by D M Cornish
A biggin of plaudamentum in hand and changed into a glossy suit recovered from the wreck, Rossamünd descended the broad sweep of staircase that went down from the landing to a wide hall of old dark wood and white marble below. Following ears and nose, he easily navigated the narrow passages, passing closed doors and silent rooms to find his destination: an enormous dining hall of stone and tall, narrow windows to rival the banqueting palace of some fabled heathen king. Its walls were lined with many grand paintings, the grandest of all a vast fantastico of an ancient political scene strung above the mighty stone fire-place at the right end of the long space. On the hearth rug lay Baltissär, staring with hungry restraint at a whole gaggle of unknown souls who sat about a long oval dining table in the very midst of the hall. Their hubble-bubble filled the space as they chatted with happy animation among the candlesticks, glass and silverware.
Every attention turned expectantly to Rossamünd’s arrival. The young factotum fumbled for a moment as he tried to take the entire scene in at once, until he spotted Fransitart, red-nosed, turning in his chair to see him come in, and beyond the old salt, Europe peering at him impassively. Sitting regally at the seat of honor, she was dressed in her more usual coat of brilliant scarlet hide rescued that very day from the wreck of the landaulet.
“Welcome to our Great Refectory, sir!” Gentleman Gaspard Plume greeted him from the other end of the board. “The timing of your stomach is impeccable! Late lunch—or epicibals, as we delight to call it,” he added with a perceptive wink to his other guests, “is upon the very brink of being laid. Join us, fine fellow, join us!”
Rossamünd bowed confusedly, and a seat was found for him between Europe on the left and Amonias Silence on the right, the amanuensis looking fine in a soutaine of glossy gray and high starched collar and neckerchief of pristine white.
Taking her plaudamentum from him, the fulgar arched a reassuring brow.
As the first remove was served—pottage fancy, fresh rye cobs and pitchers of new spring water—Rossamünd was graciously introduced to the other sitters spaced widely about the enormous oval table. First among them, to Gentleman Plume’s right, was a broad fellow with a famous name: Warder All, metrician and wilder, a man seeking “to preserve nature in all its pristine splendor against the unceasing, uglifying cicurations of everyman”—or so their host proclaimed. Clad in a sturdy proofed frock coat of a surprisingly delicate pink and a white-powdered bag-wig, he had arrived from Brandenbrass that very afternoon. “He spends far too much of his time petitioning the Archduke to treat the wild spaces kindly, but today has finally seen reason and come to hide here before he takes up a survey expedition to Thisterland. What is more, my fine fellow!”—Gentleman Plume turned to properly address the subject of his introduction with undiluted pleasure. “You have brought us krebin from the darksome east and oyster too—not pickled in Patriarch’s Pond, mind, but fresh plucked from their native beds at the bottom of the Branden Roads, dulcified and put in ice from the floes of Heilgolund!”
Regarding Rossamünd with serene countenance,Warder All dipped his head in cool greeting.
Next to the wilder metrician was a cultivated woman in a high-collared jacket of deep viridian who wore her ginger hair up in a simple braided club as a man might. Pluto Six was her name—a name as recognizable to Rossamünd as Warder All. One of the permanent lodgers at Orchard Harriet, she was a frequent illustrator of the very pamphlets and gazettes Rossamünd preferred.
She welcomed him with a soft, precisely pronounced, “Well-a-day.”
Rossamünd was ashamed to admit he had previously thought her a man, and inclined his head part in courtesy, part to hide the flush in his cheeks.
Next—and looking vaguely uncomfortable among so many people of higher station—came Fransitart. “Whom I am certain you know right well already,” said Plume with a wink. Abruptly the ex-dormitory master sneezed into a cloth. “Beggin’ ye pardon, me masters . . . ,” he muttered, dabbing his nose.
Beside him and directly across from Rossamünd sat a man with a delicate face and resplendent in a broad-lapeled coat of dark silver blue, his rich black hair curled and long like a wig.
“Hesiod Gutter!” he said in introduction. “Playwright—though not of those awful populist pantos, mind.” He reached across the table to vigorously shake Rossamünd’s hand. “Manly grip!” he declared approvingly. “Excellent. Well met, sir.”
