With cacophonous screeching, the thirteen grinnlings suddenly bounded over and around the fire. The fulgar kicked at the first as it vaulted the flames, sending it hurtling back the way it had come with a great blinding lightning flickering from Europe's boot sole to the bogle. She immediately sprung back, making room, and smote the next two who reached for her: right hand striking left, left hand striking right, slapping one in the face-Zzack! — and thumping the other square in its chest-Zzick!
Three down, ten to go!
Rapidly sidestepping to her left, avoiding grasping claws, the fulgar poked the next gnashing nicker right in its eyes, sending sparks from its ears and a squeal from its throat that expired to a gurgle.
Nine!
Now the remnant grinnlings pounced as one, grappling with her together-on her back, about her legs, tugging on her arms. Rossamund waited for them to fall to their sparking doom, but instead Europe appeared to contort violently, staggered by some dark, internal force greater than those nine grinnlings could muster. Her back arched involuntarily. Her head thrown back, she screamed. The grinnlings hesitated but remained unharmed. With cackles and evil whoopings they pressed this new advantage, biting, gouging, ripping.
Rossamund's thoughts raced. He had to do something! He looked about wildly for a weapon-something, anything. The bothersalts! Snatching up the satchel, he leaped from the carriage, madly digging about within the bag for the small hessian sacks. He dashed to the fight, the bothersalts still undiscovered. In the dimming light he could see Europe being pulled to the ground just as Licurius had been.
Shortly it would be over.
There they are! He grabbed at the sacks roughly, ripped them out and hurled them in one complete move-all thoughtless, terrified instinct. The repellents flew remarkably true, bursting their powder over the murderous gang just as one of the grinnlings caught sight of the foundling. There was a great chorus shriek as the bothersalts did their work. Some of the grinnlings left off their rending to paw instead at their now burning faces. Others were simply distracted by this attack from an unexpected quarter. Europe too was engulfed in the acrid assault, but through her pain and her dazzled senses she still had enough pith to give one final, might-be-suicidal burst of electricity. Several grinnlings fell, expiring instantly. For the rest, this was too much: wrathful sparks from one side, bitter chemistry on the other. They fled screaming, every last one, their howls diminishing as they retreated farther and farther as fast as their little legs could carry them.
They had done it! They had won…
On the needle-matted ground, with many dead grinnlings sprawled about and a tendril of smoke rising from her back, Europe had collapsed, dreadfully still, dreadfully silent.
9
Factotum (noun) personal servant and clerk of a peer or other person of rank or circumstance. Whenever the master or mistress goes traveling, so the factotum must follow. Lahzars too have taken to employing a factotum, so as to take care of the boring day-to-day trifles: picking up contracts, collecting fees owed for services rendered, looking to food and accommodation, writing correspondence, heavy lifting and even making their drafts
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Trembling, and ignoring the dead bogles, Rossamund crept closer to the fallen fulgar. His heart teetered on the brink of complete terror at the thought of being left alone in this malignant place. As he neared her, he bent lower and ever lower, trying to see her face, trying to gain some hopeful hint of her condition. She lay twisted, limbs carelessly poking every which way, long hair a wispy mess obscuring her whole head. Holding back for just a moment, he knelt beside her and gingerly poked some of her chestnut locks away from her throat, cheek and brow. She was deathly pale.
Grinnling cries in the distance.
Rossamund scurried to the landaulet, took the lantern and dashed back to where the fulgar lay. He knelt and looked to see if she was still alive, wanting to weep but holding it in-he had cried enough on this journey. Blood was running from Europe's nose. There were nasty bites upon her neck where the proofing did not cover. Breaths did come: short, shallow puffing. She lived!
Rossamund leaned closer and whispered, 'Miss…! Miss… Miss Europe…!'
The fulgar's lashes fluttered and slowly parted, her vision clearly swimming. They shut again and it seemed she might slip into insensibility. Rossamund pressed twice, sharply, on her shoulder, not wanting her to pass out. She groaned and shifted, opening her eyes again to peer at him.
With a gasp, Europe pushed herself up on her arms and sat, head lolling, hair drooping. 'What happened?' she panted.
Rossamund sat back. 'You won… you beat them all.'
She looked about, blinking heavily. Her eyes were streaming with ash-colored tears.
Rossamund winced. He had hit her with the bothersalts too.
After a long pause and a deep sigh, she whispered, 'Good… They were… difficult.' Sitting up straighter, she flexed her shoulders and rolled her head about, grunting and grimacing. 'My organs have spasmed,' she breathed cryptically. 'Not the best time for it, at all… I thought I was done for.' Pausing for a rattling wheeze of air, she muttered, 'Never advisable to… start a fight… when one is missing a… a dose of treacle.'
Though he did not follow what she said, Rossamund nevertheless understood that something had gone very wrong somewhere inside her body, that her electrical organs had somehow failed her in a most terrible way. He shuddered. This must be what dear Master Fransitart had meant when he said that there was nothing more wretched than lahzars made sick by their organs.
Far away, the wailing of the grinnlings could still be heard in the cold, cold night.
Europe tried to rise but swooned frighteningly, and fell back to ground. 'I… need… my treacle, little man,' she slurred. 'Take the lantern. Get the box. I'll… I'll show you how to make it.'
The foundling ran over to the landaulet and, as he did, discovered that the chestnut nag had been attacked as it attempted escape. Slain, it now lay with many nasty wounds to its neck, point and chest. How were they going to get away now?
Hold to your course. People's lives are at stake, Rossamund coached himself. Do as Master Fransitart would have-everything in its right order. Box first-leaving later.
Rossamund found her curious black case in the now jumbled contents of the landaulet's interior. As he extracted it, the feeling of sickly unease moved within once more as he gripped the smooth wood. He ignored the sensation and returned to her side with it gripped determinedly under his left arm.
The fulgar had fainted and he was forced to rouse her once more. She came to with effort, even wiping away tears. 'Good man… N… Now, I need you to listen… most carefully-we have not the time for mistakes.'
Rossamund nodded once, emphatically. This was not some pamphlet story. This was a time for diligence and dependability. This was the very thing they sought to teach all the book children at Madam Opera's-the very thing expected of you when you have been given your baldric to wear.
The fulgar drooped, gathered herself and continued. 'Put the box down and open it… carefully, though. That… that's the way.'
Within the box were many compartments, each with its own hinge-and-handle lid, and lined with scarlet velvet. He peeked under one. There was a bottle of liquid within, nestled in straw.
'That's the bezoariac. There's no time to do this neatly or make it pretty.' She opened another compartment and pulled forth another bottle, this one half-filled with a dark powder. She put both bottles in Rossamund's hands and with them a pewter spoon. Then she indicated the cauldron boiling on the fire. 'Take these and put two spoons
