When Poundinch sighted the rivergate, he became agitated and positively alive. He leaped to his feet and paced his station as he had done at gunnery practice, muttering and gesticulating vaguely.
“Stay easy, lads. They’ve not caught ol’ Poundy yet,” he said over and over. He called down the speaking tube to the gastrineer, as softly as he could—for sound travels too well over water. “Ease ’er down, Mister Shunt, and when she’s at th’ gates keep the limbers limber, ye hear. We may need to make it away right quick!” Then he growled low to the boatswain, always on hand. “Secure below. No glimpses, no clues, just barrels o’ fat—same ol’ rigmarole . . . and make sure the newest acquisitions keep quiet too.”
The archway they were to enter was low, forcing the crew of the Hogshead to lower the mast so that it lay flat on the deck. As this was done the boatswain reappeared from below, and the rivermaster ordered him to pipe all hands on deck. Responding to such a call was instinct to Rossamünd, and he joined the end of the ragged line of crew, standing straight and as smartly as he could.
Poundinch stalked in front of them all and muttered just loud enough to be heard, “I wants us to be just likes we was an ’appy ol’ crew, no secrets, no gripes, just on an ’appy jaunt down th’ ol’ ’umour—ye gets me?”
“Aye, Poundinch,” was the common assent.
The rivermaster waggled his conspiratorial eyebrows. “No grumblin’.” He glared at Gibbon. “No snarlin’.” He squinted at some other bargeman Rossamünd could not see. “Now back to it!” he barked, raising his arms.
As everyone returned to his labors, so Rossamünd returned to the bow. A neat trim cromster trod proudly into the tunnel before them, its crew standing smartly in ranks on the deck. It was the same vessel that had passed the Hogshead two days before. Once again Rossamünd wished he was aboard her instead. As it moved away, he looked longingly at the shiny nameplate on the stern. His heart froze.
The plate read Rupunzil.
“Rosey-me-lad! Over ’ere!” Poundinch called.
The foundling stepped over cautiously, head low, eyes wide. He could see the rivermaster staring at the other cromster’s stern.
“Worked it out at last, ’ave ye?” Poundinch sneered.
Rossamünd went pale.
“Took ye a bit, didn’t it?” Faster than Rossamünd could react, the rivermaster’s hand shot out and grabbed him in a painful pinch by the back of the neck. “You stay right by me, lad.” Poundinch bent himself and leered into Rossamünd’s face. “Just remember—ye’re me cabin boy, got it?”
“I—I—I—uh . . . nuh . . . no, sir, I mean, aye-aye, sir,” was all that would come out of the foundling’s mouth. He could only stand there while Poundinch’s fingers pressed painfully on the tendons of his neck, and marvel at the rivermaster’s sudden cruelty.
Poundinch glared up at the Spindle.
“Made by a fierce, diligent folk, this,” he said in a conversational tone at odds with the grip he had on the boy’s scruff. “A cause of much consternation to th’ lords of yer city when it were built.” He turned his glare to the boy. “Whatever ’appens from ’ere on, ye’re goin’ to stay right ’ere by th’ tiller and ol’ Uncle Poundy’s side, got me?”
The Hogshead was passing slowly under the high, broad tunnel of a boarding pier upon which stood several stern-looking officials, each uniformed crown to boot-toe in black proofing. Bargemen at the fo’c’sle and poop fended the Hogshead away from the slimy walls of the arch with long, strong poles.
“Ahh . . . Ahoy, clerklings!” Poundinch called in a simulation of generous affability. “Ready to pay me taxes, same as always. Where’s ol’ Excise Master Dogwater?” Not once, during this cheerful display, did the rivermaster let up his wicked grip on Rossamünd’s scruff.
A serious-looking fellow—Rossamünd thought him even more serious than the officials serving the Axle back in Boschenberg—gave the rivermaster a long, odd look. “Excise Sergeant Dogwater has been reposted to tasks more suitable,” he stated flatly.
Poundinch seemed momentarily put out by this revelation, and he released his grip on Rossamünd. His face contorted frighteningly but reverted marvelously to the previous false grin. He kept his hand upon the foundling’s shoulder. It must have looked friendly enough from the pier, but the rivermaster’s fingers were like cunning, hidden claws.