“Our H. Gutter also dabbles in opera,” Gaspard continued, smirking ever so slightly, “though don’t let that dissuade you from further association with him.”
Unfathoming at what must have been some private jape, Rossamünd smiled anyway, not in the least dissuaded.
“And here is your mistress, favoring us so with her company.” Their host beamed to Europe, who smiled mildly in return.
Beyond Mister Silence, on Rossamünd’s right, sat a solemn fellow. Though he was clothed in simpler workman’s buffs and bore a gloomy aspect, his eyes were very much the mirror of Gentleman Plume’s own.
“This is my elder brother, Philemon, Lord Plume, twenty-fifth Count of Windspect Folia, Master of Temburly Hall,” Gaspard said finally.
Swaying a little, the Count of Windspect Folia blinked at Rossamünd languidly.There was something unhinged yet percipient in his look, and the young factotum thought for just a moment he was beholding Numps.
“Always a delight to have one of your tribe to dine,” the Count said bluntly, blurring his words. “However, you will have to excuse Cannelle and little Pococo; they have had to go . . .” He leaned in a little, and with stage whisper added, “Urgent business.” The Count then returned his attention to the crystal tumbler of thick dark red liquid he revolved slowly in his hand.
Their host, his younger brother, peered at him sadly for an inkling. Pointing open-handed to Rossamünd, he went on, undeterred. “And this is Rossamünd Bookchild, factotum to our other honored guest, the Branden Rose, and friend to our ancient friends . . . Rossamünd is correct, is it not?” Gaspard inquired, putting a little too much emphasis on the final vowel.
Rossamünd nodded. “Aye, sir.”
“Not a name you want to get wrong, ey . . .”
“Ah, no, sir.”
Introductions done, Plume asked Warder All to approve the meal.
“Let us give ponder to the unmerited bounty of nature ...,” the metrician began with an impressively deep voice. He lowered his gaze and the other guests went silent.
Decidedly uncomfortable, Europe peered at Mister All with narrow scrutiny.
The memorial was brief, the eating long and conversation longer, ranging from the merits of one composer against another, one pen against another, one fabulist against another—each interlocutor clearly possessing his or her favorite.
For all their animation and easy familiarity, the dining talkers seemed wary of Europe—Warder All most of all. He appeared perplexed, and kept staring at her, his perceptive gray eyes clouded with bemused calculations.
In her turn, the Duchess-in-waiting spoke freely enough with those closest to her. As they waited for the second remove to be laid—spinach egg pie and grass-wine, maybe one of Monsiere Trottinott’s own vintages—their host suddenly called her attention to the gigantic painting hung above the fire behind her.
“A recent purchase of mine,” Gaspard said happily.
The whole party turned to look.
Framed in ponderous gilt, it showed an indomitable woman clad in peacock green and a splaying aura of feathers, proudly extending her hand to a wild yet magnificent-looking fellow knelt before her. Armored in buff and hide and fur, he bore an equally princely manner despite his genuflection. Standing amid the flotsam of just-won battle, the two were surrounded by a crowd of souls in ancient clothes, each showing a different face to the moment: grief, reverence, wonder. A well-dressed group of sages among the queen’s own retinue had heads together in sly deliberation. A brazen plaque beneath read “Idaho the Great Receives Tribute from the King of Lethe.”
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“The Neo-Athic school, I believe,” Hesiod Gutter observed.
“Completely correct, sir!” Gaspard concurred then continued, perhaps a little too chattily, to his illustrious guest. “Do you mark that rather martial-looking woman, madam, standing so alertly just behind the immortal empress?”
Slowly twisting in her seat to gaze more fully upon the image, Europe nodded.
Rossamünd nodded as he examined the impressive figure standing between the historied empress and her now infamous band of scheming advisers.Wielding a long-bladed spear, the woman was clad in a thick hackle of leonguile hide over a white laminated lorica and beneath this a wide skirt of red. On her head was a high bronze helm crested with black-and-white-striped horsehair, and red-and-white checks covering the crown. This casque was pushed back to reveal a sweet-faced woman, her ruby cheeks at odds with her warlike attire and soldierly stance.
