Foundling (14 page)

As soon as his ankles were released, Rossamünd scissored wildly with his legs for a moment to make sure they stayed free, then rolled over frantically and sprang to his feet. He looked left and right, hoping to dart away and escape. The woman regarded him closely for a long while, and he became still under her keen stare. Rossamünd was not so young as not to see that she was a great beauty, but there was a hardness to her and a
darkness
. It was then that he noticed a small blue mark above her left eye—a diamond-shaped spoor. She was a
lahzar
—one of those fabled monster-fighters who went to some far-off place to have secret surgeries done to their bodies, secret surgeries that made it possible for them to do strange and terrible deeds and fight monsters. He knew immediately by the spoor this elegant scarlet woman wore that her special talent was to generate and manipulate electricity and lightning. Among lahzars, this group were known as fulgars.

The lady fulgar smiled. The smell of her wafted about Rossamünd, a strange scent—sweet, yet salty and sharp too.

“Hello, little man,” she offered, in what was probably her kindliest voice. “My name is Europe.
This
is my factotum,” she said, indicating the box-faced driver. “His name is Licurius. What do they call you?”

Rossamünd did not answer.

Europe pursed her lips, glanced at Licurius and sighed.

“As I have said, we really have no thought of hurting you. Indeed,
little
man, you are of
little
consequence to us. I might care enough to help you, but not nearly so much as to hurt you.” She gave a mirthless chuckle and then became serious. “You see, I believe you have to particularly care about somebody to put the effort into harming them. Now, tell me your name and when you’ve done that you can tell me what a little fellow like yourself is doing out here in the hinterlands without his hat?” She smiled in a knowing way, an expression that promised either malice or friendship, depending upon what might happen next.

For the briefest moment Rossamünd weighed his options. He relented and said, “My name is Rossamünd Bookchild and I lost my hat in the river.”

“I gave you your chance, boy!” Europe was suddenly lit with a powerful yet suppressed rage. “If you’re going to dash it with saucy nonsense, then this is where we part ways!” She turned on her heel as if to leave, coat hems swirling.

“I-fell-off-a-boat-bound-for-High-Vesting-and-swam-ashore!” Rossamünd yelped in one frightened breath. He continued almost as quickly. “And my name really is Rossamünd, and I know it’s not the right kind of name for a lad but I was given it while I was too young to argue and now it is written in the ledger and there is no going back on that . . .”

Europe stood still, cocked her head and made a wry face.

“I am a book child—a foundling—and I’m supposed to be in High Vesting so I can start my job and now I’m probably lost and I’ve got no water to drink and . . . and . . .” Rossamünd trembled on that awful verge where tears begin and poise is lost.What is more, he had revealed more about himself than he had intended. He was sure that if Fransitart could see him now, his old dormitory master would be shaking his head in dismay.

“I see.” The fulgar pondered for a moment. “You have very fine proofing for a foundling, little man. Did you happen to steal it?”

“No, ma’am!” Rossamünd was simultaneously startled and offended.

The fulgar shrugged. “Either way, maybe I can be of help to you after all. If it is water you need, there is plenty on the carriage.” She paused sagely, then smiled an oddly cheeky smile. “I could even do as much as cart you to High Vesting, if you would like, though you will have to join me as I work. What do you think, Licurius? Shall we aid this poor, lost, well-dressed book child? You never know, with your poor eyesight an extra pair of peepers could be handy on our way.”

Licurius nodded just once.

“There you go!” Europe kept grinning in mild triumph.

So they climbed into the landaulet, all three—Licurius handing his mistress aboard—and set off down the Vestiweg once more. Rossamünd’s thoughts sang happily as he drank his fill of water and the flat fields rocked by. Whatever anyone else said, he thought lahzars were the finest folk he had ever met.

 

 

 

I
T was supremely comfortable in the landaulet: the seats were pliant and easing, the upholstery and trimmings all wrapped in thick, glossy leather of a scarlet almost as rich as Europe’s sumptuous frock coat. And there was indeed as much clean water as Rossamünd needed, stored in black lacquered panniers hanging from the back of the carriage. There were also several bottles of claret, of a rather cheap variety, so Europe informed him, mixed with apple pulp, “and not meant for small boys!” All in all, he thought it a fine way to make the rest of his way to High Vesting.

Not long into the journey, however, they crossed over a small wooden platform under which bubbled a happily babbling runnel, probably a drain for the fields. It was enough water to quench any thirst and not so far down the road that Rossamünd would have perished before he found it. This really struck him: had he pushed on, he might have been all right on his own after all. He thought life’s twistings very odd.

Europe chatted gaily at first. She talked about the weather and then about the strange dress-sense of the women from the Considine, the Emperor’s second capital far away south. She talked on and on about a great deal more, usually about herself: great conquests of fearsome nickers and even greater conquests of certain “stupid, wealthy dolts,” as she called them—whatever that meant. Rossamünd found it all rather hard to follow, but nodded as politely and as attentively as he could. While she talked, she offered him expensive foods in an elaborately offhand manner, dainty morsels the likes of which he had only ever seen in the quality street confectioners of Boschenberg. There were nibbles of many types of nut; strips of rare cured meats—gazelle, ibex, harp seal—delicately flavored with expensive spices; and sachets of dried fruits—peaches and strange yellow triangles she called “pineapple” which tasted so oddly and delightfully sweet he could not stop picking at them; and a small profusion of little bruised things. He asked what these were.

