Factotum ft-3

by D M Cornish

  ELECROBUS SLIT

  They progressed at times with necessary yet frustrating deliberation, lest they bump or twist Europe and harm her further, finally descending the stairs of the file of Messrs. Gabritas amp; Thring to shuffle out onto the peaceful street, gray in the primal gleam of dawn. Baron Finance was indeed there, standing anxiously by a large and proper carriage.

  "Ahh, duchess-daughter!" he exclaimed in undisguised consternation as he beheld the Duchess-in-waiting on her makeshift cradle. "If only you had included me in your machinations, dear hope of our state, I would have sent Mister Slitt with you. He might have kept you from such a disorder as I find you in now!"

  Lifting her head, Europe made a show of strength she did not truly have. "But, Baron, y-you were my yardstick," she said. "If I was able to keep my… my plan from you, then… then there was s-scant chance Maupin could… could discover it."

  "All plans be dashed and secrets revealed!" Finance cried, taking her hand. "I have failed you, and your mother too!"

  "Dear Baron…" Europe's voice was profoundly tender. "Y-you did not fail, s-sir, I b-bested you… that is all…"

  The anguish on the Chief Emissary's face was more than Rossamund could bear to behold, and he looked to his own feet.

  As hasty arrangement was made for Mister Slitt to remain with the lesquins and ensure that Europe's task of annihilation was complete, the fulgar was lifted with profound tenderness into the cabin and laid endwise across the soft seats.

  Fighting to master himself among all these valiant men, Rossamund climbed in after, heedful not to rock the fit too much.

  With scarce enough room for him in the cabin, Finance mounted up beside the driver of the park drag and shouted the fellow on. "Quick, man!" Rossamund heard his command clear and urgent. "To Bankers Lane, Risen Mole! Fast as you can and spare our lady your jolts."

  A shrill keening high in the southern sky above dark roof-ridges and thorny chimneys drew their attention to a bright, upward-hurtling flare of pallid green.

  The Duchess-in-waiting strained to see the sailing light through the cab window. "Ahh," she sighed, her head dropping heavily back down. "B-bravo… Lady Saphine of the Maids of Malady w-wins her fight in the coven cellar… Maupin and his allies are done in; y-you are safe, little man… for now."

  Aye, Rossamund cried within, but at what cost! "I–I…" was all his mouth for a moment could say. "I have not kept you safe!"

  Europe smiled feebly, cupping his cheek and chin in her soft hand-the very hand that had arced him so long ago in the Brindleshaws, the very hand that had spent itself to vie and defeat his foes, now so clammy and cold. "A life of adventure, a life of violence… A t-teratologist is not… not m-meant to be safe…"

  "B-but you are!" he returned in an overpowering swell of grief and confusion, and insisted she swallow another dose of emunic reborate followed by a second vial of lordia.

  "M… my organs are souring within me, Rossamund," Europe murmured, head lolling to the steady rock of the Baron's carriage, face afflicted with a gray pallor.

  Rossamund wanted to shriek his pain, to scream at the blighted world and its blighted senselessness. He clutched her hand to his chest.

  Perched on the sill of the door, Darter Brown began to chitter loudly, a tiny avian wail.

  "I am the cause of all this…," Rossamund breathed.

  "This was m-my choosing, little man…," Europe retorted with a cough, "the m-moment I cried QGU."

  Perhaps this was so, but what next? His staunch loyalty to his mistress was not as virtuous as it might appear. Surely it could only bring more strife. Rossamund's thoughts revolved with premonitions of an unceasing and ever-escalating series of trials ahead.

  At Oberon's house-a tidy three-story dwelling in the fine middling suburb of Risen Mole-Europe was taken with careful haste to the lone bed of the transmogrifer's private ground-floor infirmary. Here, treacle brewed but moments before by Threedice-arrived ahead of them and already testing some subtler draughts-was given to her.

  "She is cut," Rossamund said in report. "by a blighted spathidril sword. I have used all my strupleskin, but she still bleeds!"

