Rossamund followed the steps as they thudded overhead and trod toward the hatch. It opened and Captain Poundinch peered down, his attention darting to each crate before stopping upon the foundling. "Well, Rosey-me-lad, I see ye're still in whole pieces." He grinned leeringly. "I've come back sooner than I said, I know, but I figured ye'll do yer thinkin' just as well upon me other tub, th' frigate Cockeril, as 'ere. Ye'll like 'er, she's a mite more spacious than th' poor ol' 'ogshead."
He waggled a short-barreled pistola hidden beneath his coattails. Eyeing the firelock in fright, Rossamund saw that its barrel was wider than usual-a weapon designed to knock a person down, to bludgeon him to death despite any type of proofing. "And I reckon this might serve as th' best gag for our little stint to the Cockeril. No 'ollerin's or screechin's from ye, an' there'll be no shootin's from me."
Poundinch released the knot that held Rossamund's wrists to Freckle's crate and jerked the foundling after him and back up the ladder. "So follow me lead and a simple jaunt from 'ere to there is all for ye and me to enjoy."
Rossamund strained his neck to try for a glimpse of Freckle. The glamgorn's now sad eyes showed briefly.
"Farewell…" the foundling mouthed, just as he was hefted clear off the ladder by the easy might of the lumbering captain. He caught one last sight of Freckle blinking a solitary sorrow-filled blink.
15
Glamgorn (noun) one of the smaller kinds of monster, a true bogle. They come in all manner of shapes, pigmentation and hairiness: big eyes, little eyes; big ears, little ears; big body, little limbs; little body, big limbs; and all the variations in between. Often feisty and jittery, certain kinds can get downright nasty, the worst of them being known as blightlings. One of the bizarre idiosyncrasies of glamgorns is that they like to wear clothes, everyman clothes stolen from washing lines and unguarded trunks. There are rumors that, dressed like this, glamgorns-and worse yet blightlings-have been able to sneak into the cities of everymen to spy and cause mischief.
The cord that once tied his wrists now cut, Rossamund was forced to walk before Captain Poundinch, his fear of that large pistola the only leash.
Mighty thunderclouds boiled in the west and cast High Vesting in early gloom. It was clear that Poundinch thought the hour already dim enough to move his captive. Why else would he have returned to get me so soon? Rossamund reasoned.
One consolation was the fresher air, happy relief from the cloying, rotten fumes of the hold. As he was forced down the gangplank, Rossamund sucked in several headache-clearing breaths through his nose to cleanse it of the stink.
There was hardly another soul about as they went along the piers. Most of those they did pass by paid them no attention, and the few who did saw Poundinch and quickly stopped looking. Generally, the vessels berthed in this region of the docks were in bad repair, similar to the state of the Hogshead when Rossamund had first gone aboard, way back in Boschenberg. There was a strong sense that the authorities did not visit this part of the harbor very often. Consequently, Rossamund guessed that they were likely to be captained and crewed by the likes of the Hogshead's master, and were not places to flee to for help.
Between the stone and the sty, again! And what of poor, lonely Freckle too…?
The foundling walked on with his hands pushed hard into the pockets of his fine frock coat. It occurred to him once more to use his knife. Poundinch had still not taken it from him. Rossamund could not fathom why; perhaps he figured that the pistola, his great size and greater experience would all be deterrents enough. They were, and Rossamund let the idea go in despair.
"So ye met me cargo, then?" Captain Poundinch's rough voice intruded on the boy's calculations.
Rossamund grunted once and nodded.
"Ye see, whether ye knew nowt afore or not," Poundinch went on, playing it as if this were just an amiable conversation between friends, "nows ye do-ye knows it all, I expect, or nears enough-and with that bein' so, I cain't afford to 'ave ye out o' me sight. Don't worry, mind, life aboard th' Cockeril will be a might more interestin' than workin' as a lamplighter."
"I don't think so," Rossamund muttered between gritted teeth. He felt cornered and cheated.
"Come, lad, that's no way t' be!" Poundinch sounded genuinely hurt. "I'll be sparin' ye all that walkin' back and forth twiddlin' with th' lamps, as th' day goes out and comes back in again, on and on. Who'd want that?"
"I would." Rossamund had been raised to serve on a ram, but not this way and most definitely not with a master like Poundinch.
"What? An' waste all that wonde'ful learnin' ye got from yer society?" The captain clicked his tongue disapprovingly and shook his head. "Turn left 'ere, Rosey-boy."
They stepped onto a main dock way.
Rossamund was getting angrier and angrier. The injustice of his own situation, and even that of Freckle, gnawed at him. I don't want this! I have been letting other people tell me where to go, what to be, his thoughts fumed, I will not let this beggar force me to do anything more!
With that, he sat down right in the middle of the wharf.
Poundinch almost walked right over the top of him. "What's this 'ere!" he cursed. Giving a low growl like that of a crotchety dog, the captain then said, thick and heavy, "Get up!"
Rossamund did not stir. He refused to be forced against his will any longer. Master Fransitart, he knew with a certainty, would not have let himself be cowed in such a way. What is more, there were some people at the far end of the dock way that looked as if they might actually come to his aid.
"Geeetttt uuupp…" Poundinch seethed quietly, stepping over the foundling menacingly. "This li'l tantrum won't do ye any good, mucky li'l snot!" The captain leaned low and Rossamund heard the pistola being rattled near his ear as a threat. "Stand, frasart, or I'll make ye one of me cargo instead of me crew…!"
The boy's mind hummed now with a taut, thoughtless energy, poised at the debut of valiant effort. First leaning forward, then pushing up with hefty vigor, Rossamund stood. His crown and the back of his head collided sharply with first the chin and then the already crooked nose of Poundinch, sending sparks through the foundling's vision. The brute captain belched a stunned curse of the filthiest language and toppled clatteringly to the wooden planks of the wharf.
Rossamund did not wait to see what was to happen next. He just ran.
Chancing one rapid glance behind as he fled, he saw the evidence of his work: Poundinch sprawled on the dock way, fumbling between his deadly flintlock and the blood sputtering from his nostrils.
Rossamund dashed on, bounding over and skipping around all obstacles-on toward where he had spied those better-seeming people. They were no longer there! Regardless, he raced on. The sound of scuffling behind, then a steady pound pound told him that Poundinch was on his feet again and after him.
The chase was in earnest now.
With a stumbling skid, Rossamund darted right, up a connecting siding. He quickly saw that he had made a wrong turn. Without hesitation he retreated. Poundinch loomed, blood smeared over his mouth and chin-Too close! Too close!
"Get 'ere!" he shouted, but failed to close quickly enough on the nimble boy. Rossamund scrambled on with a panicked yelp as the captain stumbled, his hands gripping at vacated air.
With Poundinch now so near, Rossamund expected to hear the terrible, clapping report of the pistola and be sent to his doom with an oversized ball foiling his proofing and piercing his spine. He ducked his head without thinking, trying to make his legs move faster. He caught sight of the clock in the square, away to his left, half-hidden by all those masts. Though he was moving too quickly to be able to read its time, it gave him his bearings as he sprinted to the next connecting siding. Before him two figures stepped out, two looming shadows. Rossamund did not know whether to plead to them for help or to avoid them as best he could.