by D M Cornish
Rossamünd blinked rapidly. “Aye, Doctor . . . He is surely in the best hands now.”
“It was a sore trial to leave that embracing calm, but more a human realm was best for us. With the glamgorn Freckle to help, the Lady Dolours and Threnody and their sisters saw the remaining hurt—now healing well—and myself safe to High Vesting. After this they departed again for their own clave-hall. Having set up the wounded at the local sanguinarium, I proceeded to charter the promptest packet out from that harbor and proceeded to you as quickly as I could.”
“A remarkable tale, Doctor,” said Europe. “It seems the season for adventure. Since you are now without a home, you may stay here for as long as is convenient.”
Stretched thin and jaded, the physician looked for a moment as if he were about to burst into tears of gratitude. “Well, gracious madam, I must get to Mister Sebastipole now—bring him report of Numps as well.”
“Nonsense, man,” the fulgar retorted. “You are in no humor for further travel. Write him a letter as you need, but for now, remain. Think of it as recompense for the diligent care you took of Rossamünd while he served with the lighters,” she ended a little more kindly.
Protesting his wish not to be a burden, the physician finally accepted. “Well—well, I thank you . . . Oh,” he went on, “and Threnody sends you word, Rossamünd. If she had had pen and paper, she would have writ something, but she asked me to convey . . . Now, what was it . . .” He pressed a knuckle to his lips. “Ah! That she hopes her words have not caused you too much harm and that she is glad you have got away clean with the Branden Rose.”
“Got away clean indeed,” Europe snorted quietly.
Rossamünd frowned at his mistress, grateful nevertheless to have news of the fractious girl lighter.
“What became of the Master-of-Clerks, do you think, Doctor?” he asked.
“The manse was wreathed in flame when last I saw it from across the sodden meadow. Few others fled after us—mostly the larger of our nicker allies fighting what appeared to be a rear-guard action. I cannot think he survived, nor Pile with him.”
So the Master-of-Clerks had been served justice at last. The monsters had acted where men could or would not. “No more gudgeon-making there,” Rossamünd murmured.
Doctor Crispus smiled mirthlessly as he sagged in his seat. “No, not in the manse’s cellars, at least . . .”
“What will ’appen now, d’ye reckon?” came Fransitart’s query.
The good doctor put a weary hand to his face. “I heard that the landsaire encampment near Silvernook moved themselves in the small of the morning of the assault and sought to retake the manse. Repulsed bloodily at the gates, they were unable to win inside and fell back in disarray.” He sighed heavily and pressed a finger against his lips. “I little expect that the empire of man will allow monsters to remain in its precincts unchallenged. An army will be mustered and sent, of that you can be sure.”
“Indeed,” Europe inserted. “The Archduke might find a different use for his conquering regiments this summer.”
After treacle and breakfast and letting Darter Brown outside to do those tasks it is a sparrow’s part to do, the duties of the first day back in Brandenbrass began in Europe’s file. Letters were waiting for them, a veritable bale of missives and communications collected over the time of their absence.
Only two were for Rossamünd, one thick, one thin.
Sitting on a tandem by the unlit hearth, Europe taking up a seat opposite, he broke the letter’s red sealing ribbon. Clearly from Verline, it was dated the 17th of Unxis—the very day he and Europe and his old masters had been ambushed—and it read as follows:
My beloved stout-hearted Rossamünd,
What fright I had to read Master Fransitart’s telling of your speedy exit from Winstermill Manse.What salve to know you are all well, though I do not know what to make of your succor at the care of that frightful Europa lady. She is a peer, however, so it cannot all be bad. Master F declares he feels you shall remain safe with her for the time, and I hope he may finally have some chance to rest his trickety leg.
