D Cornish - Foundling

A woman dressed in an astounding display of peacock feathers and blued fur stood at the other end of the common room and sang so sweetly Rossamund forgot to eat for minutes at a time. Apparently her name was Hero of Clunes-so he heard people about him say-a famous actress from faraway south. Rossamund wondered what she might be doing in this remote region. Looking for "Clunes" in his almanac, Rossamund found to his amazement that it was so far south it did not even show on any of his charts.

He finished his meal and returned to his room to slumber. Europe still lay in bed, her back to the door. Rossamund could not tell whether she slept or simply ignored him, and cared little for the risk to find out which. Not long after dawn he set out. Master Billetus sent Little Dog with him to show the way. Little Dog went forth barefoot, protected by proofing of much lesser quality than Rossamund's own fine jackcoat. He proved shy at first and seemed in awe of the foundling, an attitude so new to Rossamund that he found it unnerving.

They were let through the gates, which were firmly shut again behind them, and quickly arrived at the intersection by which the Harefoot Dig was built. A sign was there telling them that they had arrived at the Gainway. To the south, it said, was High Vesting. To the north was Silvernook, and below this Winstermill. The back of Rossamund's head tingled as he realized how close he was to his final destination. He had just to keep going north past Silvernook and he would arrive there. If it was not for Mister Germanicus waiting for him in High Vesting, he just might have. They turned left and went north up the Gainway toward Silvernook.

Little Dog walked quickly and Rossamund strained to keep pace. It was hard work and left little breath for conversation. The page boy kept looking about nervously, and Rossamund joined him. Overloud rustles made them jump and hurry on. Once a loud crack away among the trunks alarmed them so much they fled the road and hid behind a knuckle of lichen-covered rocks. It was always a relief whenever a cart or a carriage passed them by, the drivers typically offering a wave and sometimes a friendly, incoherent greeting. This traffic became more and more frequent as the day progressed.

By about the first bell of the forenoon watch-as Rossamund reckoned it-a cart rattled by and stopped. Its rubicund driver hoied! them cheerily, calling, "Little Dog! Ye're wanting a hitch to Silvernook?" to which the two tired walkers gave a hearty yes.

The driver introduced himself to Rossamund as Farmer Rabbitt and chatted merrily about "taters" and "gorms" and how Goodwife Rabbitt was heavy with child. "Moi first, yer know," he grinned with a wink. Rossamund thought him the happiest fellow he had ever met, and could not help but grin along with the farmer's ready joy.

The darkling forest gave way to great, high hedges of cedar trees, grown close and thick along the verges. In the midst of almost every hedge-wall there was some kind of grand and solid-looking gate. Little Dog informed him that these were the fences behind which lived the local gentry.

As they rattled on, Rossamund thought on the perplexing choice before him: stay true to the original path-become a lamplighter and take on a boring life, or become the factotum-the servant-of a woman who did deeds with which he could never agree? It was more than he knew how to solve, and he hoped circumstances would provide a solution for him.

Soon enough they arrived at Silvernook, hidden within a high bluestone wall. The gates of the town were open, but they were watched. The town's gaters, who wore the black uniform of Brandenbrass, eyed them sternly as Farmer Rabbitt drove through. He set Little Dog and Rossamund down by the Imperial Postal Office, where the lads parted ways, for Little Dog had an errand to run somewhere else in the town.

"I'm sorry, Mister Rossamund, sir," he said, "but I probably won't be able to show you back to the Dig.You'll find yer way back a'right, though, won't you?"

"I reckon so, Little Dog," answered Rossamund, blushing at the boy's deference. "I'll have my driver by then-he'll be going back with me, I'm sure."

With a satisfied nod, Little Dog left.

The Imperial Postal Office of Silvernook was narrow and high, like every other building in the town, making the most of the limited room offered within the safety of the town's walls. And as always, its chimneys were extraordinarily tall. As far as he knew, chimneys were so lofty because it was reckoned that the higher they were, the harder it would be for some curious bogle to climb them and do mischief.

People were going into and coming out of the Imperial Postal Office steadily. Rossamund found that he had to join a queue of high-class ladies in their voluminous skirts and festooned bonnets; guildsmen in their weathered leather aprons; and middle-class gentlemen buckled inside high collars and flaring frock coats, just so he might ask for further help. When he finally arrived at the serious woman on the other side of a perforated wall, she informed him that the coachman's cottage was beyond a certain side door, through which he proceeded directly.

The door opened onto a long drive that went between the Imperial Postal Office and another equally tall building. This drive took him to a sizable open area at the back, large enough to turn a two-horse carriage about, surrounded on every side by high houses. In a far corner was a small dwelling with a bright red door: the coachman's cottage. A brass plaque screwed to it declared:

… and Rossamund did just that.

There was a long pause.

He tried again, and the portal was finally opened, a thin, grudging gap.

"Hello," Rossamund began, hands clasped meekly. "Do you have any drivers in there?"

The gap increased slightly.

"You what?" came a sour voice from within.

Rossamund cleared his throat nervously. "I… uh, we are needing to hire someone to drive the landaulet down to High Vesting. Um, we're at the Harefoot Dig, you see, and…"

"You want someone to go with you down to the Dig," the sour voice demanded, "so they can drive some cart to High Vesting, aye?"

"Ah… aye."

"And how much you got in your purse?"

"I… um…" Flustered, Rossamund counted his coins. "One sequin, a florin and eight guise."

"I seeeee." The sour voice sounded less than convinced. "Wait there."

The door closed with a bang.

Fidgeting, Rossamund was made to wait what felt like an overlong time.

Finally the scarlet door was pulled open a crack once more. "Sorry, no drivers available," the sour voice declared, sounding almost triumphant. "Too busy! Try the Drained Mouse on Fossick's Cauld-plenty of desperate lads there. Good-bye."

"But wait, I don't…"

The door closed with an even louder, all-questions-ending bang.

Even before Rossamund had a chance to turn and walk away in disgust, the door was opened once again, wide this time. "So yer need some help with a driver, do yer?" a voice inquired.

Before him stood a cheerful-looking man with a ready, toothy smile and large ears that stuck out prominently, made more obvious by his hair, which was unfashionably short like Rossamund's. This fellow was dressed in drab, sturdy proofing: a jackcoat strapped all the way down the front; longshanks of a thick, corded material; and white gaiters reaching as high as the knee fastened over sturdy dark brown road-shoes. Wound tightly about his waist was a broad sash, and fixed by black ribbons to both arms were broad oversleeves of a brightly colored taffeta of rouge and cadmium checkers.

Rossamund instantly recognized the mottle of a postman, those faithful fellows who braved bandits and bogles and foul weather to deliver mail to and from the scattered folk of the country. The colorful cloth was set off nicely against his otherwise dull attire, and made the man look important and serious, quite at odds with his friendly expression. In his hand he held a black tricorn.