8
VIGILANCE AND VIGORANTS
sedorner (noun) official name for a
monster-lover, often used as an insult. To be heard even trying to
understand monsters from a sympathetic point of view can bring the
charge upon one. Different communities and realms deal with
sedorners with their own severity, but it is not uncommon for those
found guilty to be exposed on a Catherine wheel or even hanged on a
gallows.
TO come back to awareness after you have
been unconscious, especially if you have been unconscious for a
long time, is an exceedingly odd experience. The first sensations
Rossamünd became aware of were his hearing and a great ache in his
brain. Amid the sharp throbbing was a rushing whoosh that spun
about in his head, rising till he almost understood its purpose,
then descending back to nothing.
Rising again.
Descending again.
After who knows how long, he came to realize it was
the sighing of wind in treetops; the voice of birds calling thin,
lonely music; and the tap, tap, tap of a small scratching very
close by. Smells returned: pine needles, wood-smoke and some worse
stink. The sense of touch followed these other clarities as he felt
his own weight pressing on something hard yet strangely yielding.
He became aware that he had a hand, and that his hand was holding
something that felt rough yet also soft—his scarf. He tried to move
his hand and found that he could not. He was numb at every joint,
frozen in every muscle. He could not even open his eyes.
It was then that memory returned. Rossamünd forgot
all the sensations he had just rediscovered, and was filled instead
with the recollection of all that had just passed, the destruction
of the poor Misbegotten Schrewd. He should not have cared. He
should have rejoiced: one more triumph of everyday folk over the
ancient oppression of the monsters. Yet somehow the foundling could
not see much to cheer in it. Some poor ignorant slain just for
being in the way.
Instead, a great sorrow set in his heart. What
would Master Fransitart think of this? Rossamünd had met his first
nicker and come out of the experience a monster-lover. Unable to
move or see, he lay filled with grief for some brutish giant he did
not know and should not like.
A new sound broke in, right by his head. “I . . .
hiss . . . hold that something must be done.” It was
the wheezing of that terrible leer Licurius. He was right by
Rossamünd, far too close for the foundling’s ease. The boy’s
stomach churned in pure fright.
“I . . . I have done enough, don’t you
think? It was just a little spark to quiet him . . . but look
now!”
This was Europe’s voice—Europe, the mighty
fulgar.
Europe, the slayer of innocents.
Europe, the electrocuter of children.
How powerfully uncertain he was of her now. So
this is what she meant by a glorious “life of
violence”!
“. . . Wheeze . . . What good is he? Just
some squirming snot nobody wants.You spied how he cried for that
beggar, shed real tears like a toddling lassss for some tottering
great waste of a nicker.You did a’rightly with him, I say—we’ve got
nought spare for a rotten little . . . hiss . . .
sedorner like his-same-self there . . .
hiisssss!”
Rossamünd’s soul froze. A sedorner? A
monster-lover! That was one of the worst things to be called. Worse
yet, they were quite clearly talking about him. What were they
going to do to him?
Europe sighed a long, almost sad sigh. “Stay in the
carriage and everything was good, that was all it needed . . . What
is it with males and listening? I wonder how this would read in the
panegyric of my life, that I shock bantling brats.”
“All the more reason to repair the wreckage. We
should slit his belly and spill his umbles right here and leave
done with it . . . gasp . . .” The leer’s voice rasped right
by Rossamünd’s ear. “Or take his corpse and blame it on that ettin!
A clear reputation is as good as a clear conscience, like you
always say.”
“Hush it, Box-face! You push too much! This
circumstance does not warrant such brutal work. My word, leer! You
are starting to scare me with your talk of slitting and spilling.
It has gone from worse to worse these past months—is it possible
your black old heart gets blacker still?”
The leer hissed, long and cruelly. The landaulet
shook for a moment, as if there was a struggle. Was Licurius daring
to tangle with the fulgar?
Europe gave a yelp. “Enough, now!”
Rossamünd lay aware, terrified yet blind and
paralyzed. With the shaking of the carriage, this terror rose
unwanted from his gut to his throat and, though he tried to
suppress it, it came out as a bubbling, whimpering cough.
