Factotum ft-3

by D M Cornish

  "Pullets and cockerels! We thought ye pinched by the crimps, lad, and forced to serve upon a cargo!" Fransitart chided sharply, guiding him to the comfortable chairs.

  "Oh, no, not the crimps, Master Frans."The young factotum frowned abstractedly as he took a seat by Craumpalin.

  "Aye, or carried off by some ill-informed mercator!" the old dispensurist added gruffly.

  "Where were ye at, Rossamund?" Fransitart demanded, staring him hard in the eye. A penetrating, almost suspicious concern dawned in his eyes. "What troubles ye? What did ye see?"

  At that point Europe chose to enter, looking flushed and puffing as if she had been running many miles. She was wearing a long-hemmed seclude of diagonal pink, red and dark magenta stripes clinched about her waist with broad black satin, its hems, collar and turned-up cuffs white embroidered with thread-of-gold.

  "Is this to be your mode from here on, little man?" she asked with cool irony by way of salutation. "Are you thinking, now that I have released you from the straits of military life, to begin a career of adolescent revelry?"

  "No… no, Miss Europe," he answered, a little surprised by his own directness. "Not intentionally, anyway."

  "Well, out with it! A bad excuse is better than none. Where have you been?" Her gaze narrowed as she dabbed with a plush towel at the damp glow upon her forehead.

  Rossamund had no notion of how to proceed.

  "I-"

  He had assumed he would tell them everything. Now it had come to it, he was powerfully disinclined to reveal much at all of the Lapinduce.The monster-lord had demanded no such fidelity, yet it was surely a betrayal to reveal its presence. Regardless, a man had died in pursuit of him. Surely Europe needed to know of this!

  "They-uh…" He gathered himself. "After the play, Rookwood and his obsequine friends took me to a chancery that was connected to a rousing-pit, where I-"

  Fransitart sucked in sharply. "Avast ye, lad! What point o' compass did ye find such a place?"

  "By tunnels under the Broken Doll…"

  His old masters shifted unhappily in their places.

  "There's an ill-hearted den." Craumpalin whistled in consternation.

  Europe showed no such dismay. "And you did what there?" she pursued, shrewd suspicion dawning in her gaze.

  "I–I botched a dog. One of the nickers got free, so I… I threw glister in the face of a swordist trying to slay it."

  There was a beat of stunned silence.

  "Why di'n't ye simply weigh and depart at th' outset, lad, when ye first knew what manner of people ye was with and what place ye was at?" Fransitart questioned.

  "They had locked us in. Besides, I could not leave"-my frair, Rossamund almost said-"the little fellow undefended in that foul hole!"

  Europe closed her eyes long-sufferingly. "You do not always have to heed your conscience, Rossamund. I find it is a troublesome guide to action, bringing all breeds of inconvenience. Was your intervention seen?"

  Rossamund felt his cheeks flush guiltily. "A spurn of one of the pit's patrons saw me. A wit…" His words caught in his throat. "He chased me from there."

  "And my point is proven," the fulgar said bitterly. She sat carefully upon a tandem before the fire. "So tell me, little man, how did you manage to escape a wit?"

  "I took a takeny from the Broken Doll, but once the driver realized a wit was on us, he put me out near the Moldwood and I ran into it. I hid far inside the park and stayed hidden all night. Th-then at day I came by the drain to get home."

  Though he kept his words grave and even, a great wrench of compunction gripped his innards, the manifest tearing of loyalties. Firm, however, in his conviction to keep the Lapinduce hid, he held to his tale, fixing his gaze upon the fire lest they all see the evasion in his eyes.

  Fransitart scrutinized him sharply, disappointment clear in his face.

  Pulling at his beard, Craumpalin stared at the fine Turkic hearth rug.

  Yet, astonishingly, they said nothing.

  Europe regarded Rossamund narrowly. "I wonder," she queried with subtle scorn, "if the patrons of the pit know they have hired the services of so unskilled a strivener as a fellow who loses another soul so easily in the limitations of a well-fenced park."

  Resisting the urge to duck his head, Rossamund kept his attention upon the consuming flames and said nothing.

  An unpleasant quiet ruled.

  Rossamund's humours pounded like an accusation at his temples.

  Europe flicked at some smidgen upon her thigh. "I see you preserved your hat at least, little man. Bravo."

