D Cornish - Foundling

With the rising of the sun and the changing of watch, the crew exchanged meaningful glances with each other.

"Oi don't moind cartin' abowt bits o' bodies in them there barrels of pigs' muck," one filthy bargeman offered to another quietly at breakfast. "We're shorely paid noice for doin' it. But thowse things down thar now just bain't natural."

To this the second growled wordless agreement, then waggled his finger to ward off evil. "Right you are, right you are. Ablatum malum ex nobis," he said, "Rid evil from among us."

Later that day, Rossamund overheard one of the crewmen who had helped row the party ashore the previous night say to another, "We'd made the trade fine, but that thing must have been watching for a long time, 'cause we heard nowt of it till it come out all a-quick with a roar. Scatters the corsers with a big sweep o' its terrible arm-like this." He swung his own arm wildly, thoughtlessly letting his voice become louder. "And those that it hasn't smashed are off into the trees and ol' Poundy is pushing us back onto the barge while Cloud and Blunting have a crack at it with their firelocks and poor Sloughscab hurls his potions-you know how 'e's always wantin' to give 'em a good testing-well he got 'is chance, 'cause…"

"Gibbon!" It was the rivermaster. One eye was open as he lounged at the tiller and this single orb glared horribly at the loquacious crewman. "Don't give me a reason to remember yer name any further, me darlin' chiffer-chaffer."

At this Gibbon went pale and lapsed to silence, as did the rest of the crew. One thing that he had said kept spinning in Rossamund's head. "… Scatters the corsers." He had heard of these before. Corsers were folk who robbed graves and stole from tombs to make their living. The dark trades!

What did such wretched people as these have to do with the crew of the Hogshead? Why would Poundinch stop in the middle of nowhere in the deep of night just to meet them? Was he a part of the dark trades too? After the suspicious doings with Clerks' Sergeant Voorwind at the Axle, it was becoming disconcertingly clear that this was most probably the case. And what was that gangling giant he had glimpsed? Rossamund heard little else that day but the occasional inaudible griping, and as time went on, his anxieties increased. Surely he had to get off this unhappy vessel.

By the middle of the next day Rossamund, huddled and unmoving at the prow in an agony of fear, spied the low wall of the Spindle as it finally appeared from around a river bend. Not nearly as tall or as grand as the Axle, the Spindle was a long, low dyke of black slate, stretching the river's mile-wide waters. Along its thick middle sections it was perforated by seven great arches and several lesser tunnels toward either bank. Each arch and tunnel was blocked by a massive portcullis of blackened iron. Great taffeta flags-one side black, the other glossy white, the colors of the city-state of Brandenbrass-were flown from the four central bastions in the middle of the river and flapped wildly in the windy morning. Rossamund could see many great-cannon poking from hatches and strong points all along the walls and bastions. The ends of the Spindle terminated on either bank in a strong fortress of sharply sloping walls, high, steep roofs and tall chimneys and were protected by stout curtain walls of the same black slate as the gate itself. Rossamund could even see that the ground at the foot of the curtain walls was densely prickled with a vicious-looking thicket of thorny stakes. About the eastern fortress a small wood of swamp oak and olive grew, while along both banks leafless willows wept into the black run of the Humour. The Spindle instead was squat, imposing, daunting. To Rossamund, however, it was also the chance of escape. Hope fluttered within his rib cage and he stared at it longingly.

When Poundinch sighted the rivergate, he became agitated and positively alive. He leaped to his feet and paced his station as he had done at gunnery practice, muttering and gesticulating vaguely.

"Stay easy, lads. They've not caught ol' Poundy yet," he said over and over. He called down the speaking tube to the gastrineer, as softly as he could-for sound travels too well over water. "Ease 'er down, Mister Shunt, and when she's at th' gates keep the limbers limber, ye hear. We may need to make it away right quick!" Then he growled low to the boatswain, always on hand. "Secure below. No glimpses, no clues, just barrels o' fat-same ol' rigmarole… and make sure the newest acquisitions keep quiet too."

The archway they were to enter was low, forcing the crew of the Hogshead to lower the mast so that it lay flat on the deck. As this was done the boatswain reappeared from below, and the rivermaster ordered him to pipe all hands on deck. Responding to such a call was instinct to Rossamund, and he joined the end of the ragged line of crew, standing straight and as smartly as he could.

Poundinch stalked in front of them all and muttered just loud enough to be heard, "I wants us to be just likes we was an 'appy ol' crew, no secrets, no gripes, just on an 'appy jaunt down th' ol' 'umour-ye gets me?"

"Aye, Poundinch," was the common assent.

The rivermaster waggled his conspiratorial eyebrows. "No grumblin'." He glared at Gibbon. "No snarlin'." He squinted at some other bargeman Rossamund could not see. "Now back to it!" he barked, raising his arms.

As everyone returned to his labors, so Rossamund returned to the bow. A neat trim cromster trod proudly into the tunnel before them, its crew standing smartly in ranks on the deck. It was the same vessel that had passed the Hogshead two days before. Once again Rossamund wished he was aboard her instead. As it moved away, he looked longingly at the shiny nameplate on the stern. His heart froze.

The plate read Rupunzil.

"Rosey-me-lad! Over 'ere!" Poundinch called.

The foundling stepped over cautiously, head low, eyes wide. He could see the rivermaster staring at the other cromster's stern.

"Worked it out at last, 'ave ye?" Poundinch sneered.

Rossamund went pale.

"Took ye a bit, didn't it?" Faster than Rossamund could react, the rivermaster's hand shot out and grabbed him in a painful pinch by the back of the neck. "You stay right by me, lad." Poundinch bent himself and leered into Rossamund's face. "Just remember-ye're me cabin boy, got it?"

"I–I-I-uh… nuh… no, sir, I mean, aye-aye, sir," was all that would come out of the foundling's mouth. He could only stand there while Poundinch's fingers pressed painfully on the tendons of his neck, and marvel at the rivermaster's sudden cruelty.

Poundinch glared up at the Spindle.

"Made by a fierce, diligent folk, this," he said in a conversational tone at odds with the grip he had on the boy's scruff. "A cause of much consternation to th' lords of yer city when it were built." He turned his glare to the boy. "Whatever 'appens from 'ere on, ye're goin' to stay right 'ere by th' tiller and ol' Uncle Poundy's side, got me?"

The Hogshead was passing slowly under the high, broad tunnel of a boarding pier upon which stood several stern-looking officials, each uniformed crown to boot-toe in black proofing. Bargemen at the fo'c'sle and poop fended the Hogshead away from the slimy walls of the arch with long, strong poles.

"Ahh… Ahoy, clerklings!" Poundinch called in a simulation of generous affability. "Ready to pay me taxes, same as always. Where's ol' Excise Master Dogwater?" Not once, during this cheerful display, did the rivermaster let up his wicked grip on Rossamund's scruff.

A serious-looking fellow-Rossamund thought him even more serious than the officials serving the Axle back in Boschenberg-gave the rivermaster a long, odd look. "Excise Sergeant Dogwater has been reposted to tasks more suitable," he stated flatly.

Poundinch seemed momentarily put out by this revelation, and he released his grip on Rossamund. His face contorted frighteningly but reverted marvelously to the previous false grin. He kept his hand upon the foundling's shoulder. It must have looked friendly enough from the pier, but the rivermaster's fingers were like cunning, hidden claws.