“So, Mister Rossamünd,” the postman finally said, “how is it that yer could be at the Dig with a fancy carriage but no driver?”

Rossamünd thought for a moment. “There was a driver, sir, but he was killed by the grinnlings.”

Fouracres looked at him. “Grinnlings?”

“Aye, sir. Those nasty little baskets that attacked us—the ones with sharp teeth and the clothes and the great big ears . . .” Rossamünd stopped short and, looking quickly at the postman’s own organs of hearing, hoped he had not offended him.

Fouracres seemed not to have noticed any insult. “Aaah, them! Nasty little baskets indeed! Hereabouts they call them nimbleschrewds. They’ve been a’murdering wayfarers here and there in the Brindleshaws for the last three months or so. I’m sorry ter hear they got yer driver too.”

“He fought hard, Mister Fouracres, killed many, but they got him in the end. I watched it happen—they just smothered him.”

The postman nodded approvingly. “Well, there yer have it! To kill one or two is a doughty thing, but ter go slaying more, my word, that’s a mighty feat indeed! But tell me: what was it that coaxed yer and yer driver to linger in that part of the woods—it being common knowledge they be haunted?”

The foundling did not know how to answer. He screwed up his face, scratched his head, puffed and sighed. In the end he just told the truth. Starting with Madam Opera’s, he told the entirety of his little adventure to the postman, who listened without interrupting once.

“So the ettin’s dead, then?” was all he said when Rossamünd had finished.

“Aye, it was killed, sir, or as near enough to it, from what I saw,” Rossamünd replied glumly. “I was there to watch, but I had nothing to do with it, really. It was a cruel thing, and I didn’t know what to do . . .”

Fouracres seemed sad to hear this himself. He sighed a heavy sigh. “Ahh, poor, foolish ettin,” the postman said, distractedly—almost to himself. “He did not want to listen to me . . . I warned him this would happen . . . There yer have it, lad: cruel things like this are done all the year long.”

“Did you speak to the schrewd, Mister Fouracres?” Rossamünd was stunned.

“Hey? Oh, that I did, and often,” the postman answered, after a pause. “He is—was—on my round, yer see, between Herrod’s Hollow and the Eustusis’ manor house. I told him no good would come of his enterprise, but he was powerfully put upon by those nasty little nickers ter keep it up. Who did the dastardly deed?”

“It was, um, Miss Europe, sir, and her factotum Licurius—but he died at the task, sir. He was the driver.”

“Aah, the Branden Rose . . . I had heard she might have been hired for the job, with that wicked leer as driver, you say . . . a fitting end for him, perhaps?” The postman gave Rossamünd a keen look. “I’ve not had anything ter do with either, but I know the lahzar by her work and the leer by his blackened reputation. Is the Branden Rose as pretty as they say?”

Rossamünd shrugged but offered no more. “What were the grinnlings doing to the schrewd?” he persisted.

“Huh?” The postman looked momentarily distracted. “Oh. Well . . . if yer go by what the big schrewd said, it was the nimbleschrewds’—grinnlings, you called them?—idea to haunt the Brindlestow and stand-and-deliver travelers. I think they thought his great size would scare people more. It was inevitable really: such a scheme could never last so deep within our domain.” Fouracres sucked in a breath. “I’ve seen the Misbegotten Schrewd about long before now. He ought’er have known better, but those grinnlings—I like that name, very fitting—those grinnlings must have come in from the Ichormeer or some other wildland up north. I say that ’cause, if it was their idea, then they can have only been ignorant of the ways of men or just plain stupid.”

Rossamünd listened with rapt fascination. Here was a man who had not only seen monsters, he had talked with them! Why couldn’t they have made me a postman so I could wander around and talk to monsters too? To Fouracres he said, “I can’t believe you actually spoke with the Misbegotten Schrewd!”

“Well I did, many times. Great talks they were, very illuminating.” Fouracres became sad again. “It’s a great shame he had ter go the way he did—that ettin was a nice enough fellow.”

