by D M Cornish
“What have we sent the lad into, Frans?” Craumpalin exclaimed. “We’ve got to get thee away from ’ere, Rossamünd!”
“And I would go with you, Master Pin, but that I made an oath to serve as a lighter and I’ve been paid the Billion.”
“Aye, right ye are, Rossamünd.” Fransitart smiled his approbation. “We raised ye ’onorable and that way ye should stay. It’s a difficult task to stay faithful beyond endurance. We’ll figure a loose for this impossible-seemin’ knot yet.”
“Aye aye!” Craumpalin added. “Might be possible to get thee an acquittance.”
“An acquittance, Master Craumpalin?”
“Aye, an all-encompassing, all-official release from bound service. Prodigious handy.”
Fransitart nodded. In a firm hush he said, “And did I hear ye right when ye spoke of that Freckle fellow that ’e’s a bogle?”
Rossamünd felt a guilty leap in his belly. “Aye, he’s . . . he’s a—a glamgorn.”
“Thee what?” Craumpalin exclaimed, spitting some ale.
“He helped me—” he added quickly, “more than once.”
“Do others know ye ’ave been talkin’ with this wee thing?” asked Fransitart. “To be talkin’ civil with a bogle is a sedorning offense, Rossamünd. They can gibbet ye for that! I know we taught ye to use yer own intellectuals, but speakin’ with a nasty bain’t quite where I thought ye’d take me advice.”
“Sorry, Master Fransitart,” Rossamünd squeaked.
“Once said is done,” the master said, sighing deeply. “Whatever happens to ye from here on, lad, Master Pin and I’ll be right by ye.”
“Too right!” agreed Craumpalin.
They continued their meal, Rossamünd losing his appetite to worry.
“Master Fransitart? Master Craumpalin?”
“Aye, lad,” the two said together.
“Freckle has said some prodigious strange things to me.”
“What manner o’ things?”
“That he could tell what I am by my name.”
Fransitart and Craumpalin looked blank at this.
“That people were my friends who would not be my friends if they knew . . . knew something,” Rossamünd pushed on. “That I was safer with him. That he wanted to take me to the Duke of Sparrows.”
The two old salts became glassy-eyed, the kind of expressionlessness that hid deeper workings.
“Such is one half of the trouble ye get from talkin’ to bogles,” Fransitart reflected soberly. “They rarely make sense.”
“You’ve spoken to bogles, Master Fransitart?” Rossamünd peered at the man in astonishment.
“Aye, lad. And this is the first time I’ve said on it.”
“Miss Verline once wrote me that you had something to tell me. Something not for letters but for ears alone.” Rossamünd tried, thinking this must have been that something.
The old dormitory master went a gray color Rossamünd had never seen him go before. The two old salts swapped meaningful glances and the awkwardness, instead of dissolving, got worse.
“Well, that I did,” Fransitart said slowly through a mouthful of salt pork, “and . . . and bless ’er for lettin’ ye know.”
“Are they the same strange and shocking things you wanted to tell me before I left?” Rossamünd pressed.
“Aye, they just might be.” Fransitart chose his words carefully. “Be that as it might, though I have yer ears ’ere open and ready, I reckon now is not th’ time for them ears to hear.” He leaned in. “Ye know we’ve always sought yer best, aye, lad?”
“Aye, Master Fransitart.”
“That Master Pin and I have worked only for what we reckoned as right for ye, aye?”
Craumpalin nodded in emphasis.
“Aye, sir.” Rossamünd frowned, baffled.
“Well, trust us that when it’s time for telling, then that’ll be th’ time we’ll tell ye. Aye?”
Rossamünd nodded. He could not fathom what manner of despicable revelation his old master knew that made him so reluctant. Either way he knew he would not get any more on this from his old masters tonight.
The three ate and looked at each other uncomfortably for a time, but talk gradually returned to happy things: to tales of the old vinegaroons’ long-gone adventures together at sea; to fond memories of marine society days—whatever it required to lift them and bring them close again. Rossamünd could have stayed forever in that cozy, happy womb of cheer and love. Anything to smother the growing dread.