I believe that is your ancient beldame,” their host explained, unable to hide a tinge of pride at this revelation. “Eurodice, Speardame to Idaho, progenitrix—so the records have it—of Naimes’ governing family line.”
“Indeed it is, sir,” Europe returned evenly, but offered nothing more; so started, the conversation promptly returned to its usual topics.
It may have been a trick of the eye, but Rossamünd reckoned a filial resemblance between the daubed, long-dead heldin dame and the living one who sat so close to him now.
“I am sorry to hear, Madam Rose, that you were attacked,” declared the composer, Hesiod Gutter, upon the arrival of the third remove—spatched partridge in oyster jusine and blanched asparagus. “For all its grim reputation, ours is typically a pleasant spot in this wicked world.”
“Wicked indeed, sir,” the Branden Rose returned, inclining her head.
“Aye,” Fransitart spoke up. “Especially when fictlers are sent out into it.”
“Them fictlers is nowt but trouble ...” Spedillo—who happened to be serving the ex-dormitory master at that very moment—interjected with compulsive severity, his masters not seeming to mind his exclamation one bit.
“Hear, hear!” Hesiod Gutter banged the table in passionate approbation.
“They seek to rid the world of nickers through the rising of the false-gods,” Pluto Six declaimed, “yet even the most simply read in matter knows of the universal devastation a risen false-god will bring to all creatures: monsters, beasts and men!”
“What does it matter if some people choose to worship Lobe or Sucathës or Ninelap or any of the other however many score there are meant to be?” Gentleman Plume insisted, playing the part of contradictor. “They and their kind are far more powerful than those subject to them; as great as a man is to an ant. One so clearly superior might be said to deserve obeisance.”
“Perhaps . . . ,” Warder All countered, “but Lobe and all the false-gods are creatures just as we and no more able to determine our ultimate future than the ant over whom we have such apparent mastery. Indeed, we would do well to follow the ant’s example, who does not give gigantic man glory or service, but maintains busy industry in the path set by Providence.”
“Ah, spare us talk of Providence!” Gutter protested. “Arrant befuddling dribble . . . Leave it to the eekers, sir!” He grinned to soften the genuine intent of his words.
“What of you, Mister Fransitart?” Gaspard called. “You are a creature of the vinegar; how say you on the false-gods?”
Fransitart cleared his throat, as if he were about to address a room of marine society children. “Some lads scrawl themselves with their signs thinkin’ it makes ’em safe against the nadderers, but those who reckon they’ve seen such false ones out in th’ gurgis speak like they ne’er would want to again. That’s enough for me, sir.”
“Hear, hear!” was the general accord, much to the old dormitory master’s satisfaction.
At the laying of the fourth remove—char-seared spit lamb and honey-roasted taters—Warder All stunned them all with the revelation that the Emperor was soon to arrive in the Soutlands upon a rare summer pageant. “He brings his youngest heir to show to we simple southern folk. And to commemorate this infrequent coming forth, the dear fellow has gone and changed the order of the arbustral months, citing his heir’s name—Iudus Haacobin Manangës, or Jude—as a more fitting name for the month in which they intend to travel.” To the general disbelief he presented a pristine bill properly authenticated with a madder note of Ol’ Barny, the Imperial Owl.
“What month does that put us in now?” asked Gaspard, puzzled.
“We are in Unxis still, and Orio stays where it should,” Hesiod Gutter explained, currently holding the offending bill. “Three days from now though, watch your hats! We will be in Narcis as if it is the end of the year, but no! One month still to come, poor once-forgotten Jude.”
Rossamünd shook his head. He knew of the change made four centuries ago by Moribund Sceptic III for the sake of his truculent daughter—certain folks still spoke in consternation on it—but to actually witness such power to change even the very months was bafflingly impressive. One word from the Emperor and the whole world shifted. Surely he had better, more important tasks than making alterations to the calendar that served no useful purpose at all.
Orio, Unxis, Narcis, Jude.