  "The wound must be abluered-cleansed-before siccustrumns will take," the examining transmogrifer replied, peering intently at the hurt beneath Europe's lacerated proofing. "Thus is the dread efficacy of such a blade." Taking a stylus and slip of paper, he wrote out the script for a substance he named munditi corpum, penning it without reference to any compleat or other book. "To clear the wound and make a siccustrumn stick," he elaborated as he returned to scrutinize the cut. "Even so, I shall have to stitch you, madam," he continued with clear distaste, "to be certain to stop any sanguinary flow."

  Europe's expression soured. "Ugh…," she muttered, perplexingly flippant as her faculties failed. "A s-scar…"

  In waxing urgency, Oberon shooed all comers but for one maid from the room that he might examine the Branden Rose with the necessary quiet and privacy.

  His dread for his mistress in some small part quieted by the examining transmogrifer's steady and confident manner, Rossamund let himself be shown across the vestibule to a small but well-stocked saumery. Here he found Threedice hard at brewing, despite his wounded arm.With little room for the labor of two over the single stove, Rossamund collected the parts the script for munditi corpum required from their various, clearly marked receptacles and set to testing in the hearth, already lit against the morning's chill. Bearing the final, nacrescent gray draught to his mistress, the young factotum was refused entry even as the potive was taken from his grasp. Impatient, Rossamund returned and, despite the other factotum's obvious reluctance at sharing the task, assisted Threedice in his making of what the older factotum brewed what he named occludile of lazarin.

  Two more times he delivered necessary scripts from Threedice's testing, and each time he was disallowed entry. Thwarted, Rossamund paced in the vestibule before the infirmary, refusing the little triangles of buttered bread and warmed saloop served so politely by Oberon's prim steward. He was certain that Cinnamon could fix his mistress' hurts with ease and not need Rossamund to be absent in the process.

  Nearby, the Lady Madigan, her face now washed of its battle-grime, sat upon a chair brought especially by servants. Her pose was straight and alert despite a whole night spent fighting, yet her eyes were closed as if she slept and the piece of buttered bread in her delicate grasp remained uneaten. Beside her stood Finance, rocking restlessly on his heels, his expression tight, his eyes rarely leaving the infirmary door and then only to look hard-almost reproachfully-at Rossamund. For a beat the Chief Emissary appeared on the point of saying something to him, yet, perhaps to check himself, took a bite of his bread-and-butter slice instead.

  Patently sensing the man's scarce-restrained agitation, Madigan stirred. "She pays a terrible price for her hardheadedness," she said, without opening her eyes.

  "She always has," Finance returned tautly. "Though perhaps not as high as she does now…," he added, looking reprovingly to Rossamund once more. Your fault! was writ clear on his dial.

  Finally, the port sprang open and the examining transmogrifer emerged.

  "Please," he offered somberly, bowing to Madigan, then beholding Finance and Rossamund in turn. "Return."

  Upon the sole infirmary bed, Europe lay, pale and drawn, her breaths coming in shallow gasps, staring at the ceiling as if consumed by her struggle. Hands and face cleansed in part of stains and Maupin-dust, and her proofing folded upon a chair beside the bed, she looked much as he remembered her lying so terribly wounded in the downy cot at the Hare-foot Dig so long ago.

  "M-miss Europe…?" Rossamund said as he approached.

  The dread fulgar turned her head and blessed him with an ailing smile. "Oberon s-says I m-may yet live to… to fight on…," she said, her tone bemusingly sardonic in one so hurt.

  Scarce reckoning it possible, Rossamund felt his soul give an ecstatic leap.

  "Ah-hah!" Finance uttered in relieved
delight. "Well done, sir!"

  Oberon coughed with ever-so-subtle annoyance. "Well, yes, you ought to, good madam," he said first to Europe, then regarding his other guests continued matter-of-factly. "Yet, before we run away with our gladness, as good as my ministrations have been, time is in the pinch and our continued alacrity essential. For, as I was just concluding to our lady, she-only so soon come back from Sinster-will need to return there with all haste if she is to survive such a mis-use of her memetic tissues."

  Rossamund's innards dropped at the mention of this infamous city where lahzars are made, full to its ridge-caps with massacars and bloodthirstily curious investigators. Hopes so quickly restored were complicated once again.

  "T-twice to Sinster in one year is not an… i-ideal record, I suppose," Europe added mildly.

