Then he gingerly poked at one of the many little sacks kept within a bigger purse. Though the smell coming from them was faint, it was still unpleasantly sharp. Rossamund hoped he never suffered a faceful of it.
'These are bothersalts.Very nasty stuff, and the sacks are fragile, so have a care. It will give any bogle-or person, for that matter-you happen on a nasty sting if you throw it at them, bag and all. Frighten them off for hours, but it also makes 'em angry, so be on yer guard for a good long while after. And this! This is a pretty bit of trickery!' Craumpalin unwrapped a package of oily paper to show a large lump of malleable skin-colored wax. An odor something like a very sweaty and unwashed person filled the air.
'It's called john-tallow. Smells a wee bit off to us, but it's a mile more appealing to the nose of a nicker than we are… leads them astray. Poke a little lump of this in the bole of a tree or under a rock, walk in the other direction and ye'll get yerself some space.' He chuckled into his white beard. 'Wonderful stuff. A warning, though: always handle it by the oiled paper. If ye get the stuff on y' hands-or anywhere else come to that-then ye'll stink of it too and the ruse will be ruined. Got it?'
As the dispensurist kneaded the wax, Rossamund found that, strangely, he liked the smell. He said nothing of this and took in all he was told very carefully, very seriously, imagining a world beyond the city's many curtain walls and bastions filled with all kinds of frightful beasts.
Craumpalin lifted up a bottle of brown clay. 'This here be fourth and last,' he said. 'It's a nullodour-I like to call it Craumpalin's Exstinker. Master Frans and me wants ye to wear a splash of it on ye all the time, no matter. Keep ye safe from sniffing noses-where ye're going there's no knowing where is safe and where ain't.' The old dispensurist took up a long strip of cambric. 'The best way to wear it is to liberally apply some to this here bandage, then wind it about yer chest, just under the arms like so.' He wrapped the strip about himself several times in demonstration. 'A good splash will do for a day and seven will last you almost a whole week. After that I recommend you wash this and reapply more of me Exstinker.Tomorrow mornin', when ye be getting yerself ready, we wants ye to give this seven splashes and put it about ye just like I've shown. Understood?'
Rossamund nodded somberly. Anything to keep the monsters away.
Craumpalin grinned. 'Good lad!' He handed Rossamund the brown clay bottle along with a piece of paper. 'There's enough in there to last ye for a month. After that, give this script to yer local, friendly skold-make sure he's friendly, mind-to make ye more.'
Along with all these things Rossamund took his most treasured possession: a lexicon of words and a simple peregrinat-or an almanac for wayfarers-entitled Master Matthius' Wandering Almanac: A Wordialogue of Matter, Generalisms amp; Habilistics, that is, history, geography and science. Cleverly, it was waterproofed, both cover and pages, so as to be useful to any brave and literate traveler no matter what the weather. It had been a gift one year ago, given on Bookday, when the foundlings at Madam Opera's remembered the entry of their name into the grand ledger-a type of group birthday, and the only time their existence was ever celebrated.
Fransitart appeared in the afternoon with a valise of shining black leather.
'Thank you.' Taking hold of it, Rossamund was at once struck by the bizarre sense that whoever had made the case had intended good things for its owner.
It had a lock, and a key that was fixed to a strong velvet ribbon of brilliant scarlet about Rossamund's neck.
The astounding array of Rossamund's new equipment was then rechecked and finally packed by Master Fransitart, who stowed everything wisely so that it would not rattle or knock when moved. Remarkably, the valise did not weigh nearly as much as he expected it might when it was fully packed.
Rossamund urgently wanted to ask Fransitart to finish the telling of the fight with the monster and the secret things, the shocking things beyond and behind this. He had the courage now that so little time was left until he departed, but Verline did not leave them alone long enough for him to venture a question.
'I know ye weren't thinking to be a lamplighter,' Fransitart said unexpectedly, 'but not ev'ryone who studies law becomes a lawyer, lad. Things may change for ye yet. Paths need not be as fixed or as straight fo'ward as they might first show.' He looked hard into Rossamund's eyes. 'Now ye've got to be especially wary out there, me boy. Ye get me?'
