Foundling

'Keep waiting,' Fouracres insisted once more, and Rossamund sat till he thought he could not take the buzzing of his joints or the ringing in his ears anymore. He had no idea for how long they waited, just that it was so very long.

Even when a carriage went by, they waited still. But when another clattered by only a few minutes later, the postman seemed satisfied, and at last released them, saying, 'It's safe enough. Let's get away from here.'

Leading Rossamund through the trees, still in silence, Fouracres allowed them to travel on the open road again only after they had put an hour's distance between themselves and their temporary refuge. Once clear of the trees, they hurried the rest of the way and arrived at the Harefoot Dig, safe at last.

It was late afternoon.

Exhausted, but promising to meet the postman in the common room, Rossamund went to tell Europe the good news.

The reclining, recovering fulgar received the revelation with her usual laconic grace. 'You can trust this fellow?'

'He's an Imperial postman, miss. His whole life is trustworthiness!' the foundling enthused.

'Well, if a girl can't trust her own factotum, then who can she?' Europe closed her eyes, signaling the end of the matter.

Rossamund rolled his eyes.

And what if a factotum can't trust his mistress?

He returned to the common room too eager to enjoy his last meal, for tomorrow they would be leaving. Fouracres was waiting for him, a pipkin of small wine and two mugs already on the table. As they sipped the small wine, Rossamund showed the postman the cracking, illegible mass that used to be his traveling papers, letter of introduction and the rest. Rossamund still carried them even though they were next to useless, thankful at least that Mister Sebastipole's instructions were so skeletal, for while they lacked detail, they had been easy to memorize. He thought that an Imperial postman, especially one as friendly and helpful as Fouracres, would be able to help him with this problem.

Fouracres uncreased the puzzle of ruined papers carefully. He inspected the all-but-dissolved writing gravely. Soon he looked up again. 'This is certainly a mess,' he concluded, 'but the seal is still intact on yer traveling certificate, and yer name, thank Providence. As ter the rest, well, I'll vouch for yer-what I call good, the Empire calls good.Yer mottle will help yer too.' He pointed to Rossamund's baldric.

'Thank you so much, Mister Fouracres. I thought I was sunk.'

'My pleasure, Rossamund, though I would recommend yer got them rewritten by the clerk or the Chief Harbor Governor as soon as yer can-and I'll help yer in that as well.'

A meal of black coney pie arrived-and a jug of Juice-of-Orange with it-and they ate in silence for a time. Eventually Rossamund mustered the courage to ask, 'Mister Fouracres, what was that creature back on the road there?'

The postman stopped chewing and looked thoughtfully at the ceiling. 'I don't rightly know,' he answered at last. 'Never seen its kind before. Bit of a conundrum-I'll have ter ask around.'

Rossamund held up his almanac. 'I can't find it in here either.'

'Well, that ain't surprising,' Fouracres chuckled. 'There's more kinds of monster than many a book could catalog.' He quickly became sad and serious. 'Not that most folks think they're worth a-cataloging anyways. Most folks would rather just see them killed and that be the end of it or at most see a list of glaring faces tattooed ter the limbs of a teratologist. Still, worth a look.'

Rossamund returned the book to his lap. 'Uh… Mister Fouracres, have you… ever killed a monster?'

'Unfortunately, Mister Rossamund, I have been forced ter do so, yes.' The postman looked sad. 'Yer see, if it's a choice 'twixt they or me, I choose me each time.'

'Does that mean you have monster-blood tattoos, then?' Rossamund could not help from asking.

Fouracres hesitated, then frowned. 'Well, no, actually. I don't go a-glorying in killings my hand's been forced to do. It's just a part of getting the post ter where it needs ter be.'

'Oh.'

The meal finished, the Juice-of-Orange drunk, they parted ways, Fouracres promising to be ready to take the reins on the morrow morning. They set out early, just as the sun had shown itself above the rim of the world. With Sallow detained elsewhere, Rossamund was trusted to make Europe's treacle. He proudly handed the evenly mixed brew to the fulgar, and then left her to meet with Fouracres and help prepare the landaulet. Europe soon emerged wrapped in a thick deep magenta coat, knee-length, with its high collar and cuffs trimmed with thick, bleached fox fur. Her hair was held back in loose coils and she wore pink quartz-lensed spectacles. She appeared very differently from when Rossamund first met her. She also still looked unwell and was, consequently, in a foul mood.

The night before she had settled the account with the proprietors by simply refusing to pay any extra beyond what she owed Doctor Verhooverhoven, declaring with the cold loftiness of a queen, 'The boy's billion has covered expenses, as you well know. You'll not get a gander more out of him nor out of me.'

Madam Felicitine went pale, but had said not a word.

Mister Billetus had just ducked his head and said, 'Right you are, right you are. Hope your stay was as comfortable as could have been in the circumstances.'

With a footman lugging out the fulgar's saddlebags and other luggage behind her, Europe stepped out into the coach yard. Rossamund and Fouracres were already seated in the landaulet, waiting, the foundling in the passenger compartment and the postman ready to drive in the driver's box. Europe stopped by the step of the carriage and stayed there. With a quiet apology a yardsman went to hand her aboard. She shooed him away, saying, 'Leave off, man, it's not your job.'

Rossamund had let his attention wander, filling his senses with the beauty of early morning. Only gradually did he become aware things were amiss. He looked dumbly at Europe, puzzled. She remained still, glaring straight ahead through those clear weird pink spectacles, her chin stuck forward arrogantly.

Rossamund blinked. What's wrong?What is she waiting for?

'Miss Europe?' he asked simply.

Her eyes flicked to him. 'Well…?'

There was an uncomfortable silence. Somehow it dawned on the foundling what she wanted. I'm supposed to help her in like Licurius did!

He quickly jumped out of the landaulet, causing it to rock and unsettle the horse.

'Whoa! Steady, lad,' Fouracres warned.

Ever so subtly, Europe rolled her eyes.

With a weak smile Rossamund handed the fulgar aboard and climbed back in once more, feeling very foolish.

'Drive on, man,' Europe murmured.

Without a backward glance, Fouracres whipped the horse to a start. They went out through broad gates and turned left. Looking back, Rossamund could see farther along the wall to that pedestrian portal they had been admitted through three nights earlier. In his mind he bid farewell to his first wayhouse.

Fouracres turned the landaulet right at the junction and Rossamund was taken south this time. The Harefoot Dig disappeared behind the trees.

The Gainway took them through a woodland of younger, graceful pines, with areas of wild lawn between the slender trees. As they went on, large lichen-covered boulders now appeared here and there and the lawn became sparse and stubbly. An hour out from the wayhouse, the road began to slope gently down, and soon the trees gave way to a broad expanse of rolling downs and even larger lichen-grown stones. Every so often, thin, rutted paths would lead off from it, going to mysterious, adventurous ends. He saw one come to its conclusion at some distant dwelling. There were several of these about, he began to notice, small stone cottages built high upon lofty foundations, also of stone, with slits for windows and tall chimneys. Smoke wafted from some, that mysterious sign of homely life within.

'They're the houses of the eekers,' Fouracres explained, 'folk who manage to scratch out a living in the thin soil hereabouts. What they lack in material wealth they gain in liberty. The authorities don't tend to bother them much.'

'But why are they so high off the ground?'

Fouracres gave a wry smile. 'Ahh, to give the bogles a hard time getting them, of course.'