Foundling (12 page)

On the pier the musketeers presented their firelocks, their officer crying over the din. “Hold fast—or be slaughtered where you stand!”

The crew of the
Hogshead
just jeered as their vessel sheered away.

“Do yar worst, ya prattling hackmillion!” cried one.

“Hold yerself, chiff-chaffing lobcock!” screeched another.

“Go lay a muck hill, Mary!” and many worse things other bargemen returned.

The quarto of musketeers fired a rattling volley that brought several to their end, while someone ashore shouted, “Grapnels! Grapnels!”

The crew returned fire with pistol and blunderbuss, their shots having little effect as the musketeers’ proofing proved its quality. Only one of the soldiers fell, simply sagging where he knelt, shot through the head. Amazed at how suddenly and matter-of-factly the violence had begun, Rossamünd froze first with disbelief, which quickly dissolved into utter terror. Cold nausea griped in his guts and set his fingers tingling.

The steerboard bow struck the farther wall of the arch as the boatswain was surprised by the heavy lurch and failed briefly to keep the vessel under control. The ironclad hull ground with loud metallic groans along the stone and the
Hogshead
lost speed. The boatswain struggled for a moment, and then reasserted his will on the vessel. Under his now sure hand, the
Hogshead
went out the other side of the arch. Grapnel hooks were thrown to ensnare the cromster but none held. The
Hogshead
was clear.

“All limbs to the screw, Shunt!” the boatswain cried into a speaking tube to the organ deck. “Git us out of ’ere!”

Below a great contest thumped and bellowed. Poundinch and whatever crew had descended to aid him tackled the excise clerk and the doughty scrutineer. The sounds they all made gave no indication of who was winning, but as the cromster gained speed it was obvious that Shunt was not involved.

Rossamünd was shocked into self-preserving action as muskets fired once more and the balls panged about them. One sent some poor chap toppling into the Humour. Another struck the balustrade near Rossamünd’s head, scaring him mightily, and as he struggled to find a refuge, a musket shot clouted him upon his chest.

It hit harder than the hardest thump in harundo and sat him down with a tiny, audible
huff
! For a flash his whole existence was an intense agony right next to his heart. His eyes bulged, tears streamed. It hurt too much to breathe. He shook with terror as he thought he had gasped his last. How could they shoot at a small lad like him? What had
he
done that they should hate him so? Then breath returned. He was winded and certainly bruised, but he was not badly harmed. The proofing Fransitart had provided had done its admirable work. Wiping away the tears and mucus, Rossamünd marveled: he had been musket-shot and had survived.

The cromster gathered more speed and made for the middle of the river, putting a hundred yards between her and the Spindle. The vessel shuddered mightily as the gastrines were strained. The crew would do all they could to make their escape: only a gallows or worse awaited otherwise.

It was then that the great-guns started.

Boom!
was the first and only warning. No range-finding splash, no whistle of a shot just missing overhead: the cannon of the Spindle were too well sighted and their gunners too well practiced. The very first shot hit the stern plate, which, being the only unclad part of the hull, was one of the weakest parts of the vessel. It was a fine hit that sent wood splintering and water spraying and shook the cromster to its ribs. The next two shots struck ironclad plates along the hull, each with a dull stentorian ring. Return fire was offered by the gunners of the
Hogshead,
but what good are twelve-pounders against the Spindle’s thick walls of slate and close-packed earth? The balls just bounced on the fortifications and plopped uselessly into the river. Whether it was the fourth, fifth or sixth shot of the great-guns none could tell, but one of them removed the boatswain without a trace and left the tiller as nothing more than a shattered, unusable stump. The
Hogshead
veered crazily.

A certainty took hold of Rossamünd. The time to depart had come. He was on the wrong vessel with the wrong rivermaster and probably heading for a cruel and horrible end. Equally worse, now those in the Spindle were counting him as one of the dastardly crew. He had seen hangings on Unhallows Night. He knew how criminals met their end. His chance to flee was here.

Gathering up his valise, his satchel and his hat, Rossamünd flung himself from the gory deck and into the inky chill of the mighty Humour.

 

 

 

T
HE plunge into the river was like a stinging slap in the face, and his heavy proofing tugged Rossamünd deeper. Yet the valise somehow floated and, despite the weight of its contents, prevented him from sinking altogether. He bobbed to the surface and spluttered and gasped. He could swim, though a lot of people could not—a benefit of living in a marine society in a city by a river—and swim he did, as he had never done before. The current was slow, but enough to pull him away from the Spindle and away from the fleeing
Hogshead
. He splashed and flailed for shore, terrified he might end up part of the dinner of some bottom-dwelling river bogle.

The cromster had straightened somehow and was well distant from Rossamünd now, smoke trailing from some unseen fire, still making good its flight downstream. Shots from the vessel popped and those of the rivergate thundered. More casualties were inflicted on the
Hogshead
’s crew by accurate fire, while misses sprayed gouts of water about. With a mighty
slap!
one of these misses struck the water off to his right. He could see it clearly, a rapid, round shadow skipping once on the surface of the river before plunging with a meaty
chock!
into the water. With a panicked surge, he pushed for the bank.

The Humour carried him toward its eastern side. The muddy shore was almost treeless except for a thicket of tall and knotted she-oaks a little further downstream. Roots poked into the water and graceful boughs hung their long needles thickly into the same. It was an obvious landmark, and Rossamünd struggled toward the trees as hard as he could. There was no one to be seen on the bank. He prayed that those in the Spindle had not seen him leap from the
Hogshead
, and would not see him climb out of the river and into those trees. He would be associated with the bargemen of the
Hogshead
in the wrong way, he was sure, and
that
was trouble anyone would want to avoid.

