Foundling

of the bezoariac… the liquid-and one of the rhatany… the other bottle… the powder-and stir them into the water for some minutes, then… come back to me… Make sure there is enough water. Anything over half-full will do.'

He did as he was bidden. The cauldron still held enough water, so in went two spoonfuls of the bezoariac-a kind of universal antidote he had seen used in the dispensary of the marine society-and the rhatany powder-which he had not heard of before. He stirred and stirred, knowing well just how it was done because of Master Craumpalin's patience and pedantry. Figures-of-eight, making sure it did not catch and burn on the bottom of the pot. All the while his back tingled with the dread that the grinnlings might pounce once more from the shadows.

'What does it look like?' the lahzar quizzed quietly. Her voice was muffled, for she had collapsed again and was lying with her head buried in her arms.

'It was like porridge for a moment, but it has now gone thin and reddish,' the foundling replied.

'Does it boil?' Europe raised her head.

'Aye, ma'am, it has just started.'

She reached over without looking and took out a jar from the box.

'Quickly then, add this. Use your fingers but do not put that spoon within this jar! Understand? There needs to be the… same amount as two spoonfuls of it.'

Rossamund did as he was asked, even though the unpleasant feelings these reagents gave him were increasing with each moment as he scooped cold, foul-feeling muck from the jar. Scraping off the correct measure twice onto the spoon, he plopped it into the bubbling brew. Disgusted, he wiped his fingers on some pine needles, then stirred yet more. As he did, Europe held out another bottle two-thirds full of a black powder. The sense of terrible foreboding radiated most strongly from this little jar.

He hesitated.

'When the curd is properly mixed and thick and even and turned to honey, you must take it off the flame, then sprinkle in half a spoonful of this. It's Sugar of Nnun-don't let it touch your skin! Mix it well in… and when that's done… bring it to me.'

Sugar of Nnun! He had certainly heard of this ingredient, though he did not know what it did. Craumpalin had condemned it in no uncertain terms, stating once that only people up to no good had any business messing with it. Had their situation been any less desperate, Rossamund might well have refused to even hold the bottle containing such stuff, so thoroughly had the old dispensurist warned him.

The brew indeed became very much like the consistency and color of honey, even causing his stomach to rumble, deprived of dinner-and maybe some other meals-as it was. He quickly lifted the cauldron off the fire by its handle, using a handy stick, and placed it on the ground.

With a sharp sickliness in the back of his mouth, Rossamund removed the stopper of the bottle holding the Sugar of Nnun. He felt sure he could see an evil puff of black dust come out from within. Squinting, he nervously tapped the right amount onto the spoon, and this he mixed into the brew. As it was stirred in, the whole lot quickly turned black, became even thicker and began to stink disgustingly.

The potion was ready.

Rossamund took off his scarf and used this to carry the cauldron to the lahzar. 'It's ready, I think, Madam Europe. I don't know if I have got it right, but it seems just like it did before.'

Unsteadily, Europe got to her knees and scrutinized the result of the foundling's dabblings. When she saw the brew looking very much as it should, she seemed stunned, even as ill as she was. 'Well done, little man,' she breathed. 'Well done… That is exactly it.' She snatched the brew-the treacle, as she had called it-and, waiting only a moment for the edge to be cooler, drank greedily, taking great gulps and spilling some, surely burning herself on the hot metal. The effect of the potion was rapid. Not putting the pot down till it was empty, she had a healthy look in her eye when she did. After only a few minutes of breathing heavily and digesting, the fulgar had recovered enough to stand. She wobbled as she did, but with the foundling boy's hand to hold on to she was soon on her feet. She was still for a moment, swaying somewhat-to Rossamund's alarm-but staying upright and staring into the dark silence of the forest.

The woods were now quiet, but for what Rossamund hoped were the usual treeish creaks and whispers.