Angry tears formed in Rossamünd’s eyes. He kicked at a stone and sent it cracking into the trees. “I knew it! I knew it! But she just went and killed him anyway!”

“Now there, Rossamünd, master yerself,” the postman soothed, bemused. “It’s a bitter truth of our world that monsters and the vast majority of folks can’t live together—certainly not happily. In everyman lands, monsters give way; in monster lands, everymen give way. It’s a law o’ nature.”

“But you lived happily with them!”

“Some I did, that is sure, but certainly not all I met were worth stopping ter chat with. Besides which”—Fouracres leaned closer—“I ain’t the vast majority of folks.”

Rossamünd wiped his nose. He was angry still. Things would never be as simple as they were at the foundlingery. “I would have liked to have been his friend too!” he growled.

The postman leaned forward and replied quietly, almost secretively, “A noble feeling, Rossamünd. It does credit t’yer soul, and I heartily believe yer would have made an excellent chum: but I have ter warn yer not ter say as much ter many others. Such talk can get you a whole life o’ trouble. Keep these things ter yerself.” Fouracres thought for a moment. “I’ll not trouble yer, though, nor say anything of what yer’ve just told me. ’Tween us alone, this . . .” But suddenly he stopped—stopped talking, stopped walking and stared rigidly at nothing.

Rossamünd had walked some way ahead before he realized. Alarmed, he turned back to the postman. “Mister Fo . . . ”

“Uh!” was all Fouracres said, his hand whipping up to signal silence. After only a moment more he stepped forward and whispered to the startled foundling. “We have something wicked on our path. Follow and step very lightly—yer life depends on’t . . .” With that the postman crept into the trees on their left.

Looking over either shoulder in awe, Rossamünd followed as quietly as he could into the wood, every snap and click underfoot a cause for chagrined wincing. He could not see anything on the road. How was it possible for this fellow to do so?

The ground all about was very flat and the trees broadly spaced. Some way in Fouracres found a modest pile of stone all about a small boulder and indicated that this was to be their hiding place.

His gizzards buzzing with fear, Rossamünd gratefully hid behind these rocks and found a gap between them through which he stared back at the road.

Fouracres put down the large bag he carried and held up a finger, whispering seriously. “No noise, no movement—ye’re the very soul of stillness. Aye? The soul of stillness.”

“Aye,” Rossamünd replied in a nervous wheeze.

“I will be back.”

The postman returned to the road, rapidly yet with little sound. Watching through the gap in the stones, Rossamünd saw him pick up a long stick as he went, then take out something from the satchel he carried and unwrap it. The strangely pleasant odor of john-tallow came back to him in the light early afternoon breeze. Quickly, Fouracres skewered the john-tallow on the end of the stick and began to rub it on the ground, on trunks, on leaves, creeping off the road and into the trees on the opposite side.

He’s making a false trail! Rossamünd realized.

With fluid, careful speed, the postman worked deeper into the woods. Rossamünd lost sight of him and began to feel all-too-familiar panic.

I am the very soul of stillness! I am the very soul of stillness . . . he chanted to himself.

There was a click close by.

With that one sound he became the very soul of dread!

There, just showing above one of the larger rocks, appeared the glaring head of a monster. Not more than five or six paces away, its long face was covered in mangy gray fur, with a pointed nose and equally pointed teeth, the top ones protruding over the bottom lip. A matted beard grew in limp strands from its chin. It had great, rabbitlike ears tipped with black fur that drooped out from behind its eyes. Large yellow eyes rolled about between slitted lids. This creature snuffled at the air as its ears twitched and swiveled.

Rossamünd had never imagined such a thing—how very happy he would have been to have Europe with him now! He clenched every muscle he knew he had, holding his wind for fear that even breathing would make him move too much. I’m not here, don’t see me . . . I’m not here, don’t see me . . .

