Masters Fransitart and Craumpalin took Rossamünd to see Gauldsman Five, the gaulder. His was the best place in this part of the city to get clothing sturdy enough for Rossamünd’s journey, for Gauldsman Five made the best proofing. All proofing could turn sword strokes, and could even stop a ball fired from a musket or pistol. The simplest piece of proofing was costly, but the better the quality of protection the higher a garment’s price. Proofing was, however, also absolutely necessary for folk looking to venture beyond the city walls, where monsters and brigands and other horrors waited. It was made from cloth—anything from hemp to silk—treated with a chemical potion known as gauld, which made it very hard to tear or puncture. Broad straps of gauld-hardened leather and thin padding of soft, spongy pockweed were then sewn into the lining as the unproofed cloth was turned into garments. After this the whole array was soaked in gauld, and then cooked and soaked again and so on. Each gaulder had his own methods and process, and his own secret recipes. Rossamünd thought it almost too wonderful to believe that he might be getting such amazing clothing for his very own. He was speechless with glee as he left the marine society.
Gauldsman Five’s shop and fitting rooms were a whole suburb away, in the Mortar, on Tin Drum Lane, and the visit there would be a little adventure in itself. Indeed, any excursion from the foundlingery was a significant event. Rossamünd had been out from Madam Opera’s only a dozen times in his whole life, usually to go down to the Humour with the other foundlings to practice rowing and swimming. In fact, before today, his most thrilling excursion had been a trip to the house of Verline’s sister Praeline in the shadows of Boschenberg’s outermost curtain wall.
Fransitart, Craumpalin and Rossamünd went north along the Vlinderstrat, turned right onto the Weegbrug and then left onto the crazily curving Pantomime Lane. They strolled past alehouses, dance halls and puppet stalls, veered right once more onto the Hurlingstrat, dodging ox wagons and omnibuses, went through the Werkersgate and there, on the left hand, was Tin Drum Lane. Gauldsman Five’s establishment was about a third of the way along, tall and narrow like almost every other building in Boschenberg. Only those of quality were allowed in the front of the shop, where there were plush closets in which the wealthy and powerful could try on and admire their new proofing. Such ordinary folk as two marine society masters and a foundling had to use the poor man’s closets by the great gaulding vats at the rear of the shop. As they entered this filthy place, Rossamünd watched greenishorangey-yellow steam hiss angrily from one of the vats as an aproned man poured in a thick black liquid. A foul miasma churned in the dank air.
Fransitart spoke quietly but urgently with some grimy fellow, who spoke to another grimy fellow, who spoke to another, and before long a finely dressed man in a powdered wig appeared from a door leading to the front of the shop. Though his simply cut clothes were made of expensive materials, he had a splotched and haggard look about his face—the mark of a vinegaroon. He was one of Gauldsman Five’s tailors. Fransitart must have known him and, from his look of consternation, the tailor must have known the dormitory master too.
“’Ello, Meesius,” said Fransitart, a terrible light in his eye.
“Coxswain Frans?” Meesius the tailor went pale. “Is that you? And . . . and with Craump’lin too?”
Coxswain? Rossamünd had always thought Fransitart had been the gunner—in charge of all the cannon and their right firing.
“Aye”—Fransitart nodded gravely—“I’ve come to claim me debt.”
Tugging on the bristles beneath his lower lip, Craumpalin gave the tailor a knowing wink and flashed an almost threatening grin. “Lookee, Frans,” he said softly, “he still knows us!”
Meesius the tailor went even paler. “A-after all these years . . . ?”
“Aye.” Master Fransitart was as quietly menacing as Rossamünd had ever known him to be. “But I wants it in harness. Bring us yer best travelin’ wear for this ’ere lad.”
There was an awkward pause.
Rossamünd was bemused that his two masters could be such overbearing rogues.
With nervous sweat on his brow, the tailor hesitated.
Craumpalin folded his arms and glowered. Fransitart remained perfectly still.
Meesius cleared his throat. “W-well.” He gestured to Rossamund impatiently. “Come over here so I can get thy measurements.”
Rossamünd looked at his masters, and Fransitart gave the subtlest nod. The boy went over to the tailor, leaving Fransitart and Craumpalin by the vats.
