her.

  "W-why yes. I n-know all the k… kinds of drafts n… needed by l-lahzars. A g-good ssskold all-lways does."

  The fulgar turned her mizzled attention to them both and squinted. "Ah, mister physician, you've got me a skold-how kind. Such… tender mercies, I thank you. However, the boy could have made it for me, sir. He's much cleverer than he looks."

  Ducking his head, Rossamund did not know whether to be pleased or offended.

  "I am sure he is and more, dear lady, but I would prefer to trust to my own methods and know it's done as well as I know it can be done." Doctor Verhooverhoven nodded his head in agreement with his own statement.

  "However you want it. I'll not argue with a man of physics."

  "As it should be, madam." He smiled ingratiatingly. "I shall recommend a soporific be brought to you as well, to help you sleep. Take both this and the plaudamentum and then heal with that most ancient of cures-rest."

  Europe closed her eyes, a knowing grin upon her lips. "And tell me, dear doctor. At what price does your warm concern come?"

  Rossamund could not be certain, but it seemed that Doctor Verhooverhoven actually blushed. "You do me a disservice, madam. I seek to help you purely for the satisfaction of knowing another human creature is strolling easy once more upon the path of health."

  "Certainly you do, sir," Europe softly sighed, "and what will be the account waiting for me upon my departure? We all have to put food in stomachs and clothes on our backs-I'll not begrudge you your pay."

  "Two sequins pays for it all," the physician relented.

  Europe raised an eyebrow.

  Rossamund thought her still very sharp and feisty for one so very ill.

  Doctor Verhooverhoven quickly went on. "But enough of this unflattering talk of fiscal things-you must be easy now, and have your draft when it's done."

  Rossamund found that disturbing black lacquer case-the treacle-box-poking from a saddlebag at the bottom of the cupboard. Once again it gave him dread chills as he fetched it out. He took it over to Europe, who roused herself and smiled weakly.

  She looked to Sallow, who blushed brightly from ear to ear. "Let this little man help you, skold. I trust him."

  The fulgar gave Rossamund a strange and haunted look. "He's my new… factotum…" she finished almost in a whisper.

  The foundling was stunned-her new factotum? Where did that leave him with the lamplighters?

  Doctor Verhooverhoven gave a slight bow. "As it shall be, ma'am. Take your ease.Your drafts shall be ready presently." He raised his arms in a broad gesture to the skold and the foundling. "Come! Sallow. Young sir. Off to the kitchens now and do your duty. Gretel will show you the way. Tell Closet that I have sent you."

  With a small bright-limn in her hand, the bower maid opened the door and curtsied to them, giving a grin. "I'll take you to the kitchens, just as the physic ordered." She stepped lightly into the hall and the skold went with her.

  Rossamund gave Europe a last look and followed, a welcome calm settling inside-things were going to turn out well. Still, his thinking turned upon two questions as he followed the bower maid and the skold down the dim hall: How am I going to be able to be Eur
ope's factotum and lamplighter too? and Where are my shoes?

  Gretel took them through a door, down another passage and through another door. Stepping alongside Sallow, Rossamund became aware that she was surrounded with some very unpleasant smells and sensations. In combination with the treacle-box, these made him feel distinctly queasy.

  "Hello," the skold said softly with a shy smile. "M-my name is Sssallow Meh-Meermoon. What's yours?"

  "Rossamund," he replied. She must be kind of important, to have two names. As always, he was half waiting for a strange reaction to his own.

  "My, R-Rossamund, it mmmust be am-mazing to be the f-factotum of the B-Branden Rose!"

  She had not reacted. He liked her. Pity she smells so badly. "It must be amazing to be a skold," he returned.

  "Ooh, I w-wish it were." Sallow sounded deeply troubled.

  Rossamund looked up at her sad face.

  "I only j-just got back from th-the r-r-rhombus in Worms a m-month aa-go," she went on rapidly. "Three years I was th-there, learning the E-Elements and the Su-Sub-Elements, the Parts, potential nostrum, all the ss-scripts, all the buh-Bases and the Combinations, the kuh-Kornchenflecter, the F-Four S-Spheres and the fuh-Four Humours, Applications of the V–Vade kuh-Chemica, mmmatter and ha-abilistics. Oh m-my, what a l-lot to n-know."

