Foundling

by Cornish, D. M.

  “We had already been searching an hour or more, and had been over several parts of the docks twice. We were in the act of following that fellow’s advice, when I spied yer running yer heart out and looking as if all the utterworsts of Loquor were at yer tail. Having crossed and recrossed that particular place several times, we simply made sure we took a way that would cut yer off . . . and whoever was scaring yer,” he added grimly. “The rest yer were there ter witness.”

  Rossamünd could almost not believe that these two had striven so hard to find him, that Europe had led the way in his liberation. How was he to feel about her now? If she was this loyal, he would happily serve as her factotum, but then . . . she hates monsters so bitterly. Oh, I don’t know . . . ! Rossamünd was beginning to find his lack of gumption extremely frustrating.

  It was Europe who settled the question as they drove on in the landaulet. “Something is not quite right inside me, little man,” she declared. “I felt it when I sent that odious bully into the harbor for a bath, and it’s got a lot to do with why I let your bogle chum go. The spasm those nights ago has done more harm than I care for. I need to see my surgeon very soon.”

  “Are you really ill?” Rossamünd asked.

  Europe smiled gravely. “I’m not dying, but I must set out on the soonest vessel for Sinster.” She paused for a moment.

  The foundling watched her intently.

  Europe returned his stare.

  “This is my aim,” she continued finally. “You go to Winstermill and serve there faithfully, as you have me, as the lamplighter you are intended to be. I will go to Sinster to get repaired. I have no idea how long that might take, but when I am back to my healthy self, I will come by your way, little man, and see how you’re doing.”

  Rossamünd’s mind boggled at the thought of what “to get repaired” actually involved. He knew better than to ask, though.

  She bent down and filled his senses with her sweet perfume. “Perhaps then, you might consider again the opportunity to become my helper?”

  He just smiled and nodded. He liked this and was glad it was Europe who had formulated such a plan. It gave him his task to do right now and offered him time to think further on the opportunities a factotum’s life might offer rather than a lamplighter’s career.

  The Offices of the Chief Harbor Governor were not, a little surprisingly, near the port but in the administrative center of High Vesting. The low marble-white building was so much like all the others in this district that Rossamünd was glad he had Fouracres with him, for he was sure he would never have been able to find it on his own.

  Within they discovered that Mister Germanicus had left in a dudgeon three days before. However, he had left instructions of his own referring to the appearance of one “lazy marine society boy.” These instructions were characteristically simple: he was to make his way to Winstermill forthwith, where he was expected.

  With Fouracres there to smooth the way and vouch for Rossamünd whenever it was needed, the clerks and sergeants of the Harbor Governor were industrious in their help. They ratified the remains of his existing traveling certificates and identification papers, writing up new travel documents. They even wrote a covering letter, explaining—they said—the unusual state of Rossamünd’s papers. What a relief it was for him—he had expected a lot of hard questions and suspicious innuendo. He was now at liberty to make his way to Winstermill.

  To avoid any possibility of reprisal by Poundinch or his crew, and in keeping with Mister Germanicus’ instructions, it was determined that Rossamünd should leave the very next day. They drove to a fancy hostelry known as the Fox Hole. Europe preferred it as her place of repose whenever she was in High Vesting.

  Before its façade of grand marble columns, with Europe organizing the footmen in the distribution of her luggage, Fouracres bid Rossamünd farewell. “Now I reckon I just might get the courts ter bring some of their burdensome interest ter bear on the Cockeril and her nefarious captain—that’s the name of her, ain’t it?”

  “Aye, Mister Fouracres,” Rossamünd nodded. “It was the Cockeril all right, and the Hogshead too.” He sincerely hoped that such “burdensome interest” might bring the dastardly career of Captain Poundinch to a necessary end.

  The foundling stepped closer to Fouracres and whispered, “And what of the glamgorn we saved? It was a shame that he had to run off so fast. Will he be all right?”

