Factotum ft-3

by D M Cornish

  "Was that Anaesthesia Myrrh?" Rossamund asked in reply.

  Turning suddenly at her factotum's approach, Europe replied rather curtly, "I am reckoning it was, yes… Unless Maupin has an entire hand of wits at his beck."

  The two obscure guardians chuckled.

  "Apart from the one he lost so recent," Elecrobus Slitt elaborated, "I know of no others in his service, good lady… Else Pitter-Patter has himself 'come a wigbold."

  The Branden Rose smiled darkly. "There is scant we can do about it tonight, and I have a knave to begin tomorrow," she declared with the tone of conclusion. "So I thank you again, Mister Slitt. Be sure to thank your master for his motherly care."

  With humble nods the two men returned to the shadows, and Europe and Rossamund to the violated safety of Cloche Arde.

  13

  THE KNAVING BEGINS

  Pipistrelle light onshore winds that make for good sailing of small-sailed vessels such as sloops or brigantines. Their presence is seen as a sign of favor by all seafaring folk, but they are known to be fickle benefactors, turning all too quickly into mortal tempests.

  Despite the attack in the night and the buffeting winds coming up from the gulf of the Grume the next morning, they departed very early and one day later than planned.

  No serious hurt had come from the carriage-borne witting. One of the maids had become hysterical, needing a soporific-brewed by Rossamund himself. Nectarius the nightlocksman took a tumble under the frission and upset some valuable and precariously perched item, smashing it. Beyond aching heads, Craumpalin and Fransitart were unharmed, the old dispenser griping about "blighted three-bell scoundrels" ruining his "sounded sleep."

  Fitful for the remainder of the night, Rossamund began the new day keen to be away from this troublesome city. Rising before the sun, he went forth wayfarer-ready in full harness, baldric and knife, satchel and salt-bag, stoups and digitals, completed by black thrice-high. About his throat he had knotted a white silken vent, loose enough, he hoped, to be easily pulled over mouth and nose. Bought at Pauper Chives', it was guaranteed by the salt-seller as being the best potive-resisting neckerchief he owned. He had arranged all scripts and parts-checked and rechecked-in their proper containers ready handy in order of importance and frequency of use.

  "Catch an eye of ye, fitted with all yer saltoons!" Fransitart said as they collected out in the yard. "Ye look ready to repel a whole maraude, like Harold hisself."

  Rossamund grinned gratefully.

  Wrapped in a thick pallmain and a gray woolen scarf, the ex-dormitory master bore a modest satchel filled with wayfoods and useful things, and the same stocky musketoon he had leveled on Pater Maupin two days ago. "Borrowed it from a mate o' Casimir Fauchs," Fransitart declared, lifting the firelock confidently. Its metal coated in stickbrown, this was obviously a naval weapon. "He has a chest full o' them from our time a-sea together, fine fellow." A bent and stained tricorn sat jauntily on his hoary head, and a heavy naval hanger was strapped to his hip.

  Pink-faced and puffing, Craumpalin wore the frock coat and longshanks he always did, a drab woolen wrap wound warm around his shoulders, and an old capuche-or cap of wool-of the same covering his crown. He bore a cudgel in hand, and his own stoup of potives hung at his side.

  Against the cold Europe set out in a sumptuous scarlet fur-hide coat-a flugalcoat-and fur-trimmed boots. Once more her hair was knotted and held in a pointed comb and crow's-claw hair tine. Streaming out from about her throat into the bluster was a silken scarf of dark olive broidered with trails of wind-dancing birds. Ledger under arm and peering confidently up at the cold dome of morning, she seemed greatly improved in mood from the angry impatience of yesternight. She even offered a smile at the dim day.

  Darter Brown too turned out, perching upon the head of a dog statue, ruffling himself impatiently and clearly aware that travel was afoot.

  With the household staff arranging themselves in neat quasi-military order on Cloche Arde's front steps for the farewell, Latissimus brought a pair of sturdy young horses stretched now and ready for harness. Rufous and Candle, Rossamund heard a stableryhand call them, the first dull russet, the other soap-white. Both were partially shabraqued in petrailles of black lour thoroughly doused in sisterfoot, a nullodour that Rossamund had himself made in the restlessness of the previous afternoon from the pages of the compleat.