“Lift thy arm!” Meesius growled under his breath. With a leather tape he measured Rossamünd’s neck and arms and even the girth of his chest with many rough proddings.
“. . . I daren’t keep him back any longer.” Master Fransitart’s voice carried softly across the vat-room floor.
“Ye dare not. And anyway, the lad is desperate to get on.”
“Aye, Pin, aye.” The dormitory master sounded resigned and strangely sad. “Well at least ’e’ll be stoutly protected.”
At this both of the old men went quiet.
Meesius disappeared for a time, then returned with a sour look, bearing two pieces of high-quality proofing. The first was a fine proofed vest with fancy silk facings and linings called a weskit. The second piece was a sturdy, well-gaulded coat—called a jackcoat—made of subtle silken threads of shifting blues. It came in at the waist and flared out to the knees. Rossamünd was stunned at its beauty.
The dormitory master told him to put on both the weskit and the jackcoat. “Ye might as well start getting accustomed to their weight,” he said.
They were a little too big for Rossamünd and heavier than normal clothes, but combined with his recently washed black, long-legged shorts—or longshanks—he looked very fine indeed and could be sure he was well protected for his long journey. All he needed now was a sturdy hat.
“Yer debt is cleared, Meesius,” Fransitart said, low and serious. “I ’ope we will never ’ave th’ need to meet again!”
Without another word the tailor hurried off into the shadows beneath the vats. Rossamünd and his masters returned the way they had come. Fransitart looked very satisfied with himself as they wrestled and veered through the jostling throng on their way home.
“Ye’ve got yerself a stout set of proofing there, lad. A fine harness, indeed.” The dormitory master’s smug grin broadened. “Ye’ll be well safe in it.”
Craumpalin chuckled. “Masterfully done, Frans, masterfully done. Ol’ Cap’n Slot would ’ave been impressed.”
Rossamünd had no idea what just happened. He had never seen Fransitart so satisfied, so pleased—but he was too astounded at his grand new proofing to give any of it another thought.
Verline mended his two shirts and even his smallclothes. She darned several pairs of especially long stockings—called trews—which he was to wear doubled back down from the knee for improved protection. Two scarves and two pairs of gloves were provided against the coming cold of winter. She also gave to him his own turnery (a fork and a spoon made of wood), a biggin (a leather-covered wooden cup with a fastening lid), a mess kid (a small wooden pail from which to eat his meals) and a flint and steel for the lighting of fires.
From the larder Rossamünd was allowed to put into his satchel a block of cured fungus known as dried must, a whole loaf of rye bread, a pot of gherkins that sloshed and plopped quietly when it was moved, three rectangular slats of portable soup (hard black wafers ready to be boiled down to a bland but nutritious brew), some fresh green apples and, for energy or emergencies, fortified sack cheese.
Traveling papers were arranged for him: a letter of introduction from Madam Opera recommending Rossamünd as a fine and useful boy; a waybill, or certificate of travel, giving him permission to move through any land or city-state of the Empire; a nativity patent to prove who he was and where he came from; and finally a work docket, upon which his conduct would be recorded in whatever job he was employed. This impressive wad of documents was put into a buff le
ather wallet along with (he could hardly believe his eyes!) folding money to the value of one sou—an advance of his monthly wages—and the Emperor’s Billion. This was a shining gold oscadril coin given as an incentive to all those entering the service of their Imperial and Pacific Lord. Rossamünd gaped at all this money that was apparently now his.
Old Craumpalin contributed too. The dispensurist supplied several flasks and tiny sacks, declaring them to be medicines to “invigorate both thew and wind”—by which he meant body and soul—and repellents to “fear away the bogles and nickers.” Rossamünd already knew the medicines—he’d seen them before—small milky bottles holding evander water, marked with a deep blue ∋ to show what they contained, and beneath that the tiny letters C-R-p-N —the dispensurist’s mark. The repellents, however, were new.
