Factotum ft-3

by D M Cornish

  3

  ON BEING A FACTOTUM

  Man-of-business one who acts partly as lawyer, computer, counterman, broker, manager, representative, secretary and clerk. They are either hired in their hundreds by the great mercantile firms or work individually for select, well-paying clientele, those with kinder souls representing the less shrewd in the maddening world of bureaucracy. In practice these fellows can range from the most sedentary quill-licks to the keenest, most ruthless minds of the day.

  In somber silence the meal was soon concluded. After a sip of claret, Europe stood and declared, "Time for parting ways, Rossamund.You have tasks to attend."

  Confusedly, he gave an affirming bob. But… he wanted to say, what of all this! I'm likely a monster yet you still keep me? Why not have me dead and another cross puncted on your arm? "They-they are not staying here?" was what actually came out of his mouth.

  "Thank'ee, m'lady," Fransitart inserted quickly, Craumpalin joining him in a bow. "We had thought to shift for ourselves. We have a longtime mate to look in on an' need not be a trouble to ye. We'd best get to it before the day is out…"

  "Good for you, sirs," Europe returned evenly. "Shift as you will." Then, instructing Rossamund to join her in her file, she left the three to their goodbyes.

  "Where will you go?" Rossamund suddenly did not want to be parted from these best of men.

  "We'll lay along to the Dogget amp; Block," Fransitart answered, a kindly light in his soulful eyes. "It's an alehouse an' hostelry some ways from here, just off Little Five Points on the Tailor's Wigh. The proprietor once served with us aboard the Hammerer."

  "Ahh, Casimir Fauchs-fine fellow," Craumpalin seemed to say to himself. "Our cloud's silvery trimming. Come and visit us when thee is able, Rossamund."

  Despite the ponderous import of their revelations, relieved of their burden at last the two fellows were clearly lighter of soul.

  "We'll send ye word when we are settled ourselves," Fransitart offered. "An' ye must send for us whene'er ye need. I can't think yer mistress will keep ye cooped in this… place all of yer days." He looked sidelong at the ponderously opulent room. "Watch how ye come on; no need giving away suspicions with carelessness."

  "And keep to dousing in me Exstinker for now," Craumpalin added intently. "I shall make thee something new to better hide thee."

  With that they departed, out into the clearing afternoon.

  "Hold fast, Rossamund," Fransitart called gruffly from the window of Europe's own day coach. "We'll see ye through yet."

  Waving farewell, Rossamund watched them out of the gates and across the bridge. He remained until the sound of them was lost in the drone of city life, alone on the steps of the house of the Branden Rose. For the rest of the afternoon he was introduced to his tasks as factotum: the making of Cathar's Treacle-of course-and other necessary draughts, and with this the continual inventory and replenishing of all parts and scripts; the oiling and storage of the fulgaris-fuse and stage; the finding of knaving work; and fetch, carry and all other singular labors urgent or petty to which his mistress turned her mind. He was presented formally to the two divisions of servants: her retainers, with Mister Kitchen as their chief and of whom Rossamund was in principle a part, and the house staff under the grave, squinting authority of Mistress Clossette.

  Feeling overstretched and strangely blank, he nevertheless attended to this orientation as Europe showed him from bottom to top the towering extents of his new home.

  First was the flashy hiatus, opposite the solar, where guests were to wait in awed comfort. Filled with plush seats, it had red walls like the solar, but a ceiling of black, molded with gilt cornice work. The somber wood of the floor was covered with a great carpet of red and magenta checks edged in clean white, while a leering mask of some Occidental face glowered from above a basalt fireplace. At the rear of the hiatus, dark nadderer-figured doors led to a state hall reserved for grand dinners. Here, beneath the elaborately molded ceiling of gold and red, ran a broad frieze of leaping battling figures-man and monster, the most frequent being a woman in red whom Rossamund quickly fathomed was Europe herself. All four friezes on all four walls were filled, the fabulist run out of space. Tall south-looking windows stared out from the golden walls upon the green flow of the Midwetter swimming with brilliant orange fish and the neighbors' lofty roofs on the farther bank.

