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block of cured fungus known as dried must, a whole loaf of rye bread, a pot of gherkins that sloshed and plopped quietly when it was moved, three rectangular slats of portable soup (hard black wafers ready to be boiled down to a bland but nutritious brew), some fresh green apples and, for energy or emergencies, fortified sack cheese.
    Traveling papers were arranged for him: a letter of introduction from Madam Opera recommending Rossamünd as a fine and useful boy; a waybill, or certificate of travel, giving him permission to move through any land or city-state of the Empire; a nativity patent to prove who he was and where he came from; and finally a work docket, upon which his conduct would be recorded in whatever job he was employed. This impressive wad of documents was put into a buff leather wallet along with (he could hardly believe his eyes!) folding money to the value of one sou—an advance of his monthly wages—and the Emperor’s Billion. This was a shining gold oscadril coin given as an incentive to all those entering the service of their Imperial and Pacific Lord. Rossamünd gaped at all this money that was apparently now his.
    Old Craumpalin contributed too. The dispensurist supplied several flasks and tiny sacks, declaring them to be medicines to “invigorate both thew and wind”—by which he meant body and soul—and repellents to “fear away the bogles and nickers.” Rossamünd already knew the medicines—he’d seen them before—small milky bottles holding evander water, marked with a deep blue ∋ to show what they contained, and beneath that the tiny letters C-R-p-N —the dispensurist’s mark. The repellents, however, were new.
    “Beware the monsters, me boy! Ye’ve been safe in here all yer life, but out there . . .” Craumpalin gestured vaguely. “Out there it ain’t safe. They’re everywhere, see, the nasty baskets. Big or small, they’re as mean as mean can be, so just keep these potives safe and handy and ye’ll go right—though I have to apologize to ye for them not being of as fine a quality as a skold brews.” The dispensurist pointed to a cobalt vial. “Right! This here is tyke-oil. It don’t smell like much to us, but it’s good for keeping monsters away, right off. A healthy smear on yer collar and they’ll stay well clear of ye. Problem is, it also lets them know ye’re there, so don’t go applying it willy-nilly, only when ye think they’ve got yer scent.”
    Then he gingerly poked at one of the many little sacks kept within a bigger purse. Though the smell coming from them was faint, it was still unpleasantly sharp. Rossamünd hoped he never suffered a faceful of it.
    “These are bothersalts.Very nasty stuff, and the sacks are fragile, so have a care. It will give any bogle—or person, for that matter—you happen on a nasty sting if you throw it at them, bag and all. Frighten them off for hours, but it also makes ’em angry, so be on yer guard for a good long while after. And this ! This is a pretty bit of trickery!” Craumpalin unwrapped a package of oily paper to show a large lump of malleable skin-colored wax. An odor something like a very sweaty and unwashed person filled the air.
    “It’s called john-tallow. Smells a wee bit off to us, but it’s a mile more appealing to the nose of a nicker than we are . . . leads them astray. Poke a little lump of this in the bole of a tree or under a rock, walk in the other direction and ye’ll get yerself some space.” He chuckled into his white beard. “Wonderful stuff. A warning, though: always handle it by the oiled paper. If ye get the stuff on y’ hands—or anywhere else come to that—then ye’ll stink of it too and the ruse will be ruined. Got it?”
    As the dispensurist kneaded the wax, Rossamünd found that, strangely, he liked the smell. He said nothing of this and took in all he was told very carefully, very seriously, imagining a world beyond the city’s many curtain walls and bastions filled with all