However, the creature’s attention was clearly absorbed by the perfume of the john-tallow. It stalked away without noticing the foundling cowering in his temporary rock shelter. Remaining frozen, Rossamünd was nevertheless able to watch it through the gap as it stepped onto the road. Hunched and gaunt and taller than a man, the nicker bent down to smell the spot where Fouracres and the boy had only just been standing. Its long, furry arms ended in long, furry hands from which grew long, curved claws that clicked and clacked together with every move of its fingers. Its legs bent backward like the hind legs of a dog, and it used them to walk in an awkward, jerking way. The creature looked up the road, it looked down the road, sniffed at the ground again. Finally it started into the opposite trees.

But where was Fouracres? Daring to move a little, Rossamünd peered through his small gap in the rocks, looking for the postman out there somewhere in the trees.

Nothing.

Wanting to flee, wailing, into the woods, Rossamünd determined instead to be patient. He had survived the grinnlings—the nimbleschrewds; he could survive this.

With a soft snort, the creature pranced farther into the shadows on the other side of the road. It lingered there in the twilight under the eaves. While Rossamünd watched it, he began to get this strange niggling sensation to look to his left. He was reluctant to take his eyes from the creature, but in the end he did and looked over his shoulder. There was Fouracres sneaking back to him one slow cautious step at a time, his eyes never leaving the shadows of the opposite wood.

Relief! Sweet relief. Rossamünd could not recall ever feeling so glad, so lightened within, to see someone as he did just then. Encouraged, he returned to his vigil, in time to see the creature thread its jaunting way through the trunks and eventually disappear from sight.

Turning back to watch the postman, he found Fouracres, his eyes still fixed on the farther trees, almost up to the rocks. He no longer had the john-tallow: that would be stuck somewhere cunning as far from them as possible on the opposite side. Rossamünd went to move, but the postman cautioned him to remain as still as he had been.

“We’re not free of it yet,” he hissed almost inaudibly as he crouched down beside the foundling.

Taking the postman’s lead, Rossamünd stayed still and kept his watch through the gap. Muscles began to ache and an annoying hum started in his ears as he strained to hear any clue of the creature’s return. This waiting was getting very hard.

Seconds slowed to minutes, minutes slowed to hours.

Rossamünd gave Fouracres a pleading look.

“Keep waiting,” Fouracres insisted once more, and Rossamünd sat till he thought he could not take the buzzing of his joints or the ringing in his ears anymore. He had no idea for how long they waited, just that it was so very long.

Even when a carriage went by, they waited still. But when another clattered by only a few minutes later, the postman seemed satisfied, and at last released them, saying, “It’s safe enough. Let’s get away from here.”

Leading Rossamünd through the trees, still in silence, Fouracres allowed them to travel on the open road again only after they had put an hour’s distance between themselves and their temporary refuge. Once clear of the trees, they hurried the rest of the way and arrived at the Harefoot Dig, safe at last.

It was late afternoon.

Exhausted, but promising to meet the postman in the common room, Rossamünd went to tell Europe the good news.

The reclining, recovering fulgar received the revelation with her usual laconic grace. “You can trust this fellow?”

“He’s an Imperial postman, miss. His whole life is trustworthiness!” the foundling enthused.

“Well, if a girl can’t trust her own factotum, then who can she?” Europe closed her eyes, signaling the end of the matter.

Rossamünd rolled his eyes.

He returned to the common room too eager to enjoy his last meal, for tomorrow they would be leaving. Fouracres was waiting for him, a pipkin of small wine and two mugs already on the table. As they sipped the small wine, Rossamünd showed the postman the cracking, illegible mass that used to be his traveling papers, letter of introduction and the rest. Rossamünd still carried them even though they were next to useless, thankful at least that Mister Sebastipole’s instructions were so skeletal, for while they lacked detail, they had been easy to memorize. He thought that an Imperial postman, especially one as friendly and helpful as Fouracres, would be able to help him with this problem.