  Opposite Rossamund's own set was a surprisingly well-stocked library and attached billiard, its vast table laid with red felt. There were various parlors and guest chambers, drawing rooms and meeting rooms on the floors above, spaces of green and gold, white and red, each furnished in ubiquitous black lacquer.

  The highest proper story was given over almost entirely to what Europe named the ludion, a long space of dark empty floorboards and unclear use, plainly lit by a great line of windows, the light doubled by the equally expansive row of mirrors that made the opposite wall. By a deft touch, one of the mirrors sprang open, and Europe led him by a curling stair into the attics. Here were arranged a series of small trophy rooms displaying the various prizes, weapons and oddities of an extended and highly successful monster-destroying career. Turning to leave, the young factotum got a mighty shock, for rearing by the main door was a squamous, almost froglike nicker thrice his height. Arching up, its glassy, fishy eyes were staring horribly; its webbed claws were lifted and ready to tear, the broad mouth of tiny dagger teeth gaping hungrily.Yet it was a dead thing, stuffed and mounted on display.

  "A display of gratitude," Europe explained, the ghost of a smile crossing her dial. "The watery beast was making home of a local pond and I relieved my neighbors of its unpleasant charms, so they in turn gave me this as a grateful token.They were no longer as troubled to have one of my ilk in their districts after that."

  At the end of it all, he was taken through to the narrower, plainer servants' walks at the rear of the stately house and finally down to the kitchens. As pristine as the rest of the great house and as white as everywhere else was not, these were a-bustle with preparations for mains. Maids, under-cooks, turnspits and a brace of scullions: so many people for just one woman, all working with steady, dignified industry. There was no heft and hurry as in Winstermill's kitchen under Mother Snooks, nor the makeshift one-man chaos of Wormstool's mess.The staff eyed him uncertainly, the turnspits and scullions clearly uneasy to have their mistress stepping into their own domain; yet all bobbed politely, pausing in their work and waiting.

  Only vaguely aware of them, Europe wound boldly through it all. "One more nook for you to see, little man," she declared over her shoulder.

  In an alcove between scullery and pantry was a black door with a tongue-poking face of a saucy bogle carved into the thick paneling. This opened onto a stone stepway that spiraled down into Cloche Arde's foundations, terminating in a small hexagonal chamber dedicated to the brewing of Europe's draughts.

  The saumery.

  By the clear light of fresh bright-limns, Rossamund could see that every wall was fashioned from marble of lustrous and oddly swarthy green, each corner crowded with pilasters of the same. The floor was arranged in an intricate fretwork of emerald and crimson tiles, with a sizeable test-cupboard standing at the far end. Lacquered black, the cupboard had brass feet cast in the shape of grinning mustachioed serpents, corners molded in the appearance of entwined flower-maidens, and many handles gripped in gaping brass mouths. It was permanently set here, its chimney flue disappearing into the dusken green ceiling. Arranged in nooks in the stonework at either side were parts-cabinets, tall cylinders of glossy red. Upon each semicircular drawer were cunningly fashioned brass slots that held neatly marked labels: Sugar of Nnun, bezoariac, xthylistic curd and so much more-many well beyond Rossamund's ken. A small duodecimo of obscure title lay still open atop one of the drawers, as if put down in the midst of reading.

  "I shall leave you to make this your own," said Europe, turning to depart. "All you need is here. Mister Kitchen will help you if it isn't. I shall have my treac
le in my file in one hour."

  Momentarily lost, Rossamund revolved slowly, hands on hips, trying to get a bearing in this dim test. He discovered four more cabinet pictures hanging two-a-side on the angling back walls of the saumery and, stuffing them promptly into a recess of the test cupboard, spent the next hour learning the place of everything, rearranging as he saw fit, wondering at this command he had over an entire and well-stocked room. With the stove plate already hot and all pots, gradients and parts ready handy, when it came time to brew, the making was easy and the task quickly completed.

  "You take it to her by your own hand, young sir," was Kitchen's firm instruction once Rossamund was done. " 'Tis the only fashion she will have it. I shall show you there."

  Standing on the first floor before Europe's file door, Rossamund hesitated in unconscious fascination at the forms of tiny figures in the panels of the door, showing all attitudes of arching, dancing, sneering bogles of tribes he did not know existed.