29
A FALSE FALSEMAN
Imperial Secretary highest ranked of all the Haacobin Empire’s bureaucrats; men and women of great influence and power, not so much because of their own rank, but because of the status of the ears and minds they have such ready access to—the senior ministers of the Emperor, and even the great man himself. The favor of an Imperial Secretary can be the making of you: disfavor your ruin. Though often of common birth, they are typically courted and feted by peers, especially the lowly ranked, and by gentry and magnates too, eager for some kind of advancement or boon. One does not strive to be an Imperial Secretary for dreams and hopes of reform, but for the sake of pure ambition and ego.
THE morning of the inquiry after a brief wash and short breakfast, Rossamünd was led to the offices of the subrogat-marshal between two foot-guards, like a prisoner. Fransitart and Craumpalin went with him, heads high and dignified, vinegaroons of tested worth in support of a worthy mate. They were recognized as interested parties on Rossamünd’s side and as such were allowed to sit with him during the questioning.
Within Whympre’s file Rossamünd was surprised to find more people gathered than he had expected. Dismayed, he scrutinized the lofty folk sitting at the far end of the table. It was a tribunal of men, ready and waiting, most ignoring the young lighter before them as inconsequential fluff. This tribunal comprised foremost the Master-of-Clerks, preeminent in the central position. Upon his right was indexer Witherscrawl, a pen ready in each hand and two ledgers open before him, acting as his assistant and glaring at Rossamünd for no good reason at all. Next to him was the General-Master-of-Labors assisted by the Surveyor-of-the-Works—two of Whympre’s chief cronies. In the shadows of the far corner Rossamünd was startled to find that black-eyed wit, standing with his head bowed, not bothering to look at Rossamünd but rather peering darkly through brows to the corner behind the young lighter. Most astounding and disconcerting of all, sitting impassively at the Master-of-Clerks’ left, was an Imperial Secretary, distinct in shaven head and coattails of clerical black. His role was as an independent eye, yet this was probably the very same esteemed personage under whose support the Master-of-Clerks had blossomed.
To the right of these—as Rossamünd saw it—on a chair to the side of the Board sat Surgeon Grotius Swill, the official adviser for any inquiries on physics, picking at lint on his breeches. Rossamünd knew this was rightly the task of Doctor Crispus, but he was not present. Halfway down the left side of the table sat Laudibus Pile, designated the inquisitor, and assisted by Fleugh, the under-clerk, already scribbling away in a ledger. Rossamünd’s innards gave a painful, sick twist. Anyone without an intimate knowledge of the workings and the personalities of Winstermill would think this collection of officers and bureaucrats before them a worthy and impressive bunch. But from Rossamünd’s view it was a tribunal stacked against his favor.
As Fransitart and Craumpalin took their seats behind him at the back of the room, Rossamünd caught a flash of deep magenta silk in the corner behind. He turned. There was Europe, legs crossed, an easy expression on her face; she was making a grand entrance into his life again, even while she simply sat, serene.
“Hello, little man,” she said smoothly. “We meet in some of the most peculiar circumstances, don’t you think?”
“But how—”
“Quiet, please,” came the Master-of-Clerks’ tight call.
Rossamünd’s old masters looked from the fulgar to Rossamünd and back, Craumpalin nod
ding toward her as if to say, “Is that her?”
As Rossamünd took his place at the end of the table, there was a rustling and a hustle as the Lady Vey proceeded into the hall, attended by Dolours, a gloomy-looking Threnody and Charllette in full mottle-and-harness: all four women—even Threnody—wore wings and high hats and bright-patterned bossocks, a startling display of their unity. Threnody was a lighter no longer. With some fussing, the Lady Vey and Charllette took their places on the right side of the table opposite Laudibus Pile. With Dolours joining Fransitart, Craumpalin and Europe at the back, Threnody sat at Rossamünd’s right hand. He tried to catch her eye, but she refused to look to him.
Clearing his throat loudly,Witherscrawl stood and called the room to order, introducing each member of the tribunal to the other, calling it collectively a “Board of Officers.” He paid particular honors to the Imperial Secretary, naming him Secretary Imperial Scrupulus Sicus.The alert-looking official stood and gave a gracious bow to the Master-of-Clerks, to the Lady Vey, Dolours, and then, almost as an afterthought, to Europe, far down the other end of the room.
