Factotum ft-3

by D M Cornish

  For a moment they watched a trio of smirking flitterwills sit themselves before Madam Lux and submit to the benign mesmerist's outre expertise. Clearly skeptical as they watched the old wit close her eyes and touch lightly at her left temple with shaking hand, the three young women were soon exclaiming and drawing attention to themselves at the imagined sensations stirring in their thoughts.

  "I hear trumpets!" one girl declared in frank wonderment, looking up as if the room were full of heralding cornets and flugels.

  Whatever misery Madam Lux might have brought to monster-kind in her prime, reduced by time and infirmity to such trickery-however skillfully achieved-seemed an ignoble end for a once-mighty neuroticrith.

  "If I might say, sir…," Baron Finance interposed on Rossamund's thoughts, his tone lowered discreetly. "Whatever predicaments your irregularities might have brought her"-and me, his eyes said-"the home of our duchess-daughter is a most cheery place since your replacement of the previous fellow"-Rossamund knowing full well he spoke of Licurius-"and, quite confoundingly, she is of much better countenance too. At my report, our benevolent mistress, the Duchess herself-ever concerned after her daughter, however much the scion of the house of Naimes persists in a life of her own-desires me to welcome you as an appendant to the Court of Naimes."

  "Uh…" Rossamund bowed to this lofty acknowledgment. "Tell her graciousness thank you, sir," he said, straightening, and, with a sick thrill of dismay, discovered Scrupulus Sicus, Imperial Secretary, emerging from the endless flow of people leaving coats and making first meetings in the hiatus.

  What is he doing here! Europe cannot have invited him?

  Complete with olive wreath and voluminous wrappings of white robes, Sicus had come as a gilded glaucologue of the Empire's first formation.Yet, far from the authoritative hauteur of the inquiry at Winstermill, the Imperial Secretary looked patently nervous to find Rossamund in the press. Bending humbly at the middle, he held out his invitation like a patent of nativity demanded by gate wardens and inquired after the "rightful and most gracious lady of the house." His flattery was a long way from the strident terms he used at the lamplighters' once-great fortress.

  Flagitious shrew was one such strident term that rose in Rossamund's mind. He beheld the man stoutly, seeing full well that this fellow knew exactly who he was and in what circumstances they had last met.

  The Imperial Secretary squirmed for just a moment and then, with several clearings of his thickly wrapped throat, said, "Well, young master, at the Duchess-Heir's most gracious invitation I can only offer her my unqualified support against such a scoundrel as Honorius Swill. He fooled us all, I would say"-the fellow's face paled slightly-"with his apparently learn-ed convictions.The authority of the well-read, ha ha…"

  Rossamund did not smile.

  "Your benevolent mistress, however," the man pressed on awkwardly, glancing to Finance only a few feet away, "has showed her abounding and much-praised quality in seeing through him in the first. I can only regret any… misunderstanding that may have arisen betwixt your mistress and the Emperor through myself over this affair, and can only assert in the most earnest terms that the Lady of Naimes has once more-indeed, never lost-the Emperor's full and complete confidence. This elaborates most fully on the matter." He held up a red-wrapped buff wallet. "I am sure the Duchess-Heir will find it most satisfactory." Upon discovering Europe had yet to display herself, the Imperial Secretary showed open relief and gave the red-buff wallet to Rossamund.

  The young factotum smiled inwardly at the irony as he took the Imperial parcel. Would the Emperor be so quick with this confidence if he knew the nature of the soul to whom his agent was speaking? "I shall give her your apology, sir." He bowed, alert to this Imperial bureaucrat's clear discomfort at the emphasis of this word. "I am sure she will give it the proper merit."

  "Ah, most excellent, young fellow," Sicus returned, brows creasing slightly as he tried to fathom whether his interlocutor was being genuine or pointed. "I-uh-thank you."

  "May you have a good night, sir," Rossamund returned, trying to achieve the same unequivocal poise of his mistress.

  "Ah, yes…" Bending a final unfinished bow and giving a last uncomfortable look to Finance, the Imperial Secretary left them.