  Behind him, Kitchen made a small, polite cough.

  Rossamund rapped at an elliptical plate of worn brass high in the midst of the graven revelry.

  The door opened.

  There was little light within-curtains must have been drawn and no bright-limns turned. Out of the murk the Branden Rose loomed, giving Rossamund a shock. "A timely testing, little man. Perhaps I'll not regret you after all."

  Rossamund's heart fumbled a beat. Regret my service?

  "Thank you, Kitchen, for your bony wing," Europe continued. "I am sure you guided him with your usual warm and fatherly care. That will be all."

  The steward gave a bland smile and departed obediently.

  Rossamund lingered, looking back to be certain that Kitchen had truly gone. "Miss Europe?" he said just as her file door was closing.

  The blank gap between door and jamb hovered, a mere sliver, a test of patience.

  A long-suffering sigh.

  MISTER KITCHEN

  The gap widened.

  "Uh… Thank you for rescuing me."

  "Tish tosh," the fulgar dismissed from ill-lit space. "That wretch Whympre and his lapdog Swill were acting up a show for their secretarial friend and I could no longer let them mishandle you, so here you are." She leaned into the light and beheld Rossamund closely. "Know, Rossamund, that some will think me puzzle-headed for taking on a child as my second.You bore your duty with the lamplighters admirably, but my load is heavier still. Yet under my hand I believe you will quickly learn to acquit yourself as a man. So watch your way; a factotum does more than make treacle and cover my back in a stouche.You are my chief representative; what you say I have said, what you do I have done. You are chief of this household, and though Kitchen and Clossette will tend to its running quite happily, you may intervene on any of their transactions as you see fit."

  "No-ah, yes, Miss Europe." Swallowing, Rossamund tried to let what he supposed was a manly calm spread through his members.

  "Welcome to a life of violence, little man," she said portentously in parting and slowly closed the file door.

  Returning to his new room-his set-Rossamund found that a bed had been delivered in his absence. A great four-poster now butted against the wall. Covered with an enormous scarf of immaculate black silk run through with dyed flowers of red and blue and warm yellow, its white linen was stark in the inky room and it looked about as comfortable as a bed could look.

  After six months with the lighters he was well used to having every point of his time organized for him, and was now at a bit of a loss. He fossicked through cupboards and drawers Pallette had dutifully organized to locate the meager count of his worldly goods. How he regretted the loss of his peregrinat in the conflagration of Wormstool; it would have been a comfort to read.

  Fed a light supper of nine-cheese melted on sour bread in his room, Rossamund lay upon the bed at last, almost swallowed by its downy coverlets. Through the lofty third-story windows he could easily see the eastern sky behind the silhouette of treetops and ridge-caps, a sea of sloping homogenous slate and chimney pots. The heaven-haze was a delicate pink of staggering beauty, darkening into a deep violet as it rose. Picked out low against this were tiny, tightly fluffy clouds of glowing russet and pallid carnation. In awe, Rossamund just looked, silent, barely breathing till the view darkened and then vanished in encroaching night, and day-sounds gave over to sparse cricket song.

  To the thin tune of early spring insects, he stared at the dark ceiling, fingers pressing absently into the stiff facings of his quabard. He half expected to hear the muffled cry, "Douse lanterns!" that rang every night to proclaim bedtime in the prentices' cell row at Winstermill. He wanted sleep, yet anxious, tumbling contemplations kept him in tossing-and-turning wakefulness until the dead of night-Who am I? What am I? — and it was only exhaustion and the lingering rocking of the Grume crossing that finally pressed him to sleep.

  The new day was clear and cool. Still clothed, Rossamund was woken by Pallette bearing a great jug of water for washing, accompanied by a young step-servant called Pardolot, arms full of wood and kindle to light a new fire. "You had not risen timely, sir, so I thought it best to wake you before the morning got on too much," she explained nervously.

  "Thank you, thank you…," Rossamund repeated blearily.

  He hurried through the kitchen, blinking unsteadily in the stark morning light made brighter by the flawless pallor of the walls, the servants assiduously avoiding his eye.

