'Yes, well…' Her expression became a little mocking. 'Let us not go too far.'
This was a little deflating, but the whortleberry made Rossamund's spirits so high he was not downhearted for long. Forgetting himself a little, he began to poke about the interior of the carriage, prodding at the upholstery. On the seat beside him was a plain-looking box-a case really, quite large and long and flat and lacquered a glistening black. Rossamund went to pat its smooth surface, but pulled his hand away quickly as he felt a faint, queasy dread emanating from within it.
Europe quickly became stern. 'Nothing in there, little sneak!'
She took up this box and poked it away between her and the side wall of the landaulet. 'Didn't they tell you at your bookhouse that curious eyes rot in their sockets and curious fingers wither to their knuckles?'
After this the lady fulgar became quiet and ignored Rossamund, quickly growing sullen and staring at the distant windmills and featureless land, her chin cupped in hand, elbow propped on knee. 'I hate this place…' she muttered. This was all she said for quite a long time.
Rossamund had no idea what to do, and sat perplexed. Eventually he offered the lahzar one of her own whortleberries, thinking this might cheer her, but she just looked at it blankly, frowned at him and went back to her listless maundering. Rossamund became suddenly and painfully aware of the strangeness of his surroundings and of the two people with whom he shared the carriage. He sat very still and very, very quiet.
Later that day it rained, and this seemed to improve Europe's mood considerably. 'This is more like it,' she grinned. Sitting up straighter, she called to Licurius, 'Fighting weather, hey, Box-face! And let there be more of it too!'
Once more, Rossamund had no idea what she was talking about. Licurius ignored her as he had ignored the rain-and most everything else, it seemed.
Europe pulled the broad, bonnetlike canopy up and over them, keeping them and the plush interior dry while Licurius, at the front, was left to soak as he stoically dictated the landaulet's course. This made Rossamund uneasy and unhappy, reminding him of the times when Madam Opera bullied and badgered dear Verline. He did not understand why one person should have all that he or she needed and dictate to others what they have or have not.
Even with the fulgar's rapid lift in spirits they continued the rest of that day's journey in silence and in the rain, Rossamund taking the opportunity to read his already well-thumbed almanac. It said very little about the region they were in except that it was called the Sough, that it was very fertile and that it was famous for its lettuces and strawberries, though he had so far seen few of either. In the early evening, when they stopped for the night, it was still showering. Gaps in the cloud showed the glorious golden orange of the sun's late light reflected off enormous cumulous columns. In the strange yellow gloom Licurius tended to the pony, hobbling it and attaching a feed bag to its bridle. He then set small cones of repellent in a circle about their temporary camp, scratching strange marks in the soil with a stick at the intervals between each cone. He set a modest fire with wood they carried with them and, when it was burning merrily, put some kind of small cauldron in its midst. All this done, the leer finally prepared his bed beneath the landaulet.
From under the canopy, with the rain going patter, patter upon it, Europe called softly to him, 'I'll be wanting the brew in about twenty minutes, I think, but be sure it has mixed well and is the right temperature.'
With a quick, resentful glare at Rossamund she took out the nondescript black box that had caused such tension earlier and handed it almost secretively to Licurius. Then she lit an oil lamp with deft strokes of a flint and steel, and, opening a compartment beneath her seat, pulled out a great clothbound book. Producing a pencil, she began to scratch and scrawl in the book, humming or tch-tch-ing in turn. After a while she looked up sharply and quizzed Rossamund flatly, 'You know what I am, don't you, child?' She waggled the end of her pencil in the vicinity of her left brow, indicating the small blue outline of the fulgar's diamond above it. 'What this means?'
Rossamund had no idea what to say. 'I uh… uh…' He suddenly felt embarrassed to talk about her occupation, as though it was a private, even a shameful thing. In the end he nodded. Her expectant gaze was even more terrible than Madam Opera's.
'And what is that?' she persisted.
Rossamund flushed and wished he was a thousand miles elsewhere. 'You're a lahzar,' he mumbled.