Everything seemed to go even more still. Then,
“Aah.” Europe sounded relieved. “It appears he has returned to us.
Good, good.”
“. . . Wheeze . . . Don’t be blubbering to
me, then, Sparky,” Licurius said, concluding their previous
business with faintly wrathful tones, “when thisss’un places
well-found blame on your pretty pate.”
“Enough! Enough!” The lahzar’s voice wavered
briefly. “Cease your insolence and boil the water. You know I am
sorely in need . . .”
With his little outburst, Rossamünd found some
capacity of movement return. He wrenched his eyes open in an
instant and, as his neck still proved stubbornly immobile, rolled
them around wildly, to know his fate.
He was lying under a blanket on one of the seats of
the landaulet staring up at the clear sky pricked with early
evening’s first stars, through high, scruffy boughs—they were still
in the forest. It was bitterly, breath-steamingly cold. He began to
shiver. Europe was in her usual place on the opposite couch. Her
hair was down and that big book she scribbled in was upon her lap.
By her sat the lantern, already lit. She was looking at him with an
expression he could not fathom, neither hostile nor tender. He
blinked over and over at her, limbs twitching as he tried to get
some use out of them.
“Good evening, little man,” the lahzar said slowly,
her arms folded, her right hand up and covering her mouth and chin.
“Don’t wriggle so.You will be able to move soon enough,” she
chided, as Rossamünd’s wriggling turned into writhing. He did not
heed her, but struggled and strained to get his body to respond.
Now that they knew he was alive—that he was awake—he did not want
to remain vulnerable one moment longer!
Europe leaned over and placed a hand upon his
shoulder. At this he yowled mightily. Europe herself shied,
genuinely startled.
Licurius came over to see about the commotion.
“What a noisy little toad!” he growled, gripping the foundling hard
about his throat. “Hush it, basket . . . wheeze . . . or
you’ll die here and now!” All sound was pressed from Rossamünd as
the leer clenched tighter and tighter, the boy’s cry changing to a
panicked gurgle.
“Let go of him, Licurius! This instant!”
Europe glared at her factotum.
The leer ignored her completely. “Come on, little
girl, squeal like you did when I had yer by the ankles . . .
!”
His arms jerking uselessly, Rossamünd tried
desperately to squash the man’s hand between his chin and
throat.
“How dare you, leer! You serve my ends, not I
yours!” The fulgar half stood, her hair beginning to bristle with
static, the book sliding from her lap to the floor of the landaulet
with a thump. “Let go your hold and step back! We have not
the time for this and I have not the patience!”
For a moment longer Licurius seemed set on ignoring
his mistress, then suddenly loosened his grip and turned to peer
over his left shoulder. He stepped away, then hesitated, hissing,
“That’s not right . . .” He plainly sniffed at the air, the sound
of it coming clearly from the many holes in the sthenicon.
Rossamünd squirmed away as best he could, to the
other side of the carriage, tears coming from eyes and nose.
“You wear thin, laggard,” Europe hissed in turn.
“What is it now?”
The leer did not answer but stood for many strained
minutes: sniffing, listening, sniffing yet more. Europe began to
growl, ever so softly, impatient with his silence.
“There’s something amiss on the wind, m’lady.
Somethin’ unsettling . . . away down there.” He gestured into the
trees.
The fulgar sat back rubbing her face as if she was
vexed by a headache. “Well, you go and see what it might be,” she
sighed, “and I’ll finish the treacle myself, shall I? Now go
on with you then!”
The leer hesitated again. He gathered his cloak
about himself and stalked off, passing quickly through a black gap
between rough trunks.
Rossamünd could not hear anything but the pound,
pound, pound of his pulse in his ears, nor, more particularly,
smell anything that he might call “amiss” or “unsettling.” He was
relieved beyond expression simply to be released from the murderous
intentions of that wicked man. Though he breathed heavily, he
became still.
In the quiet the fulgar watched the forest.
