by D M Cornish
Europe’s treacle!
He sat up quickly, giving his side a sharp tweak and launching Darter Brown from his chest, fluttering just below the canopy and chirping in fright. It was then that he became aware of someone sitting in the corner of his vision by his bed: Europe, arms folded and legs crossed, reclined on a tandem. She was dressed not in her telltale red or magenta, but in a peculiar long-hemmed gown of deep green, collared with thick black feathers and figured with vines of lighter hue. With deft applications of rouges and creams from her fiasco, she seemed fresh and well. Faint amusement played across her mien as she regarded him serenely.
“Yes, I did make it myself, if that is what troubles you ...”—Rossamünd knowing full well she meant her treacle—“Many times . . . ,” she added archly as she pulled a bell rope that hung between her and the bed, her eyes glittering with more than she said.
Rossamünd eased himself back down. “How is Master Pin?” he asked as Fäbia entered with a rattle of crockery, bearing a late breakfast tray: steaming dollops of porridge, brooded new season rhubarb and a pitcher of fresh juice-oforange—a drink he would forever associate with Europe and convalescence.
“He will mend,” the fulgar sighed as she smoothed the unfamiliar folds on her lap. “And despite catching a cold—what he calls a blighted catarrh—Master Vinegar fraternizes with the residents when he’s not watching over you or Master Salt or blowing his ever-running nose . . .”
“And . . . and Cinnamon?” Rossamünd asked carefully.
Darter Brown gave a cheep!
Europe waited, watching Fäbia until the housekeeper left. “As pleased as I am for the sparrow-bogle’s help, I do not care to be its keeper. I am more concerned about the puncture in your flank.”
Rossamünd looked up from his rhubarb brood. Puncture? He immediately felt his side and found a thick bandage there, bound about front and back. His first inclination was to take it off and see what manner of wound was beneath, yet Europe and spilling brood stopped him.
“It is a neat hole right through from front to back,” his mistress explained. “One of those jackstraws must have found a gap in your proofing. I have witnessed lesser cuts kill a man . . .” She looked at him long, her eyes glinting strangely. “It is a convenient thing to suffer such a hurt and not be overly . . . discomfited.”
Rossamünd made a motion somewhere between a shrug and a nod.
“You have native thew that I have had to pay a duke’s fortune to gain, little man,” the fulgar pressed. “I would value it if I were you.”
For a beat, Rossamünd was sure he saw a twinkle of envy in her gaze. “I do” was his only reply.
“Good.” Europe chuckled as if to change the subject. She folded her hands across her knees. “Knowing all that the butcher Swill could tell him, Maupin has himself seen, I would think, a handsome profit in your capture.”
“Aye.” Rossamünd suppressed a shiver, revulsion alloyed with a frank and primal anger. “And to get to me they sought to kill you.”
“Hmm . . .” The fulgar’s gaze turned inward. “Just another casualty to the vagaries of travel on the Empire’s harried roads . . . I am sure that is how my cousin Brandenate would word it in his condoling missive to my mother.”
“We ought to go to the Duke of Sparrows, Miss Europe!” he offered with little hope. “Cinnamon as good as gave an invitation—”
“I do not think the sparrow-duke will let such as I in his home, little man . . . Not even on your say-so.”
Rossamünd looked unhappily to his rhubarb.
Europe continued to regard him closely. “You are in danger wherever you might hide, and bring the same on those who harbor you. Nevertheless, I do not hold you to my service,” she remarked softly and a little coldly. “If you wish it, I shall release you and you may leave for such shelter as the sparrow-man and his lord might grant you—I have learned well enough to make my own treacle since you first entered my employ ...”
Blinking at her, the young factotum smarted at the subtle bitterness in her words.
“For mine, however,” the Duchess-in-waiting added, “I would say that you are safest with me.”
He could not agree with her here; surely the Duke of Sparrows—like the Lapinduce—could keep whole nations at bay.Yet Rossamünd did not remonstrate. He did not truly think Europe would be granted sanctuary in the Sparrow Downs either. “I am your factotum, Miss Europe; my lot is with you, wherever you go.”
