by D M Cornish
A confused din of frenetic footsteps thudded overhead, as if the crew there were dancing a wild jig. From fore to aft of the gun deck, crew and passengers alike contended with a great invasion of lagimopes-slippery creatures, small yet powerful, their backs vaned with tall fishlike fins. By the puffs of bothersalts farther back on the gun deck, Rossamund could spy Craumpalin proving his place in the fight, appearing to be creating a barrier of foul stinging fume to keep the sea-nickers away from weaker passengers. Caught in the thick, Fransitart lay about himself with a handspike like a younger man while Europe struck left and right almost perfunctorily with the bottom of her balled fist, bright arcs blinking, dropping a lagimope dead with every blow.
Rossamund took up the closest weapon to hand-a rope-handled pail-and swinging it in sweeping loops sought to drive any lagis before him from the deck and back out the gun ports whence they had come. At first the creatures proved unwilling to confront Rossamund directly, as if unsure upon whose side the young factotum fought. Yet, as he smote one after another, the remaining lagimopes soon settled him as an adversary and began to pay him especial attention. The more madly he swiped with the pail, the more madly did his foes beset him. Finally, the pail was stripped from his grasp and Rossamund fought with hands alone, wrestling back and forth across the deck, punching with fist and elbow, picking one little sea-nicker up bodily, grasping it hard through its slime to hurl it from a port. Strong, oddly jointed hands pawed and tore at him, tried to pin him down and pull away his sturdy proofing, but every time the young factotum found a way free.
In it all Europe was an indomitable force of scarlet and sparks. The lagimopes tried to drag her down from behind, but she would have none of this, and, twisting sharply, snatched the offending nadderers by their heads and filled them with death-dealing levin. Faced with the wrath of a fulgar at the height of her powers and a crew determined to resist, the shrunken swarm of fishy monsters quickly gave up and slithered back into the sea to disappear to wherever such creatures skulked.
Sooty with the dust of expelled potives, Craumpalin pushed through the passengers and crew silent in the shock of victory, the aging dispenser grinning to see his companions alive and well enough. "How good it does me to see thee lay about thyself so manful," he declared, grasping Rossamund enthusiastically by the shoulder.
Europe dusted a smudge from her sleeve. "Well, I cannot say I see why the navy prefers wits over we fulgars in such straits," she observed. "As my first sea-fight, that was not too troublesome at all."
"Aye, I suppose not," Fransitart grudgingly concurred, throwing the fulgar a dark look. "As thalasmaches can go…"
A LAGIMOPE
Stained and smeared in lagi oil, feeling badly bruised and half strangled, Rossamund gathered his hat-amazingly not cast a-sea in the fight-from the deck and simply leaned against the truck of a gun to catch his breath.
More rams arrived, chase guns thudding as they hounded the nadderers away south into deeper waters.The butcher's bill at nine wounded-the fellow seized overboard already retrieved, only slightly sizzled from the caustic waters-Master Right declared Europe the heldin of the hour. In a fit of gratitude he wrote up a recommendation promising to have his agents refund her the crossing fee for herself and her three worthy servants.
"Not all forces of the Empire are against us, it seems," Europe murmured to Rossamund as they stood at the helm watching the heavy drag-maulers speeding to the south as they chased the kraulschwimmen off.
A little shaky as she resumed her original course, the aged packet ram Widgeon trod her way to Brandenbrass.
2
THE HOUSE OF THE BRANDEN ROSE
Cabinet pictures among those of disposable means and dark tastes there is a fashion for depictions of the foulest violence and horror, showing the spoiling of monsters by despicable acts. There is a vigorous clandestine trade in such images, and those who produce them are greatly esteemed by graphnolagnian connoisseurs and make good money from the trade. Many struggling fabulists have been forced by poverty to try their hand at such depravity, and though never signing such pieces, some who have gone on to more legitimate fame have an anonymous catalog of cabinet pictures ready to bring them to ruin.