“Beware the monsters, me boy! Ye’ve been safe in here all yer life, but out there . . .” Craumpalin gestured vaguely. “Out there it ain’t safe. They’re everywhere, see, the nasty baskets. Big or small, they’re as mean as mean can be, so just keep these potives safe and handy and ye’ll go right—though I have to apologize to ye for them not being of as fine a quality as a skold brews.” The dispensurist pointed to a cobalt vial. “Right! This here is tyke-oil. It don’t smell like much to us, but it’s good for keeping monsters away, right off. A healthy smear on yer collar and they’ll stay well clear of ye. Problem is, it also lets them know ye’re there, so don’t go applying it willy-nilly, only when ye think they’ve got yer scent.”
Then he gingerly poked at one of the many little sacks kept within a bigger purse. Though the smell coming from them was faint, it was still unpleasantly sharp. Rossamünd hoped he never suffered a faceful of it.
“These are bothersalts.Very nasty stuff, and the sacks are fragile, so have a care. It will give any bogle—or person, for that matter—you happen on a nasty sting if you throw it at them, bag and all. Frighten them off for hours, but it also makes ’em angry, so be on yer guard for a good long while after. And this! This is a pretty bit of trickery!” Craumpalin unwrapped a package of oily paper to show a large lump of malleable skin-colored wax. An odor something like a very sweaty and unwashed person filled the air.
“It’s called john-tallow. Smells a wee bit off to us, but it’s a mile more appealing to the nose of a nicker than we are . . . leads them astray. Poke a little lump of this in the bole of a tree or under a rock, walk in the other direction and ye’ll get yerself some space.” He chuckled into his white beard. “Wonderful stuff. A warning, though: always handle it by the oiled paper. If ye get the stuff on y’ hands—or anywhere else come to that—then ye’ll stink of it too and the ruse will be ruined. Got it?”
As the dispensurist kneaded the wax, Rossamünd found that, strangely, he liked the smell. He said nothing of this and took in all he was told very carefully, very seriously, imagining a world beyond the city’s many curtain walls and bastions filled with all kinds of frightful beasts.
Craumpalin lifted up a bottle of brown clay. “This here be fourth and last,” he said. “It’s a nullodour—I like to call it Craumpalin’s Exstinker. Master Frans and me wants ye to wear a splash of it on ye all the time, no matter. Keep ye safe from sniffing noses—where ye’re going there’s no knowing where is safe and where ain’t.” The old dispensurist took up a long strip of cambric. “The best way to wear it is to liberally apply some to this here bandage, then wind it about yer chest, just under the arms like so.” He wrapped the strip about himself several times in demonstration. “A good splash will do for a day and seven will last you almost a whole week. After that I recommend you wash this and reapply more of me Exstinker.Tomorrow mornin’, when ye be getting yerself ready, we wants ye to give this seven splashes and put it about ye just like I’ve shown. Understood?”
Rossamünd nodded somberly. Anything to keep the monsters away.
Craumpalin grinned. “Good lad!” He handed Rossamünd the brown clay bottle along with a piece of paper. “There’s enough in there to last ye for a month. After that, give this script to yer local, friendly skold—make sure he’s friendly, mind—to make ye more.”
Along with all these things Rossamünd took his most treasured possession: a lexicon of words and a simple peregrinat—or an almanac for wayfarers—entitled Master Matthius’ Wandering Almanac: A Wordialogue of Matter, Generalisms & Habilistics, that is, history, geography and science. Cleverly, it was waterproofed, both cover and pages, so as to be useful to any brave and literate traveler no matter what the weather. It had been a gift one year ago, given on Bookday, when the foundlings at Madam Opera’s remembered the entry of their name into the grand ledger—a type of group birthday, and the only time their existence was ever celebrated.
Fransitart appeared in the afternoon with a valise of shining black leather.
“Thank you.” Taking hold of it, Rossamünd was at once struck by the bizarre sense that whoever had made the case had intended good things for its owner.
It had a lock, and a key that was fixed to a strong velvet ribbon of brilliant scarlet about Rossamünd’s neck.
The astounding array of Rossamünd’s new equipment was then rechecked and finally packed by Master Fransitart, who stowed everything wisely so that it would not rattle or knock when moved. Remarkably, the valise did not weigh nearly as much as he expected it might when it was fully packed.
Rossamünd urgently wanted to ask Fransitart to finish the telling of the fight with the monster and the secret things, the shocking things beyond and behind this. He had the courage now that so little time was left until he departed, but Verline did not leave them alone long enough for him to venture a question.
