Lamplighter

by D M Cornish

  “We’ll still be in a tight bit o’ hurry to make it to the next cot in time!” the driver said, louring down at her from his high seat as she climbed aboard. “So I recommend ye hang on ter something.” He proved good to his promise, for no sooner had Threnody settled into her nest of furs than the lentum surged to motion.

  “What were you doing?” Rossamünd shouted above the noise of transit. “We’ve been waiting for a while . . .”

  Threnody looked at him unrepentantly. “I always like to try a little shopping when I can.”

  Rain began falling so hard its rattling drum on the carriage roof made conversation impossible. Threnody raised the sash on her side to keep its splashings out, yet Rossamünd left his down to see what passed and tolerated the wet. As Hinkerseigh disappeared in the fog of the deluge, the highroad narrowed.The lenterman whipped up the new horse-team’s rate and kept the poor beasts at a dangerous, transom-shattering speed for several miles, slowing only occasionally to rest them. The post-lentum dashed right past Howlbolt, not even slowing for courtesy, noisily scattering a coven of ravens that had settled before the cothouse.

  The valley became deeper, the Mirthlbrook drawing close by the Wormway again, broader now, its banks choked with willow, swamp oak and hawthorn, its waters rushing over and through sharp rocks and keeping pace with the lentum. The stream’s opposite bank was steep, almost clifflike, tangled with dark young woods.

  “That’s the Owlgrave,” Threnody shouted above the roar of the rain and road. “It’s said that monsters like to go there to die when they are mortal-hurt or sick of the world.”

  THE LENTERMEN

  Rossamünd stared at the choked rise imagining he could see some languishing nicker up among the rocks and trees. He had always thought monsters lived on and on till someone slew them, and the idea of them pining away was odd, disturbing. So that is where they end, he pondered, but where do they begin? His reading had informed him of many theories. Some scholars said monsters grew on trees, others that they grew “buds” on themselves, which dropped to the ground and grew into other monsters. The worst way was congress between everyman and ünterman, which was said to spawn some wicked half-human abomination, the ultimate excess of outramour. Implicit in the accusation of sedorner was the suspicion of such a union. Most habilists said such a thing was impossible, but common folks still believed it, and that was enough.

  Out the other side of the lentum Rossamünd saw the flicker of a lighted lamp, then another. Regardless of pelting rain and threatening lands, the lantern-watch of Bitterbolt, the next cothouse, had faithfully wound out the lamps.

  The Wormway went down and over a large stone-arch bridge with lit lanterns upon either abutment that passed over the broad stream of the Bittermere. Before this bridge was a foreboding collection of buildings, each four or five stories of dressed stone, baked bricks, mortar and lead shingles. It was a mighty rectangular accretion, its roofs thorny with high chimneys.There was no encircling wall; the lowest floors were absent of any openings—not even a single door, and the few second-story windows were heavily barred. Even the undersides of the sills of higher windows and the gutters were garlanded with thorny wire. The footings of the entire pile were assiduously smeared with a slippery-looking black substance, a repellent no doubt. This was a place that never intended a monster to ever gain a foothold. The winds and the rain had blown themselves out. In the stillness, the comfort of sweet wood-smoke and the savory promise of that evening’s prandial preparations wafted down to them from the place.

  “The wayhouse of the Brisking Cat, good folks,” the side-armsman called helpfully from his perch.

  Upon the other side of the highroad was a low brick building with no sidelights or transoms or even a casement. Its strong doors were half buried into the chalky ground and a siding-lane with sturdy walls upon either side branched off and went down to them. At the top of the lane stood a filigree lantern-post. Fixed to this was a badly stained signboard upon which was painted a lion, its claws reaching.

  The lentum descended the lane and went through ironwood gates opened for it at the end. Through the gates and within the low building was a great stablery for horse and carriage, much of it tunneling back into the hillock itself. The reek of hay and hoof-trodden pats made the air foul.

  Grinning ear to ear, the splasher boy opened the door for them with a touch to the brim of his tall stovepipe hat. “We’ve done all right to get you here afore the daisy hay was done,” he said excitedly.

  “Excuse me?” Threnody scowled. “The what was done?”