Rossamund nodded slow and sad.
'Most ev'ryone is not goin' to be as understandin' of ye as Verline here, or crusty old Craump'lin or meself,' the old sea dog continued. 'Guard yeself, pick ye friends cautiously and always keep wearin' that brew ye got from Craump'lin. He knows his trade better than most-it will keep ye well protected.' Fransitart sniffed. 'Take me words to heart, son. It's a wild and wicked world beyond here and I'm loath to let ye out into it. But out ye must go, and ye've got to be sharp and wise and keep yeself from trouble. Aye?'
'I will, Master Fransitart, I will,' Rossamund said with all the earnestness he could muster.
The dormitory master took something out of his pocket and passed it to the boy. It was a long and thin- bladed knife in a blacked leather sheath, a tool much like the ones Rossamund had seen fishermen use when cleaning their catch on the stone-walled banks of the river.
As he gave the knife, Fransitart fixed Rossamund once more with a serious eye. 'Out in the world a knife is an 'andy thing to 'ave. Mark me, though! If ye must use this 'ere in a tussle,' he said, wagging his finger, 'then make certain ye means to, or else it'll get taken from ye an' used upon yeself instead!'
Rossamund nodded, though he did not really understand. He had no intention of using the knife for anything but the cutting of food.
To his dismay, Rossamund was made to have another bath, though he had had one only two days earlier. 'Make you nice and fresh for your great going forth, young man,' Verline declared as she sent him to the tubs. Smelling like lemongrass soap, he returned to the dormitory. As all the boys were piped to bed, Weems and Gull, two of the next-oldest, who would be leaving themselves next season, and who always did things together, teased him for his flowery smell. Rossamund just shrugged. Tonight would be the last time he would have to put up with them.
Restless with dreams and worries of what was to come and a keen suspicion that Gosling might try some horrid final prank, he slept little that night.
Finally, at the start of the morning watch, Rossamund was roused by a silent Fransitart. He followed the dim guide of the dormitory master's shuttered bright-limn and bid good-bye, with one lingering look, to the dormitory. Snores and whimpers and sighs replied in unconscious, uninterested farewell.
So this is what it feels like to be leaving for good, he marveled.
Master Fransitart left him at the basins to wash his face and put on all the fancy new things that were waiting there for him. He was especially careful to apply one-two-three-four-five-six-seven splashes of Craumpalin's Exstinker to the cambric bandage. Seven days' worth. He wound it tightly around his chest just as the dispensurist had shown him before donning the rest of his attire.
In the dining hall he found a breakfast of rye porridge with curds-and-whey and sweetened with honey. A lantern sat on the side to light his last meal at the foundlingery. It was as fancy a breakfast as he had ever had, and it spoke of Verline's care. He was just a little sad as he ate alone, the tap of his spoon against the bowl echoing in the lonely dark. Verline's love would be hard to live without, but at last he was getting out!
With the early glow of approaching dawn showing through the high windows, Fransitart returned. He came into the dining hall carrying Rossamund's satchel and valise.
'Time to be going, lad,' rasped Fransitart, his voice sounding pinched and strange.
Rossamund followed him to the vestibule by the front door where Madam Opera waited. Standing before the front doors, Rossamund was granted his baldric. A leather-and-cloth strap that went over the right shoulder and looped by the left hip, it was given to all lads when they were declared to be passing from boyhood into manhood. Typically it was marked with the mottle-the colors-of one's native city. This one was patterned in sable and mole checkers-that is, a checkerboard of black and brown, the mottle of Boschenberg. Master Fransitart, solemn and still silent, put it on Rossamund and, that done, plonked a handsome black thrice-high upon his head. At last he was completely equipped.
Madam Opera grimaced tightly. 'You do look well set up-perhaps too well,' she added with a sidelong glance at Fransitart. She gave Rossamund a single pat on his head. 'Step forward strongly, boy, like the hundreds have done before you. This world does not reward tears. Time to be on your way.'
Rossamund wrestled on the valise, fixed his new knife to his new baldric, slung the satchel containing the food, turnery, the biggin and the repellents and the rest across his other shoulder, and pocketed his purse of small coins.
