Foundling (19 page)

“We must be leaving,” said Europe. “They will most certainly be back for another try before the night is out.” She hushed as the foundling repacked the black case with its frightful chemicals.With a great sigh, she turned to gaze at the place where the ruins of what-was-once-Licurius lay. Grief worked in her soul and showed on her face. “Oh, Box-face . . . Oh, Box-face . . .” she lamented quietly. “What have they done to you?”

With Rossamünd to help her, she staggered over to the leer’s body. In the nimbus of the lantern, the grisly proof of the violence just passed showed clearly. There the bodies of two grinnlings lay where they had fallen, slain by Licurius’ hand. No longer animated by foul and murderous intent, they looked small, pathetic, doll-like. In their midst was the black huddle of the dead leer. Though he was mostly covered with his torn cloak, it was still obvious that he had been ripped and gouged in cruel and vile ways.

With a choking sob, Europe sagged and dropped to her knees near the corpse. She swooned for a moment, panting heavily, pushing Rossamünd weakly from her. “You must not look on this!” She stood straighter. “Go! Get your personals and ample water for one night’s travel. We must be away very shortly, and not delay—those creatures have gone silent, and I like that much less than their distant jitterings. I will right myself presently. Have no concern for me: our survival is afoot now.”

Nevertheless, and though she would not like it known, Rossamünd was aware that Europe wept silently as he gathered his valise and satchel, filled his biggin with water and his pockets with food. She must have cared more for the leer than the foundling had ever noticed. He felt sad for her, and for the Misbegotten Schrewd. For the leer, however, he entertained no regrets—the villain had tried to strangle him! This is what Verline would have sternly called “a hard heart,” but Rossamünd could not see how he might possibly feel anything at Licurius’ end.

Presently Europe came over to the landaulet too, stumbling only slightly, her face dirty with tearful streaks, and hurriedly organized her own traveling goods. With the horse dead there was nothing for it—they would have to walk their way to safety.

“We must leave . . . him where he lies. There’s no time to bury him and no profit in bearing him away. We must go to the wayhouse. I’ve passed it by many times but never entered. The Harefoot Dig it is called. When we get there and settle ourselves safely, we can come back here to . . . to fetch him. Move on, now! We must be at the wayhouse as soon as we can!”

Gathering all which was needful that they could carry on foot, they set off by lantern light, Europe pointing the way, Rossamünd leading it. How they were to make it, the foundling had no hopeful idea. There was a sandy, bepuddled road running right by their camp—probably still part of the Vestiweg. They walked along this, the fulgar unsteady at first but soon gaining pace, though not speedily enough for him. The fulgar had to caution him to save his energy when sometimes he marched on ahead, reminding him that they had a long way yet to travel.

Soon she made Rossamünd douse the lantern. “The light will be more harmful than helpful,” she whispered, “and lead the grinning baskets right to us.”

He complied eagerly at this warning. What hope did an everyday boy like himself have if a lahzar was cautious and wishing to avoid any new confrontations? In the dark he vainly tried to see into the benighted forest, to see past the straight pale trunks of the pine saplings that lined the road, to find warning of any possible ambush. He could feel that Phoebë was up and shining, but deep in that narrow channel of high trees, her light helped but a little. Oh for Licurius’ nose now!

 

After they had trod for many hours and what was surely a great distance, Rossamünd was most certainly tiring. His feet dragged, and the valise, normally so light, pulled meanly on his back and aching shoulders. His lids drooped as his thoughts lolled with warm, comfortable ideas of stillness and rest.

Europe seemed to sag as well; eventually, to his great relief, she stopped near the top of a steep hill and sat down clumsily. “Aah!” she wheezed so very quietly. “I am flagging terribly . . . How about you, little man? You have kept pace with me admirably till now.”

He dropped next to her, dumping the valise on the verge, and took a long swig of water from his biggin. Only a few mouthfuls more remained when he was done. Taking this as a wordless but definite yes, the fulgar offered him a whortleberry procured from one of the many black leather satchels and saddlebags. Then she chewed on one herself. He took it gratefully. They sat some minutes in silence while the internal glow of the berries restored them enough to allow them to push on. Rossamünd’s senses sharpened again and with them his fears of another attack by the grinnlings or, perhaps, worse things.

A firm conviction was beginning to form in his deepest thoughts: that it would be the grandest thing to return to the safety and forgetful ease of a city and leave all this threwdish wild land behind. How could anyone have ever thought it prudent to put a road through such a place as this haunted region?

The land fell away sharply from the northern edge of the road and upon its steep slope no trees grew, affording them a limited view. At last Rossamünd could see the moon, ocher-yellow and setting in the west. He turned about quietly where he was and observed the white line of the road they had already traveled as it emerged from the trees. He looked with dread at the impenetrable black of the tangle-wood valleys directly below and, beyond that, the low dark hills further north. He quaked slightly—anything could be stalking about out there. The world was so much bigger than he had ever thought: wilder, and full of threats and loneliness and dread. He hugged his knees to his chest and waited, afraid, staring at the fulgar’s shadow.

As they sat, she fidgeted with the scarf about her neck and with the wound beneath. “Are you better?” she whispered.

“Aye,” he whispered back. “Your neck, miss?”

“It bleeds still . . . and it is starting to itch awfully. I believe it may well need seeing to by a physic. That will have to wait. Let’s be off again. We still have far to go and this place is starting to get me down.”

