smiled at Rossamund. 'When you are done here, my boy, I recommend you to the common room, and get yourself a hearty meal.'
The foundling nodded. 'Aye, doctor, I shall.'
'Good night, madam!' The physician bowed gracefully to Europe. 'I expect you to be in much better spirits tomorrow.'
'And good night to you too, good doctor,' returned Europe with equal grace. 'Sleep well.'
The physician and the skold left.
Feeling a little awkward at being alone with the fulgar, Rossamund fidgeted and looked at her shyly. She still held the tankard in which her treacle had been served.
'I could take that back to the kitchens for you, Miss Europe,' he offered.
She looked at him sleepily. 'That's a servant's job, little man.' She held it up to him anyway. 'But if you must.'
As he took it from her, he saw that there was a whole battery of marks running down the inside of each wrist, a tiny X flaring at each end. They were the same deep, dried-blood color as the leering monster's head drawn on Master Fransitart's arm. He hesitated. 'Miss Europe…?'
'Yes?'
'What are they?' he asked, looking meaningfully at her wrists.
The fulgar turned them about to show the small marks more clearly-arranged four by four in distinct sets. On the right wrist three complete sets went halfway up her arm; on the left there was only one complete set and another well on the way.
Rossamund did a quick calculation. There must be more than seventy!
'These?' she queried mildly. 'These are just my cruorpunxis.'
'Your what, miss?'
'Cruorpunxis,' she repeated, growing slightly impatient. 'Kroo-or-punk-siss. Monster-blood tattoos. Each little mark a monster I've slain.'
She's killed more than seventy monsters!
'Not every one is here, though,' she sighed, looking intently at her forearm. 'Sometimes it is impossible to get at the beast after it's done in. Like that big brute at the bridge…'
He was glad she would not be able to mark the Misbegotten Schrewd there. 'I thought they were always drawn in the shape of those you killed?'
'Oh, well, that's the way of rude and vulgar fellows. I have preferred something a little more comely and suitable.'
Rossamund frowned. He did not like Master Fransitart being called a rude, vulgar fellow.
Europe roused herself. 'Listen now,' she said, heedless of his inner fuming. 'While you were in the kitchens, I made an arrangement for the retrieval of… dear Licurius… and… the landaulet too. I expect it to be done by tomorrow evening-please, come and tell me as soon as it is.'
Yes, your blasted, wicked Licurius, went Rossamund's thoughts.
'Aye, Miss Europe,' went his mouth.
Rossamund did not look at Europe as he walked to the door. All the bad he had witnessed her do was a heavy, black pall in his thoughts. Just inside the door he spied his shoes, thoroughly clean and shining black. Over them Europe's high, violent-looking equiteer boots loomed. Rossamund took his shoes out from under their shadow and put them on. Without a word or a backward look, he left the room.
12
Imperial postman (noun) a walking postman's or ambler's life is dangerous, and he is forced to be skilled at avoiding, and protecting himself against, monsters. Frequently customers of skolds, postmen invent clever and slippery ways to make sure that the post always gets through. Mortality rates are high among them, however, and the agents who employ them prefer orphans, strays and foundlings who will not be missed by fretting families.
Early the next morning, Rossamund found Europe sitting quietly on a stiff chair by a newly lit fire, staring at the struggling flames. She held a soup bowl of Cathar's Treacle, meekly sipping at it rather than gulping it down. Waiting till she had finished her potive-feeling that this would be the best policy-he began.
'Miss?'
Europe turned her hazel gaze to him. 'Yes, little man?'
He fidgeted. 'What… what do you think of my name?'
The fulgar looked annoyed. 'How do you mean, think?'
'Well, it's not a name meant for a boy. Did you know that?'
Her expression relaxed. She laughed her liquid chortle. 'Oh, I seeee! So, some would have it meant for a girl? What concern is it of mine how your sires chose to label you? Things are more than their names. If you were anointed 'Dunghead,' I'd still call you that without teasing or embarrassment. It's just a word, little man.' She gave him a soft look-faint, but unusually kind.
Rossamund's heart sang a little. The fulgar might have gone some small way to redeeming herself for the harm done at the Brindlestow Bridge.
For a time she did not speak, and Rossamund went to leave. Europe reached over and touched him on the arm. She said, very quietly, 'I understand why you asked me this, though, and I'm sure it has been a great inconvenience to you for much of your life.'
He blinked at her capricious kindness. After a moment he answered, 'Aye, ma'am, it has at that. They would call me 'Rosy Posy' or 'Girly-man' or 'M'lady' or… or more things besides.'
The fulgar contemplated him with a serious eye. 'Hardly surprising. Children begin the cruel career of the untamed tongue almost as soon as they can talk.' She paused, and continued to look at him intently. He took the bowl from her to give himself something to do under that uncomfortable gaze.
'I hope you learn to master your hurts, little man.'
Rossamund kept his eyes on the black dregs in the bottom of the bowl. 'Oh, I just ignored them, stayed out of the way as much as possible. Master Fransitart and Verline looked after me very well, anyways, so I don't mind.'
Europe shifted in her seat. 'So, who are these-Master Fransitart and… Verline?' she asked, pulling out a small, black lacquered box.
Rossamund relaxed. 'Oh, Master Fransitart is… was my dormitory master, though not the only one: there's Craumpalin and Heddlebulk, Instructor Barthom?us and Undermaster Cuspin…'
Europe's eyes glazed and she went back to looking at the fire. It appeared that she had lost interest.
'… and Verline is Madam Opera's parlor maid, but she took special care of me,' Rossamund said, finishing quickly, wanting at least to answer her original question.
'Madam Opera, now?' Europe's attention fixed on him again and she lifted one brow in her characteristic manner. 'Enough names.Your first years sound almost as complicated as mine were. Go away now, little man. A woman must have her privacy. Let me know as soon as… Licurius' body… and the landaulet are fetched back.' Her shoulders sagged and, even though she had just risen, she looked very tired.
Rossamund nodded a little bow and, holding the soup bowl in one hand and picking up his almanac in the other, went to leave. As he opened the door, Europe called, 'And tell them not to disturb me.'
'Yes, Miss Europe.'
As confused as he had ever been after a conversation with the fulgar, Rossamund went to the common room. Strangely, he also felt lighter than he had for many days. He read his almanac and sipped on a mug of small beer. In
