At the commotion Europe had approached. "Rossamund," she purred with icy malice, "was that your friend?"
The foundling turned to her and, seeing her cold expression, looked at his feet. "Ah… a-aye."
She gave him a look of mild contempt. "You made me come down here to rescue a bogle?… Licurius was right!" she growled quietly. "You really are a wretched little sedorner."
"Look here!" Fouracres declared, reaching the top of the ladder. "There's no need to be spitting such filthy words!"
Rossamund's eyes narrowed obstinately and he scowled at the fulgar. "And Fransitart is right!You're the worst monster of all! You just go around killing no matter what! That poor schrewd did nothing to you!"
"Of all the…!" Indignant, Europe took a step toward him.
This time he was not daunted. This time he was not going to just be meek. This time he would defend himself like a man should.
Fouracres moved as if to intervene.
Europe became still. She looked from the boy to the man, her expression twisting weirdly. She dropped her head and began to make a low, unnerving noise in her throat.
Rossamund glanced at Fouracres, who shrugged.
The foundling took a step toward her and started as she threw her head back at last, and let out a gush of laughter. Great guffaws shook her-mighty, mirthful sobs.
Rossamund froze in bewilderment. "Miss Europe…?"
The lahzar sank to her knees and laughed and laughed and laughed.
Going to her side, Rossamund crouched down and tried to peer into her face. He looked to the postman again.
Shaking his head, Fouracres was just as bewildered.
Eventually Europe's violent glee ebbed. Panting, still chuckling, she looked at the foundling from the corner of her eye. "Ah, little man!" she wheezed softly. "You are about the strangest, bravest little fellow I have ever met!" Taking off her quartz glasses and dabbing tears, the lahzar got back to her feet. She perched her glasses back on her nose, put on warm doeskins against the increasing cold and offered Rossamund her hand, saying, "Now let's find this Mister Germanicus."
Rossamund looked at the hand. He did not know what to think of her. Besides which, what was he to think of Freckle, who had fled with no farewells? This world is too hard, he concluded.
Gripping the lahzar's fingers gingerly, he descended the gangplank off the Hogshead and wished never to see that vessel-or smell it-again. Behind them they could hear the muffled shrieking of the rever, still trapped in its tiny prison.
As they walked back through the moored vessels, Fouracres explained to him their own side of his original liberation.
It had taken Europe longer than the prescribed half an hour to settle up payments that were her due from her clients. By the time she had emerged from the pink building, Fouracres was already concerned whether Rossamund was just being irresponsible, or if something was wrong.
"Without even waiting to set the landaulet someplace safe, Europe was after yer," Fouracres stated matter-of-factly. "I had to catch her up and we simply walked all over the docks, asked for any sights of yer, turning up nothing for the longest time. Then some fellow with a westerner's accent and the blackest fingernails I have ever seen suggested we might try looking again in the direction where we found yer-took a few sous to wheedle even this from him.
"We had already been searching an hour or more, and had been over several parts of the docks twice. We were in the act of following that fellow's advice, when I spied yer running yer heart out and looking as if all the utterworsts of Loquor were at yer tail. Having crossed and recrossed that particular place several times, we simply made sure we took a way that would cut yer off… and whoever was scaring yer," he added grimly. "The rest yer were there ter witness."
Rossamund could almost not believe that these two had striven so hard to find him, that Europe had led the way in his liberation. How was he to feel about her now? If she was this loyal, he would happily serve as her factotum, but then… she hates monsters so bitterly. Oh, I don't know…! Rossamund was beginning to find his lack of gumption extremely frustrating.
It was Europe who settled the question as they drove on in the landaulet. "Something is not quite right inside me, little man," she declared. "I felt it when I sent that odious bully into the harbor for a bath, and it's got a lot to do with why I let your bogle chum go. The spasm those nights ago has done more harm than I care for. I need to see my surgeon very soon."
"Are you really ill?" Rossamund asked.
Europe smiled gravely. "I'm not dying, but I must set out on the soonest vessel for Sinster." She paused for a moment.
The foundling watched her intently.
Europe returned his stare.
"This is my aim," she continued finally. "You go to Winstermill and serve there faithfully, as you have me, as the lamplighter you are intended to be. I will go to Sinster to get repaired. I have no idea how long that might take, but when I am back to my healthy self, I will come by your way, little man, and see how you're doing."
Rossamund's mind boggled at the thought of what "to get repaired" actually involved. He knew better than to ask, though.
She bent down and filled his senses with her sweet perfume. "Perhaps then, you might consider again the opportunity to become my helper?"
He just smiled and nodded. He liked this and was glad it was Europe who had formulated such a plan. It gave him his task to do right now and offered him time to think further on the opportunities a factotum's life might offer rather than a lamplighter's career.
The Offices of the Chief Harbor Governor were not, a little surprisingly, near the port but in the administrative center of High Vesting. The low marble-white building was so much like all the others in this district that Rossamund was glad he had Fouracres with him, for he was sure he would never have been able to find it on his own.
Within they discovered that Mister Germanicus had left in a dudgeon three days before. However, he had left instructions of his own referring to the appearance of one "lazy marine society boy." These instructions were characteristically simple: he was to make his way to Winstermill forthwith, where he was expected.
With Fouracres there to smooth the way and vouch for Rossamund whenever it was needed, the clerks and sergeants of the Harbor Governor were industrious in their help. They ratified the remains of his existing traveling certificates and identification papers, writing up new travel documents. They even wrote a covering letter, explaining-they said-the unusual state of Rossamund's papers. What a relief it was for him-he had expected a lot of hard questions and suspicious innuendo. He was now at liberty to make his way to Winstermill.
To avoid any possibility of reprisal by Poundinch or his crew, and in keeping with Mister Germanicus' instructions, it was determined that Rossamund should leave the very next day. They drove to a fancy hostelry known as the Fox Hole. Europe preferred it as her place of repose whenever she was in High Vesting.
Before its facade of grand marble columns, with Europe organizing the footmen in the distribution of her luggage, Fouracres bid Rossamund farewell. "Now I reckon I just might get the courts ter bring some of their burdensome interest ter bear on the Cockeril and her nefarious captain-that's the name of her, ain't it?"
"Aye, Mister Fouracres," Rossamund nodded. "It was the Cockeril all right, and the Hogshead too." He sincerely hoped that such "burdensome interest" might bring the dastardly career of Captain Poundinch to a necessary end.
The foundling stepped closer to Fouracres and whispered, "And what of the glamgorn we saved? It was a shame that he had to run off so fast. Will he be all right?"
"It's the way of those little fellows," said Fouracres, with a fatherly pat on the foundling's head. "Deep in unfriendly places yer can hardly blame the bogle for skipping away quick. As ter how he'll fare, I can't say I rightly know, though I can sure tell yer those little fellows are wily and tough. Trust it ter Providence, Mister Rossamund-it's all yer can do."