  "Fine-stepping horses for town, cobs fo' the country," the gentleman-of-the-stables had explained. "Though you are going out into caballine lands where horses ought to be safe," he explained, patting the beast's proofing, "there's still wisdom in keeping them from harm's chances."

  The young factotum grinned at the beasts and fancied they grinned at him too.

  "Back to simpler lives now, Mister Kitchen," Europe said in goodbye as Rossamund handed her aboard. "You may drop the flag; I leave you to peace and routine."

  "Farewell, my gracious lady," the steward returned. "Return to us hale." He bowed, a long stoop, and the household did the same, openly displeased to see the fulgar depart.

  "Drive on, Master Vinegar," the fulgar called to Fransitart's back.

  "Aye, aye, ma'am. Drivin' on!" With a flick of reins and a click of the tongue, the old vinegaroon started the horses.

  The knaving was begun. Obedient to Europe's laconic directions, Fransitart proved-to Rossamund's enduring satisfaction-that handling a two-horse team was within his grasp; he humored the reins with surprising subtlety.

  Out beyond the substantial suburbs they went, through mighty curtain gates, by row on row of cheap half-houses that coagulated about the stacks of tall isolated mills or long work halls, through markets already teeming with dawn-risen custom.

  Looping along beside the landaulet in that hurried, dipping way such birds do, Darter Brown shot from fence-spike to red lamp-crown. Rossamund looked kindly at his little escort.

  Progress became spasmodic as eager early traffic-farmers' wagons, firewood drays, stinking night-soil carts-crammed the highroads.

  A smartly clad figure stepped out of the disorder and made directly for the landaulet. Before a warning was properly forming on Rossamund's lips, this impertinent fellow sprang up and, grasping the sash of the door, stood upon the side step to pinch a ride.

  "Good morning, Lord Finance," Europe said in quiet greeting.

  "A hale morning to you, Lady of Naimes," the importunate side-step coaster returned between heavy breaths, miming a bow with his free hand. "Not as spry as I once was."

  "Have you taken up cadging as your latest sport, good baron?" the heiress of Naimes asked mildly. "Is my mother not giving you enough to do…"

  "No fear, gracious lady." Finance took a breath. "Could I by some trick of habilistic conjury live three times over, I should still be hard pressed to complete all the labors you and your most estimable and Magentine mother provide."

  The fulgar smiled slightly. "I thank you for the service of your Mister Slitt last night-he is a very useful fellow."

  "He is indeed, m'lady, a genuine jewel in our already glittering staff." The Chief Emissary dipped his head gratefully. "And it is about his usefulness to you that I come once again. The Archduke was none too pleased after his interview with you yesterday…"

  "That makes us twin," Europe murmured astringently.

  "Yesternight was but the first bout with Pater Maupin, Secretary Sicus and his surgeon pet-an unhallowed alliance if ever there was one. They grow bold with the Lord of Brandenbrass' support.Your absence may not be enough this time, duchess-daughter."

  "Yet I go nonetheless, dear baron." Europe remained unfazed.

  Finance regarded his mistress long, a passion of esteem gleaming from his eyes. "Have a care, fine lady," he said, "and an eye for followers…" and with the nod of a bow leaped from the landaulet and disappeared into the press of people and carriages.

  "And you, sir," Europe murmured once he was gone.

  Craumpalin revolved in his seat and with a polite cough asked, "Are all thy commerces in t
his city so… botherous, m'lady?"

  The fulgar peered at him thoughtfully. "I find my time in Brandenbrass either sappingly dull or intrusively troublesome. If it were not so conveniently placed to my common work, I doubt I would ever come here at all. However, I find it best to leave boredom and trouble to themselves."

  "A storm avoided is a wrecking saved," Fransitart concurred.

  "Aye," Craumpalin said into his beard, "but a difficulty shirked is adversity delayed."

  "Are you always so dreary, Master Salt?" Europe retorted.

  The old dispenser's shoulders lifted briefly. " 'Tis usually Frans' part," he said with a grin.

  Smiling, Rossamund could see his onetime dormitory master hunch and mutter unintelligibly, flicking Rufous and Candle to quicken their step.