This new order, however, did have a more lyrical ring.
“Pettifogging poppicockery!” their host branded it hotly.
“An astonishing waste of paper and attention,” agreed Warder All. “The Archduke spoke none too kindly of it in my seminar with him ...”
“Them ink-drinking quill-lickers got nought better to do up in Clementine than burden us with needless change,” Fransitart observed, to table-thumping approval.
“What other useless novelties do you bring from the city, sir?” asked Gentleman Plume.
“The usual wind of idle tongues,” the metrician said with a quick and peculiar look to Europe, “which I will not bore you with here. However, among the oddities, Gyve’s was only last week hosting lectures by an unknown yet patently well-connected habilist by the name of Swill or Swillings or the like. His obscurity matched only by his enthusiasm, the fellow was insisting that he has discovered a new omilia of teratoid.”
Though master of his outer self, Rossamünd’s innards twisted sharply. He became still, the better to listen carefully. How would this be received?
“Truly?” Plume breathed. “Has he identified a friend or a foe, I wonder?”
“Friend, I would hope,” Warder All answered, then continued. “This fellow insisted on calling them manikins—monsters in an everyman’s form, come from the muds just as some have posited üntermen do.”
“What is novel about that?” Amonias Silence spoke. “Hasn’t he heard of old Biargë?”
“Ah, yes, but this Swillings fellow seemed to think they are more than just some vinegar’s cant; he held that they were living with us now.”
“Well, that would certainly put the fox among the pullets.” Gentleman Plume smirked.
“Or a pullet among foxes,” Pluto said quietly.
Rossamünd peered through his brows at her gratefully.
“Swill, you say?” Hesiod tapped his chin ruminatively with a fork. “I was reading only yesterday in a Mordant Mercer of very recent publication that connects a fellow with such a name very unfavorably to the dark trades ...”
Warder All made a noncommittal gesture. “Unsavory connections or no, the man went so far as to wave about some sanguine mark on his arm, saying that it was a cruorpunxis made with the blood of such a creature.”
Rossamünd’s ears began to ring and his vision vibrate.
Swill had done more than punct Fransitart. He has marked himself!
At last the young factotum shot a look to his mistress. To everyone else her face would have been nothing but attentive and serene.Yet to Rossamünd it was clear in the deeps of her eyes that her mind turned upon darker thoughts, and he knew then that their return to Brandenbrass would indeed be a viol
ent one.
21
LIVING BY ANOTHER’S LEAVE
capstan songs lively tunes—what we would call “shanties”—a product of the harshness of sea-board life, at times bawdy but always very sing-able, sung by vinegaroons in any group labor such as hauling up the anchor or winding the capstan of a ram or other vessel. A new tune might make its way into common society and flourish there for a brief moment in pantos and tavern rounds, eventually returning to the obscurity of naval culture.
DETERMINED as she was to return to Brandenbrass and have at her antagonists, Europe was not fit enough for such a confrontation, nor was Craumpalin well enough for the journey. Though in truth it vexed her, the Branden Rose submitted to the scholarly security and unending comfort of Orchard Harriet until the four travelers had sufficiently recuperated. “A hasty step is ever a misstep,” she said the next morning after the Grand Supper, sharing breakfast with Rossamünd in her room. “I can wait . . .”
Unaware of Rossamünd’s injured flank, Gentleman Plume invited him for a stroll about “O’ Harriet”—as the historian was fond of calling it. In the midst of the wooded hills, the manor itself was a peculiar conglomeration of found stone, dressed slabs, fired brick, aged timber. The main portion at the northern end was clearly the remains of an old fortress, with turrets, loophole windows and crenellated wall, a section at the back actually collapsed and unused, crawling with creeping vines and spangled with brilliant orange pumpkin flowers. Additions were built in stages over many centuries, completed with different processes and materials and scant regard for the manner of construction of the previous parts.
“Not the most attractive of structures, I’ll grant you,” Gentleman Plume admitted as they walked. “Its story is long and rather obscure, but it makes a perfectly excellent hiding hole and, properly fitted, is as snug as any fine city hall.”
