He finished his meal and returned to his room to slumber. Europe still lay in bed, her back to the door. Rossamünd could not tell whether she slept or simply ignored him, and cared little for the risk to find out which.
Not long after dawn he set out. Master Billetus sent Little Dog with him to show the way. Little Dog went forth barefoot, protected by proofing of much lesser quality than Rossamünd’s own fine jackcoat. He proved shy at first and seemed in awe of the foundling, an attitude so new to Rossamünd that he found it unnerving.
They were let through the gates, which were firmly shut again behind them, and quickly arrived at the intersection by which the Harefoot Dig was built. A sign was there telling them that they had arrived at the Gainway. To the south, it said, was High Vesting. To the north was Silvernook, and below this Winstermill. The back of Rossamünd’s head tingled as he realized how close he was to his final destination. He had just to keep going north past Silvernook and he would arrive there. If it was not for Mister Germanicus waiting for him in High Vesting, he just might have. They turned left and went north up the Gainway toward Silvernook.
Little Dog walked quickly and Rossamünd strained to keep pace. It was hard work and left little breath for conversation. The page boy kept looking about nervously, and Rossamünd joined him. Overloud rustles made them jump and hurry on. Once a loud crack away among the trunks alarmed them so much they fled the road and hid behind a knuckle of lichen-covered rocks. It was always a relief whenever a cart or a carriage passed them by, the drivers typically offering a wave and sometimes a friendly, incoherent greeting. This traffic became more and more frequent as the day progressed.
By about the first bell of the forenoon watch—as Rossamünd reckoned it—a cart rattled by and stopped. Its rubicund driver hoied! them cheerily, calling, “Little Dog! Ye’re wanting a hitch to Silvernook?” to which the two tired walkers gave a hearty yes.
The driver introduced himself to Rossamünd as Farmer Rabbitt and chatted merrily about “taters” and “gorms” and how Goodwife Rabbitt was heavy with child. “Moi first, yer know,” he grinned with a wink. Rossamünd thought him the happiest fellow he had ever met, and could not help but grin along with the farmer’s ready joy.
The darkling forest gave way to great, high hedges of cedar trees, grown close and thick along the verges. In the midst of almost every hedge-wall there was some kind of grand and solid-looking gate. Little Dog informed him that these were the fences behind which lived the local gentry.
As they rattled on, Rossamünd thought on the perplexing choice before him: stay true to the original path—become a lamplighter and take on a boring life, or become the factotum—the servant—of a woman who did deeds with which he could never agree? It was more than he knew how to solve, and he hoped circumstances would provide a solution for him.
Soon enough they arrived at Silvernook, hidden within a high bluestone wall. The gates of the town were open, but they were watched. The town’s gaters, who wore the black uniform of Brandenbrass, eyed them sternly as Farmer Rabbitt drove through. He set Little Dog and Rossamünd down by the Imperial Postal Office, where the lads parted ways, for Little Dog had an errand to run somewhere else in the town.
“I’m sorry, Mister Rossamünd, sir,” he said, “but I probably won’t be able to show you back to the Dig.You’ll find yer way back a’right, though, won’t you?”
“I reckon so, Little Dog,” answered Rossamünd, blushing at the boy’s deference. “I’ll have my driver by then—he’ll be going back with me, I’m sure.”
With a satisfied nod, Little Dog left.
The Imperial Postal Office of Silvernook was narrow and high, like every other building in the town, making the most of the limited room offered within the safety of the town’s walls. And as always, its chimneys were extraordinarily tall. As far as he knew, chimneys were so lofty because it was reckoned that the higher they were, the harder it would be for some curious bogle to climb them and do mischief.
People were going into and coming out of the Imperial Postal Office steadily. Rossamünd found that he had to join a queue of high-class ladies in their voluminous skirts and festooned bonnets; guildsmen in their weathered leather aprons; and middle-class gentlemen buckled inside high collars and flaring frock coats, just so he might ask for further help. When he finally arrived at the serious woman on the other side of a perforated wall, she informed him that the coachman’s cottage was beyond a certain side door, through which he proceeded directly.