The residence of Europe, the Branden Rose, fulgar teratologist and the Duchess-in-waiting of Naimes, was situated in the very midst of the great city of Brandenbrass. Cloche Arde it was called, its address-as Rossamund heard given to the takeny driver-Footling Inch, the Harrow Road, in the suburb of Ilex Mile. A pilot boat had brought the four travelers to the pier at the Fine Lady's Steps, where they had disembarked and passed, as they must by law, through the crowded files of the Arrivals and Admissions House. Europe's fame and station affording them a smoother passage among the long lines of newcomers and the frenzy of clerical rigor, they were soon in a hired takeny-coach progressing down long streets alive with a bustling mass Rossamund could scarce comprehend. It was a fair trot before they entered quiet, opulent suburbs where, set in their parklike gardens, each residence seemed like a thin vertical palace.
"Home once more…," Europe declared softly, peering from the carriage's window as they crossed carefully now over a steep bridge that leaped the gap of a broad drain known as the Midwetter to a small artificial island.
Craning to see, leaning out from the glassless carriage window, Rossamund beheld the grandest house yet towering from behind an iron-spined wall of darkened stone. Founded on the very rock of an island, it stood isolated amid the graceful terraces and their well-groomed gardens, rising as high as all the noble roofs about. Six lofty stories of grim, dusken granite and stately staring windows; a solitary spire set against the flat, late-morning gray. However grand a structure it might be, Rossamund thought it somehow strange to consider the great adventuring Branden Rose as possessing something so domestic as a home.
The lentum turned abruptly through high wrought gates already opened in answer to the message Europe had sent ahead by scopp-a fast-running messenger child-of her arrival. In the gaunt space beyond lined with scant trees, the carriageway of white gravel quickly terminated in a large oval turnabout with a single thin cypress in its midst, a pivot about which carriages could circle. Arranged in near-martial order upon the front steps of the house like lighters and auxiliaries at a pageant-of-arms, a small quarto of senior staff was already waiting, turned out in black frock coats and stomacher-skirts with flashes or facings of red and magenta. One slender person was conspicuous among them in kitchen-white. Rossamund sat back bashfully, suddenly nervous.
CLOCHE ARDE THE HOUSE OF THE BRANDEN ROSE
The door to the carriage was opened by a wan-looking man with iron-gray hair who handed Europe stiffly from the cabin. "Welcome, gracious lady," he said with a solemn smile, his voice a sour-humored rasp.
"Hello, Mister Kitchen," Europe declared to her hander, continuing with a wry turn in her mouth. "Raise the flag-your mistress has returned."
Mister Kitchen responded with the ghost of a smirk, as if some small jest had been exchanged.
Senses reeling from the crossing upon the Widgeon, clothes still bearing the stains of the thalasmache, Rossamund clambered clumsily from his seat, rocking the takeny-coach as he dismounted.
"This young fellow"-the fulgar's slight smile became a little more sincere as she gestured fluently to him-"is now my factotum. His name is Rossamund Bookchild. Lodge him in the factotum's set and accord him all the usual privileges. Rossamund, this is Mister Kitchen, my steward-the rest of my staff you shall discover later." She took in her humbly waiting servants in a glance.
In their turn, the senior staff eyed Rossamund evenly while footmen and the takeny driver tackled luggage.
Rossamund gave them all a short and awkward bow.
If any had thoughts upon his unfortunate name, his youth or the grime of battle on his clothes, these serving folk did not betray them.
"Mistress Clossette," Europe continued as Fransitart and Craumpalin alighted, speaking to a black-haired servant woman
with a severe face. "We shall have a late meal in the solar, and these old salts-Messrs Fransitart and Craumpalin-shall be eating with us."
Barely exited from the takeny, Rossamund's old masters nodded first to Europe and then her servants.
"Thank ye, miss," Fransitart muttered.
Mister Kitchen, Mistress Clossette and the knot of staff eyed them somberly in return. Some strange new boy as a factotum was one thing, but tired, scabrous and aged vinegaroons was clearly another.
"As you wish it, gracious lady," responded Clossette flatly.
Guiding Rossamund before her, the Branden Rose strode into the house, staff in tow, Fransitart and Craumpalin following after.
