D Cornish - Foundling

They were a little too big for Rossamund and heavier than normal clothes, but combined with his recently washed black, long-legged shorts-or longshanks-he looked very fine indeed and could be sure he was well protected for his long journey. All he needed now was a sturdy hat.

"Yer debt is cleared, Meesius," Fransitart said, low and serious. "I 'ope we will never 'ave th' need to meet again!"

Without another word the tailor hurried off into the shadows beneath the vats. Rossamund and his masters returned the way they had come. Fransitart looked very satisfied with himself as they wrestled and veered through the jostling throng on their way home.

"Ye've got yerself a stout set of proofing there, lad. A fine harness, indeed." The dormitory master's smug grin broadened. "Ye'll be well safe in it."

Craumpalin chuckled. "Masterfully done, Frans, masterfully done. Ol' Cap'n Slot would 'ave been impressed."

Rossamund had no idea what just happened. He had never seen Fransitart so satisfied, so pleased-but he was too astounded at his grand new proofing to give any of it another thought. Verline mended his two shirts and even his smallclothes. She darned several pairs of especially long stockings-called trews-which he was to wear doubled back down from the knee for improved protection. Two scarves and two pairs of gloves were provided against the coming cold of winter. She also gave to him his own turnery (a fork and a spoon made of wood), a biggin (a leather-covered wooden cup with a fastening lid), a mess kid (a small wooden pail from which to eat his meals) and a flint and steel for the lighting of fires.

From the larder Rossamund was allowed to put into his satchel a block of cured fungus known as dried must, a whole loaf of rye bread, a pot of gherkins that sloshed and plopped quietly when it was moved, three rectangular slats of portable soup (hard black wafers ready to be boiled down to a bland but nutritious brew), some fresh green apples and, for energy or emergencies, fortified sack cheese.

Traveling papers were arranged for him: a letter of introduction from Madam Opera recommending Rossamund as a fine and useful boy; a waybill, or certificate of travel, giving him permission to move through any land or city-state of the Empire; a nativity patent to prove who he was and where he came from; and finally a work docket, upon which his conduct would be recorded in whatever job he was employed. This impressive wad of documents was put into a buff leather wallet along with (he could hardly believe his eyes!) folding money to the value of one sou-an advance of his monthly wages-and the Emperor's Billion. This was a shining gold oscadril coin given as an incentive to all those entering the service of their Imperial and Pacific Lord. Rossamund gaped at all this money that was apparently now his.

Old Craumpalin contributed too. The dispensurist supplied several flasks and tiny sacks, declaring them to be medicines to "invigorate both thew and wind"-by which he meant body and soul-and repellents to "fear away the bogles and nickers." Rossamund already knew the medicines-he'd seen them before-small milky bottles holding evander water, marked with a deep blue? to show what they contained, and beneath that the tiny letters C-R-p-N — the dispensurist's mark. The repellents, however, were new.

"Beware the monsters, me boy! Ye've been safe in here all yer life, but out there…" Craumpalin gestured vaguely. "Out there it ain't safe. They're everywhere, see, the nasty baskets. Big or small, they're as mean as mean can be, so just keep these potives safe and handy and ye'll go right-though I have to apologize to ye for them not being of as fine a quality as a skold brews." The dispensurist pointed to a cobalt vial. "Right! This here is tyke-oil. It don't smell like much to us, but it's good for keeping monsters away, right off. A healthy smear on yer collar and they'll stay well clear of ye. Problem is, it also lets them know ye're there, so don't go applying it willy-nilly, only when ye think they've got yer scent."

Then he gingerly poked at one of the many little sacks kept within a bigger purse. Though the smell coming from them was faint, it was still unpleasantly sharp. Rossamund hoped he never suffered a faceful of it.

"These are bothersalts.Very nasty stuff, and the sacks are fragile, so have a care. It will give any bogle-or person, for that matter-you happen on a nasty sting if you throw it at them, bag and all. Frighten them off for hours, but it also makes 'em angry, so be on yer guard for a good long while after. And this! This is a pretty bit of trickery!" Craumpalin unwrapped a package of oily paper to show a large lump of malleable skin-colored wax. An odor something like a very sweaty and unwashed person filled the air.

"It's called john-tallow. Smells a wee bit off to us, but it's a mile more appealing to the nose of a nicker than we are… leads them astray. Poke a little lump of this in the bole of a tree or under a rock, walk in the other direction and ye'll get yerself some space." He chuckled into his white beard. "Wonderful stuff. A warning, though: always handle it by the oiled paper. If ye get the stuff on y' hands-or anywhere else come to that-then ye'll stink of it too and the ruse will be ruined. Got it?"

As the dispensurist kneaded the wax, Rossamund found that, strangely, he liked the smell. He said nothing of this and took in all he was told very carefully, very seriously, imagining a world beyond the city's many curtain walls and bastions filled with all kinds of frightful beasts.

Craumpalin lifted up a bottle of brown clay. "This here be fourth and last," he said. "It's a nullodour-I like to call it Craumpalin's Exstinker. Master Frans and me wants ye to wear a splash of it on ye all the time, no matter. Keep ye safe from sniffing noses-where ye're going there's no knowing where is safe and where ain't." The old dispensurist took up a long strip of cambric. "The best way to wear it is to liberally apply some to this here bandage, then wind it about yer chest, just under the arms like so." He wrapped the strip about himself several times in demonstration. "A good splash will do for a day and seven will last you almost a whole week. After that I recommend you wash this and reapply more of me Exstinker.Tomorrow mornin', when ye be getting yerself ready, we wants ye to give this seven splashes and put it about ye just like I've shown. Understood?"

Rossamund nodded somberly. Anything to keep the monsters away.

Craumpalin grinned. "Good lad!" He handed Rossamund the brown clay bottle along with a piece of paper. "There's enough in there to last ye for a month. After that, give this script to yer local, friendly skold-make sure he's friendly, mind-to make ye more."

Along with all these things Rossamund took his most treasured possession: a lexicon of words and a simple peregrinat-or an almanac for wayfarers-entitled Master Matthius' Wandering Almanac: A Wordialogue of Matter, Generalisms amp; Habilistics, that is, history, geography and science. Cleverly, it was waterproofed, both cover and pages, so as to be useful to any brave and literate traveler no matter what the weather. It had been a gift one year ago, given on Bookday, when the foundlings at Madam Opera's remembered the entry of their name into the grand ledger-a type of group birthday, and the only time their existence was ever celebrated.

Fransitart appeared in the afternoon with a valise of shining black leather.

"Thank you." Taking hold of it, Rossamund was at once struck by the bizarre sense that whoever had made the case had intended good things for its owner.

It had a lock, and a key that was fixed to a strong velvet ribbon of brilliant scarlet about Rossamund's neck.

The astounding array of Rossamund's new equipment was then rechecked and finally packed by Master Fransitart, who stowed everything wisely so that it would not rattle or knock when moved. Remarkably, the valise did not weigh nearly as much as he expected it might when it was fully packed.