  "Aye, Miss Europe."

  "Since you have been awake hiding the entire night," his mistress went on, "perhaps you ought to go and rest now?"

  His soul burned. "I… I am well enough, ma'am."

  She stared at him searchingly. "It is good then that we are shortly to go on the knave," she said flatly.

  "How might that aid us, m'lady?" Fransitart pressed. "Trouble keeps for safe returns."

  Europe bent her spoored brow. "To go out and come back with my bag full of prizes and new-pricked marks upon my arm shall amply prove all bad wind and ill rumor unfounded." Closing her eyes, the fulgar smoothed her thin eyebrows with thumb and forefinger. "This has all been very diverting, but we have our own course to prepare. Banish fruitless recollections, Rossamund; you have much to do to make ready. As for you, Masters Vinegar and Salt," she added to the old vinegaroons, "seek out Latissimus in the coach-house across the road for your duties. I was to have us away today but…"

  "Delays change ways," Craumpalin muttered.

  "Indeed, Master Salt." Europe blinked at him. "We shall spend what is left to us of today to make ready."

  Caffene arrived in an elaborate steaming multivalved pot, and with it the information that Master Learned, stouching tutor, was awaiting their gracious mistress in the ludion, and they were dismissed.

  "Oh, and should you be wondering, Rossamund… I did my treacle myself this morning." She flicked her hand in mild irritation at Rossamund's chastened expression. "It was correct enough for the purpose, though I dare to admit my palate is happy you are returned." The fulgar gazed at him for a moment. "Please do not make me drink my own makings again." For the rest of the day, Rossamund attended to the preparations. Every store to be taken was gathered in the stowing room at the rear of the stately home. The landaulet was brought down the narrow drive between the flank of the house and the outer wall, and the whole collection steadily stowed in its holdfasts and panniers. Into a plethora of lacquered boxes and lidded hampers went all manner of fine foods that had once amazed Rossamund on his first jaunt with the Branden Rose through the Brindleshaws. These included a profusion of whortleberries, of course, and, at Rossamund's request, fortified sack-cheese. To his delight, there was also juice-of-orange. From the saumery came black-lacquered parts-boxes with ample quantities of all the salts needed for Europe's treacle. Largest of all was a great trunk for the coats and various other parts of harness for the Branden Rose, and lesser ones for her underclothes and for her shoes, the smallest her traveling fiasco. Each coat was numbered to a system he did not rightly understand, for to him every garment looked of comparably excellent make. Her Number 8, for example, was the richly furred magenta coat Europe had worn at the inquiry; her Number 2 was a magnificently embroidered black campaign coat similar to that which had been made for Rossamund by Master Brugelle; and her Number 3 was the very scarlet frock coat his mistress had worn at his first sight of her from under the boxthorn on the Vestiweg. Her Number 1-of shifting carmine, its sleeves a mist of finest organza, its collar sprayed with delicately dyed feathers-did not come. From the armory in the foundations of Cloche Arde, Nectarius reverently brought the fulgaris-stage and fuse-cleaned and glistening with preserving oils. Among all these items came a small box of silver and ivory. Daring a look within, Rossamund found Europe's sprither, laid in padded plush of deep red. Used to draw the cruor-the dead blood-from a slain monster to be used to make monster-bl
ood tattoos, it was the one tool common to every teratologist. Probably in vain, Rossamund hoped he would never need to employ it on the knave. Worse, he contemplated with horror, was the thought of being the one Europe would expect to mark another little "x" of victory and add to those that already stood in ranks upon his mistress' arms. She will employ a punctographist, surely… he offered to himself as a comfort, and his thoughts instantly skipped to the marking upon Fransitart's arm that Rossamund knew now would show as a cruorpunxis. It was a small comfort that they were to be out on the knave when it revealed itself.

  Established as Europe's driver and navigator, Fransitart and Craumpalin went out to the Dogget amp; Block to retrieve their meager chattels and returned as the full reach of heaven was gilt by the slanting day. Rossamund could not look them in the eye as they deposited their belongings to be packed. In their turn, the two old vinegaroons seemed all a-sea for words, and it was a great relief when Kitchen brought summons for them to repair inside to further discuss the terms of their service with Europe.

