threatened. It meant your life changing forever.
Rossamund stared at the Axle in awe.
High above, musketeers in black and brown stood upon its solid battlements, vigilant wardens who strove to keep the city safe-whether from monsters or wicked men. The scarlet gleam of this eerie morning reflected from bayonets and musket muzzles. Graceful pennants of sable and mole flicked and snapped higher still above them all. Such a mighty and well-defended wall. What Rossamund found even more spectacular was that there was another Axle-the twin of this one-upstream, guarding Boschenberg's northern end. He felt a strange swell of pride for his city-state.
With a deep, near-silent thudding the Hogshead slowed, the screws pushing back against the flow of the old river. One of the many great gates in the Axle loomed. Contrary to Rossamund's pessimism the cromster had managed to make it there without sinking. It pulled up alongside the enormous base of one of the great columns that fixed the whole rivergate to the immemorial rock petrified beneath the slime of the riverbed. Part of the column's base was fashioned into a low, grimy wharf, and by this the Hogshead halted to have its cargo inspected and pay the river toll. A door of pale, corroded green opened out onto the wharf, and from it marched several excise inspectors dressed in the familiar brown and black of Boschenberg.
With a grin and a wink at Rossamund, Poundinch stepped off the Hogshead and held a conference with the most official-looking of all the inspectors. Rossamund sat at the prow of the cromster pretending not to listen, and listened intently indeed to the hushed conversation. Though he did not grasp all the baffling inconsistencies of adult ways, something about their communication suggested conspiracy.
'Such a pleasure to see ye again, Clerks' Sergeant Voorwind.' Poundinch touched the edge of his thrice-high. He handed over the manifest of his vessel's hold and with it a little paper package.
'And good early morning to you, Rivermaster Poundinch,' the official replied with a cynical grin. 'What is your cargo this time?' He took the manifest and the little paper package with it, making as if to read the first while slyly pocketing the second.
Poundinch inclined his head. 'Much th' same as it always is: seventy barrels of exceptional swine's lard bound for th' soap 'ouses and wax factories of th' Considine, m'lord, and ten bushels of parsley, sage, rosemary and thyme for th' perfumeries of Ives and Chassart.'
'That far south! In this old bucket?' The clerks' sergeant raised an eyebrow. 'I may have to charge you an additional fee. How exceptional are we talking?'
'Full and putridly ripe. It's took a great deal of 'ard work to get it delivered and just as much to load.' Poundinch smiled smugly.
'And the young master by the tiller? He's not one of your deliveries, is he?'
Rossamund's spine tingled as he realized the clerks' sergeant was talking about him.
'Oh, no, no. I've taken on a cabin boy, see. Fetch and carry and such. Someone to learn th' ropes and take up th' trade, as ye like. 'E's well appraised of th' arrangements, never ye mind.'
A cabin boy? Fetch and carry?
Rossamund held his breath. What was all this double-talk? Why did Rivermaster Poundinch not just speak the truth? Does he not know that I can hear him?
Clerks' Sergeant Voorwind frowned. 'As it should be, Poundinch. We both know what happened last time you took on a cabin lad. This new fellow will most certainly incur another toll.' He lowered his voice so that Rossamund had difficulty hearing what he said next. 'Be warned, the Emperor has issued an edict expanding the bans on the dark trades. We won't trouble ourselves with it now, but next time you're through be expecting to pay an even higher fine.'
Now it was Poundinch's turn to frown. 'As ye like it, Voorwind,' he said through gritted teeth. 'Don't push us too 'ard, mind, or we might 'ave to push back.'
'Careful, Poundinch!' the clerks' sergeant snarled quietly. ''Twould be an easy thing for me to reverse things as they stand. If you force me, I'll push right back again, with the authority of our beloved city-state.' He took a step backward, his expression changing easily from open hostility to formal approval. 'Very good, rivermaster. We'll complete our inspection, then you may go on your way.'
Muttering imprecations into his creased neckerchief, Poundinch stepped back onto the Hogshead and waited there by the column's base for the clerks to finish their duty.