The dose of whortleberry had invigorated them both heartily: they walked and walked, and walked yet more, Europe leading onward. The road rose over hills and dropped into small valleys. The forest soon closed in again and they were surrounded now by several kinds of pine. The air was still, filled with the strong smell of sap and the hissing of breezes in the branches. Stars continued to shine brightly and shed some little light on their path from the glimpse of sky above. Of the Signal Stars, Maudlin was now absent, having passed beyond view; only orange Faustus, the “eye” of the constellation Vespasia, and the yellow planet Ormond showed, and they showed that it was very late indeed. A frightened baby owl screeched thinly, voicing Rossamünd’s own lost and lonely feelings. As he read the stars, he heard the fulgar stumble heavily in front of him, and looked down to see her sink to the sandy path.

He hurried to her. “Miss Europe . . . ?”

She was on her hands and knees, panting as she had done after her organs had spasmed. “The bite . . . the bite . . .” she rasped.

Rossamünd carefully unwound the scarf from her neck and saw, even by dim starlight, that the wound had swollen frighteningly, and even now was beginning to stink of putrefaction. He gasped. “It’s going bad already, ma’am. You must surely see a physician, and soon!”

“It burns . . . !” She managed to sit, to lift a water skin to her mouth and drink greedily before lying back and panting yet more. “We must go on . . . you’re not safe . . . we . . . Not long . . . must . . .” she rattled on, though she did not seem able nor any longer willing to move.

Rossamünd’s mind whirled for a time. This panicked feeling was becoming all too familiar. He forced himself to be even-headed.

The evander water!
He sat down by Europe and dug about in his satchel for the little flasks. He searched for the longest time with little satisfaction—oh no!—he must have hurled them along with the bothersalts in his hurry to help. But then he found what he wanted: just one bottle, buried right down at the bottom, tangled in among the rest of the contents. He gripped it exultantly. Leaning close to the fulgar’s ear, he could feel heat radiating from her in a most unhealthy way. “I still have some evander water!” he whispered.

Europe revived with this intelligence and forced herself to sit up.

He gave her the little bottle, but her hands shook too much now. Indeed, her whole body was beginning to shudder. He held the flask for her, removed the seal and tipped it very slowly, mindful lest it should spill and be wasted. She swallowed it all as greedily as she had the water and then lay back again. He watched her, holding his breath anxiously.

With a burst of air from her own mouth—loud enough to startle some night bird, which shrilled terrifyingly three times and flurried off—she sat up once more. “I can walk . . . We’ve not . . . not got far . . . to . . . to . . . go now . . . Help me up, Box . . . Box-face.” Her words came in struggling breaths. “With your . . . help . . . I can . . . can make it.”

Putting a hand on his shoulder, she pushed herself up to stand. Rossamünd grimaced but did not make a sound. When she had righted herself, she murmured, “Lead . . . on . . .”

He struggled earnestly to fulfill this task, at first leading her by the hand, gripping it tightly now, completely heedless of being sparked. Then he began limping himself as she started to lean heavily or pull upon him, often stumbling, silently cursing every stone or rut that threatened to trip one of them.

Interminable seemed these last few miles, though the way had, mercifully, become flatter. At one point Rossamünd thought he heard the far-off tittering of the grinnlings and urged Europe on a little faster. The further they went the more fatigued he grew and the more insensible Europe became. She muttered odd things—often in another strange, musical language—at one time saying clearly, “We’ve been in many scrapes, haven’t we, darling . . . ?” She actually chuckled, then became dangerously louder. “But we get away scot-free every time, hey . . . hey Box-face? You and me . . . we . . . making it large all over the land . . .” It seemed she might go quiet, but suddenly she blurted, “Oh my! What have they done to you!” and began to sob, great, deep gulps that wracked her whole body. “What have they done to you?” she hissed finally and continued to weep. She said no more that night.

Soon Europe collapsed completely, toppling Rossamünd with her in a flurry of sweat and perfume, stunning him. He lay for a moment half under the fulgar, his head full of spinning lights. He never thought a woman could weigh so much.

The soft hooting of a boobook went
hoo-hoo, hoo-hoo
. It was a peculiarly soothing sound and he focused on it to stay awake. There was nothing for it—he had to drag her. Hardly believing where he was or what he was doing, he pulled himself out from under her, fixed a saddlebag under her head, grabbed her by her booted ankles with a foot tucked under each arm and began to walk. Pulling, pulling, finding energy he did not know he had, he dragged the fulgar. Her shoulders ground noisily and her petticoats rumpled and gathered and began to tear, but he could do nothing about either now. He must trust to her proofing, ignore her indignity and simply go on.

Despite the noise and his agony and the desperate slowness of their pace, Rossamünd pulled Europe, bags and all, along the road till his fingers clawed and the eastern horizon grew pale. The trees began to grow farther apart, a fringe to the main wood, and as he gradually came around a bend in the road, he thought he saw lights through the sparse trunks. He pulled on a little bit farther and found that it was lights, lantern lights. He stopped to gather himself, gasping in air, and peered at this new sight.

There, in the obscure gray of a new day, he found what they sought: a long, heavy stone wall of great height on the left, protruding from the thinning trees. In a gap about two thirds along this wall and crowned with a modest arch was a solid ironwood gate. Above it was a post fixed horizontally from the apex of the arch, a bright-limn lantern at its far end, shining orange. Dependent from this post was a gaily painted sign. It showed what looked like a woman running or leaping and beneath this the barely legible letters:

. . . It was the wayhouse. They had arrived at last.