Mulch's well-intentioned interjection only made Theudas more gleefully determined to win, and Rossamund was made to turn a jig many more times before he won his first hand. Of all his billet-mates, Aubergene or Lightbody were perhaps the most unfortunate at cards.
"Ye'd have to be the most losingest two I ever clapped eyes on!" Under-Sergeant Poesides would laugh almost every night as he watched either unfortunate lighter lope about foolishly as the winning cards directed. He and all the others-whether Stooler, Bleaker or Limper-would refuse to play them at the more serious hands of lesquin. Here the spoils of victory were grog rations and favors; the lowest-valued favor was to stand in for kitchen duties or firelock cleaning, the value quickly escalating to the ultimate prize: having another take your place to muck the jakes. Out here sewer-workings were not nearly as sophisticated as at Winstermill, and the water closets needed frequent flushing with buckets of old dishwater and cleaning with broad, blunt shovels on long handles-an odious job, the most unpleasant task for the day-watch.
The house-major would play no game of chance against his men-especially not lesquin-declaring solemnly that "an officer should never take from those under his command nor be seen to be overborne by them either." Near the end of their first week new stores arrived on the back of a long dray that had lumbered the dangerous Wettin Lowroad up from Hurdling Migh. Rossamund knew only vaguely of this city: an isolated settlement-so his peregrinat told him-semi-independent in its remoteness and filled with a stern yet hospitable people. The driver of the dray and his grim-looking side-armsman were both pale-looking fellows. They had apparently made the northward journey often, but the threatening rumor of bogle and nicker had forced them to hire a scourge for protection.
This hireling was called the Scarlet Tarquin. He-she-it-sat stiffly now at the front of the truck swathed entirely in red fascins, bandaged crown to toe in protective cloth with only two round lenses protruding at the eyes. Laden with salumanticums, stoups, powder-costers and all the appurtenances of skolding, the scourge simply watched but did not offer help. Passing the red-wrapped teratologist as he and Threnody tumbled down the steps to help unload, the young lighter was affronted by a faint, yet powerfully unpleasant whiff of potent chemistry. He stayed well clear of this scarlet scourge as he worked.
On the dray were piled crates of musket balls, wayfoods and script parts; butts of rum, wine and black powder; sacks of flour, cornmeal and dried pease; even three bolts of undyed drill for making-and-mending day.While two lighters stood at guard on the road, every item was hauled up by a limber-run sheer on the fourth floor, its winch arm swung out from broad double doors-the store-port high in Wormstool's wall. Climbing onto the dray, Rossamund helped Theudas and Poesides shift and tie each load to the sheer cord.
Standing below by the flat truck, the tired and humorless driver was arguing vociferously with Semple the day-clerk about the excessive charge for service this time.
"Thy wants thy goods timely and whole, do thee not?" the driver was saying. "Safe passage for cargo dern't come cheap nowadays." He glared at the Scarlet Tarquin for emphasis.
Rossamund did not hear the reply, for Poesides moved away with sudden violence, giving a great shout: "Watch it, lad! The knot's come loose! Load's goin' to fall!" The under-sergeant tried to grab at him but did not get a grip as he stumbled away.
"Clear out below!" came a sharp cry from the store-port above.
Rossamund looked up and there hurtling down to crush him was a butt, set free by a poorly tied knot-a knot he had wound himself.The young lighter hesitated in his fright, stupidly heedless of his own danger and more concerned with the possible harm to the stores.
"Rossamund!" Threnody yelped.
Yet he stood transfixed as the heavy barrel dropped on him; instead of leaping aside he caught the entire weight in his arms with little more than a slight huff! — just as you might catch an inflated ball. The weight of the load drove him to the truck-top, pinning him on his back. He held the butt on his chest for several astounded beats before lifting it and setting it carefully back on the tray, keenly aware of the equally astounded faces all turned to him, even peering in amazement from the fourth floor.
"Did ye see that?" he heard drift down from above. "Fifty pound of musket shot and he catched it without a trouble!"
"How'd you do that?" Theudas exclaimed. "That was a full butt of balls! It would have smashed even Sequecious flat!"
Threnody rushed to the side of the dray-truck and looked up at him. "Rossamund! Are you whole?"
"I–I believe so…" was all the young lighter could get out. He tugged at the white solitaire about his throat, seeking better breath.
"That's enough heavy loading for ye, lad," Poesides declared. "Ye can't depend on freakish catches all the time in this job. Take a spell inside. Have Mister Tynche or Splinteazle take a look at ye if ye reckon it necessary. I'll leave ye in the hands of the lass."
Rossamund obeyed, Threnody helping him up each stairway.
"You should have been pounded to pea-mash by that bullet-barrel," she insisted.
"My chest does hurt, if that's more satisfying," Rossamund answered wryly.
"Oh, ha-ha." Threnody did not look amused. "You should hardly make a jest of such a horrid thing. I thought you were done in! Poesides has it right: most certainly a freakish catch."
Talk of his feat buzzed about the cothouse in an instant, and other Stoolers popped their heads out from nooks to send funny looks his way.
Safely deposited on his bunk, Rossamund took off his proofed-silk sash and his quabard to relieve the bruised tenderness in his ribs.
"What is that about your chest?" Threnody asked, crouching by him and looking at the loose collar of his shirt.
Rossamund's innards almost burst open with fright. Oh no, my Exstinker bandage! "It's-it's-it's… it's for putting on nullodor," he tried.
"What, the one that Critchety-crotchety ledgermain fellow made you?" the girl lighter questioned.
Frowning, Rossamund nodded.
"You don't use it, do you?" Threnody snorted.
His frown deepening, he nodded once more.
"When? Even out unloading carts?"
"Aye!" Rossamund hissed in exasperation. "All the time! It was a command of my old masters back at the foundlingery."
"Aren't you the obedient little munkler, then?" Threnody looked narrowly at him. She turned and left him to recover alone. Later in the day, when goods were safely stowed and the dray left, returning to Bleakhall and then home, presumably to Hurdling Migh, Rossamund was called to House-Major Grystle's desk.
"What is this that I have ear of: you snatching falling loads as if they were light parcels?" the house-major queried.
"I couldn't well have let it fall to crash, sir." Rossamund was a little baffled by the fuss made of his fortunate grab.
Grystle gave a baffled blink of his own. "No, I suppose you couldn't have at that." He dusted a fleck off his pristine sleeve. "A powerful fine catch either way, Lampsman. I did not know they raised you so strong in Boschenberg-the lords at the Mill would be well advised to prentice more of your countrymen."
"Aye, sir."
"Maybe we should make you our fellow to challenge those stuffy Limpers to a wrench-of-arms?" The house-major gave a kindly smile.
Rossamund did not really know what his superior was talking about. "Maybe, sir" was all he could think to say.
After a clumsy pause that grew into an uncomfortable silence, Rossamund was dismissed.
Quizzical eyes were on him all that night at mains, the story growing some in its retelling. Aubergene asked him how he was feeling after catching half the load of the dray.
"It was really just one butt, nothing more," Rossamund explained.
"Aye, but I heard it was a very full one."