  Rossamund knew from his almanac that a "rhombus" was where some skolds went to learn their craft. As to the other things she'd said, he had no idea what she was talking about-except that "matter" was the study of things now past, that "habilistics" was the study of how things work and that the Vade Chemica was an ancient book-as Craumpalin had told him-full of the most unspeakable things. This girl seemed too polite and kind to have spent three years delving into such a grim volume.

  "I have l-learned it all too," she carried on. "Eh-everything. Achieved hi-igh st-standards, won p-prizes. Oh, but nuh-now…"

  She trailed off as they went through one last door and came into a very large room full of heat and steam and shouts. Shadows moved within this muggy air, lit glaringly from behind by a large pall of flickering orange. Delicious smells, sweet and savory, hung thickly.

  Mmm, the kitchen… Rossamund's stomach celebrated this discovery with a gurgle.

  "Bucket, you little sprig!" a refined but gravelly voice boomed. "Keep that spit turning and turning slowly, or I'll put you on it and baste you instead!"

  There was a clang, then a crash, then a tinkle.

  "That's it! Out! Out!" the voice boomed more loudly.

  A small child scurried out of the thick vapors, pushed past them roughly and through the door. A ladle came flying after him, just missing Gretel and bouncing to the cobbled ground with a bang and a clatter that stung the ears. A very average-looking man with a red face appeared from the steam, his expression changing from a fit of fury to shamed apology and finally fixing on stiff reserve as he saw the three newcomers and at their feet the still shuddering ladle. "Gretel. Whom have you brought me? Do they not like their food? Do they want Uda to make it instead, do they?"

  He was neither short nor tall, fat nor thin, handsome nor ugly, just very average. He wore an apron of the cleanest white despite all the bubblings and boilings going on around them. It was his voice that had bellowed before.

  "Not at all, Mister Closet," Gretel answered merrily. "You recognize young Sallow, our skold, don't you? Little Sallow? Went off to Worms, has come back a proper young lady and a bogle-fighter too? She needs to brew a potive here or some such, under Doctor Verhooverhoven's orders."

  Mister Closet made no sign of recognition. Instead, he looked ceilingward impatiently. "Well… if the good doctor has ordered it, I suppose it must be allowed." He frowned at Sallow and pointed to his left, his hand clutching a jagged knife. "Use the hot plate in yon corner there and stay out of the way!"

  Gretel went to leave and saw that Rossamund was padding about the place in just his trews. "I am so sorry-you haven't had your shoes returned. Sitt, the rascal, has taken his time. I will fetch them for you," she said and left them with a smile.

  A silent, portly lady in an apron as filthy as Closet's was white gave the skold a small clay pot to mix in.

  Rossamund fidgeted. The uncomfortable sensations coming from the treacle-box were beginning to become unbearable. It was a great relief when Sallow took it from him. As he gave it to her, he asked, "Um-Miss Skold-ah-Sallow. Doesn't it make you feel… nervous, to hold all these reagents?"

  "N-no, not r-really," she answered absently. "This is a w-well laid out b-box. Very ha-andy. Do you n-know where sh-she got it from?"

  "Uh, no…"

  With great concentration Sallow busied herself in the preparation of the treacle. The skold went through all the steps just as Rossamund had done, muttering to herself all the time. "F-first the… bezoariac, then… the… r-rhatany… then…"

  When it was finished (and Rossamund thought it a little too lumpy), Sallow poured the treacle into a beer tankard and carried it back to the room.

  Europe drank as greedily as she always did. Almost before their very eyes her face flushed with renewed vigor.

  As she finished the last of the treacle, Doctor Verhooverhoven turned to Sallow. "I have good tidings for you, my dear." The physician smiled at the skold. "You see, this fair fulgar has told me-while you were brewing-that she has slain those troublesome bogles in the Brindleshaws!"

  Sallow looked as if she had just been freed from a terrible gaol sentence. "Really! Oh ruh-really!" She turned from the beaming doctor to the impassive fulgar.