“Bravo!” Europe smiled, warmly at first, then becoming hawkish. “There will be much going, Rossamünd, for it is my intent for us to rest here for a time, gather ourselves and then return to Brandenbrass, where I shall make you safer still. What a dark shock they will have when they find that I am yet alive,” she observed almost happily, then blinked. “Now, I have questions for our gracious and wide-read host, Master Plume, beyond imposing upon him further—if you are up to it, you may join me.”
Twisting his middle, Rossamünd declared he felt taut enough to move about.
“I shall await you in my room.” Europe rose carefully against her own cracked frame and shut the door quietly behind her.
Perfumed by ancient timber paneling and cold slate, the interior of Orchard Harriet felt cavernous, empty but for the murmur of amused conversation sounding from somewhere deeper. The passage to their host’s file high in the northeastern wing of the manor was direct enough, though it kinked strangely as its walls went from wood panels to tinted plaster to bare stone in the space of a few strides. Though Europe held good posture, her manifold hurts kept her to a commendably sturdy hobble, for which Rossamünd—stiff and sore all over—was supremely grateful, feeling very ungainly with his sharply pinching side and his borrowed wardrobe of light day-clothes a size too small.
Coming right about a corner and stepping down then up an odd double flight of steps—one wood, the other stone—Rossamünd froze . . . For there, lying serenely in the passage and snoring lightly before a solid door of mahogany, was the largest Derehund he had ever encountered. It was bigger even than the monstrous beasts that guarded the lamplighter keep of Wellnigh House on the Wormway.
Unperturbed, Europe stepped about the giant dog without another thought.
Sitting on Rossamünd’s shoulder, Darter Brown did not fly off in boisterous alarm but remained, eyes squinting again in a partial doze.
Rossamünd, however, took a backward step.
The dog stirred and almost immediately became aware of him. Giving a start, it sprang to its feet and turned to face the young factotum, its shrewdly pallid eyes level to his own eye, its damp twitching nose to his nose, pinning him to the wall with its proximity.The beast did not bark or even growl; it just stared.
Rossamünd swallowed and tried to slide sideways, toward Europe.
“Come, Rossamünd,” his mistress called curtly. “You can play with the creature after . . .”
“Ah-hah!” He heard Gaspard Plume’s voice as the heavy door at the end of the passage sprang open. “Don’t be minding Baltissär! He’s everyone’s friend ever since Master Sparrow mended him.”
Though this sounded perfectly wondrous and excellent, Rossamünd’s frequent bitter experience with dogs of this ilk was not so simply assuaged. He inched forward past the beast, expecting at any minute to find his head inside the massive, drooling jaws not three inches from his face. It was the profoundest relief to finally cross the threshold into their host’s room.
“Shoo, sir!” Gaspard commanded the Derehund, blocking the dog’s curiosity with his body. “You know you are not allowed in here, Baltissär. Go! Keep the mousers honest,” he added, and shut the door on the creature’s mournful face.
Rossamünd relaxed as his mistress and their host traded greetings.
“I must say I was diverted by your works on the Didodumese, Master Plume,” Europe observed, smiling shrewdly. “I can understand why you might choose to live so remotely after that particular endeavor. I heard that certain families have put a price upon your
learn-ed pate.”
“Yes, well . . .” The historian blanched a trifle. “Truth has few friends, madam, but those who love her do so dearly and will pay with everything to keep her at liberty.”
A large space made of two long rooms, Gentleman Plume’s file was cramped with the clutter of a curious mind. At various corners were globes and ambit rings, stuffed animals under bell jars, a skull in the middle of a large drum table surrounded by rolls of charts—one held open by a vase containing a single enormous turnsole. There were plush elbow chairs, a turkoman for reading, and shelf upon shelf of more books than Rossamünd knew had been made. Any spare glimpses of the paneled wall were padded with rich red cloth, hung with ephemerides or daubed with loose yet exquisite paintings of animals of the common sorts, the style of the artist familiar to Rossamünd.