The door opened onto a long drive that went between the Imperial Postal Office and another equally tall building. This drive took him to a sizable open area at the back, large enough to turn a two-horse carriage about, surrounded on every side by high houses. In a far corner was a small dwelling with a bright red door: the coachman’s cottage. A brass plaque screwed to it declared:
. . . and Rossamünd did just that.
There was a long pause.
He tried again, and the portal was finally opened, a thin, grudging gap.
“Hello,” Rossamünd began, hands clasped meekly. “Do you have any drivers in there?”
The gap increased slightly.
“You what?” came a sour voice from within.
Rossamünd cleared his throat nervously. “I . . . uh, we are needing to hire someone to drive the landaulet down to High Vesting. Um, we’re at the Harefoot Dig, you see, and . . .”
“You want someone to go with you down to the Dig,” the sour voice demanded, “so they can drive some cart to High Vesting, aye?”
“Ah . . . aye.”
“And how much you got in your purse?”
“I . . . um . . .” Flustered, Rossamünd counted his coins. “One sequin, a florin and eight guise.”
“I seeeee.” The sour voice sounded less than convinced. “Wait there.”
The door closed with a bang.
Fidgeting, Rossamünd was made to wait what felt like an overlong time.
Finally the scarlet door was pulled open a crack once more. “Sorry, no drivers available,” the sour voice declared, sounding almost triumphant. “Too busy! Try the Drained Mouse on Fossick’s Cauld—plenty of desperate lads there. Good-bye.”
“But wait, I don’t . . .”
The door closed with an even louder, all-questions-ending bang.
Even before Rossamünd had a chance to turn and walk away in disgust, the door was opened once again, wide this time. “So yer need some help with a driver, do yer?” a voice inquired.
Before him stood a cheerful-looking man with a ready, toothy smile and large ears that stuck out prominently, made more obvious by his hair, which was unfashionably short like Rossamünd’s. This fellow was dressed in drab, sturdy proofing: a jackcoat strapped all the way down the front; longshanks of a thick, corded material; and white gaiters reaching as high as the knee fastened over sturdy dark brown road-shoes. Wound tightly about his waist was a broad sash, and fixed by black ribbons to both arms were broad oversleeves of a brightly colored taffeta of rouge and cadmium checkers.
Rossamünd instantly recognized the mottle of a postman, those faithful fellows who braved bandits and bogles and foul weather to deliver mail to and from the scattered folk of the country. The colorful cloth was set off nicely against his otherwise dull attire, and made the man look important and serious, quite at odds with his friendly expression. In his hand he held a black tricorn.
Rossamünd frowned at him, not knowing how to answer.
“Hello, lad, sorry about being so abrupt. Just had ter make sure I got t’ yer in time. My name is Fouracres.” The man reached out a hand for Rossamünd to shake.
The boy did just that, as Fransitart had taught him to, looking up at the man’s face seriously. “Hello, Mister Fouracres. I’m Rossamünd.You’re a postman, aren’t you?”
The fellow nodded smartly. “Yes, lad, that I am—bit obvious, ain’t it? Rossamünd, yer say? Well, Mister Rossamünd, those other slothful souses in there might not want to help, but I
may be of service to yer.”
“How so, sir?”
“Well, I’m needed in High Vesting, yer see, and I couldn’t help hearing yer needed a driver to take yer ter High Vesting, so I think: two people, same problem, one solution. I’d like ter offer me services to yer as the driver yer need. I’m not as well practiced as these daily-driving gentlemen—I’m a walker, yer see—but I still know how to switch a rein.”
Rossamünd did not care what the man’s credentials were: he could drive, that was all he wanted to know. He accepted Fouracres’ offer with glee.
The postman bowed humbly. “Just wait by the front of the office, and I will join yer as soon as I’m able,” he offered with a grin.