To Rossamünd it very much appeared like boys playing at “Lords and Magnates,” a child’s game of grandiloquence and false civility.
Introductions done, it was now Pile’s turn. “Secretary Imperial Sicus. Marshal-Subrogat Whympre,” he began, standing and pacing into the broad oblong gap between all the various tables. “We have done our preliminaries regarding the occurrence of the assault on His Serene Highness’ Imperial Cothouse of Wormstool not two weeks gone.The purpose of this inquiry is to lay out what we have found, Mister Secretary, and derive conclusions for the satisfaction of all.” He took a pause. “First I shall begin with the Lady Threnody of the Columbines of Herbroulesse, who served briefly with us as a lampsman 3rd class, m’ lady.” Pile bowed to Threnody, all snide and obscure sarcasm, his tone hovering expertly on the divide between deference and offense.
Threnody sat a little stiffer.
Pile began. “You were present at Wormstool Cothouse during the attack on the twenty-third of Herse, correct?”
“Yes.” Threnody frowned. “I arrived back there after restocking a stone-harbor with Rossamünd and Splinteazle.”
“By which you mean Lampsman 3rd Class Bookchild—present here, and Seltzerman 2nd Class Splinteazle—who sadly died at the attack of which we speak, yes?”
“Yes.”
“How did Seltzerman 2nd Class Splinteazle die?” Pile rocked on his heels with deliberate gravity.
Threnody hesitated. “He was torn to death by a pack of brodchin and other nickers.”
“And did you and Lampsman 3rd Class Bookchild do all you could to save him?”
Rossamünd shifted in his seat. Of course we tried to save him!
“Yes, leer, we did,” Threnody returned coldly. “Rossamünd—”
“You mean Lampsman 3rd Class Bookchild,” the Master-of-Clarks interrupted.
The girl went quiet for a moment, to prove her displeasure at the man’s rudeness. “Yes, who would be Rossamünd.” She waited to be corrected again. “He was in a better place to help Splinteazle and fought most vigorously, while I had my own gnashers to confront.”
“And why did Lampsman 3rd Class Bookchild fail to save the unfortunate seltzerman?” Pile asked softly.
Are they trying to blame poor Splinteazle’s end on me?
“He didn’t fail at anything.” Threnody scowled. “The beasts were too quick, and overpowered Splinteazle before Rossamünd could help. He threw a blaste at the beasts to hinder them, but it was not enough to stop them all.”
LAUDIBUS PILE
“So Lampsman 3rd Class Bookchild did his utmost, but Seltzerman 2nd Class Splinteazle was overwhelmed regardless, correct?”
“Correct.”
“So how is it that this undergrown child”—the leer indicated Rossamünd—“was able to best a nicker that a hardened veteran seltzerman could not?”
Threnody shrugged. “He’s stronger than he looks, I suppose.”
“Stronger ...?” Laudibus Pile looked genuinely intrigued. “How do you know this?”
“I’ve seen him catch a butt of musket balls that should have crushed him flat,” the girl returned easily, as if this was nothing.
“And . . .”
Threnody gave a small cough. “Because I watched him kill a monster. But that event is plain enough,” she added quickly. “You don’t need me to tell you of it.”
Pile’s shrewd eyes narrowed. “Indeed.” Apparently careless, he picked at some spot or mark upon his soutaine. “Yet tell me . . . m’lady, do not these events strike you as unusual, almost impossible?” The leer looked piercingly at her with his all-seeing eyes.
Threnody cast an anxious glance toward her mother.
The Lady Vey was sitting more stiffly than ever, looking not at her daughter but directing her brittle gaze at the wall between two windows.
“I suppose they do,” the girl said in a small voice Rossamünd had never heard her use before.
“You suppose they do? Hmm . . . Is what she says true, Lampsman Bookchild?” Pile asked, looking to his palm as if the question were a trifling thing.
The young lighter shied. “Ah ... Y-yes ...”
Murmurs from the observers.
Rossamünd did not know what else to say. What was the use in dissembling? With this false-hearted falseman his questioner, who would people believe? Such a fellow in command of a room could do anything with the truth; with no other telltale present, no one could credibly challenge him.