Flanked by a massive chest of map drawers on one side and a tall bench with an equally tall stool on the other, Gentleman Plume’s enormous desk dominated the second room. Behind it, draping the wall above a crackling hearth, was a large painted web of reds and golds, umbers and whites. Covering the chimney breast, it showed circles within squares within circles written over with the names of the eight winds, the old Phlegmish months, the skold’s formula AOWM, and the obsolete appellations for the three original continents. A cunctus orbis, Mister Plume complacently called it—an ancient chart of the known world at the time of the Phlegms.
Painted and stitched with staggering precision, it had, as Rossamünd could see, the great city Phlegmis marked with a red star in its midst, the center of the world.
By the open southern window a glossy pied daw sat upon a wooden perch above a pan of grit, ogling the arrivals with shrewd yellow eyes. Giving a feisty twitter, Darter Brown shot up to Rossamünd’s crown to stare and ruffle his feathers, little claws prickling at the young factotum’s scalp.
“That is a fine wee bird on your skull, young sir,” Plume suddenly said to him, nodding to Darter Brown. “Is it properly . . . trained?” he asked frankly. “Guano about the house and down one’s back is not a good show, I would think.”
Rossamünd blinked. He had never given the notion any thought. “I do not know, sir. He came to me out of the wilds just as he is.”
“It is a rare thing for a fellow to have such a spontaneously loyal creature,” Plume observed shrewdly. “You are fortunate to be held in this regard . . . He may share a perch with Pig if he wishes”—Plume indicated the daw—“should he need.”
Pig, the pied daw, blinked at hearing its name.
“Uh . . . Aye, sir . . .”
“Mister Plume, you are vaunted as a man of many parts,” Europe interjected after further brief pleasantries, taking a high-backed seat before the man’s spreading desk. “Do you recognize this?” She produced the four-barred mask of the Featherhead chieftain, its fastening ribbons trailing from it. “Its owner was among our attackers.” She gave a brief account of the ambush, shifting a little painfully in her seat as she made mention of blows delivered and received.
“Mmm, mighty deeds done at our very door.” Plume chuckled gravely, tilting his head knowledgeably, turning the mask over and over. “Still, a good neighbor is better than a distant relative, and any soul in sore need sorely needs a neighbor! You are healing, m’lady?”
“As well as pith allows,” she replied with an impatient twirl of her fingers. “What of the mask, sir?”
The genial fellow blinked tolerantly at her. “This, good lady, is the dial of a Grammaticar of a sept of the Seven Seven cult.” He paused as if the gravity of his statement was obvious. “The Seven Seven are of the worst false-god adorants; worshippers of Sucathës, ruthless and bloodthirsty and all that . . . Fond of entering into a fight drunk on sanguinary draughts . . .”
Little wonder then they were so heedless! Rossamünd’s thoughts must have shown on his face, for Plume beamed at him gratefully, glad to have affected at least one of his listeners.
“They are bad company to have at your tail, I am afraid, m’dear,” Plume continued, “and here you have gone and done in one of their most senior members.” He paused. “It ought be hoped you have annihilated this local sept, else they will come, hunt and find you . . .”
“I am not agitated by some local fictlers, sir,” Europe replied, unmoved.
“Ah, yes, of course . . .Your confidence does you credit, madam; you are an ornament to your profession!” The historian cleared his throat. “As for the wildmen you describe, they are most likely to be the Widden—or so they call themselves, after their forebears. They are eastern Piltdowners, still embittered a thousand years on at the conquests of the Burgundians, of the Tutelarchs, of their western and southern Pilt brethren, using long history as an excuse for all kinds of brigandry . . .”
“I hope we have not brought undue threat to your house, Mister Plume,” Rossamünd said in increasing concern.
The historian smiled. “Master Cannelle will have brought you unobserved and unfollowed. If it comes to it, we have seen such as them off before.”
“You fought bandits from this house, sir?” Rossamünd gaped.
Gentleman Plume gave him a knowing wink. “I believe Mister Gutter, our resident playwright and sometime composer, is attempting to work a variety of the salient event into his second operetta.”
Europe smiled patiently. “And the heavy warriors in the horn-ed casques?”