“Very good, very good—pass on me well wishes. ’E were as fine an excise man that ever served on this river.” Poundinch rocked on his heels and, after a pause in which Rossamünd swore he could see the rivermaster’s thoughts turn like winch gears, added, “Present comp’ny excepted, of course . . .”
“Of course.” Unimpressed, the excise clerk held out an expectant hand. “Now, present your documents and your tallies, and scrutineers will be aboard presently.”
Poundinch did as he was bid. The papers were taken through an iron door in the arch’s hefty footing. Poundinch perspired, continually pursing his lips and flexing his free hand behind his back. Under the Axle, the Hogshead’s master had been as cool as the cold side of the pillow. Here, however, with no secretive conversations or cynical winkings with one of the clerks, he was visibly agitated.
The original excise clerk reappeared, as expressionless as before, followed by three gentlemen heftier of build and bearing heavy, long-handled cudgels—the scrutineers. With them came a quarto of musketeers, all uniformed in black with trimmings of white. In two ranks they lined up—five at the front, five at the back—on the stone pier.
The excise clerk held up his right hand and took a breath. “By the declaration of His Grace, the Archduke and Regent of Brandenbrass, and through the ratification and execution thereby of his Cabinet of the Charters set upon the sanctity of our borders, and its Ordinances concerning the same, you are presently ordered to allow to board, and then to be boarded by and searched by, Officers of the Sovereign State of Brandenbrass, and to declare upon a solemn ‘aye’ that you bear no contraband or other illicit articles upon or within this vessel, whether by hold or other conveyance, and that you regard inviolate the law and assertions of the State of Brandenbrass and that State’s authority. How say you?”
Rossamünd had no idea what had just been said, although it sounded extremely important and gravely impressive.
It seemed that Rivermaster Poundinch had not understood either. His squint grew more furrowed. “I . . . uh . . . aye, if it’s comin’ aboard ye wants, then”—he bowed low with a glance to his boatswain—“by all means.”
The scrutineers and the excise clerk stepped across from the pier and tapped about the upper deck for a good long while. Poundinch hovered nearby, answering the curt quizzing of the clerk with affected politeness. Rossamünd stayed by the tiller as instructed, heart knotting and unknotting alarmingly. It was a gloomy afternoon made gloomier under the shadow of this arch.
Eventually the search moved to the hatch. “What a horrendous stench coming from below, sir!” called the clerk.
“Why aye, sir.” Poundinch made to look chastened. “I intend to ’ave ’er in ordinary this winter, to give ’er a thorough swillin’ in and out. ’Tis th’ pig fat ye see—good for th’ purse but ’ard on th’ nose.”
The clerk put a foot on the top step and the scrutineers moved to follow. He paused and half turned. “Are your limbers still turning, sir?”
“Well . . .”
“Pray still them at once! You are committing a grave breach, sir!” The clerk made to mark an entry in a large ledger.
Just for a moment Poundinch looked like a cornered cat. Then, with a “We’ll not be ’avin’ that!” he shoved the excise clerk down the ladder and struck the nearest scrutineer right in the jaw with one of the thick wooden pins that were used to hold the mast.
“Let fly, Mister Shunt!” he bawled. “Let fly!”
With this the chaos began. Everyone but Shunt hesitated. The Hogshead lurched forward and people sprawled, Rossamünd with them. Poundinch leaped into the hold. Two scrutineers po
unced after him over their fallen comrade. Hiss—crack. The boatswain felled one with a pistol shot to the neck as the other disappeared below.
On the pier the musketeers presented their firelocks, their officer crying over the din. “Hold fast—or be slaughtered where you stand!”
The crew of the Hogshead just jeered as their vessel sheered away.
“Do yar worst, ya prattling hackmillion!” cried one.
“Hold yerself, chiff-chaffing lobcock!” screeched another.
“Go lay a muck hill, Mary!” and many worse things other bargemen returned.
