Better.
He burped a little yellow bubble. “Thank you, MissVerline,” he gasped.
Verline told him to rest, that she would be back with a jar of water. She left again, and before she returned Rossamünd was asleep.
2
MADAM OPERA’S ESTIMABLE MARINE SOCIETY FOR FOUNDLING BOYS AND GIRLS
vinegaroon (noun) also sailor, mariner, seafarer, mare man, bargeman, jack, limey (for the limes he sucks when out to sea), mire dog, old salt, salt, salt dog, scurvy-dog, sea dog or tar: those who work the mighty cargoes and rams that tame the monster-plagued mares and ply the many-colored waters of the vinegar seas. Such is the poisonous and caustic nature of the oceans that even the spray of the waves scars and pits a vinegaroon’s skin and shortens his days under the sun.
THE great Skold Harold stood his ground. His comrades, his brothers-in-arms, had all fled in terror before the huge beast that stalked their way. This beast was enormous and covered with vicious, venomous spines. The Slothog—the slaughterer of thousands, the smiter of tens of thousands. The gore of the fallen dripped from its grasping claws as it came closer and closer. Struggling beast-handlers were dragged along as the Slothog strained against its leash.
The battle had been long and bloody. Ruined bodies lay all about in ghastly piles that stretched away as far as the eye could see. Harold had fought through it all. His once-bright armor was bruised and dented beyond repair. With great heaviness of heart he checked his canisters and satchels: all his potives were spent—all, that is, but one. It would be his last throw of the dice. He fixed the potive in his sling and, taking up the Empire’s glorious standard, cried, “To me, Emperor’s men! To me! Stand with me now and win yourself a place in history!”
But no one listened, no one halted, no one returned to his side to defend his ancient home.
Alas, now, the Slothog was too close for escape. It paused for a brief and horrible moment. Slavering, it regarded Harold hungrily with tiny, evil eyes. Then, with a bellow it shook off its panicking handlers and charged.
With a cry of his own, lost in the din of the beast, Harold swung up his sling and leaped . . .
“Young Master Rossamünd! What rot are yer readin’?”
Fransitart, the dormitory master of Madam Opera’s Estimable Marine Society for Foundling Boys and Girls, stood over Rossamünd as he sat in a forlorn little huddle, tucked up in his rickety bunk. A great red welt showed on his left cheek and right down his neck. Gosling had done his work well.
The boy looked sheepishly at Master Fransitart as he pressed the thin folio of paper he had been reading against his chest, creasing pages, bending corners. He had been so taken by the tale that he had not heard the dormitory master’s deliberate step as he had approached Rossamünd’s corner down the great length of the dormitory hall.
“It’s one of them awful pamphlets Verline buys for yer, bain’t it, me boy?” Fransitart growled.
It was the old dormitory master who had found him those years ago: found him with inadequate rags and rotting leaves for swaddling, that tattered sign affixed to his tiny, heaving chest. Rossamünd knew the dormitory master watched out for him with a care that was beyond both his duty and his typically gruff and removed nature. Rossamünd did not pause to wonder why: he simply accepted it as freely as he did Verline’s tender attentions.
The foundling nodded even more sheepishly. The gaudily colored title showed brightly on the cover:
He had woken a little earlier, after recovering from his dose of birchet, to find the pamphlet sitting on the old tea chest that served as a bedside table. Every second Domesday, when Verline was given a little time to herself, she bought them for the children from a shady little vendor on the Tochtigstrat. Today was Midwich—the day before Domesday. This particular issue must have been brought to him as a special comfort, and Rossamünd had snatched it up eagerly.
The dormitory master folded his hands behind his back. “What will Master Pinsum think of me findin’ ye readin’ these things again?”
Master Pinsum was one of Rossamünd’s instructors. He taught the foundlings matters, letters and generalities—that is, history, writing and geography. Rossamünd found it endlessly fascinating that, whenever Master Pinsum declared this about himself, he would wave his right hand theatrically, as was done in gala-plays, and rrrrolll his R’s with equal drama.