  “It’s the way of those little fellows,” said Fouracres, with a fatherly pat on the foundling’s head. “Deep in unfriendly places yer can hardly blame the bogle for skipping away quick. As ter how he’ll fare, I can’t say I rightly know, though I can sure tell yer those little fellows are wily and tough. Trust it ter Providence, Mister Rossamünd—it’s all yer can do.”

  Rossamünd’s burden lightened just a little. He sighed.

  Fouracres stood and smiled sadly down at him. “I will keep my eye out for yer, Mister Rossamünd. I have reason ter go Winstermill way ev’ry now and then. So ter thee I will say fer now: till next occasion. Don’t trust everybody yer meet—though I reckon she might be more honorable than she seems.” He indicated the imperious fulgar with a subtle look.

  Seeing this, Europe approached them. “Good-bye, Postman Fouracres. Thank you for your help.” She gave a very slight, almost curtsylike bow and tried to hand something to him. A bill of folding money.

  Fouracres bowed deeply, but did not take what was offered. “As I said when we were hunting fer Rossamünd, I have no need fer reward. Ter serve such a fair face and in such friendly company is reward in itself. Thank yer, but no.”

  With a wry look, Europe retracted her offering and entered the hostelry.

  “Off I go now, Rossamünd, ter my own abode. Stay safe.”

  The postman and the foundling shook manly hands.

  Finally Rossamünd had made a friend, and now they were to part. He began to feel as if he would never settle down, never have loved ones close by, to call his own. “I hope you can come and see me soon, Mister Fouracres. I reckon a friendly face will be really welcome where I’m going. I hope I find some more.”

  “Surely yer will, surely yer will,” the postman answered softly. “The timing of such things is near often perfect. Take care.”

  With Rossamünd watching mournfully, Fouracres walked away, with a wave, into the gathering dark.

  16

  WITH THE LAMPLIGHTERS

  lamplighter (noun) essentially a kind of specialized soldier, mostly employed by the Empire, though some states also have them. The main task of the lamplighter is to go out in the late afternoon and evening to light the bright-limn lamps that line the conduits (highways) of the Empire, and to douse them again in the early morning. They are fairly well paid as soldiers go, earning about twenty-two sous a year.

  AFTER a night spent in as comfortable and as peaceful a sleep as money can buy, Rossamünd set out early by coach. The morning was of the clear, bitterly cold kind characteristic of the final month of autumn. Farewells with Europe had been strange. She had insisted on seeing him all the way into the coach and safely started on this final stretch of the journey. He would be traveling alone, trusted with carrying dispatches for the Lamplighter Marshal and his staff in Winstermill. He had wrapped the bundle of documents and letters in wax paper and hidden the parcel at the bottom of his valise.

  Now he sat in the clumsy bulk of the coach, another first on this journey of firsts—leaning out of the window to bid Europe good-bye. She had been more impatient than was usual, even downright rude, that is if she said anything at all. Rossamünd was wondering why she had even bothered. As it came to the moment for him to leave, she suddenly grasped his hands in hers, placing into them a small purse. Without a word, she looked deeply into his eyes, holding him like this for what seemed the longest time. He did not know what to say to her. He would help her if ever she needed it, but he had no idea how he felt about her. Yet Rossamünd wanted to say something. He had shared the most terrifying times in his life
with this mercurial fulgar. Surely that rated some comment, some word of understanding between them.

  Yet, before he could utter anything, there was a loud crack of the driver’s whip and the coach lurched forward, tearing his hands free from Europe’s firm grasp. His heart stung with a nameless regret and he poked his head quickly out of the window. “Good-bye, Miss Europe!” he called, his voice seeming small and silly. “Get well again!”

  They stared at each other across the ever-growing gap. Europe’s hands were pressed together before her mouth, but she did not stir. Rossamünd waved again, even more vigorously. “Good-bye!” he cried.

  Still the fulgar continued to stare after him. Too soon he lost her in the crowd of intervening traffic. He caught a final glimpse of her, and then she was gone.

