The Foundling's Tale, Part Three: Factotum

by D M Cornish

  Applause and catcalls from the stalls.

  Up went the iron divide, Splitting the pit into two once more. Thunk! went the opening of the bogle-admitting door.

  In full expectation of some great slavering wretchling, Rossamünd was utterly unprepared for what emerged.

  FRECKLE!

  His mouth went dry, his forehead fever-damp.Yet with an unpleasantly dark elation, he quickly discovered it was not in fact his little bogle friend but some other similar creature. Its wizened little face was broader, hairier, more lopsided, and its body longer. Dread writ clear on its squinty broad-nosed face, it was so much slighter than the dog baying and leaping at the divide; this was a mismatched bout to appease the crowd, reinvigorate their interest and keep them at wagering.

  “Lords, ladies, all gentlefolk,” the rouse-clerk cried. “This one calls itself Gingerrice!”

  People hoomed and hissed.

  “It names itself, upstart wretcher!”

  “Filthy basket, how dare it!”

  “Do not be fooled by its stuntedness,” the clerk bawled, raising his volume theatrically. “It is sturdy enough to contest our darling Bogle-biter. What will be your wagers?”

  In the clamor to make an easy gain, the patrons near toppled over each other to have their calls heard, pay their wagers and get their tickets.

  Perversely inspired by the dashing display of the sabrine adept, Rossamünd knew what he would do; consequences come as they will, he was not going to watch the end of such an innocent.

  At the shrieking drop of metal, Rossamünd lifted himself as if to join the upsurging cries of his fellow watchers waving paddles, shaking fists, but with a surreptitious yet powerful flick sent the botch powder hurtling at the dog. Innocuously small, the caste of botch powder struck the stocky stafirhund square on its crown and popped with a pleasing purple-and-yellow puff before the beast had even reacted to the revelation of the shrinking glamgorn.The dog gave a puzzled yelp and, taking several waddling steps rearward, looked about the pit stupidly. Then, head lolling, the Bogle-biting Bitch-queen of the Batch simply lay down as if it were taking a well-earned nap and moved no more.

  Not one person about him seemed to realize it was Rossamünd who had caused such a dramatic intervention in the bout. The dog-door opened but a crack to admit the head and shoulders of a patently confused pit-bob.This small opportunity was all little Gingerrice needed. With a gleeful squeal it pounced straight for the door, throwing the pit-bob aside as with surprising strength it shoved the port open farther and shot through and away before anyone could think to intervene.

  The rouse-clerk stood and bellowed, “STOP THAT BEASTIE!” but it was too late.

  Shouts of anger and dismay rang out from the dark spaces beyond the door, joined by the ravenous baying of many hounds.

  With a growing ruckus, people began to cast about for the upstart who had dared defend a monster and bring them further losses.

  “Who was it?”

  “Wait till I hook the treacherous basket—me babbies won’t eat for a week now!”

  And the worst—angry claims of “SEDORNER!” “SELT-KISSER!” “OUTRAMORINE!”

  In the stalls to the left a riot began as disgruntled patrons of high and low class weary of the night’s extraordinary vicissitudes and unafraid to use their fists and worse escalated their demands to the ticket writers. Officials in the lowest stalls called useless instructions lost in the furor.

  Careful not to draw attention to himself, Rossamünd eased away from the balustrade, searching faces to see if he was seen, eyes rapidly ranging the increasing madness. Above him and to the right, Rookwood and Eusebus stood together, observing the anarchy with expressions of amused wonder. Across the pit Pater Maupin was bundled away, the feather-collared dexter, Anaesthesia Myrrh, flinging out her hands left and right, clearing a path before them through the angry press. Each time she threw out a hand, there was a pallid flash—not bright like a fulgar’s arcs, but some bizarre combination of witting and arcing that tossed uppity customers left and right without the dexter laying an actual hand upon them.

  A frightful crashing came from the rousing-pit below. More intent on departure, Rossamünd caught a peek of tentacles flailing and men flung high. There came a high hissing and with it another portentous smashing of wood and metal. The Handsome Grackle! Somehow, though the foul gash in its shoulder still gaped, the poor beast had survived after all and, on the loose, was smashing its way into the pit. Shrieking and chattering, other little bogles were rushing in behind it—released perhaps by the Grackle’s raging—springing upon the tractors and the pit-bobs who charged in from the opposite portal with pistol and cudgel to stop them. Outnumbered, the foolhardy fellows were quickly thrown aside.

