“Thy wants thy goods timely and whole, do thee not?” the driver was saying. “Safe passage for cargo dern’t come cheap nowadays.” He glared at the Scarlet Tarquin for emphasis.
Rossamünd did not hear the reply, for Poesides moved away with sudden violence, giving a great shout:
“Watch it, lad! The knot’s come loose! Load’s goin’ to fall!”
The under-sergeant tried to grab at him but did not get a grip as he stumbled away.
“Clear out below!”
came a sharp cry from the store-port above.
Rossamünd looked up and there hurtling down to crush him was a butt, set free by a poorly tied knot—a knot he had wound himself.The young lighter hesitated in his fright, stupidly heedless of his own danger and more concerned with the possible harm to the stores.
“Rossamünd!”
Threnody yelped.
Yet he stood transfixed as the heavy barrel dropped on him; instead of leaping aside he caught the entire weight in his arms with little more than a slight
huff!—
just as you might catch an inflated ball. The weight of the load drove him to the truck-top, pinning him on his back. He held the butt on his chest for several astounded beats before lifting it and setting it carefully back on the tray, keenly aware of the equally astounded faces all turned to him, even peering in amazement from the fourth floor.
“Did ye see that?” he heard drift down from above. “Fifty pound of musket shot and he catched it without a trouble!”
“How’d you do that?” Theudas exclaimed. “That was a full butt of balls! It would have smashed even Sequecious flat!”
Threnody rushed to the side of the dray-truck and looked up at him. “Rossamünd! Are you whole?”
“I—I believe so . . .” was all the young lighter could get out. He tugged at the white solitaire about his throat, seeking better breath.
“That’s enough heavy loading for ye, lad,” Poesides declared. “Ye can’t depend on freakish catches all the time in this job. Take a spell inside. Have Mister Tynche or Splinteazle take a look at ye if ye reckon it necessary. I’ll leave ye in the hands of the lass.”
Rossamünd obeyed, Threnody helping him up each stairway.
“You should have been pounded to pea-mash by that bullet-barrel,” she insisted.
“My chest does hurt, if that’s more satisfying,” Rossamünd answered wryly.
“Oh, ha-ha.” Threnody did not look amused. “You should hardly make a jest of such a horrid thing. I thought you were done in! Poesides has it right: most certainly a freakish catch.”
Talk of his feat buzzed about the cothouse in an instant, and other Stoolers popped their heads out from nooks to send funny looks his way.
Safely deposited on his bunk, Rossamünd took off his proofed-silk sash and his quabard to relieve the bruised tenderness in his ribs.
“What is that about your chest?” Threnody asked, crouching by him and looking at the loose collar of his shirt.
Rossamünd’s innards almost burst open with fright.
Oh no, my Exstinker bandage!
“It’s—it’s—it’s . . . it’s for putting on nullodor,” he tried.
“What, the one that Critchety-crotchety ledgermain fellow made you?” the girl lighter questioned.
Frowning, Rossamünd nodded.
“You don’t
use
it, do you?” Threnody snorted.
His frown deepening, he nodded once more.
“When? Even out unloading carts?”
“Aye!” Rossamünd hissed in exasperation. “All the time! It was a command of my old masters back at the foundlingery.”
“Aren’t you the obedient little munkler, then?” Threnody looked narrowly at him. She turned and left him to recover alone.
Later in the day, when goods were safely stowed and the dray left, returning to Bleakhall and then home, presumably to Hurdling Migh, Rossamünd was called to House-Major Grystle’s desk.
“What is this that I have ear of: you snatching falling loads as if they were light parcels?” the house-major queried.
“I couldn’t well have let it fall to crash, sir.” Rossamünd was a little baffled by the fuss made of his fortunate grab.
Grystle gave a baffled blink of his own. “No, I suppose you couldn’t have at that.” He dusted a fleck off his pristine sleeve. “A powerful fine catch either way, Lampsman. I did not know they raised you so strong in Boschenberg—the lords at the Mill would be well advised to prentice more of your countrymen.”
“Aye, sir.”
“Maybe we should make you our fellow to challenge those stuffy Limpers to a wrench-of-arms?” The house-major gave a kindly smile.
Rossamünd did not really know what his superior was talking about. “Maybe, sir” was all he could think to say.