  Despite his confusion, despite her brutal way of life, he felt a great weight of sadness at the parting. With a heavy heart he sat down again and looked inside the purse she had given him. A vague determination somewhere within him vowed never to part with this gift. There were coins within—gold coins!—and a fold of paper. He gave a furtive look at the other passengers. In the coach with him was a thin lady in rich satins bundled up against the cold in a dark violet cloak; sitting opposite her and to Rossamünd’s right was an equally thin man in simple black proofing who made a study of completely ignoring the other two passengers. Neither of these paid him any mind, and so he counted the coins. Ten sous!

  Uncreasing the paper, he saw that it was folding money written up to the value of a further five sous. Here he held more money in his hands than he had ever even seen before! It made him feel very strange. There was another leaf of paper, a note, wrapped up with the folding money. It was written in a delicately elegant hand, the mark of a highly ranked lady, and it read:

  For Rossamünd, to buy yourself a new hat with.

  A fair portion of the reward for our adventure.

  You have been a revelation.

  With more affection than I am used to,

  Europa, Duchess-in-waiting of Naimes.

  Rossamünd’s eyes went wide. Europe—or “Europa,” as he had just discovered—was a duchess-in-waiting! He had been spending his time with a peer, a highly ranked noble, and one in line to rule a whole city-state! He had rescued, and been rescued by, one who was apparently so far above him in rank, she should never have to even think on him. It was little wonder she was so confident, so self-possessed. Europe had become an even profounder mystery.

  Feeling faintly uneasy about being given money earned in the slaughter of an undeserving creature, Rossamünd buried the gift-purse down at the bottom of his satchel.

  North out of High Vesting went the coach, only a day after he had arrived, and back up the Gainway, whipping past the vegetable sellers. Rossamünd was on the wrong side of the vehicle to be able to wave at them. They traveled faster than the landaulet had on the contrary journey and arrived at the Harefoot Dig by midday. Here the horses were changed and his two traveling companions went into the wayhouse to buy their lunch. Rossamünd remained within the transport and dined on some of the supplies Europe had provided. These included withered ox kidney on expensive dark brown crust and a sachet of small, crescent-shaped nuts that the fulgar had called cashew stalks, with a taste wonderfully salty and exotically sweet.

  Soon enough the journey was resumed. They soon made it to Silvernook, passing through with only a pause to pick up mail. Then on they went and entered country Rossamünd had not yet seen. The woodland of the Brindleshaws extended much further north, then stopped quite abruptly as the hills dropped away sharply to an expanse of cultivated flatlands. They looked familiar to the foundling and, from what he could gather from the map in the almanac, he guessed this area to be just another part of Sulk.

  Twice more the coach stopped: once by a great hedge, behind which Rossamünd could spy a grand manor house, to let off the silent woman; and a second time in the middle of what appeared to be a great expanse of swampy fields and nothing more. Here the sullen man disembarked, saying “Good afternoon” as he did, catching the foundling so unawares he was not able to respond in time. With both traveling companions gone, Rossamünd had the rare privilege of traveling in a hired coach on his own. He kicked off his shoes and lounged about on either seat, staring at great length at the passing scenes on either side. They went through several small settlements, each one guarded, fenced and gated.

  As the coach continued on, the cold clear day became overcast in a thin sort of way, making the afternoon sun a dull off-yellow and turning the veil-like clouds gun-metal gray. The land was becoming wilder here, less well tended and fertile. There was something eerie about its arid breadth. Threwd brooded here, and while the day’s orb was setting, it was a great relief to see the final destination come into view. There, still a few miles distant around a long bend, window-lights twinkling, sat Winstermill Manse.