Fouracres uncreased the puzzle of ruined papers carefully. He inspected the all-but-dissolved writing gravely. Soon he looked up again. “This is certainly a mess,” he concluded, “but the seal is still intact on yer traveling certificate, and yer name, thank Providence. As ter the rest, well, I’ll vouch for yer—what I call good, the Empire calls good.Yer mottle will help yer too.” He pointed to Rossamünd’s baldric.

“Thank you so much, Mister Fouracres. I thought I was sunk.”

“My pleasure, Rossamünd, though I would recommend yer got them rewritten by the clerk or the Chief Harbor Governor as soon as yer can—and I’ll help yer in that as well.”

A meal of black coney pie arrived—and a jug of Juice-of-Orange with it—and they ate in silence for a time. Eventually Rossamünd mustered the courage to ask, “Mister Fouracres, what was that creature back on the road there?”

The postman stopped chewing and looked thoughtfully at the ceiling. “I don’t rightly know,” he answered at last. “Never seen its kind before. Bit of a conundrum—I’ll have ter ask around.”

Rossamünd held up his almanac. “I can’t find it in here either.”

“Well, that ain’t surprising,” Fouracres chuckled. “There’s more kinds of monster than many a book could catalog.” He quickly became sad and serious. “Not that most folks think they’re worth a-cataloging anyways. Most folks would rather just see them killed and that be the end of it or at most see a list of glaring faces tattooed ter the limbs of a teratologist. Still, worth a look.”

Rossamünd returned the book to his lap. “Uh . . . Mister Fouracres, have you . . . ever killed a monster?”

“Unfortunately, Mister Rossamünd, I have been forced ter do so, yes.” The postman looked sad. “Yer see, if it’s a choice ’twixt they or me, I choose me each time.”

“Does that mean you have monster-blood tattoos, then?” Rossamünd could not help from asking.

Fouracres hesitated, then frowned. “Well, no, actually. I don’t go a-glorying in killings my hand’s been forced to do. It’s just a part of getting the post ter where it needs ter be.”

“Oh.”

The meal finished, the Juice-of-Orange drunk, they parted ways, Fouracres promising to be ready to take the reins on the morrow morning.

The night before she had settled the account with the proprietors by simply refusing to pay any extra beyond what she owed Doctor Verhooverhoven, declaring with the cold loftiness of a queen, “The boy’s billion has covered expenses, as you well know. You’ll not get a gander more out of him nor out of me.”

Madam Felicitine went pale, but had said not a word.

Mister Billetus had just ducked his head and said, “Right you are, right you are. Hope your stay was as comfortable as could have been in the circumstances.”

With a footman lugging out the fulgar’s saddlebags and other luggage behind her, Europe stepped out into the coach yard. Rossamünd and Fouracres were already seated in the landaulet, waiting, the foundling in the passenger compartment and the postman ready to drive in the driver’s box. Europe stopped by the step of the carriage and stayed there. With a quiet apology a yardsman went to hand her aboard. She shooed him away, saying, “Leave off, man, it’s not your job.”

Rossamünd had let his attention wander, filling his senses with the beauty of early morning. Only gradually did he become aware things were amiss. He looked dumbly at Europe, puzzled. She remained still, glaring straight ahead through those clear weird pink spectacles, her chin stuck forward arrogantly.

Rossamünd blinked. What’s wrong?What is she waiting for?

“Miss Europe?” he asked simply.

Her eyes flicked to him. “Well . . . ?”

There was an uncomfortable silence. Somehow it dawned on the foundling what she wanted. I’m supposed to help her in like Licurius did!

He quickly jumped out of the landaulet, causing it to rock and unsettle the horse.

“Whoa! Steady, lad,” Fouracres warned.

Ever so subtly, Europe rolled her eyes.

With a weak smile Rossamünd handed the fulgar aboard and climbed back in once more, feeling very foolish.

“Drive on, man,” Europe murmured.

Without a backward glance, Fouracres whipped the horse to a start. They went out through broad gates and turned left. Looking back, Rossamünd could see farther along the wall to that pedestrian portal they had been admitted through three nights earlier. In his mind he bid farewell to his first wayhouse.