  At last, after inspection by a platoon of black-and-white-mottled gate wards, the landaulet passed into the left of a twin of tunnels that ran beneath an immense bastion, the last port in the outermost curtain of Brandenbrass. The Two Sisters-or so Europe called it. Above the massive fortress with its steep roof of iron and spiny watchtowers flew enormous spandarions-one half leuc, the other sable-cracking proudly like thunder in the rising winds from flagpoles as thick as ram masts.

  Out again, Rossamund saw a brazen statue set proudly on the projecting keystone of the arch and standing guard above the entrance of the tunnel. As tall as three tall men, dressed in flowing robes, lower legs metal-armored, the figure clutched a mighty sword to her bosom; this was the southern sister, green-streaked with rainwashed corrosion. The likeness of a windswept veil was fashioned with great cunning as if blowing across her face, yet her fixed expression of wild defiance was unmistakeable.With a shiver, Rossamund realized this was the image of one of those very ouranin sisters upon which the Lapinduce spoke, ancient rossamunderling defenders of Brandenbrass. Twisting in his seat, he stared at the effigy like some long-gone kin and smiled grimly at how quickly this majestic protector would be torn down should the citizens of this city discover her true monstrous nature.

  Beyond the twin gates the city yet lingered, the last of the high-houses and dormitories clinging like children to the outward hem of Brandenbrass' pristine wall. Then, all too quickly, it gave way to a more bucolic scene. One moment they were in a Brandenard street, the next running by wicket-fenced fields where stupidly dignified goats with great, flopping ears and fat, overlong noses stared at them solemnly. A wide fertile plain spread out before them-the Milchfold, lively with cows and goats and laborers. Reached by long tree-lined lanes that crossed and recrossed the whole plain, the homes of dairy herds and landholders stood like martial towers. A handful of miles to the west the land rose to a blunt escarpment, becoming the feet of dark crouching hills, the Brandenfells.

  The red lamps and paved stone of the Hardwick gave over to the lightless, packed clay of the Athy Road, going northwest by lush flat fields of peas, cow pastures, goat-breaks and barren saltpeter farms where moilers masked in vented scarves tilled in the brimstone stink.

  In a blur, Darter Brown joined them, fluttering up to land on Rossamund's knuckle as it rested on the sash.

  "Good morning, my shadow," the young factotum murmured genially to his feathered friend.

  It twittered at him urgently, as if trying to communicate something more complex, but Rossamund could not decipher its meaning.

  "My, my! He doth speak with the animals!" Europe declared. "Perhaps you could call in a bird each for us, little man; then we could start a menagerie, charge a subscription for people to come and see, and cease this violent life for good."

  Rossamund knew the fulgar was jesting, but he blushed anyway.

  The fulgar cocked her head to scrutinize the sparrow with a raised brow. "I cannot say that when I first submitted myself to the hands of Sinster's sectifers I anticipated taking on the services of a bird to hunt the monster-and a rather scrawny one at that."

  To this the watchful sparrow gave an irritable tweet!

  "And saucy too," the fulgar continued with an amused sniff. "My, what a collective I have gathered about me. I doubt any other teratologist could boast such peculiar staff."

  The ground rose gradually to the bluffs reaching around from the northeast, bending gradually southwest to disappear from sight behind themselves. Farther south Rossamund could see mounts of black tumbling east to the coast: the Siltmounds, great dunes of swarthy sand hemming the city's southern walls. At a crossing of minor drives with the main way stood several lofty poles, thick like trees, buried deep in the compacted soil and topped with overlarge cartwheels. Daws, magpies and crows hovered, squabbling over several of these mucky and blackened platforms, yet leaving one to the mastery of a single bald-headed assvogel. Startled, Darter Brown took wing and vanished among the stalks of wide hilly pastures.

  A dread chill flushed from Rossamund's innards to his crown.

  Catharine wheels…These were the infamous mechanisms of torture and execution for murderers, traitors and… sedorners. Thick-growing briars were twined and pinned about the lower portions of the mast to prevent rescue. From one roses were blooming, declaring to all the world-so tradition held-that the judged soul rotting on high was a sedorner through and through.

  Pulling his sight free, Rossamund refused to gaze any closer as they passed beneath this grisly stand.

  "Pay no mind to these wicked coldbeams, Rossamund," Fransitart called doggedly over his shoulder.

