The Foundling's Tale: Factotum Part 9

Smiling through their teeth, Rookwood's friends tried to appear as enthusiastic as their white-haired friend over Rossamund's astounding win.

Perceiving this, the young factotum summoned a footman and asked for more drinks and a dish of the best taffies and glairs for them all.

"Perhaps our new friend might better like the entertainments below . . . ," Avarice offered, only somewhat mollified at his largesse, her voice heavy with suggestion.

"Um . . . yes, certainly." Rookwood rose. "Collect your earnings, Master Bookchild; allow me to show you the other delights here."

"I shall come with you," Eusebus declared. "I always do better at d.o.g.g.i.ng than the table, anyway . . ."

Gathering his winnings by shaking handfuls into the ample pockets of his gorgeous new coat, Rossamund followed the two young men out. Going by stairs to the floor below, his two hosts led him along a broad pa.s.sage and down a double flight right into the foundations of the Broken Doll.

"If my sire had sent me to the abacus to learn counting as I had wished for, rather than the athenaeum," Eusebus whispered drolly to Rossamund on the way, "I would do better at the table, I am sure."

"Certainly, Master Euse," came Rookwood's quiet rejoinder. "Yet if you were a mathematician they would never let you within sight of a table."

"So the Lots have spoken, then!" his lanky friend retorted. "Like my nanny-pander used to sing me: Multiplication is vexation,

Division is as bad

The Rule of Three doth puzzle me

And practice drives me mad!

Alas, I am a student of nature now. Better d.o.g.g.i.ng for me, brother!"

The pair of young swells laughed as they halted two floors lower before a pair of heavyset footmen standing guard over an ironbound door. One footman was holding the portal open for a couple emerging from the dark beyond, the woman in her tentlike finery clearly upset, hiding her blotched cheeks behind a frilled kerchief. "Why did you bring me here?" she was demanding, voice tremulous. "Why did you bring me here? I'll never be able to forget that poor-" A sob rendered the next few words unintelligible. "I'll be telling Mother-make no mistake, sir!"

Her partner in neat velvet frock coat was bent about her, muttering rapid apologies. "I thought it might be a lark, a variation on the usual salons . . . The Archduke himself is rumored to come here on occasion-even owns a share here! And you so often complain of the tedium of our usual settings . . . Don't tell your mother-we shall go to Sachette's next vigil's eve and you shall order whatever you will from the vin-compte . . ." He gave Rossamund a brief, almost imploring look, as if the young factotum might somehow relieve him of his distress.

"The night was already started?" Eusebus enquired of the doorman when the troubled pair had moved on.

"It's yer happy ev'ning," one footman replied, looking them up then down. "The first bout's already begun and we was about to lock the doors and keep everyone safely shut in. But for such select young gents we'll make an exception." He smirked, with a touch to his forelock. "You'd best gallop along, sirs, if you want to make it for the next bout. Hope you like long stays, 'cause we won't be letting you out ag'in till half the bouts are done-can't have folks strolling in and out all night as they please," he concluded.Then, with narrow and meaningful scrutiny to Rookwood's fine pistols, he added, "Them irons better be filled with sack."

Rookwood made a face as if to say, Since when are they not? and pa.s.sed the fellow a flashing silver coin.

Ogling the fine cut of Rossamund's clobber, the other footman let him by with a wink.

Rossamund gave a puzzled nod and hurried through.

Immediately beyond they found a tight descending stair-almost a furtigrade-leading to another equally black door. Rookwood pulled noisily on the door's brazen knocker.With a subdued thump the door opened and a young thin-faced doorman stepped out, all polite smiles and expectation. He raised a hand. "I am afraid you must wait, sir."

Through the doorway behind him was a dark blank like the throat of some ravenous sea-nicker. A tingle of sorrow shivered down Rossamund's backbone-an almost threwdish kind of distress. Here?

A tiny bell made its tiny silvery tinkle, and they were let onward down a closely spiraling stair of stone, its walls covered with black leather dimpled and glistening. Smelling strongly of subterranean chalkiness and animal hide, the air here grew decidedly colder with every curve down. Rossamund could hear the bubble of water through the leather and rock, and he imagined the immemorial currents pressing against eroded brickwork without.Were they under the harbor itself?

"Have you been d.o.g.g.i.ng before, Rossamund?" Rookwood asked chattily.

"Ah, no, sir, I have not . . . ," he answered, beginning to feel out of place. "What is it?"

"Ahh, you shall see. The night ends on a high note for you, sir!"

Achieving the bottom, they pa.s.sed along a long brick pa.s.sage lit with oil-burning cressets whose heat made the lime-painted walls sweat. Heavy-proofed men regarded them searchingly as the tunnel took them toward cheering: angry, almost hungry and unwontedly wild.With every yard the threwdish grief waxed, becoming a great weight of confusion and distress and frustrated rage. What manner of event could produce such a terrible cacophony of soul and sound?

