Lamplighter

by D M Cornish

  28

  BEFORE THE INQUIRY

  heldin(s) mighty folk of ancient history who fought with the monsters, employing their infamous therimoirs to keep the eoned realms of humankind safe. Known by many collective titles, including beauts (common), haggedolim (Phlegmish), herragdars (Skyldic), heterai (Attic), orgulars (Tutin), sehgbhans (Turkic) and what we would call “heroes”.The time of their supremacy, when they were relied upon to stand in the gap between everymen and üntermen, is known as the Heldinsage. Said to have begun with the Phlegms—those most ancient forebears—and ended with the Attics, their heirs, it was the time of Idaho, the great queen of the Attics, and of Biargë the Beautiful, among many other glorious and infamous folk and their usually tragic stories. Not all of the weapons of the heldins were destroyed in the violent cataclysms that punctuated and finally concluded that time: many are said to remain, and are most highly prized by collectors and combatants.

  THE next morning, gray and misty and eerily still, Rossamünd was already harnessed when the ritual call came—“A lamp! A lamp to light your path!” Without stopping for breakfast, Rossamünd went straight down to the Low Gutter, through the labyrinthine Skillions. Kneeling over the deserted grate that led to Numps’ desecrated bloom baths, the young lighter called and called Numps’ name till he was hoarse, but no pallid, welcoming, twisted face loomed on the darkened steps below.

  Rossamünd pulled on the grate and found it was locked.

  He gave one last cry, and ran to the lantern store, looking dusty and seldom used, but the glimner was not in there either. Rubbing his face, Rossamünd tried to marshal his increasingly anxious conjectures.

  Doctor Crispus will know! To the infirmary he went, and found the physician working as he always had, tending the few ill or wounded fellows there.

  “Have you seen him?” Rossamünd pressed intently. “Is Mister Numps recovered from his grief?”

  “Cuts and sutures! No, I have not had sight of Numps, young Master Bookchild,” the profoundly startled Crispus replied. “And well betide you, young sir, all questions and no greetings!” he added. “I had no notion you would ever be back with us!”

  “Sorry, Doctor Crispus. Hallo, sir. I was just down in the Skillions looking for Mister Numps.”

  The physician laughed, a tight nervous sound, and directed Rossamünd into his study. “All I can confirm,” the man said when the door was shut, “is that the astute fellow has taken to living in the damp cellars under our very feet. I put out food in his lantern store at the start of every week, and each time I have returned to do it again, the previous parcels are gone. It seems a satisfactory arrangement, though it probably cannot last. Nevertheless, I shall keep at it till events dictate otherwise. And for you, my boy, why are you here? I heard of the terrible things done at Wormstool. It does me a great good to see you hale.”

  “The clerk-master has called Threnody and me back,” he said, sitting upright and tense on the seat Crispus offered him. “He says that the things that happened at Wormstool are too terrible to not inquire after properly. He also says he wants to investigate ‘irregularities.’ ”

  “I am sure he does,” Crispus exclaimed. “Guilty minds are suspicious minds.”

  “You received my letter, Doctor?”

  “I did, my boy, I did.” The physician stared at his well-ordered desktop for a moment.

  “I sent the same to Mister Sebastipole,” Rossamünd added, fishing out the letter from Sebastipole and passing it over. “This was his reply.”

  Crispus took the missive and “hmmed” a lot as he read. “The gears of bureaucracy turn against us, Master Bookchild,” he said at last, waving the letter. “The most difficult thing in all of this topsy-turvy hubble-bubble is proof.”

  “Have you discovered any, Doctor?”

  “Regrettably, no,” Doctor Crispus said flatly. “Our not-so-temporary Marshal has reversed my position, and against all custom and decency that sawbones Swill is my superior: a surgeon over a physician! I am not certain that it is even legal. But that is the lay of things, and consequently my movements about the manse are severely restricted. So you and Mister Sebastipole and I can wonder and surmise all we like, but like the leer says, it is all useless without tangible proofs, and these none of us is in the position to obtain.”

  “Miss Europe says the same.” Rossamünd’s shoulders sagged. Then a bright idea struck. “I could find proof. I got into the cellars before, I can do it again.”

