garments. After this the whole array was soaked in gauld, and then cooked and soaked again and so on. Each gaulder had his own methods and process, and his own secret recipes. Rossamund thought it almost too wonderful to believe that he might be getting such amazing clothing for his very own. He was speechless with glee as he left the marine society.
Gauldsman Five's shop and fitting rooms were a whole suburb away, in the Mortar, on Tin Drum Lane, and the visit there would be a little adventure in itself. Indeed, any excursion from the foundlingery was a significant event. Rossamund had been out from Madam Opera's only a dozen times in his whole life, usually to go down to the Humour with the other foundlings to practice rowing and swimming. In fact, before today, his most thrilling excursion had been a trip to the house of Verline's sister Praeline in the shadows of Boschenberg's outermost curtain wall.
Fransitart, Craumpalin and Rossamund went north along the Vlinderstrat, turned right onto the Weegbrug and then left onto the crazily curving Pantomime Lane. They strolled past alehouses, dance halls and puppet stalls, veered right once more onto the Hurlingstrat, dodging ox wagons and omnibuses, went through the Werkersgate and there, on the left hand, was Tin Drum Lane. Gauldsman Five's establishment was about a third of the way along, tall and narrow like almost every other building in Boschenberg. Only those of quality were allowed in the front of the shop, where there were plush closets in which the wealthy and powerful could try on and admire their new proofing. Such ordinary folk as two marine society masters and a foundling had to use the poor man's closets by the great gaulding vats at the rear of the shop. As they entered this filthy place, Rossamund watched greenishorangey-yellow steam hiss angrily from one of the vats as an aproned man poured in a thick black liquid. A foul miasma churned in the dank air.
Fransitart spoke quietly but urgently with some grimy fellow, who spoke to another grimy fellow, who spoke to another, and before long a finely dressed man in a powdered wig appeared from a door leading to the front of the shop. Though his simply cut clothes were made of expensive materials, he had a splotched and haggard look about his face-the mark of a vinegaroon. He was one of Gauldsman Five's tailors. Fransitart must have known him and, from his look of consternation, the tailor must have known the dormitory master too.
''Ello, Meesius,' said Fransitart, a terrible light in his eye.
'Coxswain Frans?' Meesius the tailor went pale. 'Is that you? And… and with Craump'lin too?'
Coxswain? Rossamund had always thought Fransitart had been the gunner-in charge of all the cannon and their right firing.
'Aye'-Fransitart nodded gravely-'I've come to claim me debt.'
Tugging on the bristles beneath his lower lip, Craumpalin gave the tailor a knowing wink and flashed an almost threatening grin. 'Lookee, Frans,' he said softly, 'he still knows us!'
Meesius the tailor went even paler. 'A-after all these years…?'
'Aye.' Master Fransitart was as quietly menacing as Rossamund had ever known him to be. 'But I wants it in harness. Bring us yer best travelin' wear for this 'ere lad.'
There was an awkward pause.
Rossamund was bemused that his two masters could be such overbearing rogues.
With nervous sweat on his brow, the tailor hesitated.
Craumpalin folded his arms and glowered. Fransitart remained perfectly still.
Meesius cleared his throat. 'W-well.' He gestured to Rossamund impatiently. 'Come over here so I can get thy measurements.'
Rossamund looked at his masters, and Fransitart gave the subtlest nod. The boy went over to the tailor, leaving Fransitart and Craumpalin by the vats.
'Lift thy arm!' Meesius growled under his breath. With a leather tape he measured Rossamund's neck and arms and even the girth of his chest with many rough proddings.
'… I daren't keep him back any longer.' Master Fransitart's voice carried softly across the vat-room floor.
'Ye dare not. And anyway, the lad is desperate to get on.'
'Aye, Pin, aye.' The dormitory master sounded resigned and strangely sad. 'Well at least 'e'll be stoutly protected.'
At this both of the old men went quiet.