“I know ye weren’t thinking to be a lamplighter,” Fransitart said unexpectedly, “but not ev’ryone who studies law becomes a lawyer, lad. Things may change for ye yet. Paths need not be as fixed or as straight fo’ward as they might first show.” He looked hard into Rossamünd’s eyes. “Now ye’ve got to be especially wary out there, me boy. Ye get me?”
Rossamünd nodded slow and sad.
“Most ev’ryone is not goin’ to be as understandin’ of ye as Verline here, or crusty old Craump’lin or meself,” the old sea dog continued. “Guard yeself, pick ye friends cautiously and always keep wearin’ that brew ye got from Craump’lin. He knows his trade better than most—it will keep ye well protected.” Fransitart sniffed. “Take me words to heart, son. It’s a wild and wicked world beyond here and I’m loath to let ye out into it. But out ye must go, and ye’ve got to be sharp and wise and keep yeself from trouble. Aye?”
“I will, Master Fransitart, I will,” Rossamünd said with all the earnestness he could muster.
The dormitory master took something out of his pocket and passed it to the boy. It was a long and thin-bladed knife in a blacked leather sheath, a tool much like the ones Rossamünd had seen fishermen use when cleaning their catch on the stone-walled banks of the river.
As he gave the knife, Fransitart fixed Rossamünd once more with a serious eye. “Out in the world a knife is an ’andy thing to ’ave. Mark me, though! If ye must use this ’ere in a tussle,” he said, wagging his finger, “then make certain ye means to, or else it’ll get taken from ye an’ used upon yeself instead!”
Rossamünd nodded, though he did not really understand. He had no intention of using the knife for anything but the cutting of food.
To his dismay, Rossamünd was made to have another bath, though he had had one only two days earlier. “Make you nice and fresh for your great going forth, young man,” Verline declared as she sent him to the tubs. Smelling like lemongrass soap, he returned to the dormitory. As all the boys were piped to bed, Weems and Gull, two of the next-oldest, who would be leaving themselves next season, and who always did things together, teased him for his flowery smell. Rossamünd just shrugged. Tonight would be the last time he would have to put up with them.
Restless with dreams and worries of what was to come and a keen suspicion that Gosling might try som
e horrid final prank, he slept little that night.
Finally, at the start of the morning watch, Rossamünd was roused by a silent Fransitart. He followed the dim guide of the dormitory master’s shuttered bright-limn and bid good-bye, with one lingering look, to the dormitory. Snores and whimpers and sighs replied in unconscious, uninterested farewell.
So this is what it feels like to be leaving for good, he marveled.
Master Fransitart left him at the basins to wash his face and put on all the fancy new things that were waiting there for him. He was especially careful to apply one-two-three-four-five-six-seven splashes of Craumpalin’s Exstinker to the cambric bandage. Seven days’ worth. He wound it tightly around his chest just as the dispensurist had shown him before donning the rest of his attire.
In the dining hall he found a breakfast of rye porridge with curds-and-whey and sweetened with honey. A lantern sat on the side to light his last meal at the foundlingery. It was as fancy a breakfast as he had ever had, and it spoke of Verline’s care. He was just a little sad as he ate alone, the tap of his spoon against the bowl echoing in the lonely dark. Verline’s love would be hard to live without, but at last he was getting out!
With the early glow of approaching dawn showing through the high windows, Fransitart returned. He came into the dining hall carrying Rossamünd’s satchel and valise.
“Time to be going, lad,” rasped Fransitart, his voice sounding pinched and strange.
Rossamünd followed him to the vestibule by the front door where Madam Opera waited. Standing before the front doors, Rossamünd was granted his baldric. A leather-and-cloth strap that went over the right shoulder and looped by the left hip, it was given to all lads when they were declared to be passing from boyhood into manhood. Typically it was marked with the mottle—the colors—of one’s native city. This one was patterned in sable and mole checkers—that is, a checkerboard of black and brown, the mottle of Boschenberg. Master Fransitart, solemn and still silent, put it on Rossamünd and, that done, plonked a handsome black thrice-high upon his head. At last he was completely equipped.
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