  “Lah! The boy is a heldin reborn!” Crispus exclaimed. “They cover their activity too well. If Mister Sebastipole could not find evidence or even traces of the same, what hope have you with your less cunning senses? No, no, no, Rossamünd. You are in things deep enough, I think! Having said that, you should destroy this letter—their finding proof against us . . . against you . . . would be terribly counteractive.”

  “How is it that we are not able to stop such clear wrongdoing?” Rossamünd said in suppressed indignation.

  “I am afraid, my boy, our foes are well ahead of us in the use and experience of cunning and shrewdery,” said Crispus resignedly.

  “But it can’t be that they are allowed to go on making rever-men and ruining lives!”

  “No, it cannot,” the physician concluded softly. “No, it cannot,” he repeated, and lapsed into introspective silence.

  Flummoxed, Rossamünd went silent too. Railing about the wretched situation did naught to solve it. “The manse seems empty, Doctor,” Rossamünd eventually observed.

  “Joints and gristle, my boy,” Crispus exclaimed, “this place has gone to blight after that sis edisserum caper. All the best folk are leaving as fast as schemes will let them. Whympre said something about Grindrod being overburdened by the rigors of learning prentices their trade. The poor fellow has been sent on half pay to some other fort—I never did catch where—some remote and difficult place. Benedict has taken his sweet little wife back to High Vesting.”

  Rossamünd could not believe his ears. Benedict gone? Grindrod disposed? The lamplighter-sergeant had seemed as permanent as the rock of Winstreslewe itself. “But who is drilling prentices, then?”

  “There are no more prentices,” returned Crispus. “Master Whympre says that the road is in too great a disarray for prenticing to continue. He says that after he has brought things back in order and reformed the whole Wormway, the question of prentices shall be addressed again.”

  “Who else has gone?” Rossamünd asked, saucer-eyed.

  “Let me see . . .” The physician began counting off fingers. “As you know, that Mother Snooks woman evaporated without a glimpse some months ago; I have heard some dreadful rumor that she was declared mentally unsound and exiled to some terrible far-off place. Then there is that amiable young register, Inkwill. He set off last week to some sinecure—a sweet-and-easy station I believe the common roughs call it—in the bureaucracies of Brandenbrass, got for him through a cousin, or so he said. The lurksman-general is seeking a position elsewhere. Most of my epimelains have left; they said they would not work with that butcher at the lead—bless their eyes. I have precious few like-minded fellows to converse with now, and a sore trial it is too, I might say. If it were not for Numps, I might find a way to a new posting myself. Now let me look you over.” Crispus reached for a special monocle like Swill had worn when searching out the calendar Pandomë’s hurts. “It might be near on a month since you were in your fight, but I do not trust Mister Trippletree”—by which he meant the dispenser at Bleakhall—“to have been thorough enough.”

  While he was looked over, Rossamünd explained the many events that had crowded his life since last he was in Winstermill, though he omitted any mention of Freckle. “. . . And all I hear,” he concluded after a long telling, “is what a remarkable thing it was to have slain those nickers.”

  “Well, my boy, I cannot say that I blame them. To come out unscathed from one of the worst assaults on a cothouse in recent history would be a most remarkable thing even for a fu
lly formed man. But fret not: the body is capable of remarkable deeds when the soul is under great pressure. Now, Rossamünd, you look fit enough, though I think you need to eat more.”

  So, with morning transformed to midday, Doctor Crispus invited Rossamünd to share middens.

  “Ahh.” Crispus waxed cheerful as the food was brought in by silent maids. “Middens is a meal not to be missed! One can go without breakfast, and a missed mains won’t do you harm, but to skip middens”—he clucked his tongue rapidly—“that is to risk a sluggish and interminable afternoon.”

  Rossamünd basked in the physician’s dependable unflappability.

  There was tench pie, boiled leg o’ veal, carrot collique, peas with a great wedge of butter melting on them and sweet wine jelly for puddings—like a Domesday feast, served right in the physician’s study. In this prandial refuge they talked a little about lighter things, but mostly they ate in heavy, ruminative silence.

