in the way.
Instead, a great sorrow set in his heart. What would Master Fransitart think of this? Rossamund had met his first nicker and come out of the experience a monster-lover. Unable to move or see, he lay filled with grief for some brutish giant he did not know and should not like.
A new sound broke in, right by his head. 'I… hiss… hold that something must be done.' It was the wheezing of that terrible leer Licurius. He was right by Rossamund, far too close for the foundling's ease. The boy's stomach churned in pure fright.
'I… I have done enough, don't you think? It was just a little spark to quiet him… but look now!'
This was Europe's voice-Europe, the mighty fulgar.
Europe, the slayer of innocents.
Europe, the electrocuter of children.
How powerfully uncertain he was of her now. So this is what she meant by a glorious 'life of violence'!
'… Wheeze… What good is he? Just some squirming snot nobody wants.You spied how he cried for that beggar, shed real tears like a toddling lassss for some tottering great waste of a nicker.You did a'rightly with him, I say-we've got nought spare for a rotten little… hiss… sedorner like his-same-self there… hiisssss!'
Rossamund's soul froze. A sedorner? A monster-lover! That was one of the worst things to be called. Worse yet, they were quite clearly talking about him. What were they going to do to him?
Europe sighed a long, almost sad sigh. 'Stay in the carriage and everything was good, that was all it needed… What is it with males and listening? I wonder how this would read in the panegyric of my life, that I shock bantling brats.'
'All the more reason to repair the wreckage. We should slit his belly and spill his umbles right here and leave done with it… gasp…' The leer's voice rasped right by Rossamund's ear. 'Or take his corpse and blame it on that ettin! A clear reputation is as good as a clear conscience, like you always say.'
'Hush it, Box-face! You push too much! This circumstance does not warrant such brutal work. My word, leer! You are starting to scare me with your talk of slitting and spilling. It has gone from worse to worse these past months-is it possible your black old heart gets blacker still?'
The leer hissed, long and cruelly. The landaulet shook for a moment, as if there was a struggle. Was Licurius daring to tangle with the fulgar?
Europe gave a yelp. 'Enough, now!'
Rossamund lay aware, terrified yet blind and paralyzed. With the shaking of the carriage, this terror rose unwanted from his gut to his throat and, though he tried to suppress it, it came out as a bubbling, whimpering cough.
Everything seemed to go even more still. Then, 'Aah.' Europe sounded relieved. 'It appears he has returned to us. Good, good.'
'… Wheeze… Don't be blubbering to me, then, Sparky,' Licurius said, concluding their previous business with faintly wrathful tones, 'when thisss'un places well-found blame on your pretty pate.'
'Enough! Enough!' The lahzar's voice wavered briefly. 'Cease your insolence and boil the water. You know I am sorely in need…'
With his little outburst, Rossamund found some capacity of movement return. He wrenched his eyes open in an instant and, as his neck still proved stubbornly immobile, rolled them around wildly, to know his fate.
He was lying under a blanket on one of the seats of the landaulet staring up at the clear sky pricked with early evening's first stars, through high, scruffy boughs-they were still in the forest. It was bitterly, breath- steamingly cold. He began to shiver. Europe was in her usual place on the opposite couch. Her hair was down and that big book she scribbled in was upon her lap. By her sat the lantern, already lit. She was looking at him with an expression he could not fathom, neither hostile nor tender. He blinked over and over at her, limbs twitching as he tried to get some use out of them.
'Good evening, little man,' the lahzar said slowly, her arms folded, her right hand up and covering her mouth and chin. 'Don't wriggle so.You will be able to move soon enough,' she chided, as Rossamund's wriggling turned into writhing. He did not heed her, but struggled and strained to get his body to respond. Now that they knew he was alive-that he was awake-he did not want to remain vulnerable one moment longer!
Europe leaned over and placed a hand upon his shoulder. At this he yowled mightily. Europe herself shied, genuinely startled.
Licurius came over to see about the commotion. 'What a noisy little toad!' he growled, gripping the foundling hard about his throat. 'Hush it, basket… wheeze… or you'll die here and now!' All sound was pressed from Rossamund as the leer clenched tighter and tighter, the boy's cry changing to a panicked gurgle.
'Let go of him, Licurius! This instant!' Europe glared at her factotum.
The leer ignored her completely. 'Come on, little girl, squeal like you did when I had yer by the ankles…!'
His arms jerking uselessly, Rossamund tried desperately to squash the man's hand between his chin and throat.
'How dare you, leer! You serve my ends, not I yours!' The fulgar half stood, her hair beginning to bristle with static, the book sliding from her lap to the floor of the landaulet with a thump. 'Let go your hold and step back! We have not the time for this and I have not the patience!'
For a moment longer Licurius seemed set on ignoring his mistress, then suddenly loosened his grip and turned to peer over his left shoulder. He stepped away, then hesitated, hissing, 'That's not right…' He plainly sniffed at the air, the sound of it coming clearly from the many holes in the sthenicon.
Rossamund squirmed away as best he could, to the other side of the carriage, tears coming from eyes and nose.
'You wear thin, laggard,' Europe hissed in turn. 'What is it now?'
The leer did not answer but stood for many strained minutes: sniffing, listening, sniffing yet more. Europe began to growl, ever so softly, impatient with his silence.
'There's something amiss on the wind, m'lady. Somethin' unsettling… away down there.' He gestured into the trees.
The fulgar sat back rubbing her face as if she was vexed by a headache. 'Well, you go and see what it might be,' she sighed, 'and I'll finish the treacle myself, shall I? Now go on with you then!'
The leer hesitated again. He gathered his cloak about himself and stalked off, passing quickly through a black gap between rough trunks.
Rossamund could not hear anything but the pound, pound, pound of his pulse in his ears, nor, more particularly, smell anything that he might call 'amiss' or 'unsettling.' He was relieved beyond expression simply to be released from the murderous intentions of that wicked man. Though he breathed heavily, he became still.
In the quiet the fulgar watched the forest. 'He'll be gone a goodly while, I'm sure, so we have some time to get you all back to how you should be.' Her voice was tired. 'Do you have any restoratives or vigorants? I would give you some of mine, child, but that they are made particularly for my… peculiar constitution… and I doubt whether that crusty old leer would let you at any of his.' She wiggled her arching eyebrows at him as if they were together in some conspiracy.
Wanting to keep her in this current friendly mood, Rossamund managed a weak grimace and, with numbness lessening and movement returning, nodded once.
'And where might they be?'
Rossamund grimaced as he tried for the first time to speak. 'S… S… Saa… Satchel…!' With great effort he tried to sit up. Europe reached over to help him. He shrank from her touch and slid back down the slippery seat. She saw his discomfort and, taking her hands off him with a false-sounding 'There you go,' took up his satchel and sat back. A powerful exhaustion settled over Rossamund as he finally succeeded in sitting up, and he watched as the fulgar fossicked about in his belongings. After a moment she pulled something from the satchel. She held out her hand. There were the sacks of bothersalts, amazingly dry and potent again, after their dunking in the Humour had made them into pointless slop.
What remarkable things Craumpalin's chemistry can do.
'Useful.' Europe cocked her head. 'But not what we require.'
She went back to rummaging, at one point pulling out the mash that had been his traveling papers and folding money, still damp and starting to smell. 'There's a mystery,' she said, placing the sodden lump on the seat beside her. A few moments more and she produced what she sought: small, familiar, milky bottles with the deep