“He’ll be gone a goodly while, I’m sure, so we have some
time to get you all back to how you should be.” Her voice was
tired. “Do you have any restoratives or vigorants? I would give you
some of mine, child, but that they are made particularly for my . .
. peculiar constitution . . . and I doubt whether that crusty old
leer would let you at any of his.” She wiggled her arching
eyebrows at him as if they were together in some conspiracy.
Wanting to keep her in this current friendly mood,
Rossamünd managed a weak grimace and, with numbness lessening and
movement returning, nodded once.
“And where might they be?”
Rossamünd grimaced as he tried for the first time
to speak. “S . . . S . . . Saa . . . Satchel . . . !” With great
effort he tried to sit up. Europe reached over to help him. He
shrank from her touch and slid back down the slippery seat. She saw
his discomfort and, taking her hands off him with a false-sounding
“There you go,” took up his satchel and sat back. A powerful
exhaustion settled over Rossamünd as he finally succeeded in
sitting up, and he watched as the fulgar fossicked about in his
belongings. After a moment she pulled something from the satchel.
She held out her hand. There were the sacks of bothersalts,
amazingly dry and potent again, after their dunking in the Humour
had made them into pointless slop.
What remarkable things Craumpalin’s chemistry
can do.
“Useful.” Europe cocked her head. “But not what we
require.”
She went back to rummaging, at one point pulling
out the mash that had been his traveling papers and folding money,
still damp and starting to smell. “There’s a mystery,” she said,
placing the sodden lump on the seat beside her. A few moments more
and she produced what she sought: small, familiar, milky bottles
with the deep blue ∋ and Craumpalin’s mark of C-R-p-N.
“Ah-ha! I’d recognize these anywhere.” She held one
out. “Evander water—‘good for all.’ Somebody likes you, little man,
to be prescribing this. Both vigorant and restorative in one happy
draft. Glorious day! Open up and don’t mind the taste.”
Rossamünd knew what they were and blessed the old
dispensurist in his heart—as he had already, many times—for his
generosity.
She broke the red wax seal and reached over to
administer the restorative. If it had not come from his own
belongings, had he not recognized his own bottles, he would never
have let the fulgar so much as wave the stuff in his direction.
Even so, he was still uneasy. As his lips came to the bottle, the
smell of its contents rushed up his nose. Strong and sharp, it took
away the heaviness and brightened his thoughts. Contrary to its
smell, however, it tasted remarkably bland. If Rossamünd was ever
to eat chalk, he would have said that evander water tasted like
that, a liquid with the flavor of powder. He was dosed with the
whole bottle, about three swallows, and quickly began to
improve—muscles loosened, vision cleared, the pain in his head
lessened markedly. He arched his back and stretched his arms out
and up with a groan, twisting his neck back and forth. Finding
Europe watching him, he ducked his head self-consciously and
offered a muttered thank-you to the lahzar.
The fulgar waved a hand. “Tish tosh!”
He saw the little container of whortleberries and,
with a cautious eye on the fulgar, took one. She watched him
impassively and did not intervene. He ate eagerly. Now he felt much
better: able to move once more, though still a little stiffly; no
pain; able to see, able to flee—but to where? This forest was
surely just as dangerous, and the leer would find him anyway.
“Well, now.” Europe seemed fidgety. “I absolutely
must do the brewing. Stay! I’ll be back presently. Tomorrow we’ll
be coming to a wayhouse, so you can have that to look forward
to.You’ll be much . . . happier there, I’m sure.”
Rossamünd did not doubt her.
As the fulgar climbed down from the landaulet
bearing her black occult box, a noise came, distant yet distinct,
from the direction of Licurius’ exploration. Looking toward the
sound with a frown, Europe stepped to the ground. “That can’t bode
good,” she observed.
The sound came again—a series of sounds really. To
Rossamünd it was like someone thrashing about in the undergrowth.
He opened his mouth to ask, but Europe silenced him with the palm
of a hand. Though she held it there only for a moment, Rossamünd
noticed five small lumps upon her bare palm, raised and discolored
like moles. He had no idea what they were.