Rossamund was certainly ignorant of much of the conversation's true meaning, but his suspicions still churned. What were the 'dark trades' that Voorwind fellow had hinted at? He found it hard to understand how it was that a man like Sebastipole-punctual, officious-had, it seemed, got him a berth upon a vessel of such poor conduct.
While the rivermaster and clerks' sergeant had been in conference, sturdy men had been looking the Hogshead over. They had descended the waist ladder into the hold-quickly reappearing with disgusted expressions on their faces-to scrutinize the bargemen's papers. Eventually a hefty, bespectacled clerk demanded to see Rossamund's own traveling certificates. The clerk looked very much as if he knew what to do should any document not meet his precise requirements. Rossamund stared up at him as he handed over his papers. It was like looking up at a solid brick wall. With a cursory scan the clerk returned his papers without a comment.
Fees paid and cargo and crew declared fit, the Hogshead was permitted to pass. The grille before them squealed and slowly moved aside. The vessel trod through cautiously. Once clear of the mighty Axle, it gathered speed and proceeded downriver, passing the third curtain wall of Boschenberg, then the outer curtain wall and the suburbs fenced in between. Beyond the city, farmlands, immaculately tilled and primly fenced, stretched away on both sides. Gorgeously white egrets stalked and crimson-legged water hens waddled about the banks among the sodden roots and falling russet leaves of tall sycamores, graceful elms and black, evergreen turpentines.
Rossamund stayed at his post right at the tip of the bow, where he read his instructions and his beloved almanac, and tried his best to avoid the crew, none of whom was proving very friendly. The instructions were brief and simple: he was to remain aboard the vessel till he reached High Vesting and, once disembarked, was to meet with a certain Mister Germanicus in the offices of the Chief Harbor Governor. From there Mister Germanicus was to assist the boy to Winstermill, the lamplighters' manse-or headquarters-where he would receive further instructions. At the bottom was a strange mark, 'Seb,' ending in a line with a squiggle, which he assumed was Sebastipole's mark.
That was all of it.
Rossamund read them over and over to see if he might have missed anything, hoping fervently that this mysterious Mister Germanicus would know how to find him, for he had no idea how he could find Mister Germanicus. Gleaning little, he sat back, leaning on a pile of hessian and hemp rope, fretting. From this position he could keep a close eye on the suspect crew-this Poundinch fellow most of all-and even be on the watch for monsters. Though he did not know what he would do if he found one, he still wanted to know if it was coming.
Occasionally he consulted his almanac. The maps showed that the Humour wended its way through many miles of apparently featureless regions-places the topographers had not bothered to name. They had marked instead, in the large blank areas on either side of the river, simple descriptions: 'broad pastureland' on the east side, and 'a great partial wilderness' on the west. They had also marked the Humour with its other names in parenthesis: 'Humeur,' 'Swartgallig,' 'Sentinus'-names given by other races in other times. Only two places were noted along its course ahead of them. The first was Proud Sulking-a city like Boschenberg, of which he had some idea. The other was somewhere called the Spindle, positioned just before the Humour emptied into a large body of water to the south called the Grume. This was the enormous bay upon whose shores were noted many other cities and many other ports. He knew something of the Grume too, but what was the Spindle?
He rose and cautiously went to Rivermaster Poundinch to ask him.
'Been readin' th' charts, I see,' Poundinch observed amiably. 'Gets th' feelin' with all yer gawping at th' Axle, that ye tain't been out of th' city before. Am I right?'
'Only twice to visit the sister of… of a friend. She lives in Blemish, which is a tiny village just outside the walls.' These had been most magical visits to the small cottage of Verline's younger sister, and Rossamund could not remember more wonderful times. He sighed. How he was going to miss Verline. He was determined to scratch down a letter to her when he arrived in Winstermill.
'Sounds quaint, lad. As for th' Spindle, well, it's another, further rivergate, just as menacin' as those Axles there.' The rivermaster poked a thumb over his shoulder at the dark, shadowy line of the rivergate they had left behind. 'But it belongs to a different city, that being Brandenbrass-which is moi 'ome, by th' way. Th' Spindle is