  But escape would not be so easily won, for the sabrine adept who had sliced the Grackle before dropped again into the roust, drawing his mystic blade to finish the job. Bogles sprang wide about him and through the still open dog-door, following after Gingerrice.

  The Handsome Grackle, however, was oddly sluggish to respond.

  Dexters, swordist and all, the young factotum would not see it cut again.Taking out a thennelever of glister dust, Rossamünd gave it a powerful flick, tossing a dose of dazzling gray powder to shower down over the swordsman passing close below, catching several poor retreating spectators in the stunning dust too. Even as Rossamünd pushed through spluttering gagging folk and scrambled up the steps to flee, he caught the narrow scrutiny of the young dandidawdler with the glittering wig fixed upon him from across the pit. Instantly the fancy fellow put hand to temple. He is a wit! The patrons only just recovered from the dexter’s antics thought they were to suffer a wit’s puissance too. Overset-ting each other in their desire to get out of the way, they toppled as a mass, tumbling the fancy fellow in their fall.

  Reprieved, Rossamünd moved folk aside with heedless ease as he made a path down the sweating-walled tunnel, round and round up the spiral stair, bursting through door wards and footmen already struggling to control the untimely and panicked exit of other patrons. Somehow he managed to find his way to the main saloon, threading a way hastily between the chancers still largely ignorant of the trouble below. A sudden shout behind, “GRABCLEAT! SNEAK THIEF! BLAGGARD!” roused every attention, and pale round-eyed faces cast about in shock. Walking at the doubled double, Rossamünd dodged the grasp of a quick-headed patron and sprang for the green exit. To cries of alarm from the loopholes, he sprinted the crimson obverse, flinging more glister in the dials of the door wards bristling to stop him, driving them back gurgling and gasping. Eyes closed and breath clenched, he lunged for the red door, thrusting it wide to rush free from that abominable chancery and into the night’s bitter fog.

  Several yards down the road was a stationary line of takenys waiting in the weak glow of a street-lamp for the reveling set to seek their wending home, their horses ruminating noisily in nosebags. Uniformly red-and-white-striped vests showing under heavy cloaks, the muffled drivers stood in a group staring down the seaside road in Rossamünd’s direction, clearly engaging in some animated discussion.

  “Escaping yer comeuppance, hey, lad?” one quipped as the young factotum drew near.

  “Cloche Arde, the Harrow Road, Ilex Mile!” was all Rossamünd gave in answer, springing into the cabin of the front-most takeny.

  “Wo-ho, little lord, what’s with the hasty so late in the evening?” its rotund owner chided as the harnessed horse whickered angrily at the shaking of the coach on Rossamünd’s hurried boarding. “I thinks we’ve found our culprit, boy-os,” the plump takenyman called in aside to his fellows; then to Rossamünd, “Fleeing yer creditors, are ye, young sir?”

  “No, no. I just need Cloche Arde, the Harrow Road, Ilex Mile, and quick!” Rossamünd repeated in rising distress. I never should have come out tonight.What was I thinking?

  “A’right, a’right, me masters! Not so speedy!” The takenyman wrangled. “It’ll cost ye double for double speed!”

  “
I’ll give you triple!” Rossamünd responded without hesitation and rattled coin in his pocket—part of his night’s winnings—as proof of good intention.

  The takenyman paused for an agonizing moment. “A’right then, off we go,” he said, nimbly clambering to his high seat despite his girth. “Onward we hasty go.” With a philosophical mutter and shake of his head, he added, “Another night in Brandentown . . .”

  “Stay clear o’ the duffers!” one of his fellows shouted as the horse was flicked to start, going the very way he had just come.

  “The other way! The other way!” Rossamünd cried, but to no avail.

  Passing the Broken Doll, the young factotum could see through the window grille unhappy patrons beginning to spill out from the chancery’s scarlet door. At their lead among a gang of angry roughs was the distinct figure of the dandidawdling wit. In agonies that the takeny-driver was not proceeding nearly fast enough, Rossamünd knelt on the cabin seat, staring through the narrow slot of a back window.

  The carriage had gone barely a quarter mile inland, down claustrophobic lanes with little traffic, when the wildly bobbing night-lantern of a pursuing carriage hove into view.