  Europe smiled in a cool, regal way, and nodded. "I hear from the physic that you were doomed to fight them yourself, girl. I am glad to rid you of the burden. The big fellow was a doddle, but those I believe to be his little masters gave me the… hardest time. A mercantile league in High Vesting hired me to do it, so you can thank the Signal Stars the unhappy task is done. Back to brewing and books for you."

  "Oh my! Oh m-my! What a r-ruh-relief," was all that the overjoyed Sallow could manage for the moment.

  The offhand mention of the death of the Misbegotten Schrewd gave Rossamund a sharp jab in his gut. The sorrow of it returned to him.

  Europe lay back, closing her eyes. "I won't need your soporific, Doctor Verhooverhoven. I feel sleep coming to me anyway."

  "Good to hear-just as it should be."

  Taking up a candle, the physician shepherded Sallow toward the door with upraised arms. "Time for we less sleepy folk to leave. I must return to my own abode-things there also need attending to. Sallow, after you." He smiled at Rossamund. "When you are done here, my boy, I recommend you to the common room, and get yourself a hearty meal."

  The foundling nodded. "Aye, doctor, I shall."

  "Good night, madam!" The physician bowed gracefully to Europe. "I expect you to be in much better spirits tomorrow."

  "And good night to you too, good doctor," returned Europe with equal grace. "Sleep well."

  The physician and the skold left.

  Feeling a little awkward at being alone with the fulgar, Rossamund fidgeted and looked at her shyly. She still held the tankard in which her treacle had been served.

  "I could take that back to the kitchens for you, Miss Europe," he offered.

  She looked at him sleepily. "That's a servant's job, little man." She held it up to him anyway. "But if you must."

  As he took it from her, he saw that there was a whole battery of marks running down the inside of each wrist, a tiny X flaring at each end. They were the same deep, dried-blood color as the leering monster's head drawn on Master Fransitart's arm. He hesitated. "Miss Europe…?"

  "Yes?"

  "What are they?" he asked, looking meaningfully at her wrists.

  The fulgar turned them about to show the small marks more clearly-arranged four by four in distinct sets. On the right wrist three complete sets went halfway up her arm; on the left there was only one complete set and another well on the way.

  Rossamund did a quick calculation. There must be more t
han seventy!

  "These?" she queried mildly. "These are just my cruorpunxis."

  "Your what, miss?"

  "Cruorpunxis," she repeated, growing slightly impatient. "Kroo-or-punk-siss. Monster-blood tattoos. Each little mark a monster I've slain."

  She's killed more than seventy monsters!

  "Not every one is here, though," she sighed, looking intently at her forearm. "Sometimes it is impossible to get at the beast after it's done in. Like that big brute at the bridge…"

  He was glad she would not be able to mark the Misbegotten Schrewd there. "I thought they were always drawn in the shape of those you killed?"

  "Oh, well, that's the way of rude and vulgar fellows. I have preferred something a little more comely and suitable."

  Rossamund frowned. He did not like Master Fransitart being called a rude, vulgar fellow.

  Europe roused herself. "Listen now," she said, heedless of his inner fuming. "While you were in the kitchens, I made an arrangement for the retrieval of… dear Licurius… and… the landaulet too. I expect it to be done by tomorrow evening-please, come and tell me as soon as it is."

  Yes, your blasted, wicked Licurius, went Rossamund's thoughts.

  "Aye, Miss Europe," went his mouth.

  Rossamund did not look at Europe as he walked to the door. All the bad he had witnessed her do was a heavy, black pall in his thoughts. Just inside the door he spied his shoes, thoroughly clean and shining black. Over them Europe's high, violent-looking equiteer boots loomed. Rossamund took his shoes out from under their shadow and put them on. Without a word or a backward look, he left the room.

  12

  A TROUBLE SHARED IS A TROUBLE HALVED

  Imperial postman (noun) a walking postman's or ambler's life is dangerous, and he is forced to be skilled at avoiding, and protecting himself against, monsters. Frequently customers of skolds, postmen invent clever and slippery ways to make sure that the post always gets through. Mortality rates are high among them, however, and the agents who employ them prefer orphans, strays and foundlings who will not be missed by fretting families.