The quarto of musketeers fired a rattling volley that brought several to their end, while someone ashore shouted, “Grapnels! Grapnels!”
The crew returned fire with pistol and blunderbuss, their shots having little effect as the musketeers’ proofing proved its quality. Only one of the soldiers fell, simply sagging where he knelt, shot through the head. Amazed at how suddenly and matter-of-factly the violence had begun, Rossamünd froze first with disbelief, which quickly dissolved into utter terror. Cold nausea griped in his guts and set his fingers tingling.
The steerboard bow struck the farther wall of the arch as the boatswain was surprised by the heavy lurch and failed briefly to keep the vessel under control. The ironclad hull ground with loud metallic groans along the stone and the Hogshead lost speed. The boatswain struggled for a moment, and then reasserted his will on the vessel. Under his now sure hand, the Hogshead went out the other side of the arch. Grapnel hooks were thrown to ensnare the cromster but none held. The Hogshead was clear.
“All limbs to the screw, Shunt!” the boatswain cried into a speaking tube to the organ deck. “Git us out of ’ere!”
Below a great contest thumped and bellowed. Poundinch and whatever crew had descended to aid him tackled the excise clerk and the doughty scrutineer. The sounds they all made gave no indication of who was winning, but as the cromster gained speed it was obvious that Shunt was not involved.
Rossamünd was shocked into self-preserving action as muskets fired once more and the balls panged about them. One sent some poor chap toppling into the Humour. Another struck the balustrade near Rossamünd’s head, scaring him mightily, and as he struggled to find a refuge, a musket shot clouted him upon his chest.
It hit harder than the hardest thump in harundo and sat him down with a tiny, audible huff! For a flash his whole existence was an intense agony right next to his heart. His eyes bulged, tears streamed. It hurt too much to breathe. He shook with terror as he thought he had gasped his last. How could they shoot at a small lad like him? What had he done that they should hate him so? Then breath returned. He was winded and certainly bruised, but he was not badly harmed. The proofing Fransitart had provided had done its admirable work. Wiping away the tears and mucus, Rossamünd marveled: he had been musket-shot and had survived.
The cromster gathered more speed and made for the middle of the river, putting a hundred yards between her and the Spindle. The vessel shuddered mightily as the gastrines were strained. The crew would do all they could to make their escape: only a gallows or worse awaited otherwise.
It was then that the great-guns started.
Boom! was the first and only warning. No range-finding splash, no whistle of a shot just missing overhead: the cannon of the Spindle were too well sighted and their gunners too well practiced. The very first shot hit the stern plate, which, being the only unclad part of the hull, was one of the weakest parts of the vessel. It was a fine hit that sent wood splintering and water spraying and shook the cromster to its ribs. The next two shots struck ironclad plates along the hull, each with a dull stentorian ring. Return fire was offered by the gunners of the Hogshead, but what good are twelve-pounders against the Spindle’s thick walls of slate and close-packed earth? The balls just bounced on the fortifications and plopped uselessly into the river. Whether it was the fourth, fifth or sixth shot of the great-guns none could tell, but one of them removed the boatswain without a trace and left the tiller as nothing more than a shattered, unusable stump. The Hogshead veered crazily.
A certainty took hold of Rossamünd. The time to depart had come. He was on the wrong vessel with the wrong rivermaster and probably heading for a cruel and horrible end. Equally worse, now those in the Spindle were counting him as one of the dastardly crew. He had seen hangings on Unhallows Night. He knew how criminals met their end. His chance to flee was here.
Gathering up his valise, his satchel and his hat, Rossamünd flung himself from the gory deck and into the inky chill of the mighty Humour.
6
MEETINGS ON THE ROAD TO HIGH VESTING
threwd (noun) threwd is the sensation of watchfulness and awareness of the land or waters about you. Though no one is certain, the most popular theory is that the land itself is strangely sentient, intelligent and aware, and resents the intrusions and misuses of humankind. Paltry threwd, the mildest kind, can make a person feel uneasy, as if under unfriendly observation. The worst kind of threwd—pernicious threwd—can drive a person completely mad with unfounded terrors and dark paranoias.