  "Indeed it is not, m'lady," Oberon returned with all the gravity of a schooling master.

  We barely survived Brandenbrass, Rossamund mar veled inwardly. How could we prevail in a place crammed with massacars and monster-fossicking transmogrifers? One rumor of me and we will be done for! Yet, with all these caring folk bustling and hovering about Europe's sickbed, this was no place to say so.

  A long case clock in the vestibule struck six times.

  "The first of the day's quick boats will be setting out soon," Finance declared with revived hope in his voice. "I shall go immediately and secure you your own vessel, dear duchess-daughter."

  "And, if you will, sister, Threedice and I shall join you on your quick boat as you hurry off to Sinster," proclaimed the Lady Madigan.

  Proving his intent, the Baron Finance dashed off in his park drag for the commutation docks of Middle Ground. While a message was dispatched to Kitchen to send luggage-a day-bag and linen package for the immediate journey-forthwith to the docks, with a trunk to follow on the next available passage-Oberon's simple carriage was brought to the front of the house.

  Before Rossamund could catch a settled thought, he was working with the house staff to carry his mistress out to the plain black fit and they were on their way once more. The Lady Madigan and Threedice in their own carriage ahead, the young factotum and the Branden Rose rode alone, the fulgar propped on many cushions, half sitting, half lying along the whole backseat. For several suburbs neither looked at the other, but both stared at the steady passing of gray, shadowy streets, Rossamund scarcely remarking the fleeting sights or the growing activity of the city's early risers or late finishers in his turmoil. From the corner of sight he became aware that Europe was staring at him, could feel her observation like burning in his conscience. Still he would not look at her, for to look at her would be to admit a conclusion he did not want to admit.

  "H-how fares your neck?" she asked, her tone mild.

  Humours thumping down his neck, across his scalp, in his ears, he finally looked.

  There she was, propped on the makeshift comfort of cushions, her face gray-ghastly, even-yet somehow queenly despite it all in this carriage taking them to Sinster; Sinster of hope, Sinster of dangers multiplied until all Rossamund could foresee was that he would be nabbed the very instant he touched foot to its docks.

  He touched the thick bandage about his throat hiding the gash made by the bullet's path. "It… I staunched it with a sicustrumn from Mister Oberon's saumery… between treacles," he said, then added quickly, "No one saw it."

  His mistress nodded slowly, eyes glittering with that same part-born envy she had beheld him with at Orchard Harriet. "W-would that I might be so… robust…," she returned.

  Rossamund half grinned; he thought her very robust already. Thrice now he had seen her smashed and each time recover from the brink.The silence broken, he went to open his mouth and speak his mind at last, but balked at the very moment of revelation. It must be this way, he schooled himself, and took a breath. "Miss Europe," he began, a great tightening in his chest, "I… I would sail with you across the Gurgis Main and back… but… but I cannot go with you to Sinster…"

  The Branden Rose beheld him with serious and ponderous understanding. "Nor," she added carefully, "c-can I keep you safe here while I am there…"

  Rossamund held her bleared yet clearly searching gaze. The realm of everymen had nothing but danger to offer; the world of monsters could surely be no worse.

  Without words, Europe knew his mind. "I r-release you from my service, little m-man…," she said, so softly he barely heard her. "I release y-your masters, too-you may tell them for me."

  Rossamund blinked in amazement. Has the end come so quickly? "I… I will," he said.

  She closed her eyes. "You sh-should go… now… I w-will not stand long-drawn and m-maudlin goodbyes…"

  A goodbye-most likely long-drawn and maudlin-was on his lips, yet, regardless of his mistress'-his former mistress'-distaste for it, he could not bring himself to say it. "I will visit with you when I can," he said instead, more in hope than certainty.

  The Branden Rose chuckled grimly, then coughed over again with the strain of her mirth. "Th-that, I think, w-would not be wise."

  "Aye…" Caught between a sob and a wry smile, Rossamund ducked his head.

  "I–I have your portrait-that will be… enough."

  He looked up. She had found Pluto's portrait after all.