“I’m not much for me letters, as ye know, lad,” Fransitart continued, with a cheeky twinkle in his eye, “but Master Pinsum ’as led me to thinkin’ that readin’ these ’ere pamphlets will shrivel yer mind. Let’s just say ’tis a good thing ye’re recuperatin’ from th’ beatin’ that spineless-braggart-of-a-child Gosling gave ye—else I might ’ave to consider con-fer-scatin’ that there folio.” He rocked back on his heels and regarded the luminous cover. “What’s this ’un about, me lad?”
Rossamünd grinned. “The Great Skold Harold, Champion of the Empire and Savior of Clementine!”
“Ahh.” Fransitart stroked his clean-shaven chin. “Ol’ ’Arold, is it? Slayer of a thousand monsters in th’ Battle of th’ Gates, Savior of th’ Imperial Capital? That were a powerful long time ago—a bit of ancient ’istory. Wonder ’ow true that version ye got there is, though?”
“Why wouldn’t it be true?” Rossamünd looked horrified.
Fransitart shrugged. “Per’aps ’cause fabrications are easier to sell and more entertainin’ to read.” He leaned in a little. “Or per’aps it’s a bit o’ propaganda for th’ skolds, so we’ll like ’em better.”
“Well, I already think skolds are amazing! Would you want to be a skold, Master Fransitart? I wish that I was . . . that—or a vinegaroon, of course.”
For over fifteen centuries skolds had fought the monsters, so Rossamünd had been taught. Indeed, they had made it possible for civilization to endure. They made and used all sorts of powerful, strange and deadly chemicals to slay monsters or drive them off. They also sold many of these potives and concoctions to everyday folk, allowing them to stand against the monstrous foe as well. Skolds were deeply respected, but they were also thought strange and—it was said—they usually stank of the very chemicals in which they trafficked. Though Rossamünd had seen many, he had never been close enough to confirm this reputation.
“A skold? One of those dark dabblers makin’ all those dangerous smells and vile potions just waitin’ to go boom in yer face? Wanderin’ about, confrontin’ all th’ beasts and nasties out there?” The dormitory master gestured vaguely. “I be thinkin’ not.” He sighed. “Folks needs ’em to keep all manner of nasties away, I grant ye, but a skold will spend their days out in th’ wild countryside where only their cunnin’, their chem’stry and th’ cut of their proofin’ stand between their next meal and an ’orrible, gashin’ end! I’ve ’ad perils enough in me life and prefer to spend what’s left of it safe in these ’alls, behind th’ city’s many walls. And ye’ll ’ave dangers a-plenty when ye go to serve on a main-ram. A-skoldin’s not for me, lad, or thee either, if ye know what’s right fer ye.”
“Would you rather be a lahzar, then?” Rossamünd ventured, already knowing the answer.
Of strange people, lahzars were thought the strangest. Able to do wonderful, terrible things because of secret surgeries done on their bodies, they too fought monsters. Some even said they were better at this than the skolds. There were two kinds of lahzar: fulgars—who could make sparks and flashes of electricity; and wits—who could twist and squash minds, and could sense where monsters and even people were hiding. No one knew exactly whence lahzars had come, but for the last two centuries they had made a profound difference to teratology—the proper term for monster-hunting. Skolds were bizarre, but lahzars could be frightening—almost as frightening as the beasts they fought.
Fransitart squinted and sucked in a breath. “Abash-me, lad, now I’m certain ye’re goadin’ me! To let a butcherin’ surgeon go carvin’ into yer rightly ordered gizzards and guts . . . What’s the use of it? I’m with th’ skolds
—they were doin’ a fine job of th’ killin’ and th’ slayin’ and th’ lordin’ over we lesser folks for centuries afore them lahzars came along. Give me a skold over a lahzar on any given day, bless me eyes!”
Nickers and bogles were the names most folk gave to the monsters: nickers for the bigger ones, bogles for the smaller, though this rule wasn’t fixed. Rossamünd closed his eyes as he tried to imagine a lahzar battling with some giant nicker.
The dormitory master sat down on the end of Rossamünd’s sagging cot, rousing him. Fransitart gave the boy a serious look. “I ’ave ’ad to share cabin space with a few lahzars in me time, yer see: both th’ lightnin’-graspin’ fulgar and head-blastin’ wit . . .”