  The splasher boy looked at her as if she were Jack Simple. “The daisy hay . . .” He grinned at Rossamünd as if he knew, but Rossamünd had not heard the term either. “It’s the right time of day for travel! Only lighters and fools go out after sundown—oh . . .” The splasher boy went bright red as he realized who he was talking to and quickly found other things to do.

  “I see,” said Threnody.

  As Rossamünd and Threnody alighted, another person was arriving on foot, let in by the small sally port fixed in the heavy ironwood gate.The last gasp of a gust blew through the door, bringing with it a sweetly salty and familiar scent.

  “Did you get your hob-gnasher, Madam Rose?” one of the gaters asked.

  “That I did, Master File,” the newly arrived wayfarer declared briskly, and lifted a large leather satchel bulging with something lumpy and vaguely head-shaped. “And a might of trouble it gave me too.”

  It was Europe!

  The Branden Rose was wearing her usual deep red fighting garb, and was muffled against the cold with the spangled-fur pollern. Three heavy-harnessed gaters attending bowed in quiet deference.

  Threnody made to follow a porter and continue on through to the wayhouse, but stopped when she realized Rossamünd was just lingering and staring.

  Eventually Europe turned, with narrowed eyes that went wide—just for a moment—then knowing. She swaggered over, an eyebrow cocked. “Well hello again, little man,” the fulgar said softly as she approached. “Have they finally let you out of Winstermill?”

  “Hello, Miss Europe,” Rossamünd greeted cheerfully. “We’re on our way to our new billet.” Smiling at her, he saw that the fulgar’s eyes were badly bloodshot, an almost complete and ghastly red.

  “Where is that?” Europe smiled tightly in return.

  “Wormstool—what’s happened to your eyes, miss? They’re all red like a falseman’s.”

  The woman’s brow furrowed. “It comes from a long day arcing. And what have you done to your head, little man? All bandage and no hat!”

  “I lost it in a fight.”

  The fulgar raised an amused eyebrow. “In a fight, was it? I cannot leave you for a moment. Well, at least you did not lose my gift,” she said, looking at his fine scarf. She turned a cool gaze to Threnody. “I see you have brought the august’s daughter with you.”

  “I . . .” was yet forming in Rossamünd’s mouth when Threnody interjected.

  “You’re the Branden Rose, aren’t you?” she asked, with a look of profound, barely contained excitement. Rossamünd had never seen her look quite so enthusiastic—it was odd.

  “My name precedes me, I see,” said Europe, a subtle smirk fluttering at the corner of lip and eye.

  “And you really do know him?” Threnody glanced at Rossamünd.

  “Aye—” he began.

  “Indeed!” Europe replied civilly. “We are old wayfaring chums, are we not, little man? We have been on many an adventure already.”

  “I am Lady Threnody of Herbroulesse,” the girl lighter began, barely waiting for an answer, “daughter of the Lady Vey, August of the Right of the Pacific Dove,” finishing with affected gravity as she tried not to betray her eagerness.

  A hint of disdain fluttered across Europe’s face. “I heard rumor that the Marchioness Vey had issue by some clandestine means, and here breathes the proof. Might I say you are dressed peculiarly for a calendar?”

  Threnody
looked down at her gorgeous, if slightly travel-ruffled clothes. “Oh, I’m not a calendar anymore. I’m a full lamplighter now.”

  Europe’s smile was patient, polite. “Good for you, my dear. So I now know something of you and you already know something of me and we are all met. How lovely.” Europe did not look as if she thought it lovely at all, but rather boring. “Come! Time for easy chairs and warm meals.”

  They were let through a heavy door by a broad-set gater with thick mustachios wearing a black-felt liripipium, its long peak almost trailing in the straw-rubbish. As Europe and her two guests approached, he opened the way and took them along an arched, brick-lined tunnel that must have been burrowed right under the Wormway. At the other side their guide hammered upon another door, crying, “Ad aspertum! The Branden Rose and two companions,” to those beyond. They were admitted through a block-room and climbed slate steps to a broad wood-paneled vestibule of the wayhouse proper.