  "Swill's allies forsake him utterly now he is dead," said the Chief Emissary in low voice, his expression grim indeed as he watched Sicus retreat into the ceaseless motion of fancied guests to find more comfortable company.

  "Secretary Sicus seemed a mite happy to not properly meet with Miss Europe," Rossamund observed, savoring this rare moment of vindication.

  The Baron Sainte could not help a grin. "That, Mister Bookchild," he said happily, observing Madam Lux convince a dashing young fellow swatting and ducking at empty air that he was bothered by a host of buzzing flies, "is the nearest a person might come to an endorsed and proper sorry in this Empire of ours." A little past eight-of-the-clock the Archduke himself-and his large retinue with him-arrived, gracing Europe's soiree costumed in a long black tourette upon his crown and dressed in an antiquated harness hung with many bright-black stoups. Rossamund instantly recognized him as Harold, champion of the Battle of the Gates, perceiving the Archduke's intent to style himself in the same heroic line as a staunch defender of the people against all foes. Of his retinue came a veritable quarto of men of the highest stature with such titles as Prime Minister, Captain-Marshal of the Lifeguard, Chief Draw of the Purse-people Rossamund recognized by face if not by name from his brief visit to the Brandendirk. With them too was a woman of dark and foreign beauty whose presumably natural dress of gold scales and diaphanous cloth of mauve and gold was sufficiently exotic to class as fancies. "The Princess Awahb, Fatemah of Pander Tar! Heiress to the Peacock Throne!" the doormen on every floor announced as she ascended, to the general wonder of all.

  Receiving the heiress of Naimes' formula for nonattendance with smiling grace, the Archduke nevertheless appeared slightly provoked not to be personally greeted by Europe.

  He hopes to show off his princess and trump Europe with her, Rossamund could not help but think.

  Indeed, the ruler of the mighty city of Brandenbrass, with his Princess-quickly becoming the darling of the gala-had to wait for nigh on an hour to play his trump, for it was not until nine-of-the-clock precisely that the Branden Rose made her appearance. Loudly announced by Master Papelott, she stepped gracefully into the now hushed ludion, astonishing everyone with her costume.

  Assuming she was to be wearing the gorgeous harness she had tried three days earlier, Rossamund was himself taken aback.

  Clad in a wide skirt of deep red and a lorica of burnished bronze scales draped in a thick hackle of leonguile hide, she wore a high bronze helm pushed back upon her head, its crown crested with horsehair of black-and-white stripes.

  Recovering, Rossamund understood immediately who she intended herself to be.

  Euodice, the historied speardame to Idaho.

  To those in the company of revelers who knew their matter, the import of Europe's fancy dress was bold and clear. I am of the Old Blood, it said; my line is more ancient than the Empire. It was an incontestable claim and it was also a challenge.

  People began crowding into the ludion, all eager to hear what the Branden Rose might have to say at such an uncharacteristic social display.

  His mistress finally debouched from her boudoir, Rossamund felt the release of some inward knot he did not know he had. At last! A part of him could not help but wonder if she had marked the painting waiting by her door.

  Handed by the Archduke himself onto the orchestra's rostrum, the Duchess-in-waiting of Naimes looked like an Attic empress staring complacently out at the great company in their fancies. To Rossamund it seemed by the glimmer in her cool hazel gaze that she was laughing inwardly at the ludicrous spectacle of costume before her.

  "I thank you all for condescending to my little event," she said with bold clarity, "to help me rejoice in the success of another course and to b
ring a correction to the current of recent ill wind." She glanced ever so briefly-the merest nigh-undetectable flicker of her eyes-to the Archduke. "Many of you might marvel at such a turn of character; yet I seek only-with this little affair of mine-to offer to you that which so many of you have so unflaggingly offered to me over the long years." Europe smiled with such winsome warmth that it left little room for any offense. "I place no limit on this night. Remain in my hospitality for as long as you will. So now, continue as I presently attempt a feat greater than the slaying of any prowling bogle and speak with you all before the night is through. I thank you."