Fouracres turned the landaulet right at the junction and Rossamünd was taken south this time. The Harefoot Dig disappeared behind the trees.

The Gainway took them through a woodland of younger, graceful pines, with areas of wild lawn between the slender trees. As they went on, large lichen-covered boulders now appeared here and there and the lawn became sparse and stubbly. An hour out from the wayhouse, the road began to slope gently down, and soon the trees gave way to a broad expanse of rolling downs and even larger lichen-grown stones. Every so often, thin, rutted paths would lead off from it, going to mysterious, adventurous ends. He saw one come to its conclusion at some distant dwelling. There were several of these about, he began to notice, small stone cottages built high upon lofty foundations, also of stone, with slits for windows and tall chimneys. Smoke wafted from some, that mysterious sign of homely life within.

“They’re the houses of the eekers,” Fouracres explained, “folk who manage to scratch out a living in the thin soil hereabouts. What they lack in material wealth they gain in liberty. The authorities don’t tend to bother them much.”

“But why are they so high off the ground?”

Fouracres gave a wry smile. “Ahh, to give the bogles a hard time getting them, of course.”

With a slight arching of her brows, Europe looked knowingly at the postman’s back. “You’ve dealt with some yourself, I suppose?” she said. This was the first thing she had said all morning.

The postman did not look at her. “Indeed I have, ma’am, though I am sure a near sight fewer than thee!”

“Hm.” Europe lapsed into silence once more.

After two hours, with the scene changing little, they passed a milestone, a squat block of white rock upon which was carved High Vesting, and beneath that, 6 miles.

Behind this milestone grew a small, scruffy olive tree. As Rossamünd looked, he was sure he spied movement within, a subtle shifting within the bush. He glared into its deep shadows. There, within, he was certain there was a figure obscured by boughs, a little person with a face like an overlarge sparrow and round, glittering dark eyes. A bogle! It shrunk noiselessly into deeper shade, but its eyes remained fixed on Rossamünd, blinking occasionally with a pale flicker. The foundling stared back in breathless wonder, craning his neck as the landaulet rattled past and moved on.

“It’s only a milestone, little man,” Europe’s curt voice intruded. “Surely you’ve seen one before?”

The horse whickered.

The eyes disappeared.

Rossamünd sat back quickly. Thrilled as he was by such a sight, he felt no inclination to tell Europe of it. He did not want to see this one destroyed as the Misbegotten Schrewd had been. Thinking on the encounter just past, he decided he must have seen a nuglung, one of the littler bogles, so the almanac said, often having an animal’s head on a small, humanlike body—what the almanac called anthropoid, or like a man. Rossamünd almost couldn’t believe it: he had seen a nuglung, a real one. There were stories from ancient times that told of some of these nuglungs doing good things for people, though folk now would never believe such a notion. His almanac was typically brief on them, saying, as it always did about any kind of bogle, that avoidance was the best policy. The foundling reckoned such advice probably helped the monsters as much as people.

Opening a black lacquered box, Europe took out a soft drawstring bag with a stiffened circular bottom. It was a fiasco. Rossamünd had seen them before. In them he knew women kept their rouges, blushes and balms: the tools of beauty. He did not think a fulgar would need such things, but, when she had finished dabbing and daubing at her face with the aid of a small looking glass, even a young lad like himself could not help but be amazed by the simple yet profound transformation. He did not think a little rosying of the cheeks and lips and whitening of the nose could be so flattering.

“A girl’s got to look her best for the city,” she offered simply to his gawping.

Fouracres turned in the driver’s seat to say something and was visibly stunned, turning an unmanly red from earlobe to earlobe. He quickly resumed his original position and muttered over his shoulder awkwardly, “We’ll . . . er . . . be at High Vesting in an hour or so, miss.”

Europe smiled weakly. “Yes, we had deduced that for ourselves. A mere stone told us the distance about a mile back—but thank you for the thought.” She hummed happily and watched the passing scene.