  Footmen in plush asked for their names, took baggage and stowed weapons in an armory-stand to be retrieved on call. This was a very fine establishment indeed. Europe handed over the satchel. “Put it in the cold room for me: I will be requiring it tomorrow to claim my prize.”

  A horse-faced woman clad in a style of dress that Rossamünd had never seen before, made of heavy velvet with broad hanging sleeves and a pretty white palisade cap, rustled over to greet them. She paid studied respect to Europe and politely introduced herself to the two young lamplighters as the enrica d’ama. “ ’Allo, young travelers,” she said in a sweet voice and a delicate southern accent, “I am Madam Oubliette, the proud owner of this fine ’ouse. If you are seeking any service you must call on me or my man Parleferte.” She indicated a gaunt, harassed-looking steward. “Any time of sunup or moon-down. Now please, ’ave your ease in the Saloon.”

  A footman announced them over the moderate hubbub of other conversation. “Her Grace, the Branden Rose, Europa of Fontrevault, Duchess-in-waiting of Naimes; the Lady Threnody of Herbroulesse and a guest!” was the ringing cry, to which few of their fellow patrons paid any attention.

  “Yes, yes,” Europe huffed. “Get on and show us our place, man!”

  “How do you feel, guest, on being just a guest?” Threnody gibed Rossamünd quietly. “Shall I call you guest from now onward?”

  Rossamünd did not acknowledge her.

  Before him was a great hexagonal space with balconies, boxes and claustral-booths rising on every side for three whole floors—the privatrium, each reached by a confusion of stairs and walks.The radiating beams of the lofty ceiling were carved with forms of intertwined cats in various attitudes of hunt or play. Every beam met in the middle and from this zenith hung a collection of great-lamps gathered together like some bizarre chandelier. Beneath this, in the middle of the space surrounded by the privatrium, was a raised oval stage hemmed in by a semicircular tapery-counter at one end where drinks were being pulled or poured. About the tapery were tables and chairs and people sitting at them in a variety of attitudes: animated, upright, slouched, slumped, even leaning dangerously. Rossamünd was so amazed by it all he stumbled on his own feet more than once before the three were settled in a second-story claustra—a somewhat private stall of leather high-backed benches around a square table.

  “The Brisking Cat,” Europe declared grandly as they sat. “Wayhouse, knavery and my current abode.”

  The Saloon was wall to wall with pugnators and their hangers-on, coming, going and ordering about the staff with high-handed carelessness. Rossamünd watched the gallimaufry of teratologists in wide-eyed wonder. Indiscriminate monster-killers written about in public print or gossiped about in civic rumor, a fabulous collection like the pages of a pamphlet come to life. Seeing his fascination, Europe began to name some of them.

  “There are the Boanergës—the ‘Sons of Thunder,’ ” she explained, watching three grim-looking fellows huddled together in grim conversation, periodically glancing suspiciously over their shoulders. “A competent band, each one a fellow astrapecrith, though none too bright.”

  “And that is the Knave of Diamonds,” said Threnody, keen to show her worldliness. Rossamünd looked and saw a large man pass below. He wore a “crown” of tall spiked reeds upon his head; upon his body a heavy-gaulded smock or lambrequin of dirty white with its single, large red diamond on the front; and upon his fierce face a large deep blue diamond spoor.

  A solitary calendar from a different clave than Threnody’s walked across the Saloon floor and took a booth across the other side. She was wearing a bossock of prüs and sable checks and her face was striped like that of a grazing animal from far beyond the Marrow. She wore a dandicomb of long, elegant horns that her claustra was fortunately high enough to contain.

  Threnody watched her closely. “She need not have come,” the girl huffed with the strains of territorial jealousy. “The Right has these troubles in hand.”

  “Who is she?” Rossamünd said so softly he barely spoke at all.

  “She’s a caladine,” Europe answered.

  “Entering our diet without a by-your-leave,” the girl lighter added icily. “I doubt she has presented herself to Mother. Saphine is her name. She is from the Maids of Malady.”

  “Truly?” said Europe. “Your surgeon had perhaps best watch himself.”

  “Miss Europe?”

  “I have the understanding that these Maids of Malady have allied themselves with the Soratchë. Maybe they lend their help to the Soratchë, and Saphine is coming to investigate that Swill fellow. Wheels inside wheels, and all that.”

