D Cornish - Foundling

As Rossamund took a breath to answer, he was distracted by an animated, angry-sounding conversation approaching the other side of the door that was then interrupted by a sharp knocking.

Doctor Verhooverhoven stood at this and called mildly, "Enter, please!"

The door was opened rapidly and a strange woman stalked in, wearing the elegant day-clothes of a refined lady, and on her face a frown of politely restrained anger.

Closely behind followed Mister Billetus, looking worried and chattering nervously even as they entered. "… Now, dearest, one guest's money is as good as another's. With these nickers making the High Vesting Way impassable, you know our visitors have been few. Every bit of custom is needful, m'dear, I…"

"Yes, yes, Mister Bill, not in front of those who do not need to be troubled with the finer points of running such a grand establishment. Good afternoon, Doctor Verhooverhoven." The woman grimaced at the physician in a mockery of a polite smile. He, in turn, bowed graciously, a puff of powder coming from his wig. She put her attention on Rossamund and said stiffly, "And you must be the smaller of our most recent arrivals. I am Madam Felicitine, the enrica d'ama of this humble yet refined wayhouse." As she said "refined," she looked sharply at Mister Billetus.

Confused, Rossamund simply stood blinking. "Enrica d'ama" was a fancy term for the ruling lady of a household, especially of a court. It was used only by those trying to be very grand.

"It has come to my notice," the enrica d'ama continued, addressing the physician, yet pointing angrily at the inert fulgar, "that we have here, in one of our finest apartments, a pugnator, one of the fighting riffraff. Is this true, sir?"

"Yes, gracious madam, it is-though to me her calling is of little concern. I heal all comers."

"Don't try to charm me, doctor. You share in this little sham of my husband's, though how he thought I would not know what was up soon enough is insulting at the least." She gave the harassed Billetus another quick glare. He offered an apologetic look to both Rossamund and Doctor Verhooverhoven, but did little else.

To Rossamund the scene was quickly becoming very strange and uncomfortable.

Doctor Verhooverhoven looked bemused. "I assure you, madam, that I am not aware of any sham so as to have a part in it to play. I have come as asked, to tend to an ailing guest. This is not the first time I have done this, as you well know." He finished his statement with a gracious half bow.

"Certainly not, but this is the first time you have invited here another almost as bad!" She turned to the door and called, "You may enter now, Gretel."

Gretel the maid came in as bidden, looking sheepishly at her mistress. Closely behind her shuffled a stranger: a short, meek-looking young woman-a girl really, younger than Verline-wearing a variation of clothing Rossamund had seen many times before. A skold! Upon her head was a conical hat of black felt that bent back slightly about a third of the way up. All skolds wore some style of cylindrical or conical headwear as a sign of their trade. About her throat and shoulders was the cape of white hemp with a thick, gathered collar that skolds pulled over their faces to protect themselves from the fumes of their potives. Upon her body she wore a vest called a quabard-light proofing Rossamund had seen in the uniforms of the light infantry of Boschenberg. One side was black and the other brown, the mottle of Hergoatenbosch, just like Rossamund's baldric. About her stomach, over the top of the quabard, was wrapped a broad swath of black satin tied at the small of her back in a great bow. About her hips hung cylinders, boxes, wallets and satchels-most certainly holding reagents and potives and everything else that skolds used in their fight against the monsters. Her sleeves were long and brown and flaring. Her wide skirt of starched brown muslin was also long, and it dragged upon the ground, hiding her feet. Her black doeskin-gloved hands were clasping and unclasping uncertainly in front of her.

He had already seen several skolds in his life, for many served at Boschenberg's docks to ward off any nickers that might rise out of the Humour and along the city's walls. Even so, Rossamund knew less now about them than he did fulgars. What he did know was what everyone knew: that they made all kinds of potions and drafts even more powerful and fabulous than those concocted by Craumpalin and other dispensurists, who were more concerned with health and healing. The chemistry of a skold, however, was designed for harm and violence. He knew that they had served as the Empire's monster-fighters-"pugnators" Europe had called them-for centuries before the advent of the lahzars. This young lady must have been the skold Doctor Verhooverhoven had mentioned, the one to make Europe's treacle for her.

For a pugnator she seemed very nervous.

With a look like triumph, Madam Felicitine returned her attention to the physician. "Doctor Verhooverhoven!" she demanded. "What business have you inviting such knavish individuals to my peaceful establishment? You know my delicate sensibilities won't tolerate such liberties, nor will they suffer the presence of such as these!" She pointed a bigoted finger at the skold, whose face reddened.

The physician looked very ill at ease.

"Dear wife," Billetus ventured bravely, forgetting her warning on saying things in front of those who did not need to know, "their account is well paid. They have been no real trouble, rather quiet in fact, as needs must. What possible harm is one hardworking, well-paying lahzar occupying a room she and her factotum can afford?"

The enrica d'ama's thin lie of civility failed her at last. "Oh frogs and toads! Because of the principle! She cannot…!"

"Please," the physician interjected in a low, insistent voice. "You'll wake her."

Madam Felicitine eyed him coldly but continued with deliberate calm. "She cannot stay here because if guests of genuine refinement were to learn that a person of violence and infamy was bunked in the suite next door, they would never return and advise others to do the same. I will not have this, oh no!" With a dark look at Doctor Verhooverhoven, she forced herself to be collected again. "No, no, the billet-boxes are the place for her, though I prefer the servant stalls for the likes of these, if they must stay here at all."

She then looked gravely at Rossamund, who was looking very grave himself. "Now it pains me, child, it truly does, but things must have their right place and order, people have their rank and station; some should not assert themselves above their betters. I know you'll understand one day."

"Now, now, dear…" Billetus tried again.

Her momentum building, the enrica d'ama went on. "That is quite enough from you, I would say! You, who let her-" That accusing finger now stabbed at Europe, unconscious on the bed. "-stay here!" Her arms now gestured wildly at the whole room. She began to go pale. Her cheeks wobbled apoplectically. "Did you think I wouldn't find out? She simply has to go!"

Mister Billetus now fumbled and stumbled but offered very little else.

"Oh my bursting knees! Keep her in the billet-boxes if your tender heart won't allow eviction!" the enrica d'ama hissed. "Either way, get her out of this room!"

In the awful, echoing silence that followed came a soft, icy voice. "My money glitters as well as another's, madam, and here in this bed I will stay!"

Everyone looked in wonder to the bed where Europe had lain apparently senseless just moments before. She was still tucked in, her head still half-buried in the midst of the many, too-soft pillows, but her eyes were open now, bloodshot and baleful-and regarding Madam Felicitine with cold disdain.

Unexpected relief burst within Rossamund.

At last Europe had woken.