"Come along, Mister Bookchild." Rookwood grinned. "By that ovation the first fight must be ending.This is a spectacle one of your caliber and trade will surely relish."

The other end stepped onto a wooden boardwalk that made a circuit behind a whole edifice of stall-boxes, very similar to those at the Hobby Horse. A great array of people were sitting in them: high and low, rich and poor, teratologist and naivine, thrust rudely together, all hollering at whatever was occurring below them with singular fascination. As Rossamund observed, the whole ma.s.s erupted into a great whooping cheer, hands flung up, little tabs of paper flying and falling like the rare snows of deep Hergott winters.

"The cubes bet in a frenzy and the pigeons watch in high spirits!" Eusebus cried, looking happily to the celebrating crowd of said cubes-the true gamblers-and pigeons-the mere spectators. "Excellent evidence for an excellent night!"

A woman in thick face paint and a too-tight stomacher-dress greeted the older two with a saucy curtsy as if she knew them well and pa.s.sed small white-daubed paddles to them. Rookwood shouted something in her ear, and she thrust a paddle into Rossamund's grasp, crying, "Goodly evening, little lordling. Wave your pug to pose your stake! Chance your gooses wisely!"

Bemused, the young factotum took the pug and inched forward in the wake of Rookwood's and Eusebus' pa.s.sage through the throng until they came to a high bal.u.s.trade.

"The dogs!" Rookwood held out a presenting hand, eyes twinkling with excitement, while Eusebus pushed along the front row of the stalls to find seats.

Full of bawling, exuberant souls, some clapping each other on the back and others with face in hands, the stalls ran about the entire circ.u.mference of a large quadrangle, going up and down for several more stories. Below them all was a square pit cleft in halves by what appeared to be a brown iron gutter; new blood was soaking into the hard-packed floor. A proud-looking fellow strutted about its circ.u.mference, heavy chain gripped in fist, leading an enormous brindle tykehound, its gagged muzzle dripping gore, its still heaving flanks rucked and bleeding. Flowers and coins and paper rained on the brute stupid beast-half dead from whatever ordeal it had just faced-and its beaming owner. A servant came out to grovel for the spoils, and the man and his dog exited through a heavy iron door in the far corner to the farewell of one final hurrah.

The noise of the audience settled to a pent hubble-bubble.

With a sinking feeling, Rossamund beheld the remains of what must have been a grisly desperate clash. He had little love for dogs, but to watch them tear each other apart was not his notion of entertainment. Steeling himself for an unpleasant spectacle ahead, he looked glumly about the crowd.

Far across on the opposite side were a set of canopied boxes hung with leaf-hued taffeta. In them sat a congregation clad almost uniformly in dark green and black. Mostly secretaries and spurns, they were gathered about a fellow proud in peac.o.c.k silks and curly periwig of spotless white.

"Pater Pontiflex Maupin," Rookwood said in Rossamund's ear. "He is the owner of the Broken Doll and has major interest in this place," he said, rolling his eyes at the pit, the stalls and all the ruckus with them.

Sitting on the right of this man was a young dandidawdler in a vibrant harness of blue-green stripe with pink, his throat thickly enfolded in a tortue, a high neckerchief of white cotton. Most remarkable was his silver wig, its fringe twisted up into a pair of horns, its tail long and thick like that of a horse and held by greasy black ribbon. The wig twinkled under the cosmos of bright-limns hanging by hook or chain from the convoluted scaffold of heavy beams that held up the weight of the city far above.

Upon the other side sat a singular woman swathed in black with a flaring collar of black feathers making an unhallowed aura about her pale bald head. Her face was cold, her gaze unkind; a great spoor of a diamond and an arrow combined jutted above her right eye. She was a dexter-a wit and fulgar in one. Instinctively, Rossamund began making a tally of the costly regimen of chemistry she would need to keep her collection of foreign and contrary organs from rebelling within and destroying her.

"Ah, that is Anaesthesia Myrrh," Rookwood explained. "She prefers spurning work to teratology. As much as I admire the lahzarine set, she truly frightens me . . ." Some distraction away to his left took his attention. "Euse has achieved only one other seat," he said after a moment's cryptic waving of fingers. "Do you want it, young sir, or . . ."

The dexter looked sharply at Rossamund looking at her.

A hot flush in his cheeks and cold thrill of fright in his innards, the young factotum hastily turned his attention to his companion's question. "No, no . . . ," he said quickly, not relishing being pinned in among all these fervid spectators.

"Well, how about you remain here," Rookwood advised. "We shall sit out the first half." He shrugged. "Then we shall meet here again to call it even, yes?"