I too have some news for you. From the time darling Masters Fransitart and Craumpalin left to come to you, Old Carp and Master Barthomaeus employed the services of a snugman. This fellow, whom I greeted but once—a rather alarming meeting—proved his large fee and found Gosling down in Proud Sulking. Horribly wounded, the lost soul was laid in a subscription infirmary, and would not say how he came by such hurts. Either hand, under right of bounty, Gosling was brought straight back to Boschenberg and has only just now stood before the judges’ bench. Their honors pronounced him guilty of (I think I am penning it rightly) interitus causim incension, which Master Barthomaeus informs me is “arsony occasioning death.” He says that Gosling was fortunate not to suffer caedes ad incendium (or “murder by fire”—why they do not speak plain, I do not know). Because Gosling is so young, he is to be spared the noose, and is sentenced a convict to serve in the colonial quarries in Euclasia.
I went to him three times in the Lock, bringing food with me. The first he screamed and flailed at the door and tried to reach at me through the small holes in it. I was quite safe; the coston would never allow him near me. The second visit Gosling was quiet. I went in to him, but he simply stared at the wall with those uncommon black eyes. On the third he would not see me, though the goodly sergeant-coston let me take a look at him through the peep. I know all the wickedness he has done, yet still I cannot but feel sorry for him. Oh, if only you could have seen him as I did, Rossamünd, you might well share the same tenderness.
At this point Rossamünd stopped reading, eyes burning and milt colliding with a thousand unnameable emotions. Collecting himself and wiping his nose angrily on his sleeve, he pressed on:
For now you can be at ease that after the terrible fire at the old foundlingery the children are all as best as can be done for. Most we have founded in better homes, some went to prentice early, and all’s that’s left of the littlest my most admirable sister and I have taken in for good under our own arm.
“My, my, rumor has spread to my mother at last,” the fulgar said, interrupting Rossamünd’s reading as she pored over a letter of her own. “She deplores my use of QGU in so squanderous a manner, of course . . .” She studied the missive some more. “The dear has never approved of my path—my violent irresponsible cavortings—and now she has heard of my taking up with sedorners . . . Shall I bring the whole history of fair names to infamy? she asks. A half truth is better than a whole lie.” She put the communication aside with a long-suffering sigh and took up another.
Rossamünd went back to his letter.
Far happier news is that now all legals have been settled, it turns that Madam Opera did leave the sum of her small wealth and worldly consequence to both Old Carp and me. Can you believe it! With it comes the marine society contract, which makes it now my right to set up the foundlingery again. My dear, dear brother-in-law has so taken to the littlest that Praeline and I still care for in our home that he has agreed to buy an enormous old manor-burg on the Tuinwig, in Primvild—of all the best places!—and Praeline will assist me as mistress into the bargain. Can you believe this either, heart of my heart? I shall be a marine society proprietress! Carp and Barthomæus will be our starting masters, and I have sent to the Navy Board, who have willingly consented to continue with us and sponsor more salty old darlings like the two dears with you now to serve out better days here. Dear Masters Fransitart and Crowmpalin will always have a place here should ever they want an end to their adventuring days—I have written them so. I almost dare to believe that, with the money Praeline’s husband is granting, the foundlingery might be better than before.
Providence ever turns bad to the good, if you have eyes to see it.
My blessings to you. Write to me so that I might know how you fare.Your previous letter was so short it troubles me so.
Forever and
always your
P.S. I have wri
tten of the same things to Masters F and C, so you do not need to pass this on to them.
It was signed with the flourish of a soul very much in a transport of happiness.
Blinking back bitter tears, Rossamünd read a second time, hastening over the tale of Gosling’s downfall, relishing the prospect of a new and certainly better foundlingery.
There was also a short communication from Sebastipole. It was dated more than two weeks gone—well before the fall of Winstermill—and it read as follows:
Rossamünd,
I do not have time to write more than the briefest missive to convey to you my satisfaction upon the report that you have won free from the misuses of the Master-of-Clerks and are under the much vaunted care of so eminent a teratologist. With her you are most certainly safe.
