Foundling Read Free

Empire’s glorious standard, cried, “To me, Emperor’s men! To me! Stand with me now and win yourself a place in history!”
    But no one listened, no one halted, no one returned to his side to defend his ancient home.
    Alas, now, the Slothog was too close for escape. It paused for a brief and horrible moment. Slavering, it regarded Harold hungrily with tiny, evil eyes. Then, with a bellow it shook off its panicking handlers and charged.
    With a cry of his own, lost in the din of the beast, Harold swung up his sling and leaped . . .
    “Young Master Rossamünd! What rot are yer readin’?”
    Fransitart, the dormitory master of Madam Opera’s Estimable Marine Society for Foundling Boys and Girls, stood over Rossamünd as he sat in a forlorn little huddle, tucked up in his rickety bunk. A great red welt showed on his left cheek and right down his neck. Gosling had done his work well.
    The boy looked sheepishly at Master Fransitart as he pressed the thin folio of paper he had been reading against his chest, creasing pages, bending corners. He had been so taken by the tale that he had not heard the dormitory master’s deliberate step as he had approached Rossamünd’s corner down the great length of the dormitory hall.
    “It’s one of them awful pamphlets Verline buys for yer, bain’t it, me boy?” Fransitart growled.
    It was the old dormitory master who had found him those years ago: found him with inadequate rags and rotting leaves for swaddling, that tattered sign affixed to his tiny, heaving chest. Rossamünd knew the dormitory master watched out for him with a care that was beyond both his duty and his typically gruff and removed nature. Rossamünd did not pause to wonder why: he simply accepted it as freely as he did Verline’s tender attentions.
    The foundling nodded even more sheepishly. The gaudily colored title showed brightly on the cover:
    He had woken a little earlier, after recovering from his dose of birchet, to find the pamphlet sitting on the old tea chest that served as a bedside table. Every second Domesday, when Verline was given a little time to herself, she bought them for the children from a shady little vendor on the Tochtigstrat. Today was Midwich—the day before Domesday. This particular issue must have been brought to him as a special comfort, and Rossamünd had snatched it up eagerly.
    The dormitory master folded his hands behind his back. “What will Master Pinsum think of me findin’ ye readin’ these things again?”
    Master Pinsum was one of Rossamünd’s instructors. He taught the foundlings matters, letters and generalities—that is, history, writing and geography. Rossamünd found it endlessly fascinating that, whenever Master Pinsum declared this about himself, he would wave his right hand theatrically, as was done in gala-plays, and rrrrolll his R ’s with equal drama.
    “I’m not much for me letters, as ye know, lad,” Fransitart continued, with a cheeky twinkle in his eye, “but Master Pinsum ’as led me to thinkin’ that readin’ these ’ere pamphlets will shrivel yer mind. Let’s just say ’tis a good thing ye’re recuperatin’ from th’ beatin’ that spineless-braggart-of-a-child Gosling gave ye—else I might ’ave to consider con-fer-scatin’ that there folio.” He rocked back on his heels and regarded the luminous cover. “What’s this ’un about, me lad?”
    Rossamünd grinned. “The Great Skold Harold, Champion of the Empire and Savior of Clementine!”
    “Ahh.” Fransitart stroked his clean-shaven chin. “Ol’ ’Arold, is it? Slayer of a thousand monsters in th’ Battle of th’ Gates, Savior of th’ Imperial Capital? That were a powerful long time ago—a bit of ancient ’istory. Wonder ’ow true that version ye got there is, though?”
    “Why wouldn’t it be true?” Rossamünd looked horrified.
    Fransitart shrugged. “Per’aps ’cause fabrications are easier to sell and more entertainin’ to read.” He leaned in a little.