Left to stand at the balcony, Rossamund crouched on his haunches and stared uneasily down through the posts at the blood-puddle becoming just one of the many stains in the swept earth of the pit, a rising apprehension pressing on his soul. The grieving threwd was so strong in that awful pit, it was almost audible. Can the people not feel it?

A clang of metal and a heavy man in a thick buff ap.r.o.n of bright blue stepped through the iron portal, raising a hand to the audience's renewed raptures. With him came two tractors leading a Greater Derehund of exceptional size. Its watery eyes full of death and hopelessness, the mighty dog snarled at the folk of the lowest stalls. The man in blue stopped before the canopied boxes and did honor to his patrons. At this Pater Maupin stood and, beholding the crowd, twirled a lace handkerchief in acknowledgment of their applause. He sat, and a fellow behind him in clerical black called down to the tractor, "Scion of the Geiterwand; which champion do you bring before us to do goodly battle?"

"I bring befer ye Skarfithin, the Blackheart of Dere!" the thickset handler cried in his best in-public voice. "Scion of the Geiterwand; winner o' thirteen full stouches and sixteen halves and as sure a wager as ever prowled the pit!"

More cheers.

"As you say, sir!" the clerical gent returned; then, twisting his attention to the stalls, he cried, "Who dares bid unseen against this mighty friend of men? Do I have any takers? You, sir!" He pointed to some invisible soul well above Rossamund's vantage. "You appear the all-a'glory kind; will you dare a posit against this fearsome specimen?" He swept his hand down to indicate the panting Derehund, Skarfithin.

A m.u.f.fled, unintelligible cry from on high brought shouts of approbation and jeers of playful derision from many.

"Bravo to you, sir!" the clerk cried, and sat again.

Rossamund could see several similar clerical fellows moving among the stalls, listening intently to the wagering calls of the chancers, scribbling upon tiny folds of paper and exchanging monies.

Rossamund craned to see down over the lip of the bal.u.s.trade to the access that he could just make out below, curious despite himself to see what tribe of dog the contender would be.

With a clunk and a sustained whining rumble the iron gutter now shifted. Rising out of the floor, it slowly became a metal curtain dividing the pit in two. The tractor released his anxious hound and quickly retreated, the beast ravening suddenly, chasing the fellow from the pit and giving Rossamund a sharp start, though much of the crowd seemed well used to such shocks.

Left on its own, Skarfithin paced before the iron fence, its dripping tongue lolling hungrily, sniffing at the small holes that stippled the iron sheet.

Rossamund held his breath. He looked up into the stalls to find Rookwood, but the fellow was intent on the beasts in the pit below and laughing and talking with great animation to Eusebus.

A thump and another clang! warned that the near door below him was opening.

With a collective gasp the entire audience went quiet.

What manner of tykehound was it that caused such corporate dismay?

Rossamund pressed his forehead against the struts of the bal.u.s.trade till it hurt, to get a glimpse of the competing dog. When the beast stalked into view, right there, right below him, the young factotum's innards went frigid. It was not another dog Skarfithin was to fight. It was . . . a monster.

Out stalked a nicker of the most weird appearance, walking upright with strange angular flexings of ropy, footless legs. Instead of a head it had a long writhing tentacle, with a similar appendage at its posterior end too, its arms of exactly the same form as its legs. Its warty skin was an ashen green, with vivid rings of purple mottling the darker hide of its back, its limbs and tentacles.

This was worse than a dogfight. It was a hob-rousing set between selthounds and bogles. Here was the cause of the anguished threwd!

Rossamund's soul revolted. What have I found!

8.

IN THE PIT.

sabrine adept(s) also called percerdieres, lehrechtlers or spathidrils; said to be the cousins of the sagaars, originating long ago in some foreign northern land. Revering swordplay as the sagaars revere the dance, some go so far as to almost worship their swords, ancient therimoirs of forgotten make, though they have no time for devotion to constant motion as the sagaars do.The best of them, those warranted to teach, are known as sabrine magists or master sword-players, and will gather about them a loose a.s.sociation of adepts, serving together for a common ideal.

"GOODLY peoples," the rouse-clerk cried into the stunned hush from his safe seat in the lowest stalls, "I give you the Handsome Grackle!" He flung a dramatic gesture at the frighteningly alien and ungainly creature that awaited its doom in the rousing-pit. "What be your stakes?"

At this the watchers burst with the dispute of wagers, numbered white pugs waving as results were speculated and amounts offered. In the din it was still clear: most seemed convinced of the Derehund's victory.

