'You what?' came a sour voice from within.
Rossamund cleared his throat nervously. 'I… uh, we are needing to hire someone to drive the landaulet down to High Vesting. Um, we're at the Harefoot Dig, you see, and…'
'You want someone to go with you down to the Dig,' the sour voice demanded, 'so they can drive some cart to High Vesting, aye?'
'Ah… aye.'
'And how much you got in your purse?'
'I… um…' Flustered, Rossamund counted his coins. 'One sequin, a florin and eight guise.'
'I seeeee.' The sour voice sounded less than convinced. 'Wait there.'
The door closed with a bang.
Fidgeting, Rossamund was made to wait what felt like an overlong time.
Finally the scarlet door was pulled open a crack once more. 'Sorry, no drivers available,' the sour voice declared, sounding almost triumphant. 'Too busy! Try the Drained Mouse on Fossick's Cauld-plenty of desperate lads there. Good-bye.'
'But wait, I don't…'
The door closed with an even louder, all-questions-ending bang.
Even before Rossamund had a chance to turn and walk away in disgust, the door was opened once again, wide this time. 'So yer need some help with a driver, do yer?' a voice inquired.
Before him stood a cheerful-looking man with a ready, toothy smile and large ears that stuck out prominently, made more obvious by his hair, which was unfashionably short like Rossamund's. This fellow was dressed in drab, sturdy proofing: a jackcoat strapped all the way down the front; longshanks of a thick, corded material; and white gaiters reaching as high as the knee fastened over sturdy dark brown road-shoes. Wound tightly about his waist was a broad sash, and fixed by black ribbons to both arms were broad oversleeves of a brightly colored taffeta of rouge and cadmium checkers.
Rossamund instantly recognized the mottle of a postman, those faithful fellows who braved bandits and bogles and foul weather to deliver mail to and from the scattered folk of the country. The colorful cloth was set off nicely against his otherwise dull attire, and made the man look important and serious, quite at odds with his friendly expression. In his hand he held a black tricorn.
Rossamund frowned at him, not knowing how to answer.
'Hello, lad, sorry about being so abrupt. Just had ter make sure I got t' yer in time. My name is Fouracres.' The man reached out a hand for Rossamund to shake.
The boy did just that, as Fransitart had taught him to, looking up at the man's face seriously. 'Hello, Mister Fouracres. I'm Rossamund.You're a postman, aren't you?'
The fellow nodded smartly. 'Yes, lad, that I am-bit obvious, ain't it? Rossamund, yer say? Well, Mister Rossamund, those other slothful souses in there might not want to help, but I may be of service to yer.'
'How so, sir?'
'Well, I'm needed in High Vesting, yer see, and I couldn't help hearing yer needed a driver to take yer ter High Vesting, so I think: two people, same problem, one solution. I'd like ter offer me services to yer as the driver yer need. I'm not as well practiced as these daily-driving gentlemen-I'm a walker, yer see-but I still know how to switch a rein.'
Rossamund did not care what the man's credentials were: he could drive, that was all he wanted to know. He accepted Fouracres' offer with glee.
The postman bowed humbly. 'Just wait by the front of the office, and I will join yer as soon as I'm able,' he offered with a grin.
With many an exuberant thank you, sir! Rossamund went back through the Imperial Postal Office and waited on the street out in front. It took a long time for the postman to emerge. As Rossamund waited, with people and vehicles bustling by, he began fretting that he had been duped by the unwilling people inside the coachman's cottage. His fears proved unfounded, however, for Fouracres arrived soon enough, hat on head, bag full of dispatches on his back and a satchel over his shoulder-ready to leave. Before much longer they were walking back out the gates of Silvernook and returning down the road to the Harefoot Dig.
Rossamund had found a driver!
13
Eekers (noun, pl.) folk who, because of poverty or persecution or in protest, live in wild or marginal places.There they scrounge what life they can from the surrounding land. Many eekers are political exiles, sent away from, or choosing to leave, their home city because of some conflict with a personage of power. It is commonly held that most have become despicable sedorners so that the monsters will leave them be.They are already mistrusted and despised for their eccentric ways, and such suspicion only makes them doubly so.
Fouracres whistled a cheery tune as they strolled past the high hedge-walls of the gentry. He walked with an easy stride and smiled at anyone who passed. Rossamund trotted happily beside him along the weedy strip that ran between the lanes, right down the middle of the road.
'So, Mister Rossamund,' the postman finally said, 'how is it that yer could be at the Dig with a fancy carriage but no driver?'
Rossamund thought for a moment. 'There was a driver, sir, but he was killed by the grinnlings.'
Fouracres looked at him. 'Grinnlings?'
'Aye, sir. Those nasty little baskets that attacked us-the ones with sharp teeth and the clothes and the great big ears…' Rossamund stopped short and, looking quickly at the postman's own organs of hearing, hoped he had not offended him.
Fouracres seemed not to have noticed any insult. 'Aaah, them! Nasty little baskets indeed! Hereabouts they call them nimbleschrewds. They've been a'murdering wayfarers here and there in the Brindleshaws for the last three months or so. I'm sorry ter hear they got yer driver too.'
'He fought hard, Mister Fouracres, killed many, but they got him in the end. I watched it happen-they just smothered him.'
The postman nodded approvingly. 'Well, there yer have it! To kill one or two is a doughty thing, but ter go slaying more, my word, that's a mighty feat indeed! But tell me: what was it that coaxed yer and yer driver to linger in that part of the woods-it being common knowledge they be haunted?'
The foundling did not know how to answer. He screwed up his face, scratched his head, puffed and sighed. In the end he just told the truth. Starting with Madam Opera's, he told the entirety of his little adventure to the postman, who listened without interrupting once.
'So the ettin's dead, then?' was all he said when Rossamund had finished.
'Aye, it was killed, sir, or as near enough to it, from what I saw,' Rossamund replied glumly. 'I was there to watch, but I had nothing to do with it, really. It was a cruel thing, and I didn't know what to do…'
Fouracres seemed sad to hear this himself. He sighed a heavy sigh. 'Ahh, poor, foolish ettin,' the postman said, distractedly-almost to himself. 'He did not want to listen to me… I warned him this would happen… There yer have it, lad: cruel things like this are done all the year long.'
'Did you speak to the schrewd, Mister Fouracres?' Rossamund was stunned.
'Hey? Oh, that I did, and often,' the postman answered, after a pause. 'He is-was-on my round, yer see, between Herrod's Hollow and the Eustusis' manor house. I told him no good would come of his enterprise, but he was powerfully put upon by those nasty little nickers ter keep it up. Who did the dastardly deed?'
'It was, um, Miss Europe, sir, and her factotum Licurius-but he died at the task, sir. He was the driver.'