  The meal approached its end and Doctor Crispus pushed back his chair and, with a show of sangfroid, said, “Don’t fuss about Numps, my boy.Together we just might preserve the poor fellow from further harassments.” He sucked down the last of his tepid sillabub with a clear yet dignified snort and said, “Back to the coughs and croaks and running sores for me, my friend. Nights can be as long as days for one in my line of work: several wounded lighters have been sent to me from beyond the Tumblesloes.They did not do as well as you against the bogles, but are not beyond repairing. Good day to you, Master Bookchild, until anon.”

  Standing to bow, Rossamünd bid the physician good afternoon and left, spirits lifted, pleased to have such an estimable man of physics call him friend.

  Rossamünd spent confinations alone in his tiny room. In the afternoon he had gone back to the Low Gutter to seek Numps, but still to no avail. After this he made an attempt to meet with Threnody, but she was now closeted with her mother and was refusing all visitors. She had not been hard to find: he simply asked Under-Clerk Fleugh, who, though sneering and supercilious, told him without hesitation. Even as he approached down the dark, aromatic passage, he could hear the rumor of a terrible ruckus. It became a terrible female screech as the door of Threnody’s apartment was opened to his knock.

  “You shall tell everything as you saw it, child,” is what it sounded like, coming from some other room farther within.

  Before him at the door stood Dolours. She wore a wimple to cover her bald pate and a dogged expression. “Hello, young lampsman. Threnody will not be taking any callers today.”

  “Our clave has no liars!” the screeching continued behind. “How would we look to others if it were known my daughter—the Right’s heiress—was a black-tongued deceiver?”

  “Not even me?” Rossamünd had persevered.

  “Not even you, young lampsman,” Dolours had answered with a sad and not unfriendly smile. “She is being prepared for tomorrow’s inquiry. Be on your way, Rossamünd Bookchild. We are grateful for your aid to our senior-sister’s daughter, but bigger wheels are turning here.”

  Lying on his lumpy, lonely bed, he worried over this odd display. Will she tell of Freckle? The chilling thought froze his innards. Flicking disconsolately through an old pamphlet to distract him from such inconvenient anxieties, he heard a call come for him. “Lampsman Bookchild, you are required by the Marshal-Subrogat!”

  What now! Rossamünd fretted as he was taken to the Master-of-Clerks’ file. Is the inquiry coming early? Is it canceled? Are they letting us go? All sanguine hopes, he was sure. Arriving, he closed his eyes and took a deep breath and readied himself to face the foe. The doors swung back and he saw Whympre, sitting at his usual place at the far end of the long table, within the light of the only lamp lit in the room. He was apparently on his own for the only time Rossamünd could ever recall, until the young lampsman saw that there were shadowy figures in the gloom, standing about halfway down the clerk-master’s long table beneath the Trought’s great antlers. Did he know those figures?

  With a great, weird, leaping exultation he realized he was staring straight at Fransitart and Craumpalin, his old masters, the former stiff and steady, the latter fidgety and trying not to be. They had come, as they said, all the way from Boschenberg, even though it was the worst time for traveling. It was so utterly strange to see them there, his two worlds—old and new—overlapping. Rossamünd was struck dumb.

  On seeing him, Craumpalin made to hurry down to greet him, yet was halted by a subtle hand of Fransitart’s.

  “Ah-ha, Lampsman Bookchild!” the Master-of-Clerks almost cried in disingenuous eagerness, clearly making a kindly show of it for Rossamünd’s old masters. “You have visitors, see: your old wardens come to offer you succor in these darkest of days.”

  Rossamünd blinked at the man. “Thank you, sir,” he managed.

  “Hullo there, lad,” said Master Fransitart huskily, his hard face made soft by the dampness in his soulful eyes. Rossamünd realized he had near forgotten the once-so-familiar face. “We were about on our ways to Wormstool but heard ye’d returned unexpected. We understand troubles are athwart yer hawse.”

  Nearly bursting into tears, Rossamünd wrestled with the knot in his throat. “H-Hallo, Master Fransitart. Hallo, Master Craumpalin.”

  “ ’Ello, my boy.” The old dispensurist grinned through his white beard.

  “I have allowed them to join with you in the prentices’ mess hall for a light supper before douse-lanterns.” The Master-of-Clerks did a brilliant simulation of the kindly host.

