Foundling (18 page)

Rapidly sidestepping to her left, avoiding grasping claws, the fulgar poked the next gnashing nicker right in its eyes, sending sparks from its ears and a squeal from its throat that expired to a gurgle.

Now the remnant grinnlings pounced as one, grappling with her together—on her back, about her legs, tugging on her arms. Rossamünd waited for them to fall to their sparking doom, but instead Europe appeared to contort violently, staggered by some dark, internal force greater than those nine grinnlings could muster. Her back arched involuntarily. Her head thrown back, she screamed. The grinnlings hesitated but remained unharmed. With cackles and evil whoopings they pressed this new advantage, biting, gouging, ripping.

Rossamünd’s thoughts raced. He had to do something! He looked about wildly for a weapon—something, anything.
The bothersalts!
Snatching up the satchel, he leaped from the carriage, madly digging about within the bag for the small hessian sacks. He dashed to the fight, the bothersalts still undiscovered. In the dimming light he could see Europe being pulled to the ground just as Licurius had been.

Shortly it would be over.

There they are!
He grabbed at the sacks roughly, ripped them out and hurled them in one complete move—all thoughtless, terrified instinct. The repellents flew remarkably true, bursting their powder over the murderous gang just as one of the grinnlings caught sight of the foundling. There was a great chorus shriek as the bothersalts did their work. Some of the grinnlings left off their rending to paw instead at their now burning faces. Others were simply distracted by this attack from an unexpected quarter. Europe too was engulfed in the acrid assault, but through her pain and her dazzled senses she still had enough pith to give one final, might-be-suicidal burst of electricity. Several grinnlings fell, expiring instantly. For the rest, this was too much: wrathful sparks from one side, bitter chemistry on the other. They fled screaming, every last one, their howls diminishing as they retreated farther and farther as fast as their little legs could carry them.

They had done it! They had won . . .

On the needle-matted ground, with many dead grinnlings sprawled about and a tendril of smoke rising from her back, Europe had collapsed, dreadfully still, dreadfully silent.

 

 

 

T
REMBLING, and ignoring the dead bogles, Rossamünd crept closer to the fallen fulgar. His heart teetered on the brink of complete terror at the thought of being left alone in this malignant place. As he neared her, he bent lower and ever lower, trying to see her face, trying to gain some hopeful hint of her condition. She lay twisted, limbs carelessly poking every which way, long hair a wispy mess obscuring her whole head. Holding back for just a moment, he knelt beside her and gingerly poked some of her chestnut locks away from her throat, cheek and brow. She was deathly pale.

Grinnling cries in the distance.

Rossamünd scurried to the landaulet, took the lantern and dashed back to where the fulgar lay. He knelt and looked to see if she was still alive, wanting to weep but holding it in—he had cried enough on this journey. Blood was running from Europe’s nose. There were nasty bites upon her neck where the proofing did not cover. Breaths did come: short, shallow puffing.
She lived!

Rossamünd leaned closer and whispered, “Miss . . . ! Miss . . . Miss Europe . . . !”

The fulgar’s lashes fluttered and slowly parted, her vision clearly swimming. They shut again and it seemed she might slip into insensibility. Rossamünd pressed twice, sharply, on her shoulder, not wanting her to pass out. She groaned and shifted, opening her eyes again to peer at him.

With a gasp, Europe pushed herself up on her arms and sat, head lolling, hair drooping. “What happened?” she panted.

Rossamünd sat back. “You won . . . you beat them all.”

She looked about, blinking heavily. Her eyes were streaming with ash-colored tears.

Rossamünd winced. He had hit her with the bothersalts too.

After a long pause and a deep sigh, she whispered, “Good . . . They were . . . difficult.” Sitting up straighter, she flexed her shoulders and rolled her head about, grunting and grimacing. “My organs have spasmed,” she breathed cryptically. “Not the best time for it, at all . . . I thought I was done for.” Pausing for a rattling wheeze of air, she muttered, “Never advisable to . . . start a fight . . . when one is missing a . . . a dose of treacle.”

Though he did not follow what she said, Rossamünd nevertheless understood that something had gone very wrong somewhere inside her body, that her electrical organs had somehow failed her in a most terrible way. He shuddered. This must be what dear Master Fransitart had meant when he said that there was nothing more wretched than lahzars made sick by their organs.

Far away, the wailing of the grinnlings could still be heard in the cold, cold night.

Europe tried to rise but swooned frighteningly, and fell back to ground. “I . . . need . . . my treacle, little man,” she slurred. “Take the lantern. Get the box. I’ll . . . I’ll show you how to make it.”

The foundling ran over to the landaulet and, as he did, discovered that the chestnut nag had been attacked as it attempted escape. Slain, it now lay with many nasty wounds to its neck, point and chest. How were they going to get away now?

Hold to your course. People’s lives are at stake
, Rossamünd coached himself.
Do as Master Fransitart would have
—
everything in its right order
.
Box first
—
leaving later
.