His feet finally found grip on the slimy riverbed. Dragging the valise from the current’s tow, he waded ashore among curtains of soughing needle-leaves. Once out of the water he staggered and lay on the grassy bank in the shadows of the copse, sobbing, shivering, thoroughly lost. For a long while he remained dazed, unwilling to move for memory of the violence just gone and the fear of violence ahead. How could he possibly survive alone out here in the wilds, where all the monsters lived? Surely he would be eaten by the next gluttonous nicker to cross his path! If not today, then tomorrow or the next day—it was just a matter of time.

The thumping of great-guns ceased. The
Hogshead
had disappeared behind a bend in the river. Rossamünd watched from where he lay as two dark vessels moved out from their moorings by the Spindle and headed downriver in pursuit. They were monitors—much larger than any cromster, and more than a match for the
Hogshead
. He continued watching until they slowly disappeared around the same bend.

With a sigh he lay back, his mind blank. He had no idea what to do next.

Come on! Think! Think!
Rossamünd schooled himself.
Like Master Fransitart would do!

It occurred to him that the mysterious Mister Germanicus would still be expecting him in the fortress-city of High Vesting. Just how he was going to get there was the troublesome part. There was no going back to the Spindle to ask for another barge: he would probably be recognized and certainly prosecuted. There was no other option—he was going to have to walk.

But walk to where?
Rossamünd tried to marshal his thoughts.

All about, the land was uniformly flat—mile upon mile of broad farming land. The most obvious landmark was the black threat of the Spindle to the north and the small wood growing about its eastern bastions. Rossamünd was grateful for the stand of she-oaks that sheltered him now, for he could see little other cover for miles about. He could well recall how the maps in the back of the almanac showed the region to be almost featureless.

Of course
—
my almanac!
He took up his waterlogged satchel. Mucky water drained from a seam at the bottom. With a grimace, Rossamünd looked inside. It was a sodden mess. He gloomily took out his almanac and sat it in his lap.

Now I’ll find out just how waterproof this is
. He gingerly opened the cover to find that the waxy pages had survived their dunking. They were not even slightly damp. There were no illegible smears in the print—not even a smudge. What a wonderful gift! Encouraged, he looked up the map of the region among the handful of other charts at the rear of the book. A thin line of communication showed from the Spindle to High Vesting. It was evidence of a road. Winstermill showed closer, but he had been told to go to High Vesting first. So it was south to the port, some eighty miles away, in a straight line, though much longer by road.
It’s a long walk, but I reckon it’s what Master Fransitart would decide
. . . And that settled it for him.

Rossamünd began to plan. First, he would inspect the rest of his belongings, then, when it was evening, head out first east and then south until he found the road—that spidery line on the map. Hidden among the black trunks and dense needles, Rossamünd struggled off his jackcoat and hung it over several branches to dry. Although it had saved his life, saturated it was unbearably heavy.

Freed of its constriction, he shivered with the cold and set to work. The execution of the first part of his plan was straightforward enough. Several things had been ruined by the water: most of his remaining food—the crust of rye bread was soaked and dirty; the dried must—dry no more—was still edible but would not keep for long; the slats of portable soup were sticky, as they were starting to dissolve. Happily, the gherkins and the fortified sack cheese had survived. The apples he had eaten days ago. His instructions and letters of recommendation, written in ink, were smudged beyond legibility. The bill of folding money that was his advance on wages was now a useless, sodden clump. Remarkably, the sealed paper had remained sealed. His other book, the lexicon of words, was a swollen ruin twice as thick as it used to be, its spine bulging. Much of the ink had spread, making words fuzzy, although fortunately still readable. Of the repellents, only the bothersalts were affected, now doses of sludge inside their little sacks. Having never encountered bothersalts before, Rossamünd had no idea whether or not they were still useful, but decided to keep them anyway. The restoratives remained unspoiled in their tiny bottles, as did Craumpalin’s Exstinker in its brown clay bottle. As for clothes—shirts and smalls and all, and for most other things in his possession—these were wet but still intact. Unfortunately, though, his hat and his cudgel were gone—
and,
Rossamünd thought regretfully,
Verline once said that one should never travel abroad without a hat
.

Tipping water from the valise and the satchel, Rossamünd arranged his belongings about him so that they might dry. He would repack them before he set out—damp, ruined or otherwise, preferring them wet and wrecked to lost. Hanging his weskit next to the jackcoat, so it too might dry, he lifted up his shirt and messily splashed Exstinker on the sodden bandage. Tucking himself back in, he settled himself in the most secluded nook to wait out the rest of sunlight. After five days on the cromster, he had become accustomed to the subtle movements of the vessel in the water. His senses still pitched and swayed gently as he lay there, almost rocking him to sleep.

Some small bird squeaked three times, then shot away, with a whir.

Rossamünd blinked heavily. In his hand he gripped a bottle of tyke-oil. With the bothersalts ruined, it was all he had to ward off monsters. At the first sign of one, he would splash it in its face and run. With this determination the memory of the frightening stories told by the older boys at the foundlingery came unsought. Night, they used to say, was when monsters grew bold, when the nickers roamed and the bogles haunted. He had not the slightest doubt that night was when all sorts of strife could occur, but night would also allow him to travel unnoticed by people—especially those in the Spindle. At that moment, search parties from the rivergate scared him more. Hugged in his own arms, Rossamünd managed to doze the rest of the afternoon, his chest hurting where the musket ball had struck. At one point he woke and thought he could reckon the faint pounding of guns again, carried from a long way off by gentle afternoon breezes.