THE plunge into the river was like a stinging slap in the face, and his heavy proofing tugged Rossamünd deeper. Yet the valise somehow floated and, despite the weight of its contents, prevented him from sinking altogether. He bobbed to the surface and spluttered and gasped. He could swim, though a lot of people could not—a benefit of living in a marine society in a city by a river—and swim he did, as he had never done before. The current was slow, but enough to pull him away from the Spindle and away from the fleeing Hogshead. He splashed and flailed for shore, terrified he might end up part of the dinner of some bottom-dwelling river bogle.
The cromster had straightened somehow and was well distant from Rossamünd now, smoke trailing from some unseen fire, still making good its flight downstream. Shots from the vessel popped and those of the rivergate thundered. More casualties were inflicted on the Hogshead’s crew by accurate fire, while misses sprayed gouts of water about. With a mighty slap! one of these misses struck the water off to his right. He could see it clearly, a rapid, round shadow skipping once on the surface of the river before plunging with a meaty chock! into the water. With a panicked surge, he pushed for the bank.
The Humour carried him toward its eastern side. The muddy shore was almost treeless except for a thicket of tall and knotted she-oaks a little further downstream. Roots poked into the water and graceful boughs hung their long needles thickly into the same. It was an obvious landmark, and Rossamünd struggled toward the trees as hard as he could. There was no one to be seen on the bank. He prayed that those in the Spindle had not seen him leap from the Hogshead, and would not see him climb out of the river and into those trees. He would be associated with the bargemen of the Hogshead in the wrong way, he was sure, and that was trouble anyone would want to avoid.
His feet finally found grip on the slimy riverbed. Dragging the valise from the current’s tow, he waded ashore among curtains of soughing needle-leaves. Once out of the water he staggered and lay on the grassy bank in the shadows of the copse, sobbing, shivering, thoroughly lost. For a long while he remained dazed, unwilling to move for memory of the violence just gone and the fear of violence ahead. How could he possibly survive alone out here in the wilds, where all the monsters lived? Surely he would be eaten by the next gluttonous nicker to cross his path! If not today, then tomorrow or the next day—it was just a matter of time.
The thumping of great-guns ceased. The Hogshead had disappeared behind a bend in the river. Rossamünd watched from where he lay as two dark vessels moved out from their moorings by the Spindle and headed downriver in pursuit. They were monitors—much larger than any cromster, and more than a match for the Hogshead. He continued watching until they slowly disappeared around the same bend.
With a sigh he lay back, his mind blank. He had no idea what to do next.
Come on! Think! Think! Rossamünd schooled himself. Like Master Fransitart would do!
It occurred to him that the mysterious Mister Germanicus would still be expecting him in the fortress-city of High Vesting. Just how he was going to get there was the troublesome part. There was no going back to the Spindle to ask for another barge: he would probably be recognized and certainly prosecuted. There was no other option—he was going to have to walk.
But walk to where? Rossamünd tried to marshal his thoughts.
All about, the land was uniformly flat—mile upon mile of broad farming land. The most obvious landmark was the black threat of the Spindle to the north and the small wood growing about its eastern bastions. Rossamünd was grateful for the stand of she-oaks that sheltered him now, for he could see little other cover for miles about. He could well recall how the maps in the back of the almanac showed the region to be almost featureless.
Of course—my almanac! He took up his waterlogged satchel. Mucky water drained from a seam at the bottom. With a grimace, Rossamünd looked inside. It was a sodden mess. He gloomily took out his almanac and sat it in his lap.
Now I’ll find out just how waterproof this is. He gingerly opened the cover to find that the waxy pages had survived their dunking. They were not even slightly damp. There were no illegible smears in the print—not even a smudge. What a wonderful gift! Encouraged, he looked up the map of the region among the handful of other charts at the rear of the book. A thin line of communication showed from the Spindle to High Vesting. It was evidence of a road. Winstermill showed closer, but he had been told to go to High Vesting first. So it was south to the port, some eighty miles away, in a straight line, though much longer by road. It’s a long walk, but I reckon it’s what Master Fransitart would decide . . . And that settled it for him.
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