With many an exuberant thank you, sir! Rossamünd went back through the Imperial Postal Office and waited on the street out in front. It took a long time for the postman to emerge. As Rossamünd waited, with people and vehicles bustling by, he began fretting that he had been duped by the unwilling people inside the coachman’s cottage. His fears proved unfounded, however, for Fouracres arrived soon enough, hat on head, bag full of dispatches on his back and a satchel over his shoulder—ready to leave. Before much longer they were walking back out the gates of Silvernook and returning down the road to the Harefoot Dig.
Rossamünd had found a driver!
13
FOURACRES
eekers (noun, pl.) folk who, because of poverty or persecution or in protest, live in wild or marginal places.There they scrounge what life they can from the surrounding land. Many eekers are political exiles, sent away from, or choosing to leave, their home city because of some conflict with a personage of power. It is commonly held that most have become despicable sedorners so that the monsters will leave them be.They are already mistrusted and despised for their eccentric ways, and such suspicion only makes them doubly so.
FOURACRES whistled a cheery tune as they strolled past the high hedge-walls of the gentry. He walked with an easy stride and smiled at anyone who passed. Rossamünd trotted happily beside him along the weedy strip that ran between the lanes, right down the middle of the road.
“So, Mister Rossamünd,” the postman finally said, “how is it that yer could be at the Dig with a fancy carriage but no driver?”
Rossamünd thought for a moment. “There was a driver, sir, but he was killed by the grinnlings.”
Fouracres looked at him. “Grinnlings?”
“Aye, sir. Those nasty little baskets that attacked us—the ones with sharp teeth and the clothes and the great big ears . . .” Rossamünd stopped short and, looking quickly at the postman’s own organs of hearing, hoped he had not offended him.
Fouracres seemed not to have noticed any insult. “Aaah, them! Nasty little baskets indeed! Hereabouts they call them nimbleschrewds. They’ve been a’murdering wayfarers here and there in the Brindleshaws for the last three months or so. I’m sorry ter hear they got yer driver too.”
“He fought hard, Mister Fouracres, killed many, but they got him in the end. I watched it happen—they just smothered him.”
The postman nodded approvingly. “Well, there yer have it! To kill one or two is a doughty thing, but ter go slaying more, my word, that’s a mighty feat indeed! But tell me: what was it that coaxed yer and yer driver to linger in that part of the woods—it being common knowledge they be haunted?”
The foundling did not know how to answer. He screwed up his face, scratched his head, puffed and sighed. In the end he just told the truth. Starting with Madam Opera’s, he told the entirety of his little adventure to the postman, who listened without interrupting once.
“So the ettin’s dead, then?” was all he said when Rossamünd had finished.
“Aye, it was killed, sir, or as near enough to it, from what I saw,” Rossamünd replied glumly. “I was there to watch, but I had nothing to do with it, really. It was a cruel thing, and I didn’t know what to do . . .”
Fouracres seemed sad to hear this himself. He sighed a heavy sigh. “Ahh, poor, foolish ettin,” the postman said, distractedly—almost to himself. “He did not want to listen to me . . . I warned him this would happen . . . There yer have it, lad: cruel things like this are done all the year long.”
“Did you speak to the schrewd, Mister Fouracres?” Rossamünd was stunned.
“Hey? Oh, that I did, and often,” the postman answered, after a pause. “He is—was—on my round, yer see, between Herrod’s Hollow and the Eustusis’ manor house. I told him no good would come of his enterprise, but he was powerfully put upon by those nasty little nickers ter keep it up. Who did the dastardly deed?”
“It was, um, Miss Europe, sir, and her factotum Licurius—but he died at the task, sir. He was the driver.”
“Aah, the Branden Rose . . . I had heard she might have been hired for the job, with that wicked leer as driver, you say . . . a fitting end for him, perhaps?” The postman gave Rossamünd a keen look. “I’ve not had anything ter do with either, but I know the lahzar by her work and the leer by his blackened reputation. Is the Branden Rose as pretty as they say?”
Rossamünd shrugged but offered no more. “What were the grinnlings doing to the schrewd?” he persisted.