  There, bizarrely, standing under them, was a reddleman with his many dyes in a square handcart, smock and skin stained by his products. As they rattled by, Rossamund could hear the fellow singing, as happy as you like, cawing along with the carrion birds:

  Hey, ho, what's the time? Hang my smallclothes on the line. If they tear, I don't care, I'll just dye another pair.

  His head down, the young factotum watched Europe fixedly from the corner of his vision. The fulgar stared ahead, glancing occasionally at the foul devices, undaunted. Catching her factotum's unease, she laid her hand lightly on Rossamund's clenched fist until they were past, her simple-seeming yet uncommon kindness touching him so profoundly it banished his alarm.

  The sun was shining as the landaulet climbed, yet mile upon mile away south a dark churning horizon sparked elegant lightning straight to the ground-kinked electrical charges miles long, arcing against the black. An arrowed formation of silent ibis winged high above, driven over the hills by the freshening winds that brought delayed levin grumbles.

  "The pipistrelle turns dirty," Fransitart said of the distant thunder, Rossamund recognizing the vinegaroon name for the light winds of the Grume. "The spring glooms have come. Ye'll be needin' a bolt-hole to keep yer pretty pate dry, m'lady, afore the day is out."

  "For you such turns of weather might be dirty, Master Vinegar," Europe replied, "but a levining sky is a happy roof for a thermistor."

  Climbing beside a rocky winding stream made rapid by the slope, the Athy Road took them steadily higher into the drab hills of the Brandenfells. Even from this distant vantage, Brandenbrass looked enormous, her many rings of fortification clear, her long pale harbor with its countless berths and piers squashed with vessels, a poisonous haze hanging low over the seaside milling districts.The lofty towers of the countinghouses and the great many fortified gates thrust high above the great spreading mass. Highest and sturdiest of all in its midst stood the Brandendirk, seat of the ducal line, and a little north in the city's very center brooded the dark smudge of the Moldwood, unguessed, untroubled and unchallenged; two powers opposed, with Brandentown pinched between.

  Ahead, myrtles and bent pines sprouted in ones and twos like thinning hair on the near-bald crowns of the Brandenfells, thickening into woods down in the convoluted valleys twisting steeply back through many spurs and folds.

  While the four travelers supped on prunes, cold beef clumsy smeared with soft Pondsley cheese and claret, the sky grew louring dark and heavy with water.

  With a suppressed rumble, rain arrived, large dollops tha
t had an uncomfortable knack of landing on exposed skin: the back of the neck, the wrist at the cuff… Sorry for his old masters left out in the wet, Rossamund extended the bonnet-like canopy as Craumpalin struggled on his oiled pallmain.

  Some miles ahead, upon the summit of a distant spur, Rossamund spied a single orange glimmer, lit perhaps against the growing gloom, the only evidence of a dwelling.

  "Wood Hole," Europe explained. "Pleasant enough for a hill town, though it is not our goal. There is a wayhouse in a dell about a mile from here.We shall shelter there."

  The road veered behind the lee side of the hills, descending to loop about the folds of land, the mossy stones of its foundation reaching down to the bubbling creek only a few yards below. A tenuous threwd dwelt here, as if the stream brought the watchfulness from more haunted heights. But for the dripping trickle of rain-wash and runnel, and the uneven viscous clops of hoofs, the world was reverentially silent. Trees grew densely along the verge: dark olive, age-twisted pine and pale laurel. Between their trunks Rossamund thought he could see a light ahead, the corona of cool clean seltzer light, a welcome pilot in the sodden obscurity. The shadows slowly parted to reveal a great-lamp on the right of the way, lifted on a black post above a solid gate in a high stone wall. Nestled in a cleft beyond this gate was a house half excavated into the hillside beside a brimming, chattering weir.

  There was no sign, just this single signal flare.

  "Welcome to the Guiding Star," said Europe. "We shall abide here for now."

  With no small relief they entered the foreyard and got out of the rain. The foul weather had blown itself out overnight and now, in the still cool, a lustrous blond sky joyfully declared the new day. Cooing encouragements to the horses and sipping one of Craumpalin's restorative draughts from a biggin, Fransitart guided the landaulet away from the wayhouse. No one spoke as they wended through woodland din, the gray bosky half-light whispering with the lingering riddles of the long night.