D Cornish - Foundling

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

Rossamund 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."

Rossamund 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 Rossamund'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."

Rossamund 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, Rossamund 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, Rossamund 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.

Rossamund 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 Rossamund's alarm-but staying upright and staring into the dark silence of the forest.

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

"We must be leaving," said Europe. "They will most certainly be back for another try before the night is out." She hushed as the foundling repacked the black case with its frightful chemicals.With a great sigh, she turned to gaze at the place where the ruins of what-was-once-Licurius lay. Grief worked in her soul and showed on her face. "Oh, Box-face… Oh, Box-face…" she lamented quietly. "What have they done to you?"

With Rossamund to help her, she staggered over to the leer's body. In the nimbus of the lantern, the grisly proof of the violence just passed showed clearly. There the bodies of two grinnlings lay where they had fallen, slain by Licurius' hand. No longer animated by foul and murderous intent, they looked small, pathetic, doll-like. In their midst was the black huddle of the dead leer. Though he was mostly covered with his torn cloak, it was still obvious that he had been ripped and gouged in cruel and vile ways.

With a choking sob, Europe sagged and dropped to her knees near the corpse. She swooned for a moment, panting heavily, pushing Rossamund weakly from her. "You must not look on this!" She stood straighter. "Go! Get your personals and ample water for one night's travel. We must be away very shortly, and not delay-those creatures have gone silent, and I like that much less than their distant jitterings. I will right myself presently. Have no concern for me: our survival is afoot now."

Nevertheless, and though she would not like it known, Rossamund was aware that Europe wept silently as he gathered his valise and satchel, filled his biggin with water and his pockets with food. She must have cared more for the leer than the foundling had ever noticed. He felt sad for her, and for the Misbegotten Schrewd. For the leer, however, he entertained no regrets-the villain had tried to strangle him! This is what Verline would have sternly called "a hard heart," but Rossamund could not see how he might possibly feel anything at Licurius' end.