After a clumsy pause that grew into an uncomfortable silence, Rossamünd was dismissed.
Quizzical eyes were on him all that night at mains, the story growing some in its retelling. Aubergene asked him how he was feeling after catching half the load of the dray.
“It was really just one butt, nothing more,” Rossamünd explained.
“Aye, but I heard it was a very full one.”
Rossamünd shrugged.
Fortunately the incident quickly receded into the routine. Not more than two days later he was able to enter a room without there being that strange, deliberate silence. It was not completely forgotten, however, for it earned Rossamünd a new name: “The Great Harold” they began to call him, or “Master Haroldus,” after the hero of the Battle of the Gates. Not even in the face of the awe of the prentices when he killed the gudgeon had Rossamünd ever felt so complimented. He had been given a new name—a proper military nickname—and the quiet, hidden joy of it had him smiling himself to sleep for the rest of the week.
“I thought Harold was a skold,” was all Threnody said in quibble one breakfast.
“Aye, he was,” Aubergene answered her, from across the bench, “but he was a dead-mighty one.”
Thankfully, she did not say any more to spoil Rossamünd’s delight, nor did she venture another word about the barrel or his Exstinker bandage.
Proving to have suffered no permanent discomfort from his catching feat, Rossamünd was soon employed in his very first excursion away from the cothouse. On the opening day of the second week he was sent with Poesides, Aubergene and Lightbody to carry stores to a poor old eeker-woman—an exile who had fled across the Ichormeer from somewhere east. Rossamünd was astounded that lighters would seek to aid one of the under class, a reject of her own society and unwanted in the Empire as well.
“Ah! Master Haroldus has come to lend us his mighty hands!” Poesides said in kindly jest as they readied to leave.
The other lighters smiled warmly in response as Rossamünd ducked his head to hide his delight.
The necessary stores—foodstuffs, clothing, repellents, a small quantity of black powder and balls—were lifted onto their backs and they departed,Whelpmoon observing them blearily as they filed out the heavy front door and down the narrow steps. Cold was the morning, its soft breath stinging cheeks, the eastern horizon orange-pink with the sun’s rising.
“Where are we going to?” Rossamünd asked Aubergene quietly as they crossed the road and stood on its northern verge.
The lighter adjusted his grip on the long-rifle he bore. “There’s a small seigh out north near the banks of the Frugal where an old dame lives. Mama Lieger is her name. The bee’s buzz is that she likes to talk to the bogles and that’s why she lives far out here—fled from Wörms to escape accusing tongues.”
“Aye, and now we’re the sorry sods who ’ave to do ’er deliveries,” interjected Lightbody. “I’ve ’eard it she was some wild strig-woman when she was younger, coming from one of them irritable troupes of wild folk from the Geikélund out back of Wörms.”
“Didn’t the folks where she’s from try to hang her?” Rossamünd had a vision of a terrible destructress with flashing blades and flying hair having monsters around for supper.
“I reckon she must have got away afore they could.” Aubergene smiled.
Rossamünd shifted the uncomfortable load and stared a little suspiciously at the uneasy threwd that brooded out beyond the road-edge. “Why doesn’t she have Squarmis the costerman do the delivering?”
“ ’Cause that filthy salt-horse won’t take things to the likes of her,” answered Poesides, “and she could ne’er afford him to if ever he did. No, lad, it is our honor to take these supplies to her. She bain’t the only eeker to get our help: it’s the lighters’ way out here, to succor all kinds in need without fault-findin’.” He gave an acerbic sideways look at Lightbody.
“But isn’t she a sedorner?” Rossamünd pressed, feeling a glimmer of hope. “I thought lighters would have said
all
sedorners were bad folk and done them in somehow.”
“A lamp’s worth is proved by its color, lad.” The under-sergeant gave him a curious look. “Mama Lieger has done good for us, so we do for her benefit as she has done for ours . . . and maybe—if she does hold conversationals with the local hobs—she might put in a good word for us with them. But just have yer intellectuals about ye, else she’ll have ye believing that some monsters are not so bad after all.”
“Aye . . . ” Aubergene muttered, “though some might agree with her on that one.”