“
Those
? Oh, they’re whortleberries,” she said simply, but with that one statement Rossamünd’s eyes went wide. How rich could one person be! Whortleberries were the absolute king of way foods: one little dried berry, though not able to relieve the pangs of hunger, could give a full-grown man energy for almost a whole day. They grew in very remote and threwdish—haunted—places and their cultivation and trade were vigilantly guarded. All this made them astoundingly expensive, but here, now, in this luxurious landaulet, was a small fortune’s worth.

“May I try one?” he asked timidly.

Europe gave him an odd look. “Certainly. They’re there for the eating—though not too many, mind, or the top of your head might blow off as you run giggling down the road.”

He took just one and examined it closely. It was a withered berry no bigger than the fingernail of his little finger, the color of a plum gone bad. Very unimpressive. He plopped it quickly in his mouth. It tasted flat and disappointingly bland, but when he swallowed, a tingling started in his belly and a happy, lively warmth spread to the top of his head. Rossamünd blinked and grinned. He changed his mind and thought it the nicest thing he had ever eaten. With this new pulse of energy and surge of well-being he started to fidget and shift about in his seat.

Europe watched his antics with amusement. “Works wonderfully well, does it not?” she observed.

“Aye, ma’am! I reckon I could run all the way to High Vesting and back!” he enthused.

“Yes, well . . .” Her expression became a little mocking. “Let us not go too far.”

This was a little deflating, but the whortleberry made Rossamünd’s spirits so high he was not downhearted for long. Forgetting himself a little, he began to poke about the interior of the carriage, prodding at the upholstery. On the seat beside him was a plain-looking box—a case really, quite large and long and flat and lacquered a glistening black. Rossamünd went to pat its smooth surface, but pulled his hand away quickly as he felt a faint, queasy dread emanating from within it.

Europe quickly became stern. “Nothing in there, little sneak!”

She took up this box and poked it away between her and the side wall of the landaulet. “Didn’t they tell you at your bookhouse that curious eyes rot in their sockets and curious fingers wither to their knuckles?”

After this the lady fulgar became quiet and ignored Rossamünd, quickly growing sullen and staring at the distant windmills and featureless land, her chin cupped in hand, elbow propped on knee. “I
hate
this place . . .” she muttered. This was all she said for quite a long time.

Rossamünd had no idea what to do, and sat perplexed. Eventually he offered the lahzar one of her own whortleberries, thinking this might cheer her, but she just looked at it blankly, frowned at him and went back to her listless maundering. Rossamünd became suddenly and painfully aware of the strangeness of his surroundings and of the two people with whom he shared the carriage. He sat very still and very, very quiet.

Later that day it rained, and this seemed to improve Europe’s mood considerably. “This is more like it,” she grinned. Sitting up straighter, she called to Licurius, “Fighting weather, hey, Box-face! And let there be more of it too!”

Once more, Rossamünd had no idea what she was talking about. Licurius ignored her as he had ignored the rain—and most everything else, it seemed.

Europe pulled the broad, bonnetlike canopy up and over them, keeping them and the plush interior dry while Licurius, at the front, was left to soak as he stoically dictated the landaulet’s course. This made Rossamünd uneasy and unhappy, reminding him of the times when Madam Opera bullied and badgered dear Verline. He did not understand why one person should have all that he or she needed and dictate to others what they have or have not.

Even with the fulgar’s rapid lift in spirits they continued the rest of that day’s journey in silence and in the rain, Rossamünd taking the opportunity to read his already well-thumbed almanac. It said very little about the region they were in except that it was called the Sough, that it was very fertile and that it was famous for its lettuces and strawberries, though he had so far seen few of either. In the early evening, when they stopped for the night, it was still showering. Gaps in the cloud showed the glorious golden orange of the sun’s late light reflected off enormous cumulous columns. In the strange yellow gloom Licurius tended to the pony, hobbling it and attaching a feed bag to its bridle. He then set small cones of repellent in a circle about their temporary camp, scratching strange marks in the soil with a stick at the intervals between each cone. He set a modest fire with wood they carried with them and, when it was burning merrily, put some kind of small cauldron in its midst. All this done, the leer finally prepared his bed beneath the landaulet.

From under the canopy, with the rain going
patter, patter
upon it, Europe called softly to him, “I’ll be wanting the brew in about twenty minutes, I think, but be sure it has mixed well and is the right temperature.”

With a quick, resentful glare at Rossamünd she took out the nondescript black box that had caused such tension earlier and handed it almost secretively to Licurius. Then she lit an oil lamp with deft strokes of a flint and steel, and, opening a compartment beneath her seat, pulled out a great clothbound book. Producing a pencil, she began to scratch and scrawl in the book, humming or
tch-tch
-ing in turn. After a while she looked up sharply and quizzed Rossamünd flatly, “You know what I am, don’t you, child?” She waggled the end of her pencil in the vicinity of her left brow, indicating the small blue outline of the fulgar’s diamond above it. “What
this
means?”

Rossamünd had no idea what to say. “I uh . . . uh . . .” He suddenly felt embarrassed to talk about her occupation, as though it was a private, even a shameful thing. In the end he nodded. Her expectant gaze was even more terrible than Madam Opera’s.

“And what is that?” she persisted.

Rossamünd flushed and wished he was a thousand miles elsewhere. “You’re a lahzar,” he mumbled.

“I’m a what?”

Rossamünd almost rolled his eyes, but thought better of it. “A fulgar—a monster-fighter. You make sparks and lightning.”