GASPARD PLUME
“Tüngid viskiekduzär,” the historian said without hesitation. “From Dzïk on the southernmost edges of Heilgolund!” He sniffed and shook his head. “The Widden! The Seven Seven! Fistdukes!” He let the import of this list linger, a grim and learned grimace twitching on his lips.
“And that reddleman,” Rossamünd inserted.
“Reddleman?” Plume’s eyes sparkled bemusedly.
“Yes,” Europe answered with a heavy sigh. “An agent of my foes, I would expect, disguised as a madder dye-seller.”
“While we went by carriage,” the young factotum expanded, “he was on foot pushing a cart, yet he kept watch on us the whole way from Brandenbrass to the ambush.”
“Ahh, likely a brinksman,” Plume said knowingly, adding at Rossamünd’s obvious bafflement, “a person who uses sanguinary draughts to an extreme so they might do such feats as chase a horse and carriage all across a parish and back.” He returned his sagacious attention to the Duchess-in-waiting. “You have certainly locked horns with someone possessing substantial grasp, Lady Rose!”
“Indeed, sir,” the fulgar returned.
Plume drew in a noisy breath. “Still, in it all, it is a most fortunate thing to have the friendship of so blithely and potent a fellow as Cannelle.”
Europe crooked her spoored brow and regarded Plume with narrow calculation.
The historian gave a gentle cough. “Dare I ask how you of all the people in the world, gracious Lady Rose, came to gain it? Or,” he said hastily before Europe—her eyes flashing dangerously—could catch a breath to answer, “if I may say, it comes as only small surprise, if the peculiar rumors of you that have made it even to us are to be countenanced . . .”
Europe bridled. “The set of my heart is mine alone to know, sir.” She looked long at Plume. “It is clear you yourself are not to be troubled by such rumors.”
“Indeed not, ma’am,” the gentleman replied with a long, affirming nod. “And, if I might, m’lady, neither, it appears, are you . . .”
A bitter smile fluttered on Europe’s lips. “Events of recent months have allowed me to consider anew the possible finer distinctions of monster-kind . . .”
“Ahh, yes.” The historian nodded musingly. “The teratological complot—teratologists who seek to serve man and monster both.”
The fulgar’s gaze narrowed. “It would be a . . . mistake, sir, to state my position so blankly.”
“Oh . . .” Gentleman Plume quickly schooled his mien to something a little less knowing. Repose quickly returning, the fellow leaned back in this chair. “How-be-it, if
Master Cannelle associates with you so readily, then so shall we . . . Please continue as our most honored guests in this our modest haven of learning and enlightenment for as long as you have need.”
In the bright cool of a clear afternoon, Amonias Silence and Spedillo returned from a morning excursion in their small sturdy carriage to the scene of the ambuscade, there to retrieve what they might of the four adventurers’ chattels.
“We call the place Step Dribble,” Mister Silence explained, giving his account to the Duchess-in-waiting as she reclined with Rossamünd and Fransitart before the fire in her vasty guest room. “It is an obvious site for a trap, m’lady—by all evidence it was a mighty fight,” he said with a pointed look of admiration to his listeners as Spedillo hauled in a trunk.
The fulgar nodded graciously.
“I am sorry to report that there were scant pickings,” Silence went on. “Just the heaviest trunks and a farrago of matchwood that may once have been a fine cart of expensive fit. All of it has been picked over, horses and tackle taken, the fallen gone . . . We were desirous to remain and investigate but were encouraged to egress at the advent of several sullen, thick-browed gents, most probably associates of your original assailants,” he concluded ominously. “I am sorry I could not be more illuminating.”
With an uncurling of her fingers, Europe dismissed the fellow with a soft, “I thank you, sir.”
That evening Europe and Fransitart and Rossamünd were invited to join Gentleman Plume and the rest of the household in a “grand supper,” or so he named it. Going by back stairs, Rossamünd squeezed among the steaming and savory bustle of the kitchen—on the cusp of serving the first remove—to test. It was slow going, his hands stiff and unresponsive, but he got the treacle made. He returned via those same servants’ steps to find his mistress already gone down to dine, and Fransitart with her. Craumpalin was left to sleep, chin to bosom, hoary beard lying out along his chest.