Fixing his attention on the creature dubbed the Handsome Grackle, Rossamund could well understand why, for the creature staggered in palsied jerks into the middle of the pit. Staying back from the perforated fence, it turned quickly from side to side, both tentacles reaching out and up, rippling as if they were testing the very air. Feeling a delicate flutter in his head like the gentlest sending of a talented wit, Rossamund knew the thing was looking, searching by means unknown to find an escape. There was something about its parched, k.n.o.bbled skin and bizarre physiology that spoke more of the vinegary deeps than of the bosky dells or forsaken pastures. As the beast twisted, the young factotum could see in the center of its torso a weird, vertical mouth quivering, making great "O's" as if it were gasping for breath.

Transfixed, Rossamund swallowed at the clench in his throat, his hand already grasping for a potive.

A shriek of clashing metal silenced the crowd.

With a penetrating boom! the iron curtain dropped and the foes were immediately confronted. In an instant Skarfithin was all hackles and maddened, shuddering growls. Saliva drooled from its gnashing fangs; its small red-shot maniac eyes rolled. Without a face the Handsome Grackle seemed little affected: its only reaction was to bend its tentacles and wave them slightly at its canine foe.

Without a backward crouch the selthound sprang, leaping the entire gap between it and the Grackle. There was a frightful crunching like the chewing of a fresh apple as the dog bit deep into the startled monster's left arm, the momentum of the leap bringing both crashing to the hardened dirt. The Grackle did not make a sound as it fell, no cry of agony or shout of fear. Even if it had, none would have heard it as the willing audience let out a roar of delight at its fall. Gripping alien flesh in its mighty maw, Skarfithin shook its head violently until the whole form of the Grackle rocked. Finally some piece of it tore free, leaving a deep purple gash in its arm. The Derehund was not intent on morsels, and struck again and then again. With every chunk of seltling flesh ripped away, the dog's a.s.saults grew more frenzied, not allowing the mauled and flailing Grackle time to right itself.

"Come on, ye mighty daggy, rend the mucky salamander!" were the shouts from the lower stalls.

"Huzzahrah! Mother and the boys'll be supping hearty a'morrow!"

"I declare, bravo! Smash the brute to flinders! My entire purse is on your head!"

"Bravo!" came the cries from the high stalls; even Rookwood was calling out with babbling gusto.

Rossamund could scarce stand it. Without looking, he began counting through the slots of his digitals.

Suddenly the Grackle made a huffing, almost keening cry as, with a great thrust of its limbs, it threw Skarfithin back and sent the dog tumbling to the floor. Before Rossamund's eyes and all the wagerers' with him, the monster's ghastly purple wounds began to ripple, the flesh bubble and the wounds close.

It's mending itself! Rossamund stilled his face to contain his delight.

"It heals!" some observant soul across the way echoed, and a hush momentarily dampened the throng.

THE HANDSOME GRACKLE.

Undaunted, the Derehund pounced straight back as the Grackle tried to stand, the dog's great teeth clashing loudly on vacant air. Swinging its club-fisted arms, the nadderer managed to bay the Derehund.

Someone shouted, "Ten oscars on the sea-selt!" and the flurry of bets and jeers and mindless exclamations exploded again.

At this mighty noise Skarfithin got teeth into meat and pulled the nadderer's left arm, threatening to topple it again. Yet the Handsome Grackle was not so easily done for. With another austerating hiss it lifted its arm, hauling its foe, still clamped to the meat of its arm, clear off the floor. Writhing like a line-caught fish, Skarfithin growled and seethed and would not let go. The Grackle raised its other arm and, with a quick, powerful punch, sent the Derehund reeling, its mouth still full of monster-flesh, to smack with an unpleasant wet sound on the far wall and slide heaplike to the hard-packed dirt.

Dismayed at last, Skarfithin labored to stand and now paced more warily before its foe, head down, gaze murderous, calculating, its ribs heaving like a bellows.

Surrounded by puddles of its own gore, but its wounds almost entirely gone, the Grackle remained motionless; only the tips of its tentacles undulated minutely, bending toward the battered dog.

Snarling, the tykehound leaped once more, rushing the sea-monster from the left with astounding fort.i.tude, seeking to catch the Grackle exposed as it twisted to face this new a.s.sault.

Worried now as much for dog as for monster, Rossamund could barely watch, and half closed his eyes as the Derehund bit terrible hold of the nadderer's lower tentacle. Tugging powerfully left then right then left then right, Skarfithin tried to overset the Grackle and bring it down. The monster tottered perilously and toppled sideways.Yet it did not collapse; rather, one of its arms now became a leg, a stumped foot became a clubbed hand and the perversely vertical mouth was now more properly horizontal. Still the maddened dog tore and tugged, its jaw locked on soft tentacle flesh, until Rossamund was sure it would tear the entire limb from the poor Grackle's trunk. With a hiss the nadderer rolled completely onto its other end. Weirdly deft acrobatics had it standing upside down, both arms now legs, both legs now arms, and Skarfithin was lifted high as the lower tentacle became the head.