Rossamünd found her curious black case in the now jumbled contents of the landaulet’s interior. As he extracted it, the feeling of sickly unease moved within once more as he gripped the smooth wood. He ignored the sensation and returned to her side with it gripped determinedly under his left arm.

The fulgar had fainted and he was forced to rouse her once more. She came to with effort, even wiping away tears. “Good man . . . N . . . Now, I need you to listen . . . most carefully—we have not the time for mistakes.”

Rossamünd nodded once, emphatically. This was not some pamphlet story. This was a time for diligence and dependability. This was the very thing they sought to teach all the book children at Madam Opera’s—the very thing expected of you when you have been given your baldric to wear.

The fulgar drooped, gathered herself and continued. “Put the box down and open it . . . carefully, though. That . . . that’s the way.”

Within the box were many compartments, each with its own hinge-and-handle lid, and lined with scarlet velvet. He peeked under one. There was a bottle of liquid within, nestled in straw.

“That’s the bezoariac. There’s no time to do this neatly or make it pretty.” She opened another compartment and pulled forth another bottle, this one half-filled with a dark powder. She put both bottles in Rossamünd’s hands and with them a pewter spoon. Then she indicated the cauldron boiling on the fire. “Take these and put two spoons of the bezoariac . . . the liquid—and one of the rhatany . . . the other bottle . . . the powder—and stir them into the water for some minutes, then . . . come back to me . . . Make sure there is enough water. Anything over half-full will do.”

He did as he was bidden. The cauldron still held enough water, so in went two spoonfuls of the bezoariac—a kind of universal antidote he had seen used in the dispensary of the marine society—and the rhatany powder—which he had not heard of before. He stirred and stirred, knowing well just how it was done because of Master Craumpalin’s patience and pedantry. Figures-of-eight, making sure it did not catch and burn on the bottom of the pot. All the while his back tingled with the dread that the grinnlings might pounce once more from the shadows.

“What does it look like?” the lahzar quizzed quietly. Her voice was muffled, for she had collapsed again and was lying with her head buried in her arms.

“It was like porridge for a moment, but it has now gone thin and reddish,” the foundling replied.

“Does it boil?” Europe raised her head.

“Aye, ma’am, it has just started.”

She reached over without looking and took out a jar from the box.

“Quickly then, add this. Use your fingers but do not put that spoon within this jar! Understand? There needs to be the . . . same amount as two spoonfuls of it.”

Rossamünd did as he was asked, even though the unpleasant feelings these reagents gave him were increasing with each moment as he scooped cold, foul-feeling muck from the jar. Scraping off the correct measure twice onto the spoon, he plopped it into the bubbling brew. Disgusted, he wiped his fingers on some pine needles, then stirred yet more. As he did, Europe held out another bottle two-thirds full of a black powder. The sense of terrible foreboding radiated most strongly from this little jar.

He hesitated.

“When the curd is properly mixed and thick and even and turned to honey, you must take it off the flame, then sprinkle in half a spoonful of this. It’s Sugar of Nnun—
don’t
let it touch your skin! Mix it well in . . . and when that’s done . . . bring it to me.”

Sugar of Nnun!
He had certainly heard of this ingredient, though he did not know what it did. Craumpalin had condemned it in no uncertain terms, stating once that only people up to no good had any business messing with it. Had their situation been any less desperate, Rossamünd might well have refused to even hold the bottle containing such stuff, so thoroughly had the old dispensurist warned him.

The brew indeed became very much like the consistency and color of honey, even causing his stomach to rumble, deprived of dinner—and maybe some other meals—as it was. He quickly lifted the cauldron off the fire by its handle, using a handy stick, and placed it on the ground.

With a sharp sickliness in the back of his mouth, Rossamünd removed the stopper of the bottle holding the Sugar of Nnun. He felt sure he could see an evil puff of black dust come out from within. Squinting, he nervously tapped the right amount onto the spoon, and this he mixed into the brew. As it was stirred in, the whole lot quickly turned black, became even thicker and began to stink disgustingly.

The potion was ready.

Rossamünd took off his scarf and used this to carry the cauldron to the lahzar. “It’s ready, I think, Madam Europe. I don’t know if I have got it right, but it seems just like it did before.”

Unsteadily, Europe got to her knees and scrutinized the result of the foundling’s dabblings. When she saw the brew looking very much as it should, she seemed stunned, even as ill as she was. “Well done, little man,” she breathed. “Well done . . . That is exactly it.” She snatched the brew—the treacle, as she had called it—and, waiting only a moment for the edge to be cooler, drank greedily, taking great gulps and spilling some, surely burning herself on the hot metal. The effect of the potion was rapid. Not putting the pot down till it was empty, she had a healthy look in her eye when she did. After only a few minutes of breathing heavily and digesting, the fulgar had recovered enough to stand. She wobbled as she did, but with the foundling boy’s hand to hold on to she was soon on her feet. She was still for a moment, swaying somewhat—to Rossamünd’s alarm—but staying upright and staring into the dark silence of the forest.

The woods were now quiet, but for what Rossamünd hoped were the usual treeish creaks and whispers.