D.M. Cornish - The Foundlings Tale, Part Three: Factotum

Table of Contents

TO OUR ASTONISHING GOD, for doing everything so aptly; to Dyan, for steering the ship; to Celia, for steadiness and better words; to Tim, for bravery under fire; to my parents, for their prayers; to my delight, Tiffy, who climbs the mountain with me, every misstep and skun knee; to those teachers who gave to me a wonder for what is true and best: Stuart Gluth, Margie Hooper, Judith Bruton, Mary Smith, David Robson, Mark Treloar, Stuart and Mary Leggett, and Bob Philips; to Louis Decrevel, for doing this too; to Will and Mandii, faithful travelers daring (still!) the journey with me; to my cousin, Joshua Lock, for the word paphron; to Sue Ellen, Jacey, Andrew and Sarah Currie, and Peter, for reading words unfit for human consumption; to Aidan Coleman, for courage, for beauty, for loving words and people; to Jason Lethcoe (Ilex Mile is for you). Also to Alyosha, Monday, ENR, Anna Martinsen, (the other) Anna, Carlita, Pizza, Portals, Ms. Ventress, Ryan K., Tenya S. Vgen, Ryan Kjolberg, Ellorneo, Sara Charlotta Johansson, Noelle, Ben Bryddia, me, Sam Hranac, Winter, Bill Bittner, Zakk, Aphrodine, Curiousmouth, Lawrence Mikkelsen, and all the rest of you who stop by at the Blog or the Cult, MySpace, or sent me an e-mailI thank you so much for keeping me inspired; to Patrick Brooks, for running the Monster Blood Cult, and to JackofSpade444, for running the Forum; to Hays Enoch, for letting me know that muskets push rather than kick; to Erin Montemurro, for the sewing, the love, and the astonishing results; to Evan Blanton, fellow originiere; to Lisa Perry at Ophelias Books, shop on! To Rita Faye and to JayI hope you are well; and to all those who deserve a mention but have not received one. And, finally, to Kierah Siegel of NYCyou may take this book, mlady, as a personal favor!

This is a map of the southern and central portions of the Half-Continent.

The area within the small rectangle is shown in detail on the following page.

BEING THE TRACTS SURROUNDING THE GREAT CITY OF
BRANDENBRASS
INCLUDING THE NORTHERN COASTS AND WATERS OF THE GRUME

packet ram any class of ram that has been radicaled; that is, had part of its lower decks cleared of guns and at least one of its masts unstepped (lowered or removed, making the vessel short-masted) to allow for the taking on of cargo and/or passengers. Such vessels are usually privately owned, the tariffs for loading and unloading and the fares being their owners income. Neither fighting vessel nor true cargo, nevertheless what a packet ram loses in carrying capacity it makes up for in firepower andin the case of a converted frigatespeed.

At a mere four hours, the passage from High Vesting to Brandenbrass was, as water-faring journeys go, rather brief. Though certainly not the busiest sea lane on the vinegar seas, it was nevertheless plied every dayand sometimes into the night tooby all manner of vessels. The most common of these were the packet rams, old naval frigates rescued from breaking and put into civil service, taking people and goods back and forth ceaselessly. Yet for Rossamnd, who sat at the tossing prow of the small packet ram Widgeon plowing stoutly through the milky gray-green swell and holding tightly to his newest hat lest it be blown off his crown, the crossing could not be quick enough.

Since their departure from the Imperial Lamplighters fortress of Winstermill and throughout the entire journey to High Vesting and aboard the Widgeon, the two retired vinegaroons, Fransitart and Craumpalin, had been tight-lipped and unyieldingly alertas taut as Rossamnd had ever known them. Only now, treading across the Grume and many miles distant from the deadly allegations of the Master-of-Clerks and his ambitious surgeon, Grotius Honorius Ludius Swill, did they seem to unbend a little.

Embarked early that morning on what was his very first proper seagoing voyage, Rossamnd was aware that at some other time he might have thrilled to the rough passage of the Widgeon; that with each mile he might have savored the bitter sting of the spindrift sprayed by the clash of ram with wave, and his soul soared with the cries of the sooty terns, the mollyhawks and the whimbrel-gulls that teemed in the pale sky above.

Yet he did not.

Two days journey from that ordeal, Rossamnd found himself pinned between sweet relief and restless, anxious dismay. He was free, yes, saved once again by Europa of Naimes, fulgar teratologist and Duchess-in-waiting, but what was he? Though he had escaped the grip of his accusers, he could not escape their accusations turning endlessly in his head. At first indicting him for sedonition, the surgeon, Swill, had stood to claim on evidence that Rossamnd was not just a simple sedornera monster-loverbut a monster in and of himself. A rossamnderling, or so Swill had called himlittle pink lips, a monster that looks like an everyman. His proofs? The startling effect Rossamnd had upon dogs, his monster-slaying strength, even his own name. The man had gone as far as to take some of Rossamnds own blood to mark Fransitart with a proving cruorpunxis. It was thenwith a puncting only just begun on the ex-dormitory masters armthat Europe had intervened. Yet the worst of it was that his old masters, who had known him longest and best, had looked burdened during the inquest, and this was horribly suggestive that the surgeons wild claims might very well be true.