Foundling ft-1

by D M Cornish

  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 Rossamund had finished.

  "Aye, it was killed, sir, or as near enough to it, from what I saw," Rossamund 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?" Rossamund 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 Rossamund 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?"

  Rossamund 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."

  Rossamund 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 Rossamund'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, Rossamund, 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."

  Rossamund 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, Rossamund. 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.

  Rossamund 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 forward 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, Rossamund 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, Rossamund 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," Rossamund 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, Rossamund 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! Rossamund realized.

  With fluid, careful speed, the postman worked deeper into the woods. Rossamund lost sight of him and began to feel all-too-familiar panic.

  I am the very soul of stillness! I am the very soul of stillness… he chanted to himself.

  There was a click close by.

  With that one sound he became the very soul of dread!

  There, just showing above one of the larger rocks, appeared the glaring head of a monster. Not more than five or six paces away, its long face was covered in mangy gray fur, with a pointed nose and equally pointed teeth, the top ones protruding over the bottom lip. A matted beard grew in limp strands from its chin. It had great, rabbitlike ears tipped with black fur that drooped out from behind its eyes. Large yellow eyes rolled about between slitted lids. This creature snuffled at the air as its ears twitched and swiveled.

  Rossamund had never imagined such a thing-how very happy he would have been to have Europe with him now! He clenched every muscle he knew he had, holding his wind for fear that even breathing would make him move too much. I'm not here, don't see me… I'm not here, don't see me…

  However, the creature's attention was clearly absorbed by the perfume of the john-tallow. It stalked away without noticing the foundling cowering in his temporary rock shelter. Remaining frozen, Rossamund was nevertheless able to watch it through the gap as it stepped onto the road. Hunched and gaunt and taller than a man, the nicker bent down to smell the spot where Fouracres and the boy had only just been standing. Its long, furry arms ended in long, furry hands from which grew long, curved claws that clicked and clacked together with every move of its fingers. Its legs bent backward like the hind legs of a dog, and it used them to walk in an awkward, jerking way. The creature l
ooked up the road, it looked down the road, sniffed at the ground again. Finally it started into the opposite trees.

  But where was Fouracres? Daring to move a little, Rossamund peered through his small gap in the rocks, looking for the postman out there somewhere in the trees.

  Nothing.

  Wanting to flee, wailing, into the woods, Rossamund determined instead to be patient. He had survived the grinnlings-the nimbleschrewds; he could survive this.

  With a soft snort, the creature pranced farther into the shadows on the other side of the road. It lingered there in the twilight under the eaves. While Rossamund watched it, he began to get this strange niggling sensation to look to his left. He was reluctant to take his eyes from the creature, but in the end he did and looked over his shoulder. There was Fouracres sneaking back to him one slow cautious step at a time, his eyes never leaving the shadows of the opposite wood.

  Relief! Sweet relief. Rossamund could not recall ever feeling so glad, so lightened within, to see someone as he did just then. Encouraged, he returned to his vigil, in time to see the creature thread its jaunting way through the trunks and eventually disappear from sight.

  Turning back to watch the postman, he found Fouracres, his eyes still fixed on the farther trees, almost up to the rocks. He no longer had the john-tallow: that would be stuck somewhere cunning as far from them as possible on the opposite side. Rossamund went to move, but the postman cautioned him to remain as still as he had been.

  "We're not free of it yet," he hissed almost inaudibly as he crouched down beside the foundling.

  Taking the postman's lead, Rossamund stayed still and kept his watch through the gap. Muscles began to ache and an annoying hum started in his ears as he strained to hear any clue of the creature's return. This waiting was getting very hard.

  Seconds slowed to minutes, minutes slowed to hours.

  Rossamund gave Fouracres a pleading look.

  "Keep waiting," Fouracres insisted once more, and Rossamund sat till he thought he could not take the buzzing of his joints or the ringing in his ears anymore. He had no idea for how long they waited, just that it was so very long.

  Even when a carriage went by, they waited still. But when another clattered by only a few minutes later, the postman seemed satisfied, and at last released them, saying, "It's safe enough. Let's get away from here."

  Leading Rossamund through the trees, still in silence, Fouracres allowed them to travel on the open road again only after they had put an hour's distance between themselves and their temporary refuge. Once clear of the trees, they hurried the rest of the way and arrived at the Harefoot Dig, safe at last.

  It was late afternoon.

  Exhausted, but promising to meet the postman in the common room, Rossamund went to tell Europe the good news.

  The reclining, recovering fulgar received the revelation with her usual laconic grace. "You can trust this fellow?"

  "He's an Imperial postman, miss. His whole life is trustworthiness!" the foundling enthused.

  "Well, if a girl can't trust her own factotum, then who can she?" Europe closed her eyes, signaling the end of the matter.

  Rossamund rolled his eyes.

  And what if a factotum can't trust his mistress?

  He returned to the common room too eager to enjoy his last meal, for tomorrow they would be leaving. Fouracres was waiting for him, a pipkin of small wine and two mugs already on the table. As they sipped the small wine, Rossamund showed the postman the cracking, illegible mass that used to be his traveling papers, letter of introduction and the rest. Rossamund still carried them even though they were next to useless, thankful at least that Mister Sebastipole's instructions were so skeletal, for while they lacked detail, they had been easy to memorize. He thought that an Imperial postman, especially one as friendly and helpful as Fouracres, would be able to help him with this problem.

  Fouracres uncreased the puzzle of ruined papers carefully. He inspected the all-but-dissolved writing gravely. Soon he looked up again. "This is certainly a mess," he concluded, "but the seal is still intact on yer traveling certificate, and yer name, thank Providence. As ter the rest, well, I'll vouch for yer-what I call good, the Empire calls good.Yer mottle will help yer too." He pointed to Rossamund's baldric.

