by D M Cornish
“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, Rossamünd . . . I did my treacle myself this morning.” She flicked her hand in mild irritation at Rossamünd’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, Rossamünd 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 Rossamünd on his first jaunt with the Branden Rose through the Brindleshaws. These included a profusion of whortleberries, of course, and, at Rossamünd’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 Rossamünd 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, Rossamünd 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-blood tattoos, it was the one tool common to every teratologist. Probably in vain, Rossamünd 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 Rossamünd 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 & Block to retrieve their meager chattels and returned as the full reach of heaven was gilt by the slanting day. Rossamünd 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, Rossamünd 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.
Rossamünd’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 Rossamünd 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 Rossamünd’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 Rossamünd.
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, Rossamünd tautened, ready for desperate deeds.
“Pitter-Patter Maupin, Needle of the Dogs,” Europe’s voice purred from behind.
Rossamünd’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 Rossamünd 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 Rossamünd’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 employé,” 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 Rossamünd—“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.”
Rossamünd 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 Rossamünd’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 Rossamünd, 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, Rossamünd wished he had more than his clenched fists for weapons and a simple weskit for proofing.
Here 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 Rossamünd 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 Rossamünd 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, Rossamünd 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.”
“As you will, m’lady.” The steward becked, his eyes glittering with pleasure.
The yard empty of clattering racket, Rookwood was found, bruised and left behind, hobbling for the gate. Finding himself discovered, the young fellow halted and bobbed obsequiously.
“Are you well, sir?” Rossamünd inquired, hurrying to help the fellow.
“I’m sorry, my man,” Rookwood breathed in apology. “They were just too . . . persuasive.”
Summoning him over, Europe inspected her battered white-haired guest silently. “Mooning after lahzarines is simple stuff from a safe vantage,” she said finally, “but commerce with Cathar’s children will only bring you grief.”
Clearly overwrought, Rookwood paled and quivered, bending low and uttering fumbling words of contrition. “They . . . they saw me with Rossamünd last night . . . They sought me out . . . No harm on my part in any fashion intended . . . Threatened such grievous harms upon my aunt . . . I had no part in . . . in . . .”
The fulgar finally interjected. “Enough, sir!You have been tangled in more than your share. Sit in my hiatus until a carriage is brought.”
“This is more than I deserve,” Rookwood said, face contorting into an ugly imitation of a humiliated grin.
“Yes,” said Europe coolly, “it is . . . ,” and she left him to Rossamünd’s uneasy care.
As their guest settled in the waiting room, rubbing his face with a wet cloth, some warming saloop was brought.
Eager to have a task to punctuate the awkwardness, the young factotum sought upstairs for his stoups and a measure of levenseep to mix with the beverage. “Are you hurt this time?” he asked upon his return, knowing full well what it was like to suffer a fulgar’s puissance.
“More in honor than in limb, sad to say,” Rookwood replied, ducking his head. “That’s twice you’ve picked me off the ground in as many days, sir—I am in your debt.” Shamefaced as he might have appeared, he was sipping saloop heartily enough. “So tell me, Mister Bookchild, did you truly throw stinging powders about the pit?”
“Aye—”
“Wo-ho!”The fancy fellow chuckled, his vigor clearly returning. “And I thought I had pluck . . . I don’t know what made you do it, but you caused a genuine uprising, people running and crying out.” He peered at Rossamünd admiringly. “I tell you, Pitter-patter More-Pins is terribly upset, as he kept telling me. Most of the pit’s collection got free. Folks’ll have to go to the Pin & Needle now for their pit-side thrills.”
With a bemused smile, Rossamünd shrugged as if it were all a matter of course, keeping his satisfaction at such news to himself.
Perhaps mistaking this as something less happy, Rookwood lifted a placating hand. “Never fear, my man, we have all done a fool’s part in early life. I’ll not begrudge you your eccentricities if you’ll pardon my part in today’s adventure.” The fellow beamed at him as if doing him a great favor.
Relieved soon enough of Rookwood’s company—the white-haired fellow leaving in good spirits with a promise that they should try such an adventure again presently—Rossamünd retreated to the peace of the saumery.
Steps rang on the stairs as Europe entered without a knock.
“I see you have been quick to refurbish,” she observed lightly, eyes passing over the blanks where the cabinet pictures had once been. They came to rest on a copy of the “Notice to the People” from Winstermill, retrieved by Pallette from his old frock-coat pocket and fixed to the wall with court-plaster.
“Aye,” Rossamünd answered a little cautiously.
Europe stood for a moment while he made show of fossicking through a parts drawer. “I thought it necessary to show you the making of the traces and lesser draughts I require,” she said suddenly. “Yet first I must know that I can trust the one to whom I show such learning.” She paused pointedly, apparently absorbed in some mark on a parts drawer.
“I—” Rossamünd hung his head. “Aye, you can . . .”
“Do you think me simple, little man?” his mistress purred, turning her keen gaze on him.
A dark thrill of compunction rippled through his soul. “I—uh—n-no . . .”
“Do you truly think I would believe even the least wit could lose you as easily as you have told to me?”
Rossamünd had no response for this.
Europe took a seat on the sole highback in the room. “Pater Maupin is too well served for such a valued and missing servant to remain unfound . . . And you and I together know that you could not have ended your pursuer.”
“No . . .” His voice was the merest breath of air.
Even this small admission was a profound relief.
The fulgar beheld him.
Glance by reluctant glance, Rossamünd lifted his attention to look at her squarely and found in her canny hazel regard that she understood much yet held her words . . . Rossamünd was grateful she did not press for more.
Abruptly, she produced a thin tome from her coat, hand-bound in scuffed and reddened reptilian hide. “This is an expurgatory, a lahzar’s list—”
Rossamünd sucked in a breath.
“I see you know of them.” Europe’s smile was thin. “You must never be found with it—suspicion is one thing but proof another. Stow it the same with cunning you are employing to keep last night’s secrets . . .”
