Rossamund knew from his almanac that a "rhombus" was where some skolds went to learn their craft. As to the other things she'd said, he had no idea what she was talking about-except that "matter" was the study of things now past, that "habilistics" was the study of how things work and that the Vade Chemica was an ancient book-as Craumpalin had told him-full of the most unspeakable things. This girl seemed too polite and kind to have spent three years delving into such a grim volume.
"I have l-learned it all too," she carried on. "Eh-everything. Achieved hi-igh st-standards, won p-prizes. Oh, but nuh-now…"
She trailed off as they went through one last door and came into a very large room full of heat and steam and shouts. Shadows moved within this muggy air, lit glaringly from behind by a large pall of flickering orange. Delicious smells, sweet and savory, hung thickly.
Mmm, the kitchen… Rossamund's stomach celebrated this discovery with a gurgle.
"Bucket, you little sprig!" a refined but gravelly voice boomed. "Keep that spit turning and turning slowly, or I'll put you on it and baste you instead!"
There was a clang, then a crash, then a tinkle.
"That's it! Out! Out!" the voice boomed more loudly.
A small child scurried out of the thick vapors, pushed past them roughly and through the door. A ladle came flying after him, just missing Gretel and bouncing to the cobbled ground with a bang and a clatter that stung the ears. A very average-looking man with a red face appeared from the steam, his expression changing from a fit of fury to shamed apology and finally fixing on stiff reserve as he saw the three newcomers and at their feet the still shuddering ladle. "Gretel. Whom have you brought me? Do they not like their food? Do they want Uda to make it instead, do they?"
He was neither short nor tall, fat nor thin, handsome nor ugly, just very average. He wore an apron of the cleanest white despite all the bubblings and boilings going on around them. It was his voice that had bellowed before.
"Not at all, Mister Closet," Gretel answered merrily. "You recognize young Sallow, our skold, don't you? Little Sallow? Went off to Worms, has come back a proper young lady and a bogle-fighter too? She needs to brew a potive here or some such, under Doctor Verhooverhoven's orders."
Mister Closet made no sign of recognition. Instead, he looked ceilingward impatiently. "Well… if the good doctor has ordered it, I suppose it must be allowed." He frowned at Sallow and pointed to his left, his hand clutching a jagged knife. "Use the hot plate in yon corner there and stay out of the way!"
Gretel went to leave and saw that Rossamund was padding about the place in just his trews. "I am so sorry-you haven't had your shoes returned. Sitt, the rascal, has taken his time. I will fetch them for you," she said and left them with a smile.
A silent, portly lady in an apron as filthy as Closet's was white gave the skold a small clay pot to mix in.
Rossamund fidgeted. The uncomfortable sensations coming from the treacle-box were beginning to become unbearable. It was a great relief when Sallow took it from him. As he gave it to her, he asked, "Um-Miss Skold-ah-Sallow. Doesn't it make you feel… nervous, to hold all these reagents?"
"N-no, not r-really," she answered absently. "This is a w-well laid out b-box. Very ha-andy. Do you n-know where sh-she got it from?"
"Uh, no…"
With great concentration Sallow busied herself in the preparation of the treacle. The skold went through all the steps just as Rossamund had done, muttering to herself all the time. "F-first the… bezoariac, then… the… r-rhatany… then…"
When it was finished (and Rossamund thought it a little too lumpy), Sallow poured the treacle into a beer tankard and carried it back to the room.
Europe drank as greedily as she always did. Almost before their very eyes her face flushed with renewed vigor.
As she finished the last of the treacle, Doctor Verhooverhoven turned to Sallow. "I have good tidings for you, my dear." The physician smiled at the skold. "You see, this fair fulgar has told me-while you were brewing-that she has slain those troublesome bogles in the Brindleshaws!"
Sallow looked as if she had just been freed from a terrible gaol sentence. "Really! Oh ruh-really!" She turned from the beaming doctor to the impassive fulgar.
Europe smiled in a cool, regal way, and nodded. "I hear from the physic that you were doomed to fight them yourself, girl. I am glad to rid you of the burden. The big fellow was a doddle, but those I believe to be his little masters gave me the… hardest time. A mercantile league in High Vesting hired me to do it, so you can thank the Signal Stars the unhappy task is done. Back to brewing and books for you."
"Oh my! Oh m-my! What a r-ruh-relief," was all that the overjoyed Sallow could manage for the moment.
The offhand mention of the death of the Misbegotten Schrewd gave Rossamund a sharp jab in his gut. The sorrow of it returned to him.
Europe lay back, closing her eyes. "I won't need your soporific, Doctor Verhooverhoven. I feel sleep coming to me anyway."
"Good to hear-just as it should be."
Taking up a candle, the physician shepherded Sallow toward the door with upraised arms. "Time for we less sleepy folk to leave. I must return to my own abode-things there also need attending to. Sallow, after you." He smiled at Rossamund. "When you are done here, my boy, I recommend you to the common room, and get yourself a hearty meal."
The foundling nodded. "Aye, doctor, I shall."
"Good night, madam!" The physician bowed gracefully to Europe. "I expect you to be in much better spirits tomorrow."
"And good night to you too, good doctor," returned Europe with equal grace. "Sleep well."
The physician and the skold left.
Feeling a little awkward at being alone with the fulgar, Rossamund fidgeted and looked at her shyly. She still held the tankard in which her treacle had been served.
"I could take that back to the kitchens for you, Miss Europe," he offered.
She looked at him sleepily. "That's a servant's job, little man." She held it up to him anyway. "But if you must."
As he took it from her, he saw that there was a whole battery of marks running down the inside of each wrist, a tiny X flaring at each end. They were the same deep, dried-blood color as the leering monster's head drawn on Master Fransitart's arm. He hesitated. "Miss Europe…?"
"Yes?"
"What are they?" he asked, looking meaningfully at her wrists.
The fulgar turned them about to show the small marks more clearly-arranged four by four in distinct sets. On the right wrist three complete sets went halfway up her arm; on the left there was only one complete set and another well on the way.
Rossamund did a quick calculation. There must be more than seventy!
"These?" she queried mildly. "These are just my cruorpunxis."
"Your what, miss?"
"Cruorpunxis," she repeated, growing slightly impatient. "Kroo-or-punk-siss. Monster-blood tattoos. Each little mark a monster I've slain."
She's killed more than seventy monsters!
"Not every one is here, though," she sighed, looking intently at her forearm. "Sometimes it is impossible to get at the beast after it's done in. Like that big brute at the bridge…"
He was glad she would not be able to mark the Misbegotten Schrewd there. "I thought they were always drawn in the shape of those you killed?"
"Oh, well, that's the way of rude and vulgar fellows. I have preferred something a little more comely and suitable."
Rossamund frowned. He did not like Master Fransitart being called a rude, vulgar fellow.
Europe roused herself. "Listen now," she said, heedless of his inner fuming. "While you were in the kitchens, I made an arrangement for the retrieval of… dear Licurius… and… the landaulet too. I expect it to be done by tomorrow evening-please, come and tell me as soon as it is."