  "In!" Europe declared when Rossamund arrived at the file door with her steaming treacle. She was dressed today in the wonderful scarlet coat he knew so well, though her hair was still down in a plait.

  Obediently he stepped across the threshold and into the fulgar's sanctum.

  It was long and large, the long venal red wall opposite perforated by many thin windows hung with velvet drapes pulled aside now to let in the bright daybreak. There were silk paintings of vile-looking nickers and a floor-to-ceiling mirror in between. An enormous exotic carpet occupied a large part of the dark wood floors, and at the center of this sat a desk of mahogany, its uncluttered top inlaid with a vast blotter of the black hide of some unnameable creature.

  Telling Rossamund to remain, Europe took her morning dose, and-as he dutifully stood by and waited-continued to look through a great book spread over a large portion of her desk. It was a garland, filled with tinted plates of mild-faced people wearing coats and weskits and cloaks, similar to volumes Rossamund had once seen in Madam Opera's boudoir.

  A light thunk of an opening door and Claudine, the tiring maid, appeared from behind a bom e'do screen in the corner of the file, coming from what presumably was Europe's own bedchamber. At Europe's instruction she began to take Rossamund's dimensions for what the fulgar called more appropriate attire. "Your other quabard is entirely the wrong hue," his mistress explained, speaking of his lamplighter's harness with its Imperial mottle of rouge and or-red and cadmium.

  Gently prompted to turn about with such slow and nervous care that he hardly felt a prod or poke, the young factotum could see an enormous obsidian fireplace at the far end of the room, the warm, energetic firelight catching the glint of fine white flecks in the dark green stone. Above the dark mantel was a vast painting of a young girl, maybe four or five years older than him, with a trefoiled heart figured in white above her left shoulder. In the shadows at the girl's feet lay some slain, fearsome nicker while other deformed shades lurked and cowered behind. The girl's daubed expression was one Rossamund knew all too well: sardonic self-satisfaction. At first, for the briefest instant, and rather stupidly, he thought it was a rendering of Threnody: the same taut insolence and a deeper sorrow too. With a small shock he realized he was gaping at a portrait of a young Europe. Dumbfounded, he looked from the image to the real woman and back. The former was radiant with the blooming beauty of youth; plumper, she was dressed like a boy in a skirted coat of magenta with a high dramatic collar, her face pristine of spoors or the thinness of the lahzarine ravage.The whole manner of her pos
e was defiant, full of energy, even of hope. The latter sat in living flesh, intent on her medicinal drink and her fashion book, her beauty stretched, almost gaunt, yet undiminished.

  "Today you will be meeting my man-of-business," the fulgar said suddenly, marking a page and closing the garland. "He is a bright fellow, a man of many parts, with clear ambitions in the magnate line. I do not begrudge him his plans for improvement-many have them, I suppose-and he completes his labors for me admirably." Finally, she looked at her new arrival properly. "This came for you," the fulgar stated blandly, holding out a folded paper.

  It was a simple note from Fransitart. Rossamund, We are safely harbored at the Dogget amp; Block, in the district of Fishguard. Any takenyman will know its bearings, as might your Branden Rose. Will look in on you in the middle of the afternoon watch if we do not have report from you first. With respect

  There was a knock.

  With an absent "In!" from Europe between gulps of treacle, a portly, thoroughly starched, clerical-looking gentleman entered the file. Dressed in a glossy blue-gray frock coat with darker collar and cuffs and sensibly restrained hems, he wore his own sandy hair above an extremely broad face; the slicked locks, parted evenly and jutting over either ear, were gathered in a small black bow at the back. About him hung a distinctly mercenary air.

  "Ah, Mister Carp. Here you are, my man-of-business, even as we speak of you," declared the fulgar.

  "Your return is happy and welcome, gracious lady," this Carp fellow offered-as starchily as his appearance promised-bowing low and long and taking no notice of Rossamund. "I came from my offices directly I got your word." Behind him came two equally stiff lackeys in glossy gray, each bringing an armful of folios and bow-tied papers.

  Europe gave a brittle laugh. "Nonsense, man! I am fully aware my return is of great inconvenience to you all. Gone are comfortable days in my pay done at your usual rhythm."