Meesius disappeared for a time, then returned with a sour look, bearing two pieces of high-quality proofing. The first was a fine proofed vest with fancy silk facings and linings called a weskit. The second piece was a sturdy, well-gaulded coat-called a jackcoat-made of subtle silken threads of shifting blues. It came in at the waist and flared out to the knees. Rossamund was stunned at its beauty.
The dormitory master told him to put on both the weskit and the jackcoat. 'Ye might as well start getting accustomed to their weight,' he said.
They were a little too big for Rossamund and heavier than normal clothes, but combined with his recently washed black, long-legged shorts-or longshanks-he looked very fine indeed and could be sure he was well protected for his long journey. All he needed now was a sturdy hat.
'Yer debt is cleared, Meesius,' Fransitart said, low and serious. 'I 'ope we will never 'ave th' need to meet again!'
Without another word the tailor hurried off into the shadows beneath the vats. Rossamund and his masters returned the way they had come. Fransitart looked very satisfied with himself as they wrestled and veered through the jostling throng on their way home.
'Ye've got yerself a stout set of proofing there, lad. A fine harness, indeed.' The dormitory master's smug grin broadened. 'Ye'll be well safe in it.'
Craumpalin chuckled. 'Masterfully done, Frans, masterfully done. Ol' Cap'n Slot would 'ave been impressed.'
Rossamund had no idea what just happened. He had never seen Fransitart so satisfied, so pleased-but he was too astounded at his grand new proofing to give any of it another thought. Verline mended his two shirts and even his smallclothes. She darned several pairs of especially long stockings-called trews-which he was to wear doubled back down from the knee for improved protection. Two scarves and two pairs of gloves were provided against the coming cold of winter. She also gave to him his own turnery (a fork and a spoon made of wood), a biggin (a leather-covered wooden cup with a fastening lid), a mess kid (a small wooden pail from which to eat his meals) and a flint and steel for the lighting of fires.
From the larder Rossamund was allowed to put into his satchel a block of cured fungus known as dried must, a whole loaf of rye bread, a pot of gherkins that sloshed and plopped quietly when it was moved, three rectangular slats of portable soup (hard black wafers ready to be boiled down to a bland but nutritious brew), some fresh green apples and, for energy or emergencies, fortified sack cheese.
Traveling papers were arranged for him: a letter of introduction from Madam Opera recommending Rossamund as a fine and useful boy; a waybill, or certificate of travel, giving him permission to move through any land or city-state of the Empire; a nativity patent to prove who he was and where he came from; and finally a work docket, upon which his conduct would be recorded in whatever job he was employed. This impressive wad of documents was put into a buff leather wallet along with (he could hardly believe his eyes!) folding money to the value of one sou-an advance of his monthly wages-and the Emperor's Billion. This was a shining gold oscadril coin given as an incentive to all those entering the service of their Imperial and Pacific Lord. Rossamund gaped at all this money that was apparently now his.
Old Craumpalin contributed too. The dispensurist supplied several flasks and tiny sacks, declaring them to be medicines to 'invigorate both thew and wind'-by which he meant body and soul-and repellents to 'fear away the bogles and nickers.' Rossamund already knew the medicines-he'd seen them before-small milky bottles holding evander water, marked with a deep blue? to show what they contained, and beneath that the tiny letters C-R-p-N — the dispensurist's mark. The repellents, however, were new.
'Beware the monsters, me boy! Ye've been safe in here all yer life, but out there…' Craumpalin gestured vaguely. 'Out there it ain't safe. They're everywhere, see, the nasty baskets. Big or small, they're as mean as mean can be, so just keep these potives safe and handy and ye'll go right-though I have to apologize to ye for them not being of as fine a quality as a skold brews.' The dispensurist pointed to a cobalt vial. 'Right! This here is tyke-oil. It don't smell like much to us, but it's good for keeping monsters away, right off. A healthy smear on yer collar and they'll stay well clear of ye. Problem is, it also lets them know ye're there, so don't go applying it willy-nilly, only when ye think they've got yer scent.'