The fulgar took something out of the black box and
put it in her mouth, just as she had before the last fight. She
grimaced in much the same way too as she chewed, putting the box
back in the landaulet and adjusting the lantern, making it
brighter. All the while she stared in the direction of the
noises.
Was there going to be another
fight?
Rossamünd craned his neck, wide-eyed once more at
an approaching, invisible threat. They were in a clearing just off
the side of a road that crested this hill. All about were closely
growing pines with only the narrowest space in between each trunk.
The thrashing came closer through those small gaps.
Europe stirred up the fire, put on another log: she
was trying to make more light. Far from wanting to hide from any
danger, unlike Rossamünd she wanted to see what was to come,
confident of mastering any event. Pacing between the landaulet and
the flames, she buckled up the frock coat, never taking her gaze
off the wall of trunks.
There was a flash and a loud fizzing close by—some
way to the right of where the leer had departed. Bright and blue,
the trees obscuring it shown as black, stark poles. Rossamünd
almost fell over in fright and shrank down into the seat, peering
over its edge. More thrashing about, the crashing of a heavy thing
pushing through thin boughs. Smaller whippings. Closer, closer.
Something appeared on the edge of the light.
It was Licurius!
The leer’s tricorn was gone, his cloak badly torn,
ripped almost from his frame, his sthenicon half wrenched from his
face, yet he still clutched a pistol. Shocked, Europe took a step
toward him. Bloodied and torn, he staggered into the clearing and,
with a shuddering wheeze, rasped in the loudest, hoarsest whisper
he possessed, “M’lady, we are attacked!”
The dark erupted in shrieks and yells, one of them
Rossamünd’s own as he gave cry to his fear. The landaulet jerked
violently, throwing Rossamünd from the seat to the floor as the
horse started in fright at this assault and tried to bolt. Hobbled
and hitched, it could not get far at all. After only a couple of
yards, the carriage halted suddenly with a strangled whinny from
the horse, tumbling the boy within about once more. He scrambled
along the floor and peeked over the side.
Shadows dashed and darted on the fringes of the
camp.
Things with big heads and little bodies were
pouring out from between the trees with triumphant yammering—hard
to see despite the fire and lamplight. They overwhelmed Licurius as
he turned to defend himself. Down he went, firing his pistol as he
fell, pressed under a multitude of gnashing, nipping bogles. Europe
cried wordlessly, yet before she could intervene, she too was set
upon by many small terrors. They tore at her viciously, trying to
pull her down too, shrieking “Murderer! Murderer!” in shrill
unison. She swatted each one as it came, throwing several off at a
time with that powerful Zzack! that declared the fulgar was
about her gruesome work. She stepped and pranced with venomous
speed, spinning, striking, her eyes wide and wild, her hair
standing on end, frock coat hems flying dramatically—as they were
clearly meant to do—showing many-layered white petticoats beneath.
It was a great spectacle of flickering sparks to see the fulgar
fighting in the night. Every nasty, gripping horror that got a hold
was soon sent flying, almost every strike she made giving a brisk
crack! and a brilliant flash like little lightning. Several
times one of the beastly little things was sent hurtling to its end
with a great arc of electricity strobing in blinding green between
it and the fulgar. In each brief glare the whole night scene would
be quickly lit like a glimpse of day. None could best her. Even if
they did get a good hold, the needlelike teeth and cruel claws of
these grinning fiends proved almost useless against her stout
proofing.
It was not over for the leer either.
There was a bright, hissing flare from beneath the
writhing pile of bogles that sent them reeling and filled the air
with a putrid stench—surely some powerful repellent. Licurius stood
among them, dark and wet with gore, smashing one a deadly blow with
the handle of his pistol. The sthenicon was gone, torn off in the
brutal fray. The leer glared about with his terrible eyes and
struck out again, causing something to yowl piteously. Amid all the
confusion and alarm, Rossamünd was, for a moment, transfixed by the
leer’s face! His horrible, indescribably broken face! Little wonder
he wore that box! There was another fizzing, hissing flash as
Licurius let off another repellent, driving a handful of the
nickers hollering in agony back into the woods. But the rest came
at him, leaping up, clutching, gouging, tearing at exposed places,
bearing the leer down under their ferocity. Licurius disappeared
once more beneath the whelming assault.