  Rossamünd hoped this was true. He stared at the caladine until she felt the scrutiny and turned to look at him. Flushing, the young lighter looked away quickly and found a teratologist he knew by sight. He had seen etchings of her in the more sensational pamphlets. Epitomë Bile was her name, a woman written of as a myth: lupine and pitiless and astoundingly daring.Yet here she was, a woman as real as his own hand, all in glossy black soe, white-faced with staring, black-rimmed eyes and oddly cropped black hair.

  Europe showed clear distaste. “Cruel and heartless,” she warned. “Stay well clear of her.”

  Aye, Rossamünd wondered, but has she ever sparked a child in the head?

  Epitomë Bile looked up, caught Europe’s cold eye and returned it, giving a slow, taunting curtsy. A wicked smile flitted across the strange woman’s mien. The two teratological women kept each other fixed with stares of mutual loathing, until Epitomë Bile walked out of the common room, sly, malevolent amusement never leaving her face.

  Rossamünd felt a shiver of dismay. He hoped never to cross her path more closely.

  Europe clucked her tongue quietly and looked elsewhere. “There you have the Three Brave Brothers,” she said, pointing with her chin to a group of men below them (just returned perhaps from the course), turning her guests’ attention to other things. “They actually number four, are not related to each other . . . and are not particularly brave, either.” Rossamünd, who had read of these Brave Brothers, was stunned to see walking before him their infamous scourge, Sourdoor, in his swathes of black lour—proofed velvet.

  “And so my kind gather, looking for violence.” Europe sighed. “Collecting together like crows about a corpse.”

  All the great folk, and the lesser known too, strutted the common room and the privatrium, eyeing one another, ego against ego, and generally getting in the way of the wayhouse’s even routine.

  “The Maid Constant.” The fulgar indicated a wit with an arrow-spoor pointing up from each brow and brilliant-hued blue hair. “She too must needs wear a wig, as you do, my dear, but her hair was green last week and blue for this.”

  Threnody went beetroot blush and sat up. “No wig for me, madam,” she said quickly, glowering nervously at Europe.

  “Not yet, anyway,” Rossamünd put in, trying to be helpful.

  She glared at him.

  “By-the-by,” said Europe, unconcerned.

  The fulgar rattled off many more n
ames, of so many teratologists that Rossamünd could not keep track, and he simply listened to the smooth sound of her voice. His wonder became a little numbed, and he sat a little easier in the comfortable booth. The young lampsman felt the strains of the road ease out into the soft seating, and he became quickly acquainted with just how tired he was. Food was ordered—from the Best Cuts, of course, Rossamünd trying “Starlings in Viand-Royal Sauce”—and an awkwardness persisted while they waited for it to arrive, wetting their thirst with the sourest rich-red wine Rossamünd had ever been served. With the wine came a tankard of steaming Cathar’s Treacle for Europe.

  “It’s testtelated in bulk in the kitchens, by a tandem of skolds of faultless reputation,” she explained, “at a hefty charge, of course. You may want some yourself, my dear.” She nodded gravely at Threnody.

  “No thank you, Duchess,” Threnody returned, still sitting stiff-backed, hands clasped on the table before her. “I have always been taught that one does best to make one’s own plaudamentum.”

  The fulgar became suddenly expressionless.

  “Indeed,” she said, after a long, discomfiting moment, “one would prefer to have it made perpetually by the same trusted hands at a day’s two ends, but what one wants and what one gets are rarely the same.The one I once had confidence in is . . . no longer available—and another unwilling.” She peered at Rossamünd.

  Threnody looked sharply at the Branden Rose, then narrowly, almost enviously, at Rossamünd.

  He tapped purposefully at the tabletop, not meeting either gaze. He had vowed to serve the lamplighters and the Emperor, yet as the troubles of the lamplighters increased, so did the appeal of being the Branden Rose’s factotum. If only she was more careful about which bogles to kill.

  Providentially, mains arrived and all talk ceased for a time as, in the rust glow of red-, orange- and yellow-glassed lanterns, they ate in hungry silence.