“You have?” Rossamünd sat up. He had heard many of the dormitory master’s tales, tall and true, but Fransitart had never told him this before. “What were they like, Master Fransitart? Did you see the marks on their faces? Did they fight any monsters?”
“Aye, I ’ave, and aye, their spoors on their foreheads were clear, and aye, they did fight with as many nickers as they found and did many worse things too . . . and after each meeting I was always mightily glad to be free of their comp’ny.”
Fransitart looked at his feet for a moment. Rossamünd wondered what he was remembering.
“They are strange,” he went on finally, “and th’ unnatural organs within their bodies that make ’em so strong make ’em crotchety, feverish! Many a queer thing I ’ave seen, but nothin’ quite so wretched as a lahzar made sick by ’is organs.” He stared intently at Rossamünd. “My masters, lad, neither thee nor me wants to become one of them. Stick to a vinegaroon’s life—’tis a good, ’onest way to chance yer fortune.”
“Well then, tell one of your stories,” Rossamünd persisted, his pamphlet forgotten for the moment, “of when you were a sailor upon the seas. Tell me about the Battle of the Mole, when you were saved by that white-haired fellow. Or when you fought against the pirate-kings of the Brigandine! Or when you captured that Lentine grand-cargo as a prize!”
“Nay, nay, me boy, ye know ’em mostly already, especially them there second two . . .” The dormitory master lapsed into silence.
Rossamünd became quiet for a moment too, inspecting an illustration of Harold battling the Slothog on a page of his pamphlet. In the drawing the skold looked as if he was about to be trampled.
Fransitart stood.
The boy looked up at his dormitory master shyly. “Master Fransitart . . .” he ventured. “Have you ever killed a monster?”
For a moment, Fransitart seemed almost angry at this question and Rossamünd immediately regretted asking it. Old salts like the dormitory master could be very touchy about their past, and it was proper never to ask but always wait to be told.
With the deepest sigh, the saddest sound Rossamünd had ever heard Master Fransitart give, the fury passed. “Aye, lad,” he said hoarsely, “I ’ave.”
A thrill prickled Rossamünd’s scalp.
The old man closed his eyes for a moment, and did something the boy had never seen him do before: he took off his long, wide-collared day coat and laid it neatly on the end of another cot. Fransitart rolled up the voluminous sleeve of his white muslin shirt, exposing much of his pale left arm. He bent down a little to show his gauntly knotted bicep. “Look ye there,” Fransitart growled.
Wide eyes went wider as the boy saw what was shown: made from swirls and curls of red-brown lines was the small, crudely drawn face of some grinning, snarling bogle. A pointed tongue protruded obscenely from a gaping mouth, and its eyes were wide and staring horribly.
A monster-blood tattoo!
People were only ever marked with a monster-blood tattoo if they had fought and slain a nicker. The image of the fallen beast was pricked into the victor’s skin with the dead monster’s own blood. The stuff reacted strangely once under the skin, festered for a time and left its indelible mark. The boy looked agog at his dormitory master. He already had deep respect for the old man, but now he regarded him with an entirely new awe.
“Master Fransitart!” Rossamünd hissed. “You’re a monster-slayer !”
Most folk would be bursting with pride to bear such a mark. Fransitart just seemed ashamed. “As things be, Rossamünd, th’ creature I killed did nought to deserve such an end and, though me shipmates boasted me an ’ero, it were a cowardly thing I did, and I am sorry for it now.”
Rossamünd’s astonishment grew. How could killing a monster be cowardly? How was it that Master Fransitart could be ashamed of being a hero?
To kill a monster was a grand thing, almost the grandest thing—everyone knew that. People were good. Monsters were bad. People had to kill monsters in order to live free and remain at peace. To feel sympathy for a bogle or to take pity on a nicker was to be labeled a sedorner—a monster-lover!—a shameful crime that at the very least had its perpetrator shunned, or stuck in the pillory for weeks or, worst of all, executed by hanging.
How many secrets did the dormitory master have? Was he a secret sedorner? Rossamünd went pale at the notion.