“Of Lady Threnody’s part in the battle, her success is clear: a wit, however young, fighting off a beastie is perfectly proper, and this young peer should be commended as the bravest and best of her clave. Maybe it is only me who is bemused by this, but elucidate for me—if you are able, Lampsman 3rd Class—how a mere lad of your slight stature manages to defeat a man’s share of nickers! How does one so small win through unharmed, where a cothouse-full of the Emperor’s own was bested and slain?”
Rossamünd had no answer. It was a fair question: he wondered it himself.
“I agree with you, Master Leer,” interposed the Master-of-Clerks, “that this is highly irregular.”
“Thank you, sir.” The leer spoke smoothly, in an even, convincing voice. “Give your answer, Lampsman.”
Rossamünd obeyed. “I-I don’t rightly know, sir.”
Pile seemed to be smirking. “M’lady Threnody of Herbroulesse, is there anything else about Lampsman Bookchild’s manner you would describe as irregular?”
Despite the firm set of her jaw, Threnody went pale.
“There is nothing to be hidden here, m’lady,” Laudibus Pile purred, his disconcerting eyes daring a contradiction to his honeyed voice. “This is but an inquest into the whys and wherefores, for the sake of record.”
The calendar looked to her mother again.
The Lady Vey just glowered meaningfully.
Threnody looked at Rossamünd again, her expression confused and intention unclear.
“And, m’lady?” Pile persisted, completely undaunted.
With a deep breath she said, “He wears a bandage soaked in a kind of nullodor around himself all the time.”
Pile pursed his lips. “Surely an odd and unnecessary habit?”
“He does it only for the sake of his old foundling masters,” Threnody insisted.
“I see.” The leer set his cunning attention on Fransitart and Craumpalin. “How the count of oddities increases.”
The two old salts stared back angrily.
Swill shifted in his seat stroking his mustachios thoughtfully, and regarded Rossamünd and the two retired vinegaroons closely.
“Is it not also true—as the report I have declares,” Laudibus Pile continued, looking like a hungry dog, “that this young fellow refused to be puncted even after such a great feat as done at the Imperial Cothouse of Wormstool? Would you not also call such refusal—so dishonoring the memories of the fallen�
�odd, my dear?”
Threnody’s mouth stayed shut. With a brief glare at the leer, she fixed her attention stubbornly on the wall before her.
“I can see that you know it to be very much the case.” Pile tapped his cheek just below one of his red-blue orbits. “So you might as well just speak out those things you cannot hide . . . Or may I take it that by your silence”—Pile scratched his nose daintily to hide his subtle, goading expression—“you think it right for the courageous dead to be dishonored?”
The Lady Vey bridled, her seat moving with a clatter of chair legs on hard, polished floor. “I will not tolerate my daughter’s being accused of dishonor, sir!”
Pile turned his cold, unnerving eyes to the august. “Maybe she might be free of such an accusation if she ceased hedging for this fine fellow”—he pointed dismissively to Rossamünd—“and told this esteemed panel fully what I can clearly tell she knows!”
“Have a care, sir,” the Lady Vey warned, soft and low. “Now speak, my dear,” she demanded of her daughter, “and let this ridiculous fiasco come to its end!”
Threnody darted a look to her mother. “There is nothing more to say, Mother,” she said, a darkly victorious look growing in her eye. “Rossamünd is no more odd than any other in this ridiculous inquiry.”
Laudibus Pile puffed his chest and lifted his haughty head. “I am a thrice-proven telltale in the Emperor’s Service,” he declaimed with quiet, frosty arrogance, “under charge of our Serene Highness’ most humble minister, the Marshal-Subrogat. My eyes see true, and I say to you, young peerlet, that that is an utter and thorough-going lie!”
The Lady Vey rose, crying her disapproval. “How dare you, sir! That is twice now you slander her; there shall not be three! I will not hesitate to use my privileges to make my displeasure felt on you, leer. Blast your eyes to flinders! If my daughter says there is no more, then—by the foul depths—that is the end of the matter!”
“If you wish your daughter free from slander, madam,” Pile seethed, his façade failing, “then you should have schooled her better in honesty!”