  EUROPE IN SPEARDAME FANCY

  While the Branden Rose descended, nodding and smiling piously to general applause, an immense white molded dessert was brought up to the ludion. Carried in a broad tray upon the shoulders of four footmen, it was made in the shape of the trefoiled heart of Naimes and swam in a bath of deep pink raspberry glatin. "Victory Flummery" Papelott called it, "in honor of our gracious hostess' success!" Served in fine Heil glassware of the most rarefied rosy tint, it was flavored with what was proudly declared as vanilla. People oohed at so rare and fashionable a novelty. Dressed in a maschencarde mask of a horse, a learned fellow near where Rossamund stood at the summit of the steps loudly enlightened all in earshot-listening or otherwise-that it was gained from the pod of some singular orchid growing in the febrile islands of the Sinus Tintinabuline. Opposed to the flummery model of the Sloe Sapperling at the Patredike, this dessert looked positively delectable, and the young factotum eyed it hungrily on his way to his mistress' side.

  Proudly he followed behind her as she proved herself true to her determination to exchange a word or two with all, her manner as bland and accommodating as he had ever known it to be. It was wearying to watch and to hear; he was amazed at the duchess-daughter's fortitude.

  One aged dame in virginal white, whose gelid expression told far more clearly her true sentiments toward Europe than her silken words, dared a remark on Rossamund, declaring with saccharine notes, "So young in his trade, my dear, and we've heard such things about him…"

  "Only good things, I am sure," the Duchess-in-waiting returned wintrily, her smile thin.

  "Oh, ah, yes yes." The woman blanched, realizing she had miscalculated. "… Certainly."

  As for the Princess of Pander Tar, sat at one end of the hall among a throng of admirers both adoring and purely inquisitive, Europe did not-of course-prove at all trumped. Paying no more respect than she received, the Duchess-in-waiting was perfectly measured at their meeting, her greeting as cool as the Princess'.

  "I know you will not mind my bringing such an august guest uninvited to your night, dear cousin Naimes," the Archduke purred smugly in aside to his hostess. "As especial guest in my courts I could not very well leave the Fatemah behind…"

  "A new bosom to distract you, sir," Europe returned discreetly. "Be careful, Lady Madigan might grow jealous."

  "Hmm."The Archduke smiled through his teeth. "Indeed…"

  Though many looked at her with unaffected awe and respect, there were a few with whom the heiress of Naimes exchanged genuine felicitations. Much of the way about the ludion-and with the other floors still to visit-Europe abruptly insisted Rossamund take his leave of her. "It shall be easier for me to make my path among the rest if I am unattended," she said.

  Both relieved and a little perplexed to be so released, Rossamund descended to the floor below, moving through the billiard room with its swaggering young players to look in on the oratory happening in the parlor beyond. His own oration done, Doctor Crispus was arguing robustly with those guests who reckoned themselves erudite or scholarly, who had perhaps sat a foundation at an athenaeum or abacus. It was a rigorous conversation that Rossamund little understood, perpetually on the brink of devolving into more physical arguments. As for Mister and Madam Carp, they had apparently departed almost immediately after Europe had presented herself.

  In the rear quarters the young factotum made another inquiry on his old masters' weal. Finding them both pale and flagging, he sent Fransitart and Craumpalin both-despite their grumbling about missing out-to their pallet to rest, ensuring healthy portions of the night's fare were sent promptly for them to sup on.

  Under the sway of the latening hour and many a jovial glass, the solemnity of the gala began to unravel, and its graceful grandeur descended to something more akin to a country fete. As one of-the-clock was announced by Master Papelott, the more sensible people began to have thoughts for home. As was only proper, these prudent souls sought to say good night to their hostess. Disgruntled murmurs began to ripple through the collected gentry that the Duchess-in-waiting could not be found. Calls for a search came from bolder throats, and though Papelott and Rossamund, the footmen and most of the house staff sought high and low for her, it was to no avail.

  The heiress of Naimes was gone.

  Greatly affronted-all the work of Europe's bland affability undone in a moment-the sensible departed anyway, sniffing at apologies and claiming this as typical of such a fractious and unmanageable creature as the Branden Rose.

  "She has invited us only to toy with us!" one grand dame declared severely on her exit.

  "What do you expect from one who has her own money?" her equally elderly companion concurred, to the murmured agreement of all who heard.