Through a narrow black door was a cold obverse of marble in a green so dark it was almost black, whorled with pallid coils, the night's fumes made solid. Complete with stoppered loopholes, it existed more by tradition than need, a lingering feature from isolated high-houses built out in threwdish wilds.Through this Europe led them into a grand vestibule hall of equally somber marble, where in a line on either side, the junior staff awaited their mistress.
The heels of Europe's sturdy equiteer boots clapped clear upon the slick floor of checkered black basalt and green serpentine as she strode to the stair.
"This, Rossamund," she said, pivoting arms out, palms up, "will be your home whenever we are in this infamous city."
Framed by white fluted pilasters and broad lintels, white doors stood stark in the dark walls on either hand. High above, the ceiling was a blatant sanguineous red, its wide moldings and cornice-works of glistening gold. There was no furniture here, just this empty, ponderous space. Dominating the opposite end of the hall was a broad stair of the same swarthy stone with a carpet intricately woven in reds and fawns and golds running up its center.
Astounded, Rossamund thought himself inside the great hall of one of the historied Attic queens and their fabled black palaces where moments of history played. He drew in a breath, filling his senses with the faint yet distinct savor of Europe's perfume, her essence lingering like some watchful presence.
Sending her staff scurrying to draw baths for her and for Fransitart and Craumpalin too-"to soak out the sea-stink before eating"-Europe summoned Rossamund to follow.
Exchanging parting glances with his old masters, wide-eyed at this gauntly palatial setting, Rossamund let himself be hustled upstairs, his mistress ahead, Kitchen coming after. The next floor was little more than a landing before a rather heavy door set back in an alcove painted a rich mossy green and figured with golden flowers. The panels of this door were intricate with snarling, leering bogles gamboling amid leaves and budding blossoms.
"Through here is my file," Europe declared, standing before this astonishing portal, "and beyond, my boudoir. You may not enter here unless I have summoned you or you come bearing my treacle. However, the front rooms of the next floor are for you," she declared, nodding to the next flight of stairs. "They are your quarters, the factotum's set. No other servant may enter unless on established routine or at your bidding. As for you, Rossamund, you answer to me only; not even Mister Kitchen has say over your affairs."
Uncomfortable in the authority of such a position, Rossamund nevertheless nodded gravely. He looked sidelong at Mister Kitchen but could discern nothing in the solemn steward's blank face.
Her hand on the green-copper handle of the door, Europe fixed Rossamund with an appraising eye. "You will reconcile yourself to your new lot quickly enough, little man," she offered with smooth irony. "Now up you go and organize yourself, then you and your masters may join me for a proper meal to make up for the thin fare they called food aboard the Widgeon." With that she retreated through the carven door.
Kitchen gestured to him to climb once more.
On the next floor he was shown right down a moss green passage almost as long as the house was wide. At its end Rossamund was ushered into a vast room with ceilings easily as high as those in the Master-of-Clerks' file at Winstermill.
"The factotum's set, sir," Kitchen intoned.
The set was as pristine as every other part of Cloche Arde Rossamund had so far seen, yet there was a gloom here, something ineffably oppressive. Its walls were wood panels so stained they appeared black, hung with tiny thick-framed images too small to read from where he stood. Three tall windows dominated the opposite wall, admitting a panorama of a field of roofs hunkered beneath the gray day, yet their generous light did little to dispel the murkiness of the room.
For furniture there was a cupboard, sideboard, side table, writing desk, tandem and coat stand. Each piece was lacquered in glistening black just like the fulgar's treacle box, some finished with gilt edges and fine swirling patterns of a foreign design.Yet all this profusion of furnishings seemed little more than minor detail in the inky expanse of the room. The one relief of color was a broad yet delicate screen erected in the farthest corner. Made of five panels, it was painted with some elaborate scene in a disturbing yet refined, imported style. Rossamund could not make it out clearly; the general impression was of a woman about to be beset by some kind of slavering nicker.
"Is-was this Licurius' room before?" He frowned at the memory of Europe's former factotum, his cruel grip, his hissing voice muffled by the sthenicon he never took off.