Here in the Considine the marshal continues his fight against false testimony, baseless accusation and the sluggish obstinacy of Imperial bureaucracy. Strange accounts come to us of the Surgeon Swill, that he makes a show of himself in Brandenbrass with a list of outrageous claims. I hope he has not caused you any discomfort. He might be dazzling the Branden court with his wild proclamations, but here in the sub-capital, report of such a carry on has only harmed his reputation—and those associated with him, and does our cause good. Thus encouraged, we go on until we prevail.
I must cease, for we have just now been summoned to yet another review of informal inquiry.
Of Discipline
and Limb,
Lamplighter’s
Agent &c
The Considine
“Ah, excellent . . . ,” Europe said eventually with feline satisfaction, rousing her factotum from his concentration once more. She lifted a wad of papers that had been a part of the mail—a large stack of pamphlets. “These should interest you,” she said, reading one briefly before laying them with a flop on the seat beside him. Most obvious was an edition of the Defamière, and with it Quack!, The Mordant Mercer, The Viper, Wasp and several more—every one a scandal or low-toned pamphlet, and all the latest issue. Topmost was a list in Mister Carp’s hand showing the name of each publication and beside each, page numbers.
“Miss Europe?” Rossamünd marveled, folding both missives neatly to put them safe in his inside weskit pocket where their words might be close to his soul.
“I have not lowered my tastes, if that is what you are thinking,” she said flatly, fixing him with a pointed look. “Turn to each of those pages and read . . . A most excellent retort,” she concluded with a contented half smile.
Doing as he was bidden, Rossamünd discovered in every pamphlet an article without title, featured near the front of the paper—usually the fifth page.
The Duchess-in-waiting of Naimes wishes to refute previous claims held in other papers of low repute that she improperly exercised her born right of QGU in the defense of one of lower station against the designs of greater men bent on infamy. Her accusers have since sought to denounce her publicly for such an honest service with implications of the basest sort, which can only be seen as regrettable and a symptom of their own villainy. Their intention base and self-interested gain, they embroil themselves most wholly and most treacherously with the darkest of all trades.Through the artifice of their own cunning they have eluded the just reach of Imperial Notice. We are now honor-bound to expose these dastards as base traitors. We properly await a swift righting of this great wrong.
“It seems I am not without my defenders,” Europe said archly. “A rigorous counter-offend to their radix,” she added, Rossamünd well recognizing terms of the Hundred Rules. “Thank you, Mister Finance . . .” Laying a bundle of papers down, she gave her young factotum an astute look. “Rossamünd . . . Monsiere Trottinott has inspired me,” she said suddenly. “I am going to hold a grand gala, and not a simple silk rout, but a sortire I’travesty—a come-as-you-fancy ball.”
Come-as-you-fancy? The young factotum regarded her in blinking bafflement. Where folks dress up as kings or heldins or fabulous creatures or any other fancy notion? “I thought you held galas and fêtes and routs and all to be interminably dreary,” he said.
The Branden Rose blinked at him. “They are, exceedingly so . . . unless someone of genuine refinement holds them. Ours shall be especially grand, in honor of my successful coursing venture.”
“But the knave wasn’t a success,” Rossamünd thoughtlessly returned.
Europe became rather still, fixing him with a withering expression. “Was it not . . . ,” she said in wintry tones. “My guests will not know that, will they?”
Bobbing his head, her factotum conceded. “No, they would not . . . What of Pater Maupin?” he dared, speaking with slow caution.
Europe’s eyes twinkled with occult thoughts. “He may wait” was all she said.
Rossamünd frowned.
“You, my sour factotum, I charge with the task of preparing its food and decoration. Do not goggle, Rossamünd! Kitchen and Clossette will be your aides, of course, and I am sure Doctor Crispus and even your old masters could lend their capabilities in help.” She smiled a sly smile. “As for myself, I shall take charge over the night’s entertainments.”
Taking a deep breath, he asked, “When will it be?”
“Midwich, the 20th of this month” was the quick reply.
Rossamünd did a hasty calculation of the time he had to accomplish impossibility.