  At two-striking on Cloche Arde's long-case clocks, mantel timepieces and from the many repeaters in gentlemen's pockets-the orchestras finally submitted to exhaustion and, stowing their hundredweight of instruments aboard a large dray, left.

  The fashionably or truly nocturnal remained, however, determined to avail themselves of the other entertainments while they were still to be had. Leaving these to the grace of Papelott and the footmen, Rossamund continued to seek his mistress from highest loft to lowest buttery, from the most rearward pantry to the very gates of Cloche Arde, finding the Lady Madigan was missing too, with her Mister Rakestraw and the lesquin colonel. Even Baron Finance had departed, gone without a word. What was more, Darter Brown was nowhere to be found.

  Standing finally in the foreyard, Rossamund stared into the gloomy night and fathomed full well what was up.

  From almost their first day at Orchard Harriet, Europe must have been developing her scheme, sending letters, drawing in her influence even from that remote haven, plotting the entire undertaking down to a device sure to keep Rossamund out of her way. Even as he was occupied with the plans and arrangements for the grand gala, she had set deeper strategies in motion, and while he busied himself so self-importantly with the immediacy of his duties, she had brought her scheme to fruition… And now the Branden Rose was gone out into the perilous city to bring vengeance upon Pater Maupin while Rossamund, her own factotum, had been left deliberately and uselessly behind.

  26

  UNINVITED CALLERS

  Lampedusa deep-dwelling kraulschwimmen serpent and mighty sea-wretchin who terrorized the waters of the Grume for a thousand years before it was called by that name. Finally, bearing the mythic spiegel-blade, Paschendralle, the legendary Piltdown heldin-king, Tascifarnias, stood upon the shore where Brandenbrass now has its harbor and challenged Lampedusa to a contest to see who should rule land and sea. There upon the sand they fought,Tascifarnias slaying Lampedusa even as he was slain, the flowing of their combined blood purported to have changed the white sand black.

  Rossamund stood alone by an open window in his set. Behind him the house of the Branden Rose ticked, empty now of its revelry, starkly silent but for the sporadic thump or clink of clearing and cleaning after such a magnificent event. Though the desire was strong with those desperate for fun to remain into the small hours, the departure of the orchestra, for all intents, spelled the end of the gala. In various fine conveyances-a number including the Archduke, his lofty friends and sycophants-they left with a profound rattling of hoof and wheel to find a suitable small-hour club to pursue delight.

  Outside it had become cold and still like a breath
held, the low clouds fluorescing with Phoebe's radiance as she climbed to her acme beyond them.

  She was out there somewhere amid the increasingly shadowy city and its inscrutable buildings, perhaps even now coming to hand strokes with Maupin and his agents, wrestling on public greens, in lanes, in cellars, room to room in those high ubiquitous half-houses.

  Rossamund drew in a frustrated breath, smelling fresh-fallen rain.

  Crickets made sweet sparse song down in the yard.

  He stood and he watched…

  Of all the staff, only Kitchen was unsurprised at the extraordinary and unseen departure of the Duchess-in-waiting of Naimes. "I have given my word to her, sir," the steward said bluntly when pressed, and would not be prevailed upon to speak more.

  Crispus declared himself utterly flummoxed at her disappearance. "It is a plum ruse," he observed when Rossamund quietly divulged his suspicion of her whereabouts. "But a rather excellent one too, don't you think."

  The young factotum had to agree.

  Well to the southeast, out in the sea of roofs and chimneys and trees a tiny orange glimmer shot on a steep and shuddering arc up into the heavens, then another of pinker hue sped into the inky firmament a little to the north. Flares! A third farther south joined them, a glittering delicate green. A thin wailing blew to him on the gusting, rising wind.

  Rossamund knew with a certainty that these were the heralds of Europe's assault.

  The flares, their light quickly extinguishing on their downward path, gave only the most general sense of direction, far too vague for a successful navigation. By such scant evidence he might spend all night till the assault was done, lost uselessly in unfamiliar streets trying to find her. I could go to the Broken Doll…Yet it was supremely unlikely Maupin would have his true den in so obvious a location.