"Yes… it was," Kitchen replied evenly.Though the steward's voice was flat, Rossamund sensed deeper meaning: What is this to you? "And now, sir, it is yours."
Rossamund frowned, uncomfortable at occupying the chamber of a dead man, of sleeping in the place of someone who had actually tried to kill him. It was then that he realized there was no bed. "Mister Kitchen, where do I sleep?" he asked, hoping very much that his bunk might be in another room.
"In here, sir-I shall have a cot moved in for you before the day does come to its end."
"Ah, aye…" Rossamund's soul sank a little. "Thank you."
The steward left him to establish himself with the aid of the young, weasel-faced servant girl who had followed-the alice-'bout-house, Pallette, a young lass not more than two, maybe three, years his senior. Dressed in typical maid's garments-very much like those that dear Verline wore-this girl stood in dutiful stillness by the door and stared straight ahead as Rossamund sat on the silk-upholstered tandem. Laying his hat aside, he heaved a heavy sigh, seeking to exhale the unhappy knot that had set itself like a splinter in the very pit of his chest. One moment he was a lowly lamplighter and nigh a prisoner of the Master-of-Clerks in Winstermill's unwelcome stalls, the next he was a peer's companion established in a grand, tomblike boudoir of his own.
"M-Master Licurius used to sit right where you do now, sir, and… and take his nod sat upright," a meek voice said uneasily, interrupting his reverie. It was Pallette. There was fear in her tone and a glimmer of suspicion in her eyes.
"I beg your pardon, miss?"
"That tandem were once dear Master Licurius' bed," the alice-'bout-house repeated. "He would sit to sleep in the end. His box made it hard for him to lay his head like other folk do. He was a great help to our lady, sir," she added quickly, as if in doubt of Rossamund's own capacity.
Rossamund promptly stood, uneasy at being in contact with the spot where that blighted laggard had reclined. "I don't reckon I'll be needing it," he said, unsure how to react to someone who described Europe's old murderous, malevolent leer as dear. Indeed, it struck him that all these folk serving busily in Cloche Arde knew Licurius, maybe intimately. What kind of home is this that looks kindly on such a fellow? "Maybe we can have it taken out."
There was only the merest hesitation before Pallette said, "Yes, sir… If you have any other needs, you call for assistance by a pull of this handle," she added, gently touching a brass lever in the shape of a claw sticking from the wall by the door, "and me or another will come."
It was perplexing to have a stranger offer her obedience to him so readily.
"But if our lady wants you, sir," Pallette continued, "this bell just by it will sound, and then you are to go
to her right away-you know the way?"
"Aye, thank you."
"Certainly, sir."
"My name is Rossamund."
"Yes, sir."
His meager count of dunnage-most of his belongings lost in the destruction of Wormstool-arrived and was deposited on waiting stands by a pair of huffing, puffing footmen. With only the slightest reticence these fellows obeyed as Pallette repeated Rossamund's instruction to remove Licurius' tandem.
"Maybe a simpler chair will do," Rossamund added awkwardly. "Or maybe just a stool."
"As you would have it, sir."
With the footmen lifting out the furniture, Pallette began sorting his belongings. Shirts and drawers and trews and all were carefully laid, each in its appropriate spot within cupboards and drawers. Who are you, her action seemed to be saying, to try to replace our dear dead Licurius? Look how small you are!
Rossamund took closer inspection of the small, broad-framed pictures hanging upon the walls. They were little more than a thumb-length high and the same wide. Admiring the profound skill that must have been required to paint so lifelike a finish at such a scale, he realized with an involuntary jolt what he was looking at. Each image was of some kind of wicked and depraved violence twixt men and monsters-foul tortures and cruel injuries. He caught only a glimpse, but that was all he needed.
Cabinet pictures!
Such an innocent name for such vile objects. Rossamund knew ever so vaguely of them; that among those of disposable means and dark tastes there was a barely legal fashion for depictions of the foulest violence and horror. This was the art of monster-haters, high fashion for coarse-minded invidists so twisted, it looked to Rossamund-even with the brief eyeful he received-to be almost a distorted kind of outramour. This was the heart of Licurius laid bare.