  When the stowing was near completion, there came a commotion at the front of the house. Joined by Wenzel, one of Europe's footmen, Rossamund walked up the short drive to see. Three glossy coaches driven by heavy-harnessed lentermen rattled to a halt in the narrow, shadowed coach yard. Doors were flung wide as each conveyance disgorged its plush belly of passengers. Most numerous were the more than half a dozen serious men in the sleek green harness of the Broken Doll, all firelocks and bludgeons and bristling hostility as they made a cordon about the carriages. With them came legal gents in their frilly legal solitaires, wads of paper firmly under arm.

  Rossamund's soul sank to knock in his knees. So soon had last night's consequences caught up with him.

  "Bother me!" Wenzel cursed, and immediately scurried back down the side way.

  From the press of manly green strode Pater Maupin, proprietor of the Broken Doll, stakeholder in the rousing-pit. Still handsome despite gaining age, he was an elegant man with oddly sallow papery skin, dressed in a long-frocked coat of shimmering purple, ruffles of silk spraying out about his throat and over his hands. Beneath his curling periwig he had a genial face with kindly eyes, yet Rossamund thought he glimpsed cold steel in the soul that schemed behind them.

  PATER MAUPIN

  A strange burbling twitter in its throat, Darter Brown emerged from the pencil pine in the middle of the yard to land staunchly on Rossamund's hatless head.

  Coming as protector at Maupin's side was the very sabrine adept who had hacked at the Handsome Grackle, clad in his eccentric harness, his eyes yet raw from the glister thrown in his face. At the proprietor's other flank sashayed the deadly dexter woman, Anaesthesia Myrrh, dour-faced and festooned in black, thrusting before her the most startling arrival of them all. For there in her cruel grip, still dressed in his carmine coat and black longshanks, was Rookwood, downcast, defeated and utterly ashamed.

  "Is this the little selt-kisser, then?" Pater Maupin demanded coldly of his white-haired hostage, his voice smooth like cream, his sneer like a blow. "Was this your worrisome guest of yesternight?"

  Rookwood's harried glance flicked over Rossamund.

  Becoming glassy-eyed, submerging any guilt, the young factotum simply blinked at him.

  Rookwood shrugged, and at a signaling flick of Maupin's silk-shrouded and violently jolted, contracting in on himself under the dexter's brief encouragement. Sagging in the woman's grasp, Rockwood nodded. "Yes… yes, it is…"

  The old proprietor's eyes slitted in silent, vengeful fury.

  Ears ringing, Rossamund tautened, ready for desperate deeds.

  "Pitter-Patter Maupin, Needle of the Dogs," Europe's voice purred from behind.

  Rossamund's shoulder tingled at the firm touch of her hand.

  "What remarkable occasion has provoked you to shift from your seamy couch to belabor me at my own door?" Europe's feigned sociability was the barest mask. "I see you have brought your full menagerie," she continued. Wholly ignoring the swordist, she regarded Rookwood fleetingly, then cocked a dismissive brow to the dexter and said, "Anaesthesia," dipping her alabaster brow in mock courtesy to the black-clad lahzar.

  Jerking the forlorn white-haired fellow aside, the dexter peered at the fulgar steadily, eyeing her as an untested rival. About her and her master the sturdy fellows closed, inflating their brave bosoms and glowering meaningfully. Watching Rossamund closely, the swordist fondled the broad strapping of a bautis-the heavy wooden cylinder that held the deadly therimoir-hanging across his back.

  The young factotum shivered at the thought of the virulent white blade.

  "Well-a-day, Lady Bramble," Pater Maupin answered smoothly. "Is that the fashion in which one greets an old compatriot in the ancient struggle? I have come only to recoup grave losses," he said, lingering darkly on the word, "incurred through no provocation of my own-or that of my associates-by a member of your own staff, namely that stunted mewling there." He flicked a ruffled gesture Rossamund's way.

  "Truly…" Europe's word dripped sugary malevolence. "And how, pray, has that to do with me?"

  Maupin smiled with his own cunning. "Perhaps you did not know the full and base character of such a fresh-appointed employe," he said sidlingly. "I know only too well that one cannot reckon every facet in a person before engaging them, and as such I-we-do not care to hold you personally indemnified…"

  "How kind," Europe murmured, and regarded him languidly, a deadly kind of smirk fluttering at the sharp edges of her ruddy lips. "Yet I know the full character of this one full well, sir. If you have found exception with it, the fault can only lie with you."