  The name of Winstermill was—so Rossamünd’s almanac read—a corruption of a more ancient title, Winstreslewe, given to a ruined fortress upon the high foundations of which the manse now stood. It was built right by a long line of low, yet steep-sided hills and at the beginning of a great gorge which cut through this same range. The manse looked like a country house, yet so much larger, squatter, mightier and much more solid. It had a great many more roofs of heavy lead shingles rising higher and higher as they receded from the front of the structure like a complex range of ever taller hillocks. From the midst of these, lofty chimneys even taller than those of the Harefoot Dig pointed heavenward in baffling profusion like blunt spines. There were several round, crenellated strong points projecting out from a roof’s myriad slopes, the barrels of great-guns showing from some of them.

  The manse’s outer walls were angled inward to help deflect the blow of a cannon shot; its lower windows narrow slits barely wide enough to admit light. The great gate was made of thick, weather-greened bronze. Lamps blazed above this threatening portal and an enormous flag, the spandarion of the Empire, a golden owl over a field of red and white, barely showing in the dark, curled and whipped above it all. This was a place made to stand against all threats, and Rossamünd admired its grim defenses.

  Most significantly of all, for one about to become a lamplighter, was the long line of brightly flaring lanterns that marched away from Winstermill, threading eastward like a great, glittering necklace, disappearing into the distant dark of the gorge. It was such as these, raised high on tall posts of black iron, that he was surely expected to tend.

  The coach turned off the main way, which disappeared into a tunnel made through the very foundations of the manse, and rattled up a steep drive to Winstermill’s bronze gates. These were already opening, and the coach was admitted without having to halt. Within the curtain of the manse’s outer fortifications, Rossamünd had expected to find a bustle of diligent folk marching about on serious business. Instead it was empty of any bustle, or even hustle, and no serious business seemed to be going on anywhere nearby.

  A single yardsman came out to them, touching his hat as greeting. “Winstermill!” a coachman cried. “Change ve-hickles if ye wish to travel further!”

  Rossamünd alighted and looked about the well-lit yard. It was wide and flat and bare but for one stunted, leafless tree growing by a farther wall. His valise was quickly retrieved for him, and the coach clattered away, together with the yardsman, retreating somewhere beyond the side of the structure. Rossamünd presumed the horses would be stabled, and the drivers rested for the return leg the following day.

  The boy was left all alone now, and stood before these august headquarters uncertain of what to do next. As he waited, he wrestled out the bundle of dispatches, ready to hand them to whoever should ask for them. Still no one sallied forth to greet him. In the end, if only to avoid the bitter cold, he walked to the most important-looking set of doors and, finding them unbarred, pushed his way within.

  Inside was a large, blank room, square and empty. There was another door at the farther end and R
ossamünd walked over to this and went through. Now he found himself at one end of a long wide hall with walls painted green like a lime in season and a single narrow rug patterned in carnelian and black running the whole length of the stone floor. A person in uniform stood about halfway down. Rossamünd strode along this lime hallway and offered up the dispatches promptly to this uniformed person—a tough-looking fellow with oddly cut hair.

  As he did, Rossamünd addressed the man just as he had been trained to do, for serving upon a ram. “Rossamünd Bookchild, sir, recently arrived and ready to serve aboard—uh—to serve . . . you . . . here.”

  The rough-looking fellow looked at him, and then at the wad of paper the foundling held, without curiosity. “Not for me, son. Hand it to one of those pushers-of-pencils inside there,” he said, with gruff authority, pointing to a pair of flimsy-looking, finely carved doors at the end of the lime hall.

  “Oh . . .” said Rossamünd.

  His initial flush of courage now spent, the foundling entered those ornamented doors nervously. Beyond was an enormous, square space with a ceiling high above, and the clatter of the opening door rang and echoed within. Along the distant farther wall was a massive wooden structure of drawers, cabinets and rolling stepladders—what he would learn later was the immense and complex document catalog, in which all the correspondence and paperwork of the lamplighters eventually found its final burial place. To the foundling’s left, and to his right, facing out from either wall, were two dark wood desks. A studious-looking man worked behind each, the one on the left looking up at him briefly as he entered, and the one on the right keeping his head down and his hand scribbling.