He did not rise again.
Europe fought on and on, heedless of anything but
the deadly, desperate dance she played with her many foes. Some of
the grinning horrors now lay still and smoldering; many had run off
in dismay. Still she faced a baker’s dozen more gathering
themselves after the leer’s fall. She saw him then, her factotum,
or what was left of him. Rossamünd had watched as the nickers
wrenched and ripped at the leer until they were convinced he was
destroyed—declaring their success with bloodcurdling cackles and
whoops of glee. Now only a dark, deformed pile remained.
The sight of it brought Europe up short. She stood
now, panting, seething, almost growling. With wide, near-maniacal
eyes, she stared across the fire at thirteen little grinning bogles
who waited and glared back, snickering, poking and prodding each
other. These grinnlings had large heads with big, square ears, no
noses and lipless mouths crammed with needle teeth. And,
remarkably, they wore clothes—small copies of human fashion:
shirts, coats, breeches, even little buckled shoes.
For a moment it remained like this, the enemies
eyeing one another. Rossamünd had expected an exchange of words, of
taunts or threats, but there was just this dreadful, pregnant
hesitation punctuated by the distant wailing of wounded, fleeing
grinnlings. The campfire crackled, the small cauldron on it hissing
quietly with boiling water.
The universe waited . . .
Europe shifted her stance.
With cacophonous screeching, the thirteen
grinnlings suddenly bounded over and around the fire. The fulgar
kicked at the first as it vaulted the flames, sending it hurtling
back the way it had come with a great blinding lightning flickering
from Europe’s boot sole to the bogle. She immediately sprung back,
making room, and smote the next two who reached for her: right hand
striking left, left hand striking right, slapping one in the
face—Zzack!—and thumping the other square in its
chest—Zzick!
Three down, ten to go!
Rapidly sidestepping to her left, avoiding grasping
claws, the fulgar poked the next gnashing nicker right in its eyes,
sending sparks from its ears and a squeal from its throat that
expired to a gurgle.
Nine!
Now the remnant grinnlings pounced as one,
grappling with her together—on her back, about her legs, tugging on
her arms. Rossamünd waited for them to fall to their sparking doom,
but instead Europe appeared to contort violently, staggered by some
dark, internal force greater than those nine grinnlings could
muster. Her back arched involuntarily. Her head thrown back, she
screamed. The grinnlings hesitated but remained unharmed. With
cackles and evil whoopings they pressed this new advantage, biting,
gouging, ripping.
Rossamünd’s thoughts raced. He had to do something!
He looked about wildly for a weapon—something, anything. The
bothersalts! Snatching up the satchel, he leaped from the
carriage, madly digging about within the bag for the small hessian
sacks. He dashed to the fight, the bothersalts still undiscovered.
In the dimming light he could see Europe being pulled to the ground
just as Licurius had been.
Shortly it would be over.
There they are! He grabbed at the sacks
roughly, ripped them out and hurled them in one complete move—all
thoughtless, terrified instinct. The repellents flew remarkably
true, bursting their powder over the murderous gang just as one of
the grinnlings caught sight of the foundling. There was a great
chorus shriek as the bothersalts did their work. Some of the
grinnlings left off their rending to paw instead at their now
burning faces. Others were simply distracted by this attack from an
unexpected quarter. Europe too was engulfed in the acrid assault,
but through her pain and her dazzled senses she still had enough
pith to give one final, might-be-suicidal burst of electricity.
Several grinnlings fell, expiring instantly. For the rest, this was
too much: wrathful sparks from one side, bitter chemistry on the
other. They fled screaming, every last one, their howls diminishing
as they retreated farther and farther as fast as their little legs
could carry them.
They had done it! They had won . . .
On the needle-matted ground, with many dead
grinnlings sprawled about and a tendril of smoke rising from her
back, Europe had collapsed, dreadfully still, dreadfully
silent.