'We must be leaving,' said Europe. 'They will most certainly be back for another try before the night is out.' She hushed as the foundling repacked the black case with its frightful chemicals.With a great sigh, she turned to gaze at the place where the ruins of what-was-once-Licurius lay. Grief worked in her soul and showed on her face. 'Oh, Box-face… Oh, Box-face…' she lamented quietly. 'What have they done to you?'

With Rossamund to help her, she staggered over to the leer's body. In the nimbus of the lantern, the grisly proof of the violence just passed showed clearly. There the bodies of two grinnlings lay where they had fallen, slain by Licurius' hand. No longer animated by foul and murderous intent, they looked small, pathetic, doll-like. In their midst was the black huddle of the dead leer. Though he was mostly covered with his torn cloak, it was still obvious that he had been ripped and gouged in cruel and vile ways.

With a choking sob, Europe sagged and dropped to her knees near the corpse. She swooned for a moment, panting heavily, pushing Rossamund weakly from her. 'You must not look on this!' She stood straighter. 'Go! Get your personals and ample water for one night's travel. We must be away very shortly, and not delay-those creatures have gone silent, and I like that much less than their distant jitterings. I will right myself presently. Have no concern for me: our survival is afoot now.'

Nevertheless, and though she would not like it known, Rossamund was aware that Europe wept silently as he gathered his valise and satchel, filled his biggin with water and his pockets with food. She must have cared more for the leer than the foundling had ever noticed. He felt sad for her, and for the Misbegotten Schrewd. For the leer, however, he entertained no regrets-the villain had tried to strangle him! This is what Verline would have sternly called 'a hard heart,' but Rossamund could not see how he might possibly feel anything at Licurius' end.

Presently Europe came over to the landaulet too, stumbling only slightly, her face dirty with tearful streaks, and hurriedly organized her own traveling goods. With the horse dead there was nothing for it-they would have to walk their way to safety.

'We must leave… him where he lies. There's no time to bury him and no profit in bearing him away. We must go to the wayhouse. I've passed it by many times but never entered. The Harefoot Dig it is called. When we get there and settle ourselves safely, we can come back here to… to fetch him. Move on, now! We must be at the wayhouse as soon as we can!'

Gathering all which was needful that they could carry on foot, they set off by lantern light, Europe pointing the way, Rossamund leading it. How they were to make it, the foundling had no hopeful idea. There was a sandy, bepuddled road running right by their camp-probably still part of the Vestiweg. They walked along this, the fulgar unsteady at first but soon gaining pace, though not speedily enough for him. The fulgar had to caution him to save his energy when sometimes he marched on ahead, reminding him that they had a long way yet to travel.

Soon she made Rossamund douse the lantern. 'The light will be more harmful than helpful,' she whispered, 'and lead the grinning baskets right to us.'

He complied eagerly at this warning. What hope did an everyday boy like himself have if a lahzar was cautious and wishing to avoid any new confrontations? In the dark he vainly tried to see into the benighted forest, to see past the straight pale trunks of the pine saplings that lined the road, to find warning of any possible ambush. He could feel that Phoebe was up and shining, but deep in that narrow channel of high trees, her light helped but a little. Oh for Licurius' nose now! After they had trod for many hours and what was surely a great distance, Rossamund was most certainly tiring. His feet dragged, and the valise, normally so light, pulled meanly on his back and aching shoulders. His lids drooped as his thoughts lolled with warm, comfortable ideas of stillness and rest.

Europe seemed to sag as well; eventually, to his great relief, she stopped near the top of a steep hill and sat down clumsily. 'Aah!' she wheezed so very quietly. 'I am flagging terribly… How about you, little man? You have kept pace with me admirably till now.'

He dropped next to her, dumping the valise on the verge, and took a long swig of water from his biggin. Only a few mouthfuls more remained when he was done. Taking this as a wordless but definite yes, the fulgar offered him a whortleberry procured from one of the many black leather satchels and saddlebags. Then she chewed on one herself. He took it gratefully. They sat some minutes in silence while the internal glow of the berries restored them enough to allow them to push on. Rossamund's senses sharpened again and with them his fears of another attack