  The owner of the Broken Doll possessed himself enough to refrain from choking on her words. "If this were simply damage and depletion, I might accept such unkind expressions so ungraciously given and move on." Though he kept his voice even, a heavy passion lurked under it. "Yet it also involves the vanishment of a much valued deputy who had, this night gone, set out to fetch yon brat"-a glare for Rossamund-"and present him to proper justice."

  "Vanished, is it?" The fulgar's gaze flicked for the briefest inquiring glance to her young factotum. "How careless of you, Pitter-Patter, to lose dear people so…"

  The proprietor's mien darkened. "It is more than this, sparking hag. My deputy is, I suspect, undone. Not slot nor drag nor particle of him can be found."

  Rossamund swallowed.

  "Even less will you discover here, sir," the Branden Rose said coolly.

  "I little doubt it." Lifting his chin, Maupin peered down his cheeks at her, his expression plainly telling that he believed her the reason for the dandi-dressed wit's end.

  The tingling in Rossamund's shoulder where his mistress' hand rested became a needling.

  "Surely you have more useful pastimes," she said, "than to impugn me and my staff upon the witness of confessions swingeingly extracted from some tetter-faced obsequine. You waste both our days, sir!"

  Forgotten and slinking slowly to the fringe of the threatening host, Rookwood cringed at his mention and, with a bitter glance through the gang of roughs to Rossamund, slunk yet farther from the epicenter of conflicting wills.

  "Waste makes for want." Maupin smiled dangerously. "And I-and my associates-want fair due. Let this one"-he sneered once more to the young factotum, who balled his fists and scowled in return-"sit beneath a telltale's gaze. If he is condemned by his own words, I shall, as I said, not charge you as responsible. You can hire yourself another runt-there are plenty to be had."

  "I happen to like this particular runt," Europe returned with utmost calm. "He shall stay with me."

  Maupin's two spurns stepped forward, the swordist with bautis-box open, the dexter Anaesthesia smirking, her dark lace and black frills prickling with static.

  The Branden Rose did not shift, yet her own menace seemed to magnify.

  Staying his ground, Rossamund wished he had more than his clenched fists for weapons and a simple weskit for proofing.

  Her
e Maupin chose to raise his hand, the slightest sign for his own staff to yield. "No need for such vulgar behavior, I think," he said calmly.

  The genteel clearing of a throat sounded from on high.

  The young factotum-and everyone with him-looked above to find the windows on several floors of Cloche Arde thrown open, the slender barrels of several firelocks protruding from them with menace of their own. Among the various house staff Rossamund spied Fransitart at the window of his set, a particularly heavy musketoon raised to his shoulder, and at the very next casement found Craumpalin, potives clearly in hand. The dispenser threw him a wink. Even Pallette was there, glowering down as if this were weapon enough. Below them, in Europe's file, stood Mister Kitchen, blunderbuss firmly under arm and trained squarely upon the proprietor of the Broken Doll.

  "Might I humbly suggest m'lord choose more fulfilling activities for himself today," the steward offered steadily.

  Pater Maupin's brows rose slightly, his eyes passionless as they took in the situation. He smiled an empty reptilian smile. "The quality of your help has sadly deteriorated, madam," he said, and with that he turned and walked through his servants, the roughs parting before him like the vinegar before the blade of a ram. The whole tribe of pugilists gathered themselves back into their coaches, the dexter Anaesthesia ever keeping her cold regard on Europe, staring at her still from the carriage window as the company went on their way.

  Turning her back on it all, the heiress of Naimes fixed Rossamund with an inquisiting eye. "It seems the events of your excursion went a little more eventfully, little man."

  Watching the glimpse of the last carriage retreat south down the Harrow Road, Rossamund would not look to her. "They would not have fought, would they?" he asked solemnly.

  "Maupin was certainly in earnest," the fulgar answered slowly. "How much further he might go, I cannot say." With a meaningful look and no further questions, she peered up at the jumble of staff still at Cloche Arde's windows. "Thank you, Mister Kitchen," she called. "Inform Condamine that it will be roast hart's tongue and a glass of vinothe for all tonight."