Almost stumbling down the side of the highroad, Rossamünd looked in surprise at the lampsman, a dawning of respect rising in his bosom.
“Stopper that talk, Lampsman!” Poesides barked. “Her saying such things is one bend of a crook, but ye spratting on so is a whole other. I don’t want to have to leave ye with the old gel when we get to her house.”
Aubergene ducked his head. “Aye, Under-Sergeant,” he murmured.
Poesides fixed Rossamünd with a commanding eye. “We’re all about quiet when walking off the road, so silence them questions for now.”
The youngest lighter obeyed and said naught as the under-sergeant traveled an unmarked path through the thick lanes and thickets of thistle and cold-stunted olive and tea trees. In single file the three followed after, walking as carefully they could without going too slow. The shaley soil clinked softly as their boots broke the damp, fog-dampened surface, to reveal the earth beneath still dry and dusty. This was indeed a parched place, yet life still flourished, making the most of what little moisture it gleaned from the damp southern airs.
Always searching left and right, all four kept eyes and ears sharp for signs of monsters. Tiny birds chased on either side of them, flitting rapidly through the thick twine of thorny, twiggy branches, rarely showing themselves but for a flash of bright sky blue or fiery, black-speckled red. Rossamünd wanted to stop, to be still for a time and breathe in the woody smells and quietly observe the nervous flutterers, but on they marched, pausing only for a brief breather and a suck of small beer.
Two miles out from the Wormway the difficult country opened out a little and began to gently decline, a broad view of the Frugal vale before them, gray, thorny, patched with dark spinneys of squat, parched trees. Aubergene and Lightbody moved to walk on either side of Poesides. Keen to prove himself a worthy, savvy lighter Rossamünd did the same, stepping straight into a spider’s web strung between two man-high thistles and still glistening with dew in the advancing morning.
“Ack!” he spluttered and scrabbled at the stickiness on his face, terrified some little crawler might be about to sink fangs into his nose or crawl and nest in his hair.
“Hold your crook in front of your face,” Aubergene offered in a hush, clasping his long-rifle vertically in front of him in example. “Catches the webs and keeps your dial safe of them.”
There was not a glimpse or hint of a single monster the whole way, yet the land still heeded them and knew they walked where men seldom did or should. Choughs scooted away with a flash of their white tail feathers at the lighters’ advance through the cold land, looping low through the stunted swamp oaks, letting out their clear calls: a single note bright yet mournful, ringing across the flats. As the day-orb reached the height of its meridian Rossamünd spied a high-house—a seigh—very much as its those eeker-houses he saw from the Gainway down to High Vesting. This one looked older, though—very much as if it belonged here, grown somehow rather than built by human action; a sagging pile hidden behind a patch of crooked, fragrant swamp oaks. Its too-tall chimneys looked near ready to topple; its roof was entirely submerged in yellow lichens; weedy straw grew from every crevice in the lower footings. In this place the threwd was different somehow, so gentle and insinuating that Rossamünd hardly perceived it; the watchfulness was not so hostile—indeed, it was almost welcoming. Rossamünd might have liked to stay here. He looked pensively up at the high-house.
There was no stair to the gray-weathered door nearly twenty feet above.
Poesides took Rossamünd’s fodicar from him. “We really must get ye a right lengthened crook,” he muttered. Hefting it up, the under-sergeant deftly hooked a cloth-covered chain hanging well above their heads from the wall by the door. He gave it a series of deliberate tugs and waited.
Aubergene and Lightbody kept watch at their backs.
There was only a brief wait before the lofty door opened with a clunk and a small head peeped without.
“Ah-hah, das güt aufheitermen!” Rossamünd seemed to hear, a soft woman’s voice speaking incomprehensibly in what he could only presume—from his prenticing with Lampsman Puttinger—was Gott. “Guten Tag, happy fellows!” the voice called a little louder in Brandenard.
“Mother Lieger!” Poesides gave a hoarse cry, trying to be heard without making noise. “We have yer stores.”
“Güt, güt,” and the head disappeared.What had appeared like a small, moldering eave over the door shuddered and, with a click, began to drop smoothly to the ground, lowered on thick cord.
It was an elevator.They were rare in Boschenberg and, no matter how simple this device was, out in the wilds was the last place Rossamünd expected to find one.