unhappy vessel.
By the middle of the next day Rossamund, huddled and unmoving at the prow in an agony of fear, spied the low wall of the Spindle as it finally appeared from around a river bend. Not nearly as tall or as grand as the Axle, the Spindle was a long, low dyke of black slate, stretching the river's mile-wide waters. Along its thick middle sections it was perforated by seven great arches and several lesser tunnels toward either bank. Each arch and tunnel was blocked by a massive portcullis of blackened iron. Great taffeta flags-one side black, the other glossy white, the colors of the city-state of Brandenbrass-were flown from the four central bastions in the middle of the river and flapped wildly in the windy morning. Rossamund could see many great-cannon poking from hatches and strong points all along the walls and bastions. The ends of the Spindle terminated on either bank in a strong fortress of sharply sloping walls, high, steep roofs and tall chimneys and were protected by stout curtain walls of the same black slate as the gate itself. Rossamund could even see that the ground at the foot of the curtain walls was densely prickled with a vicious-looking thicket of thorny stakes. About the eastern fortress a small wood of swamp oak and olive grew, while along both banks leafless willows wept into the black run of the Humour. The Spindle instead was squat, imposing, daunting. To Rossamund, however, it was also the chance of escape. Hope fluttered within his rib cage and he stared at it longingly.
When Poundinch sighted the rivergate, he became agitated and positively alive. He leaped to his feet and paced his station as he had done at gunnery practice, muttering and gesticulating vaguely.
'Stay easy, lads. They've not caught ol' Poundy yet,' he said over and over. He called down the speaking tube to the gastrineer, as softly as he could-for sound travels too well over water. 'Ease 'er down, Mister Shunt, and when she's at th' gates keep the limbers limber, ye hear. We may need to make it away right quick!' Then he growled low to the boatswain, always on hand. 'Secure below. No glimpses, no clues, just barrels o' fat-same ol' rigmarole… and make sure the newest acquisitions keep quiet too.'
The archway they were to enter was low, forcing the crew of the Hogshead to lower the mast so that it lay flat on the deck. As this was done the boatswain reappeared from below, and the rivermaster ordered him to pipe all hands on deck. Responding to such a call was instinct to Rossamund, and he joined the end of the ragged line of crew, standing straight and as smartly as he could.
Poundinch stalked in front of them all and muttered just loud enough to be heard, 'I wants us to be just likes we was an 'appy ol' crew, no secrets, no gripes, just on an 'appy jaunt down th' ol' 'umour-ye gets me?'
'Aye, Poundinch,' was the common assent.
The rivermaster waggled his conspiratorial eyebrows. 'No grumblin'.' He glared at Gibbon. 'No snarlin'.' He squinted at some other bargeman Rossamund could not see. 'Now back to it!' he barked, raising his arms.
As everyone returned to his labors, so Rossamund returned to the bow. A neat trim cromster trod proudly into the tunnel before them, its crew standing smartly in ranks on the deck. It was the same vessel that had passed the Hogshead two days before. Once again Rossamund wished he was aboard her instead. As it moved away, he looked longingly at the shiny nameplate on the stern. His heart froze.
The plate read Rupunzil.
'Rosey-me-lad! Over 'ere!' Poundinch called.
The foundling stepped over cautiously, head low, eyes wide. He could see the rivermaster staring at the other cromster's stern.
'Worked it out at last, 'ave ye?' Poundinch sneered.
Rossamund went pale.
'Took ye a bit, didn't it?' Faster than Rossamund could react, the rivermaster's hand shot out and grabbed him in a painful pinch by the back of the neck. 'You stay right by me, lad.' Poundinch bent himself and leered into Rossamund's face. 'Just remember-ye're me cabin boy, got it?'
'I–I-I-uh… nuh… no, sir, I mean, aye-aye, sir,' was all that would come out of the foundling's mouth. He could only stand there while Poundinch's fingers pressed painfully on the tendons of his neck, and marvel at the rivermaster's sudden cruelty.
Poundinch glared up at the Spindle.