  Pulling down the side sash, Rossamünd cried to the driver. “You need to go faster, sir!”

  “A chase is it, ’ey? Well, I am going as quick as I dare to about these streets!” was the angry retort. “Another night at the Broken Doll . . . ,” the fellow growled. “Ye do the sitting and I’ll do the whipping!” As emphasis the driver gave his already tiring nag a clip of his long switch.

  The takeny lurched and Rossamünd was tumbled to the footwell. Struggling to right himself, he clutched the door sill.

  The takenyman made a tight right, putting the outward projections of town-house walls between them and the pursuit, and pulled his horse up short. For a dread moment Rossamünd thought he was going to be ousted from the cabin and left to his fate, yet the goodly driver actually took a close left turn into a cramped lane not intended for horse-drawn conveyances. With as much hurry as the benighted confines allowed—not more than a quick walk—the coach rattled on. The driver eased past scuttlebutts, handcarts and a startled night-soil man, ducking night-drying clothes strung like naval bunting on a line at angles across the meager gap. An irate cry from on high could be heard through the clatter of their transit.

  Rossamünd peered through the back slot and thought he spied the bulk of the chasing carriage sprint by the lane yet not stop.

  “Just as long as the other fellow don’t smoke my ruse we’ll get about nicely,” he heard the takenyman call in explanation. “This improptatory path’ll deposit us on South Arm and put ye a good sight nearer yer destination.”

  A much smaller shadow flitted up the lane and landed on the sill. It was Darter Brown, looking decidedly ruffled and beating his wings in agitation.The sparrow gave a loud tweet!

  Even in the ferment of the chase, Rossamünd was grateful for this tiny ally.

  Like the whir of butterfly wings in the core of his skull, he finally felt the edge of the wit’s sending. It was more artful and precise than Threnody’s clumsy fishing and, feeling desperately vulnerable under its all-finding cognizance, Rossamünd found himself wishing the girl lighter was at his side in this new crisis.

  “Heh, felt that one.” The takenyman sucked in a cautionary breath and dragged back on his horse to stop. “Wo-ho! Wo-ho!”

  Darter Brown took to wing and disappeared into the dark.

  Peering again through the rear window of the cab, Rossamünd could not see any trailing coach.

  “Out with ye!” The takenyman had reached down with his blunt hookpole and opened the cabin door. “Runnin’ from usual folks is a reasonable kind o’ trot, but not a wit, my good son. Out!”

  Rossamünd peered behind again, expecting pursuit at any beat. “I’ll pay you four times!” Hands shaking, he withdrew a whole golden sou from the folds of his pockets. “More even! Up front!”

  The sending pulsed for a second time, stronger now, enough indeed to cause the takeny horse to stumble slightly and spoil the glittering promise of Rossamünd’s plea.

  The takenyman cooed to his faithful cob, then glared down at his young passenger. “OUT!” he yelled.With a cunning flick of reins he made his horse step forward a single jaunty step, causing the cab to lurch.

  Rossamünd was thrown to the floor, half rolling out of the doorway.

  “OUT, YE ILL-BRINGIN’ SNIPE!” the takenyman cried again, an edge of panic in his voice, prodding at Rossamünd with his hook.

  With the dandy wit getting closer, Rossamünd had little choice. He sprang clumsily from the takeny, alighting on hands and haunches amid the mucky debris of the lane.

  His customer barely exited, the driver whipped wildly at his nag, omitting to collect the fare in his hurry, and quit the scene as fast as horse legs and cartwheels could take him.

  Left on foot in the alley, Rossamünd ran, chasing the trail of the takeny, watching its swiftly receding splasher lamp disappear about a corner. Pushing harder on legs that seemed too slow, he skidded on moist cobbles, leaping back and forth over the dribbling gutter. Finally reaching the end of the lane, he found a proper street once more, a broad road of faded half-houses and, across the way, trees kept behind a wall of railing and stone.

  Another subtle sending swept over and exposed him; then, like a blow, the full weight of proper scathing frission.

  Rossamünd saw stars and stumbled, to sit in the gutter of the laneway. Through the haze of the scathing, he heard to his horror the distant clatter of hoof and wheel: the pursuing takeny was drawing swiftly near. Working his jaw like yawning and shaking his head to clarity, Rossamünd peered about the wall to see a carriage dashing toward him from the far end of the South Arm.