  Mercy of mercies, Podious Whympre let them leave promptly, and the promise of a late meal was actually honored. Left alone in his tiny accommodation, the reunited finally gave expression to truer feelings as Rossamünd threw himself into Fransitart’s arms. He buried his face in the rough weave and old, unique scent of his dormitory master’s cheap proofing. The mildly startled ex-mariner cooed, “There, there, me hearty” several times till the young lighter loosened his hold.

  Craumpalin fussed and exclaimed, “Look at thee! All bones like a mouse in a miser’s kitchen. What, don’t they feed thee, lad?”

  “Why are you here so soon?” Rossamünd’s voice wobbled. “Your letter said you would not be here till . . . till ...”

  “Till now, lad,” Fransitart said gently. “And we’re actually late. It took some organizin’, but finally there was naught else for us to stay for, no marine society, no—no children to look after with ’em all now safe at other places ...”

  CRAUMPALIN

  “And no Madam to employ us neither,” Craumpalin added solemnly.

  Rossamünd did not know what to say about Madam Opera. There had been little warmth between them. Still, she had done more than many ever would in the aid of the “undeserving,” even if her labors lacked motherly sentiments.

  “A fine woman,” the dispensurist murmured. “Not the friendliest, but fine an’ upstandin’!” He raised a mug in silent salute.

  Fransitart did the same, and they bumped mugs together.

  “And now we’re loose-footed.” Craumpalin chuckled stoutly. “Just like afore all this settling down to care for wee babbies. Roll on them old days!” He looked meaningfully to Fransitart, and Rossamünd became aware of a great weight of history between the two. Here, when he thought them so very familiar, they were revealing parts of themselves to which he was a stranger.

  “Old days indeed.” Fransitart frowned. “And thankee to yer Marshal fellow for our ales!”

  “Don’t be tricked by that trickster, Master Fransitart,” Rossamünd warned. “He is the most cunning basket of them all.”

  His two old masters blinked at him in surprise.

  “I do believe the lad’s filling out his baldric nicely, Frans.” Craumpalin winked. “Don’t be troublin’ thyself, Rossamünd, we know hay from straw; caught sight o’ his colors right quick, di’n we, Frans?”

  “That we did, Pin—a regular lamb-clad wolf is he.”

  “Aye aye, enough to make thy meat crawl,” the ol
d dispensurist agreed. He looked sourly at the food before them. “Blight and blast me, these wittles are uncommon bland!”

  Rossamünd did not care how tasteless or unsatisfactory the food was, he was all a-joy to be safe with his masters.Yet while they ate together and the first enthusiasm receded a little, he became aware of an unfamiliar awkwardness.

  Determined to enjoy their company, Rossamünd launched into the most full and hearty recounting of his life since leaving Madam Opera’s. Describing the fight with the rever-man, he made direct connection with Swill, expressing his suspicions as part of the tale. The sorrow of the ruination of Wormstool flooded out like relief. He even talked a little of Freckle too; of the Hogshead and the wood near Wormstool; of the sparrows and Cinnamon, and especially of Europe and of Numps. His masters listened to it all in utter silence, a sign of respect, till he was done. It felt so good to have out with the whole tale, start to end and all the in betweens. When he had finished, a great weight had lifted from his shoulders.

  “This Miss Europe lassie sounds like an uncommon remarkable woman,” Craumpalin enthused. “I remember her mentioned in thy letters.”

  “I was alarmed to hear ye conjecturin’ about yer surgeon bein’ a dastardly, naught-good massacar!” said Fransitart.

  “Oh, aye, Master Fransitart! And that Podious Whympre fellow is right in it with him!”

  “What’s the place comin’ to?” Craumpalin growled. “Why ain’t he in hand with the authorities then?”

  “Doctor Crispus knows, and Mister Sebastipole and I reckon the old Lamplighter-Marshal does too, but there is nothing any of them think they can do about it.” Rossamünd spoke quickly in his frustration. “About the only one who could do something is Miss Europe, and she says let them choke on their own rope.”

  “Always the way with them lahzars.” Fransitart shook his head. “Crotchety and crosswards. Still, her notion has wisdom.”