“Huh?” The postman looked momentarily distracted. “Oh. Well . . . if yer go by what the big schrewd said, it was the nimbleschrewds’—grinnlings, you called them?—idea to haunt the Brindlestow and stand-and-deliver travelers. I think they thought his great size would scare people more. It was inevitable really: such a scheme could never last so deep within our domain.” Fouracres sucked in a breath. “I’ve seen the Misbegotten Schrewd about long before now. He ought’er have known better, but those grinnlings—I like that name, very fitting—those grinnlings must have come in from the Ichormeer or some other wildland up north. I say that ’cause, if it was their idea, then they can have only been ignorant of the ways of men or just plain stupid.”
Rossamünd listened with rapt fascination. Here was a man who had not only seen monsters, he had talked with them! Why couldn’t they have made me a postman so I could wander around and talk to monsters too? To Fouracres he said, “I can’t believe you actually spoke with the Misbegotten Schrewd!”
“Well I did, many times. Great talks they were, very illuminating.” Fouracres became sad again. “It’s a great shame he had ter go the way he did—that ettin was a nice enough fellow.”
Angry tears formed in Rossamünd’s eyes. He kicked at a stone and sent it cracking into the trees. “I knew it! I knew it! But she just went and killed him anyway!”
“Now there, Rossamünd, master yerself,” the postman soothed, bemused. “It’s a bitter truth of our world that monsters and the vast majority of folks can’t live together—certainly not happily. In everyman lands, monsters give way; in monster lands, everymen give way. It’s a law o’ nature.”
“But you lived happily with them!”
“Some I did, that is sure, but certainly not all I met were worth stopping ter chat with. Besides which”—Fouracres leaned closer—“I ain’t the vast majority of folks.”
Rossamünd wiped his nose. He was angry still. Things would never be as simple as they were at the foundlingery. “I would have liked to have been his friend too!” he growled.
The postman leaned forward and replied quietly, almost secretively, “A noble feeling, Rossamünd. It does credit t’yer soul, and I heartily believe yer would have made an excellent chum: but I have ter warn yer not ter say as much ter many others. Such talk can get you a whole life o’ trouble. Keep these things ter yerself.” Fouracres thought for a moment. “I’ll not trouble yer, though, nor say anything of what yer’ve just told me. ’Tween us alone, this . . .” But suddenly he stopped—stopped talking, stopped walking and stared rigidly at nothing.
Rossamünd had walked some way ahead before he realized. Alarmed, he turned back to the postman. “Mister Fo . . . ”
“Uh!” was all Fouracres said, his hand whipping up to signal silence. After only a moment more he stepped f
orward and whispered to the startled foundling. “We have something wicked on our path. Follow and step very lightly—yer life depends on’t . . .” With that the postman crept into the trees on their left.
Looking over either shoulder in awe, Rossamünd followed as quietly as he could into the wood, every snap and click underfoot a cause for chagrined wincing. He could not see anything on the road. How was it possible for this fellow to do so?
The ground all about was very flat and the trees broadly spaced. Some way in Fouracres found a modest pile of stone all about a small boulder and indicated that this was to be their hiding place.
His gizzards buzzing with fear, Rossamünd gratefully hid behind these rocks and found a gap between them through which he stared back at the road.
Fouracres put down the large bag he carried and held up a finger, whispering seriously. “No noise, no movement—ye’re the very soul of stillness. Aye? The soul of stillness.”
“Aye,” Rossamünd replied in a nervous wheeze.
“I will be back.”
The postman returned to the road, rapidly yet with little sound. Watching through the gap in the stones, Rossamünd saw him pick up a long stick as he went, then take out something from the satchel he carried and unwrap it. The strangely pleasant odor of john-tallow came back to him in the light early afternoon breeze. Quickly, Fouracres skewered the john-tallow on the end of the stick and began to rub it on the ground, on trunks, on leaves, creeping off the road and into the trees on the opposite side.
He’s making a false trail! Rossamünd realized.
With fluid, careful speed, the postman worked deeper into the woods. Rossamünd lost sight of him and began to feel all-too-familiar panic.
Foundling Page 17