  Cry for help?

  But who would hear? Who would care?

  Hide?

  But how do you hide from a wit?

  Stand to fight?

  Even if he achieved the same feats of strength he had used to defeat the pig-eared gudgeon or the nickers of Wormstool, what use was this or a few potives against a neuroticrith who could tell wherever he was and crush him from afar?

  Thirty strides away across the street stood a tiny high-roofed cottage built into the wall that hemmed the trees. Beside it was an ironbound gate with a bright-limn glowing yellow above it.

  Flee!

  Springing forward, he sprinted the exposed span of flagstone footpath, head back, eyes wide and fixed on the goal of the light, running across the path of the swiftly advancing coach. Rather than stopping, the carriage kept clattering by, the driver flailing in distraction, swiping at the air as something small and feisty flapped and harried about his head.

  Darter Brown!

  Rossamünd did not slow to ponder, but dashed to the cast-iron gate. Locked! Of course it was at this time of night—public locksmen living in the cottage next door would have seen to that.

  A frightened, whinnying shriek well down the street spoke of the driver finally pulling hard on the reins.

  Abandoning soft notions of asking for the gate to be opened, Rossamünd seized two vertical bars of the gate and hauled, the metalwork in its hinges making a loud, startling clash as he bodily threw himself over the top. He dropped squarely on both feet and leaped forward, dashing down what little he could see of a raked path curving into the occult park.

  Shouts came from behind, quickly followed by a wit’s sending—invisible, airborne flexing, shuddering forth then back.

  Rossamünd ducked as if avoiding a strike and changed direction sharply, off the wan hint of the path and into the pitch murk of the trees, hoping to foil the wit’s preternatural senses. Sure enough, the frission came, yet though it drove the young factotum to his knees, skidding in the dew-damp clover, it was vague, unfocused.

  Slithering on muddied hands and boot-toes, he got back to his feet, glancing at where he had come. He could just make out the distinctive figure of the wit and three rougher men sta
nding in the dim lamplight on the opposite side of the gate, apparently thwarted and staring in through its bars. It seemed to Rossamünd that despite the impenetrable dark the richly dressed fellow was peering straight at him. With a sault of fright in his gizzards, Rossamünd sped among the trees on a wild zig-then-zagging course, blundering over roots and rocks, seeking to put as much reach between his pursuers and himself as he could.

  A piercing, iron ringing told him that the gate had in some way been forced, that the dandidawdling wit was through, and free to hunt him down. A powerful sending washed through the woodland park—detection and attack as one, its febrile fringe arresting Rossamünd enough to trip him again and send him flailing face-first into the fresh wet turf in a spray of chance-won coins. The wit must have possessed perverse determination to be employing his antics with such frequent potency.

  What can I do against such a foe?

  A little blur above him and Rossamünd caught the soft cheep! of Darter Brown alighting momentarily on a low perch in the dark. He could barely make out the little fellow eyeing him, turning its head to then fro. A tight thrum of wings and the sparrow was gone. After a moment a determined piping echoed out of the dark only a short span ahead. Rossamünd sprinted to the noise and Darter Brown dashed on yet farther to tweet again from the night. They kept at this until Rossamünd’s breath began to rasp in his windpipes and he longed to drop and vomit. He slowed to a hurried, hip-arching walk, realizing that it had been some little time since he had felt the wit’s frission.

  He became still—just for a breath—to listen.

  No footfall sounded in the soft sprays of clover and soursobs, just the creak of gentle shifting in the trees, of branches softly clacking against one another up in the dark, squeaking at their knotty joints. With it hummed the drone of the city in its small-hour motions, already so muffled from within the park that it seemed far off, and not just a bend in the path away. In the ringing quiet, he became aware of threwdishness about him, a quiet yet intent wakefulness. I’m in the Moldwood, he realized with a start.

  There comes a point in concealing darkness that, even when one is desperate not to be seen, the need to see is far greater, and so possessed, Rossamünd hurriedly dug Mister Numps’ limulight from the pocket of his frock coat and slid back the lid. Its gentle, blanched-blue effulgence picked out trunks and leaves and round-fronded grass. It took but a moment to get sight of a clear path, and, snapping the lid closed, the young factotum ran again, hampered by the increasingly uneven ground. In the meager light reflected off low clouds he could just make out a mass before him and felt the earth tilt and rise up the flank of a small hill.