A week from today!
23
OF OSSATOMY AND OBFUSCATIONS
lesquins also called landsaire, the “high end” of mercenary soldiering, with equally high fees, the best proofing and weapons, and long lists of honors. Some companies are given a to taking sanguinary draughts in order that they might ignore pain, fear and, even for a time, resist the frission or scathing of a wit.
INSTALLED in downstairs apartments of their own at the back of Cloche Arde, Fransitart and Craumpalin received the news of the grand gala with profound excitement.
“There’s a kindly change o’ wind I weren’t expectin’,” the ex-dormitory master exclaimed. “Here’s me thinking it would be all clubs an’ bruises an’ hidden threats.What fancy will ye be dressing as, Rossamünd?”
Knuckle to chin, Rossamünd pondered a moment. “I don’t rightly know . . . Myself? That is fancy enough, isn’t it?” he concluded with a wry twist to his mouth.
“What of that More-pins looby?” Craumpalin asked, puckering his brow, his inquiring grimace making his face disconcertingly gaunt. “Thy mistress made to be prodigiously fixed on his just desserts. Seems a mite uncharacterly for her ladyship to let this More-pins off the hook so simply.”
Rossamünd made a bemused face. “I do not reckon she has,” he said.
Taking their rest from the rigors of the journey in a parlor overlooking the sluggish flow of the Midwetter, the old salts—as yet to receive their own communication from her—were greatly impressed by Verline’s letter.
Craumpalin raised his glass tankard of soothing saloop. “Will be nice to have a place to settle to, once Rossamünd finds his feet and we lose the use of ours.”
“Aye,” Fransitart pondered solemnly. “I tell ye, I regret not bein’ able to reform that Gosling.”
Leg elevated on a turkoman, the old dispenser shifted awkwardly in his seat and snorted. “It’d take one hundred of you and one hundred of Verline one hundred years to even begin to set one twisted part of Gosling’s inward places aright.”
“Mayhap,” the ex-dormitory master returned. “The mines of Euclasia will do naught to soothe his mucky soul, neither.”
“Thee wants to light him away to some sweeter hole, Frans?” Craumpalin chided. “Take him under thy scrawny white oar and make good the rotten heart? Some folks just won’t be learned under a softer hand.”
“Aye,” replied Fransitart sadly. “Aye . . .” He gave Rossamünd an unhappy and uncommonly confounded look.
The young factotum smiled sadly in return.
“Well, we won’t be let off th’ hook simple,” Fransita
rt finally said. “It’s going to be fetch an’ carry unceasin’ from now till next Midwich.”
“Aye,” Rossamünd concurred. “More than enough practicable to do even for you, Master Pin.”
“Aye,” Fransitart growled. “If I can get some vittles into ’im first!”
The old dispenser threw him a wink.
At the guidance of Kitchen and Clossette, Rossamünd quickly learned that a grand gala was no simple dance, though certainly dancing was a central part; it was rather a great unfolding of entertainments, to be held on almost every floor of Cloche Arde.
The hiatus was to serve as a coat room and milling space. The billiard room by Rossamünd’s set was to be opened, but the other end of that level was to be occluded by a bom e’do screen guarded by Nectarius. The parlors and drawing rooms of the third story were set aside to host an oratory for rigorous debates directed by a set of orators; a glossary for thrilling gossip at the lead of a pair of talented glossicutes; and a leviate where souls could be refreshed while a quintet of fiddlers played to sooth overexercised nerves. There was to be a pantomime in the second drawing room and even a benign mesmerist to play tricks with people’s senses. The ludion was set to be the main dance hall, the expanse of mirrors of the back wall folding aside and the partitions of chambers beyond—which to Rossamünd’s astonishment turned out to be quite portable—removed, opening up the entire top story of Cloche Arde into an ample floor. Here, behind the stairs, a stand was laid for a pair of orchestras to play upon in rotating shifts of an hour each.