  "Dear, per… perplexing Rossamund…" Europe touched him gently on the cheek and fixed him with a look of finally unveiled affection. "Wh-who will you make s-such fine treacle for now…"

  Careful of her wounds, he threw his arms about the mighty fulgar's neck and buried his face in her fine brown hair. "Thank you!" he began, but his whole frame was rocked as tears burst their dams at last, tears of gratitude, tears of regret, tears of farewell.

  The fulgar held him firmly in her slight arms. "T-tish tosh…," she whispered by his ear, her voice strangely thick.

  The carriage slowed and Rossamund-factotum no longer, nor foundling, nor lamplighter-leaned to look out at the dawn spreading out like the proof of a promise behind the ponderous buildings of Brandenbrass. Looking down the way from which they had come, he was sure he could see a small mob of rabbits scurrying in shadows and keeping pace behind. Giving voice to an urgent tweet! Darter Brown sprang from the carriage to fly back toward these chasing beasts. As the carriage went carefully about a right-angle bend, he opened the door of the moving fit. "Not all monsters are monsters," Rossamund said in parting, surprised at his own resolve.

  Europe beheld him keenly, as one wishing to fix a face in their memory. "Yes," she said. "I know."

  Rossamund held her gaze for what was surely the last time, his eyes stinging as he tried to express through these agents alone all that he felt and admired and… dare he own, loved in this most terrible of women.

  "And be sure to find yourself another hat, little man," she added, the edge of her mouth twitching with mirth, nodding to Rossamund's crown, hatless and naked yet again.

  "I shall," Rossamund returned, and with that, leaped from the drag and landed squarely on his feet, startling red-coated limn-men dousing a line of red-posted curb lamps in the lessening gloom of the fresh day.

  29

  LAST WORDS

  To: Mistress Verline Versierdholte Halt-by-Wall Boschenberg City Hergoatenbosch Newwich 1st Jude-was-Narcis, HIR 1601 Dearest, most precious Verline, So much has happened since my last, too-short letter.Yet, all that I have to tell you now that matters is that my service as the factotum to Europe, Duchess-in-waiting of Naimes, has come to an end. Miss Europe has done all to keep me safe, but even she cannot defeat the whole world, and now she is gone to Sinster where I cannot go, and it is too dangerous for me to stay in Brandenbrass-or in any city at all. Frans and Pin are set on returning to you to take up their foundlingery mastering again, yet, as much as they urged me otherwise, I will not be coming with them.

  I do not wish to startle you, but I am about to write something of such strangeness I would not blame you for disbelieving every word. It is the reason for the danger and for the hurts that drive Miss Europe to tak
e her journey to the surgeons and has all to do with what troubled our dear cryptical Master Frans before he left you. For, when Master Frans first got to Madam Opera's, he did not find just a babbie on the doorstep-like the story usually goes-but a sparrow bogle with the babbie in his arms. It was this bogle who gave Master Frans the babbie, saying that it was not normally born but had come from the living mud far out in threwdish places.With his usual wisdom, Master Frans took the baby at once and gave it to Madam Opera.That babbie was me.

  I am a rossamunderling, Miss Verline, a manikin, just like Biarge the Beautiful, who you might know from Master Frans' or Master Pin's sea stories. I am sorry if this is hard to read; it is not at all my intention to worry you or burden you with things too big to fathom or bear. It has been said to me that I am as much a man as a monster, neither more one nor less the other. I do not know what to reckon; I am just me. I have always been me. Not all monsters are monsters, just like Master Frans always rightly said.

  Hard as this is to write and harder yet to act on, it is time for me to leave. Where I go I will not say, but I have tried the path of an everyman and now I go to find my proper place. I am sorry to write this, dearest Verline. Please do not take it too hard, nor fret, for those I go to have proved true friends. Farewell. Forever your

  P.S. It would be best to destroy this letter as soon as you have done reading it.

  If I can, I will write you again.

  I love you.

  In the cool gloom of a late spring evening-while the heiress of Naimes, bound by fast-sailing sloop for Sinster, rounded the stony headlands of Needle Greening-a boy, a sparrow and a wizened little bogle left Brandenbrass. By hidden unfrequented paths and the covering shadows of night, these three traveled about the northern shores of the Grume to cross the mouths of the Marrow, finally passing on to the Sparrow Downs and out of the accounts of men.

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