  "Thank you so much, Mister Fouracres. I thought I was sunk."

  "My pleasure, Rossamund, though I would recommend yer got them rewritten by the clerk or the Chief Harbor Governor as soon as yer can-and I'll help yer in that as well."

  A meal of black coney pie arrived-and a jug of Juice-of-Orange with it-and they ate in silence for a time. Eventually Rossamund mustered the courage to ask, "Mister Fouracres, what was that creature back on the road there?"

  The postman stopped chewing and looked thoughtfully at the ceiling. "I don't rightly know," he answered at last. "Never seen its kind before. Bit of a conundrum-I'll have ter ask around."

  Rossamund held up his almanac. "I can't find it in here either."

  "Well, that ain't surprising," Fouracres chuckled. "There's more kinds of monster than many a book could catalog." He quickly became sad and serious. "Not that most folks think they're worth a-cataloging anyways. Most folks would rather just see them killed and that be the end of it or at most see a list of glaring faces tattooed ter the limbs of a teratologist. Still, worth a look."

  Rossamund returned the book to his lap. "Uh… Mister Fouracres, have you… ever killed a monster?"

  "Unfortunately, Mister Rossamund, I have been forced ter do so, yes." The postman looked sad. "Yer see, if it's a choice 'twixt they or me, I choose me each time."

  "Does that mean you have monster-blood tattoos, then?" Rossamund could not help from asking.

  Fouracres hesitated, then frowned. "Well, no, actually. I don't go a-glorying in killings my hand's been forced to do. It's just a part of getting the post ter where it needs ter be."

  "Oh."

  The meal finished, the Juice-of-Orange drunk, they parted ways, Fouracres promising to be ready to take the reins on the morrow morning. They set out early, just as the sun had shown itself above the rim of the world. With Sallow detained elsewhere, Rossamund was trusted to make Europe's treacle. He proudly handed the evenly mixed brew to the fulgar, and then left her to meet with Fouracres and help prepare the landaulet. Europe soon emerged wrapped in a thick deep magenta coat, knee-length, with its high collar and cuffs trimmed with thick, bleached fox fur. Her hair was held back in loose coils and she wore pink quartz-lensed spectacles. She appeared very differently from when Rossamund first met her. She also still looked unwell and was, consequently, in a foul mood.

  The night before she had settled the account with the proprietors by simply refusing to pay any extra beyond what she owed Doctor Verhooverhoven, declaring with the cold loftiness of a queen, "The boy's billion has covered expenses, as you well know. You'll not get a gander more out of him nor out of me."

  Madam Felicitine went pale, but had said not a word.

  Mister Billetus had just ducked his head and said, "Right you are, right you are. Hope your stay was as comfortable as could have been in the circumstances."

  With a footman lugging out the fulgar's saddlebags and other luggage behind her, Europe stepped out into the coach yard. Rossamund and Fouracres were already seated in the landaulet, waiting, the foundling in the passenger compartment and the postman ready to drive in the driver's box. Europe stopped by the step of the carriage and stayed there. With a quiet apology a yardsman went to hand her aboard. She shooed him away, saying, "Leave off, man, it's not your job."

  Rossamund had let his attention wander, filling his senses with the beauty of early morning. Only gradually did he become aware things were amiss. He looked dumbly at Europe, puzzled. She remained still, glaring straight ahead through those clear weird pink spectacles, her chin stuck forward arrogantly.

  Rossamund blinked. What's wrong?What is she waiting for?

  "Miss Europe?" he asked simply.

  Her eyes flicked to
him. "Well…?"

  There was an uncomfortable silence. Somehow it dawned on the foundling what she wanted. I'm supposed to help her in like Licurius did!

  He quickly jumped out of the landaulet, causing it to rock and unsettle the horse.

  "Whoa! Steady, lad," Fouracres warned.

  Ever so subtly, Europe rolled her eyes.

  With a weak smile Rossamund handed the fulgar aboard and climbed back in once more, feeling very foolish.

  "Drive on, man," Europe murmured.

  Without a backward glance, Fouracres whipped the horse to a start. They went out through broad gates and turned left. Looking back, Rossamund could see farther along the wall to that pedestrian portal they had been admitted through three nights earlier. In his mind he bid farewell to his first wayhouse.

  Fouracres turned the landaulet right at the junction and Rossamund was taken south this time. The Harefoot Dig disappeared behind the trees.

  The Gainway took them through a woodland of younger, graceful pines, with areas of wild lawn between the slender trees. As they went on, large lichen-covered boulders now appeared here and there and the lawn became sparse and stubbly. An hour out from the wayhouse, the road began to slope gently down, and soon the trees gave way to a broad expanse of rolling downs and even larger lichen-grown stones. Every so often, thin, rutted paths would lead off from it, going to mysterious, adventurous ends. He saw one come to its conclusion at some distant dwelling. There were several of these about, he began to notice, small stone cottages built high upon lofty foundations, also of stone, with slits for windows and tall chimneys. Smoke wafted from some, that mysterious sign of homely life within.

  "They're the houses of the eekers," Fouracres explained, "folk who manage to scratch out a living in the thin soil hereabouts. What they lack in material wealth they gain in liberty. The authorities don't tend to bother them much."

  "But why are they so high off the ground?"

  Fouracres gave a wry smile. "Ahh, to give the bogles a hard time getting them, of course."

  With a slight arching of her brows, Europe looked knowingly at the postman's back. "You've dealt with some yourself, I suppose?" she said. This was the first thing she had said all morning.