Recovering his composure, Fouracres once more spoke over his shoulder. “So, Rossamünd, ye’re going ter be a lamplighter, are yer?”

The foundling did not know how to answer this. Was he a lamplighter or was he now Europe’s factotum? He looked at her quickly. Muffled in her thick coat, she paid him no attention whatsoever, returning to her usual regal reserve.

“That’s what I am supposed for, sir,” he ventured, glancing at Europe once more. “Though I am not really wanting it. Do you know much about them?”

“A little,” answered the postman. As he spoke, he would spend some of the time looking at Rossamünd from the corner of one eye and at the road with the corner of the other, or turn his back completely and focus on the path ahead. “I was thinking of becoming one myself, yer see, when the choices were afore me. As yer can see for yerselves, it didn’t take my fancy.”

Here was the proof of his dull future. “Too boring, Mister Fouracres?”

The postman paused, appearing bemused. “That’s not so much it . . . as the reverse.”

This was not the answer Rossamünd had expected. He sat up. “How do you mean?”

“I chose the quiet life of a strolling postman, for the lot of a lamplighter was a little too dangerous for mine.”

Rossamünd found he was holding his breath. “Dangerous? I thought they just went out, lit the lamps and went back home.”

With a chuckling snort, Fouracres looked sharply at Rossamünd. “That they do—on stretches of road traveling the fringes of civilization, at times of the day that bogles love best ter move about in, contending with bandits, poachers, smugglers, mishaps on the road itself, living with only a handful o’ others in isolated places. Then you have ter go about changing the water in the lamps themselves, regular as the seasons—that part, I’ll grant yer, ain’t interesting at all. Mmm, not the job for this fellow.” The postman pointed to himself with his thumb as he returned his attention to the road. “My hours are long and strange enough and my pay as low again as any should bear, without having cause ter make any o’ this worser by joining the lamplighter service.” He gave Rossamünd a cheeky, sidelong smile. “Ye, however, Mister Rossamünd, seem ter be made of sterner stuff. Well, good for yer. It’s a good thing yer harness is so fine, else yer might have something ter worry about. Howsoever, I’d get yerself a well-made hat afore yer venture up ter Winstermill.”

Rossamünd did not answer. His thoughts were turning on all the postman had just revealed. Bogles! Bandits! Perhaps the life of a lamplighter might be a whole lot more worthwhile after all? This clarified his path for him: now he was actually curious, even eager, to work his official trade. How do I tell Miss Europe this? The fulgar had said little more on her desire for him to become her factotum since the first day at the Harefoot Dig. He looked at her once more. Though her expression was resolutely aloof, she seemed sad—not momentarily unhappy, but troubled with deep, suppressed grief. How different she was from the talkative, boastful woman he had first met on the pastures of Sulk End. A tiny ache set in Rossamünd’s soul. He felt sorry for her loss of Licurius, however foul the leer had been, and he had an inkling that his devoted service might take that grief away. He was confused again.

Pondering intently on these things, he did not notice three crusty folk sitting by the side of the road with their rambling carts and rickety donkeys till the sound of their chatter caught his attention. They were sellers of vegetables of many kinds.

Fouracres hailed them as the landaulet passed. “Hoy! Gentle eekers, do yer have any letters ter send?”

All three smiled with genuine, almost bursting joy, one of them crying, “Ah, bless ye! Bless ye, Master Fourfields. No letters from us today.” She marveled at the landaulet. “What a pretty pair o’ legs ye’re travelin’ on this ev’nin’! Much easier on the boot leather than yer usual ones!” She tossed a large pumpkin to the postman.

“And blessings ter thee, Mother Fly! Mother Mold! Farmer Math! Sorry, I can’t stop, but these ‘pretty legs’ have places they’re taking me!” He grinned back, slowing the landaulet and catching the vegetable skillfully. “I’ll be back along here termorrer. We’ll have a good natter then. Thanks for the fruit, madam—t’will make for a fine soup ternight.”