'I'm a what?'
Rossamund almost rolled his eyes, but thought better of it. 'A fulgar-a monster-fighter. You make sparks and lightning.'
Europe gave a chuckle, then sat back, her chin stuck out pompously. 'I prefer the name teratologist or, if one must be vulgar, pugnator. But yes, my boy, you have it in two. No doubt you have heard of my kind-how we are spooky, how we are scary, how you common folk couldn't live without us? Hmm? Well, it's all true, and worse. Mine is a life of violence. Would you like a life of violence, little man?'
Rossamund shook his head cautiously.
'What about a life of adventure, then? Is that where you're bound? To begin some adventurous life in High Vesting?'
The boy thought for a moment, bowing his head under her beady hazel-brown gaze, and eventually shrugged.
'Hmph!' Europe pursed her lips. 'What I'd like to know is this: when does adventure stop and violence begin? Answer me that and we'll both be wiser.'
Fransitart had been right after all: lahzars were strange and discomfiting folk. Rossamund regretted accepting this one's assistance. Once more he had no real idea of what she was talking about, and certainly no idea how to reply.
At that moment Licurius stepped up holding a pewter dish full of what looked like steaming black oil, gluggy and evil-smelling. The foundling almost gagged at the stink of the stuff, but Europe put down her large book, took the dish gratefully and drank the filthy contents in a manner that Madam Opera would have declared sternly was 'very unladylike!' A tingle of disgust shivered down Rossamund's ribs as the fulgar drained the dregs and sighed a contented sigh.
'Many times better,' she smiled, showing teeth scummed with black as she handed the dish back to the ever-patient Licurius. She took out her crow's claw hair-tine and comb, letting silken, chestnut locks free; then she dimmed the lantern, lay back, wrapped herself in a blanket and without another word fell asleep.
It was then that another stench assaulted Rossamund's senses: the leer had lit the cones of repellent, and their exotic fumes were now drifting over the camp. It was like nothing Rossamund had ever encountered before and it made him feel wretched. His head began to pound and his very soul was gripped by an urgency to flee. His discomfort must have shown, for he was sure Licurius was regarding him closely beneath that blank box of a face. Wrapping his scarf about his nose and throat as if to keep out the cold, but rather to muffle the reek, Rossamund tried to show that nothing was wrong. Nevertheless the leer paused and leaned closer.
The boy was sure he heard sniffing: the faint but definite snuffling of smells.
Then, for the first time since their meeting, the leer spoke. 'Do you fare well, boy?' The voice came as a wheezing, hissing whisper, strangely unmuffled despite the impediment of the sthenicon. 'You look like you've had a nasty turn there. All's well, is it? D'ye not like the stink of our potives?'
Feeling a greater threat under the blank gaze of this man than in the manic ways of the fulgar, Rossamund cowered in his muffle. He did not know whether to nod or shake his head, and just wobbled it in circles vigorously.
'You smell funny to me. Did you know that? Wheeze… you smell funny to me…' The leer leaned yet closer. 'Answer, boy, or do you want of a man's courage with such a pretty name?'
Momentarily speechless, the foundling blinked several times, completely baffled. What harm is there in smelling funny? 'I su… suppose I do, sir,' he started. 'I haven't had a bath for well over a week now. I reckon the river has made it worse.'
'Hiss! I know river-ssmell, upssstart,' Licurius returned, shaking with inexplicable rage. 'And unwashed bodiess too. You are neither of thesse.You ssmell wrong! Wheeze…'
'I…' When would this fellow just leave him alone? Who cared how he smelled? For the first time since he had left the foundlingery, Rossamund thought about the knife Fransitart had given him, still in its scabbard at the end of his baldric, thought whether he might be forced to produce it as an aid to his defense. What a strange and terrible notion-cudgels were one thing, but knives and other slitting-slicing tools quite another. 'Master Fransitart told me that people from different cities eat different foods, that each would make them smell funny to other folk.'