The more serious Master Fransitart became the quieter his voice. He was almost whispering now. “Hearken to me, me lad! Not all monsters look like monsters, do ye get me? There are everyday folks who turn out to be th’ worst monsters of ’em all! There’s things I needs to tell ye, Rossamünd—strange things, things that might appear shockin’ on first listenin’, but ye’re goin’ to need to begin to git ye head about ’em . . .” Something caught his attention. The dormitory master shut his mouth with a sudden click and quickly pulled down his shirtsleeve.
A moment later Verline entered at the far end of the long dormitory hall.
Master Fransitart gave Rossamünd a look that said Not a word of this to anyone.
Surely he was about to tell him the whole shocking adventure! Now that he had been interrupted, the dormitory master might never finish telling what he thought such an obviously terrible—maybe even shameful—secret. What dark mysteries could Fransitart possibly have to tell that made him so hesitant to speak them out? Rossamünd doubted he would ever have the courage to ask him to venture on the subject again. The boy had never regretted Verline’s presence or thought of her as intruding—but right then, he came close.
The parlor maid was bearing a bright-limn—a lantern holding phosphorescent algae that glowed strongly when immersed in the special liquid within—and approached with an open smile. With a sinking heart, Rossamünd discovered that she was once again carrying the crock of birchet.
“A good evening to you, Dormitory Master Fransitart,” she said softly, with a dip of her comely head.
Fransitart nodded his typically grave and silent greeting, straightening the broad collar of his coat.
Verline put the bright-limn on the tea chest. She waggled the turned ladle at Rossamünd seriously. “Time for another spoon of birchet, dear heart. Master Craumpalin has kept it warmed especially for your second dose.”
Rossamünd once more submitted to the cleansing fires of birchet. Once more he endured its agonies and came out the other side restored. With another belch of bubbles, he thanked Verline.
She smiled. Putting down the crock beside the bright-limn, Verline felt his forehead with a small, cool hand and peered at his bruises. “I think you are mending nicely, dear. Glory on Craumpalin’s chemistry! The swelling is definitely going down. But then you have always mended quickly.”
The dormitory master made an odd sound in his throat and then looked at Rossamünd gravely. “Aye, Craumpalin knows his trade. I reckon, tho’, that even ’e would agree with me in recommendin’ that th’ next time Gosling takes a shy at yer skull, Rossamünd, ye duck! Th’ best salve for a wound is to avoid ever gettin’ one.”
The foundling looked down at the cover of his pamphlet, sheepish once more. “Aye, dormitory master,” he answered softly.
Fransitart put a gentle hand on Rossamünd’s bruised head. “Good lad . . .” he growled, with an almost tender smile. “Right,
time fer supper!”
Rossamünd struggled into his evening smock, a shapeless sack with sleeves that all the children wore to dinner or supper.
“Master Fransitart, what will happen to Gosling?” he asked.
Fransitart frowned. “That li’l basket will be skippin’ tonight’s food and ’as been set to cleanin’ out th’ second salt cellar, th’ buttery and th’ shambles. I’m just off now to inquire as to ’is progress. Pro’bly not done ’im any sort of good! Pro’bly blamin’ everyone else and excusin’ hisself, as typical! A riot of ettins could do nought more than us to get th’ wretched child to mend ’is errors.” He shook his head. “That’s enough on that. Off ye hop, Rossamünd. Say yer prayers and clean yerself afore th’ meal. I will see ye in the dining hall.”
Though he was sure that she had not meant it so, as he had left the hall Rossamünd overheard Verline say quietly, “What a dear, sensitive boy,” and Master Fransitart rasping in reply, “Aye, too sensitive and too earnest for ’is own good. It’ll be trouble and agony to ’im all ’is life if ’e don’t get shrewder and tougher, just mark me. I can’t watch out for ’im all th’ time.”
The boy brooded as he followed the narrow passages with their many doors, flaking walls and damp smells. By bewildering turns and many short flights of stairs that went down, then up, then down once more, he went first to the basins and then to the dining hall. How might he be shrewder? How might he be tougher? How might he avoid this future of trouble and agony that Fransitart foresaw?. . . And how might he get his dormitory master to finish the telling of those strange and shocking things he dared not speak in front of Verline?
Foundling Page 2