'Made by a fierce, diligent folk, this,' he said in a conversational tone at odds with the grip he had on the boy's scruff. 'A cause of much consternation to th' lords of yer city when it were built.' He turned his glare to the boy. 'Whatever 'appens from 'ere on, ye're goin' to stay right 'ere by th' tiller and ol' Uncle Poundy's side, got me?'
The Hogshead was passing slowly under the high, broad tunnel of a boarding pier upon which stood several stern-looking officials, each uniformed crown to boot-toe in black proofing. Bargemen at the fo'c'sle and poop fended the Hogshead away from the slimy walls of the arch with long, strong poles.
'Ahh… Ahoy, clerklings!' Poundinch called in a simulation of generous affability. 'Ready to pay me taxes, same as always. Where's ol' Excise Master Dogwater?' Not once, during this cheerful display, did the rivermaster let up his wicked grip on Rossamund's scruff.
A serious-looking fellow-Rossamund thought him even more serious than the officials serving the Axle back in Boschenberg-gave the rivermaster a long, odd look. 'Excise Sergeant Dogwater has been reposted to tasks more suitable,' he stated flatly.
Poundinch seemed momentarily put out by this revelation, and he released his grip on Rossamund. His face contorted frighteningly but reverted marvelously to the previous false grin. He kept his hand upon the foundling's shoulder. It must have looked friendly enough from the pier, but the rivermaster's fingers were like cunning, hidden claws.
'Very good, very good-pass on me well wishes. 'E were as fine an excise man that ever served on this river.' Poundinch rocked on his heels and, after a pause in which Rossamund swore he could see the rivermaster's thoughts turn like winch gears, added, 'Present comp'ny excepted, of course…'
'Of course.' Unimpressed, the excise clerk held out an expectant hand. 'Now, present your documents and your tallies, and scrutineers will be aboard presently.'
Poundinch did as he was bid. The papers were taken through an iron door in the arch's hefty footing. Poundinch perspired, continually pursing his lips and flexing his free hand behind his back. Under the Axle, the Hogshead's master had been as cool as the cold side of the pillow. Here, however, with no secretive conversations or cynical winkings with one of the clerks, he was visibly agitated.
The original excise clerk reappeared, as expressionless as before, followed by three gentlemen heftier of build and bearing heavy, long-handled cudgels-the scrutineers. With them came a quarto of musketeers, all uniformed in black with trimmings of white. In two ranks they lined up-five at the front, five at the back-on the stone pier.
The excise clerk held up his right hand and took a breath. 'By the declaration of His Grace, the Archduke and Regent of Brandenbrass, and through the ratification and execution thereby of his Cabinet of the Charters set upon the sanctity of our borders, and its Ordinances concerning the same, you are presently ordered to allow to board, and then to be boarded by and searched by, Officers of the Sovereign State of Brandenbrass, and to declare upon a solemn 'aye' that you bear no contraband or other illicit articles upon or within this vessel, whether by hold or other conveyance, and that you regard inviolate the law and assertions of the State of Brandenbrass and that State's authority. How say you?'
Rossamund had no idea what had just been said, although it sounded extremely important and gravely impressive.
It seemed that Rivermaster Poundinch had not understood either. His squint grew more furrowed. 'I… uh… aye, if it's comin' aboard ye wants, then'-he bowed low with a glance to his boatswain-'by all means.'
The scrutineers and the excise clerk stepped across from the pier and tapped about the upper deck for a good long while. Poundinch hovered nearby, answering the curt quizzing of the clerk with affected politeness. Rossamund stayed by the tiller as instructed, heart knotting and unknotting alarmingly. It was a gloomy afternoon made gloomier under the shadow of this arch.
Eventually the search moved to the hatch. 'What a horrendous stench coming from below, sir!' called the clerk.
'Why aye, sir.' Poundinch made to look chastened. 'I intend to 'ave 'er in ordinary this winter, to give 'er a thorough swillin' in and out. 'Tis th' pig fat ye see-good for th' purse but 'ard on th' nose.'
The clerk put a foot on the top step and the scrutineers moved to follow. He paused and half turned. 'Are your limbers still turning, sir?'
'Well…'