“Then I’ll save me quizzin’s fer anon,” the old woman returned in a hoarse too-loud whisper, rolling her intensely curious gaze over Rossamünd and, more especially, Europe.

The fulgar did not even stir, but continued her cool stare at the country on the opposite side. The foundling, however, smiled happily at this rustic dame and her companions, who all returned his friendly expression.

“Save them all, Mother, and get yerself waddling home at the right time,” Fouracres said cheekily. “Darkness comes too early this time o’ year, and the chance of bogles with it.”

Mother Fly laughed a dry and crackling laugh. “And ye’d better pass on yerself, fancy-legs. Ye’ve still got a-ways to rattle before ye can make yer soup. Till tomorrer!”

“Till termorrer.”

With that they passed on, Mother Fly waving cheerfully.

When they had gone a little farther, Fouracres informed him quietly, “They’re some of the eekers I was telling yer about. Good people, as hospitable as they get.” Rossamünd wondered how it was such happy folk as these could bear to live in those tottering cottages out in this bare, haunted place.

They crested a small rise in the road and before them the land spread out and down in a large basin that found its way to the sea. Rossamünd assumed it must be the mighty Grume—though he had never seen it before. So much water, and as sickly a green as Master Fransitart or Master Heddlebulk or Master Pinsum had ever described. Rossamünd marveled and stared fixedly. The sea! The sea! The cloudy surface seemed to be shifting constantly, much more than the Humour ever had. Flecks of dirty white danced, reared up, then disappeared—the tops of waves—and the smell of it blew to them from the basin below. It was like no other odor Rossamünd had ever encountered. Sharp and salty, yet somehow sweet as well, almost like a hint of orange blossoms in spring.

Europe wrinkled her nose with a look of mild distaste.

Fouracres turned to them beaming with satisfaction. He breathed in deeply. “Ahhh! The stink o’ the Grume. Nothing quite like it. They say that the kelp forests just offshore improve its stink somewhat, that out in the deeper waters it does not smell so sweet. Makes me glad I’m not a sailor. Now look there, my boy. That is High Vesting.”

Below and before them, on the shores of the Grume, was a cluttered knot of marble, granite and masonry that made the high protecting walls and buildings of the fortress-city of High Vesting. It was not nearly as big as Boschenberg, but somehow seemed far more threatening. Great white towers, taller than any buildings Rossamünd had known, stuck up from all the usual domes and spires. Out in the water giant blocks of stone had been laid out in a great groyne that protected the harbor. In this harbor, which the almanac had named the Mullhaven, were ships, actual ships! Even from here he could tell what kinds they were from his lessons under Master Heddlebulk.There were low, menacing rams; solid, blocklike cargoes and grand-cargoes; and sleek ships still running under sail in this age of the gastrine—many being guided and poked about the harbor by small gastrine craft known as drudges. He had been told of the great size of these vessels, but was not prepared for just how big they were. He could not wait to get to High Vesting now, to go down to its docks and stand near these monstrous craft. It might well be the last time he got to see ships.

He looked back at Europe, who had been so quiet the whole way. She too was staring at the fortress-city and looked bored. She turned to the foundling and seemed to search his face, heavy thoughts stirring inexplicably in her expression. Her attention remained fixed so for only an instant; then she went back to gazing at their destination.

As they drove down the southern side of the rise and into the basin, the Gainway became much broader, its paving smoother. On either side grew unbroken lanes of tall, leafless tress with smooth silver-gray bark and high curving branches. This late in autumn, their fallen leaves were piled in great drifts along the verges. Other roads and paths joined from the surrounding farms and villages, and with them more traffic. Some of their fellow travelers gave the landaulet a curious or suspicious inspection. Soon enough they joined the queue of vehicles and pedestrians waiting to pass the scrutiny of the gate wardens—who wore a uniform similar to the soldiers of Boschenberg—and enter High Vesting by her massive iron gates. Before long they would be within the walls.

With vague apprehension Rossamünd wondered if, after all this time, Mister Germanicus would still be waiting for him.