by D M Cornish
“Such is the trouble that comes of talking to bogles,” Craumpalin muttered, speaking for the first time.
“Why not call me something else?” Rossamünd insisted.
“Because Madam O wrote thee up right quick.” Craumpalin looked squarely at Rossamünd. “Once thy name were in the Madam’s book, it was a matter of ineffaceable public record. There was no renaming thee after that, and no fuss could be made without lookin’ mightily suspicious. So we had to luff up and let the matter be. I comforted Frans and meself it was such an obscure word, I reckoned on none that thee might meet ever knowing of it . . . other than the name of a lass mistakenly given to a lad, that is.”
“Unfortunate in itself, I would have thought,” Europe added quietly.
Fransitart gave her an unhappy look. “We never reckoned on such dangersome waters as ye finding yerself thrust into service with a book-eatin’ massacar like Swill,” he said bitterly.
“They do seem to be everywhere,” the Duchess-in-waiting returned dryly.
The ex-dormitory master scowled again. “Once it came time to take yer place in the world, lad, Pin an’ I were at full stretch to know what to do with ye. Let ye go an’ risk some kind of discovery . . .”
“Which was what I was vouching for,” Craumpalin inserted. “Holding that risk to be small—”
“Aye, or go my way of it an’ keep ye back where we could know ye were safest—”
“Aye,” Craumpalin interrupted again. “Inviting suspicions and dooming the lad to some half-lived life.”
Old troubles flashed in Fransitart’s dark eyes. “So ye said then, Pin, an’ I followed yer lead an’ ’ere we are now—”
“We would be in this or some other strait by either heading, Frans.” The aging dispensurist looked wounded. “It has always been a matter of time’s passing.The stone and the sty if ever a siteeation was . . .”
The ex-dormitory master looked instantly regretful. “Aye, Pin, aye …”
“That is why you had me wrapped in nullodour,” Rossamünd interjected. Critchitichiello the hedgeman had said Master Craumpalin’s Exstinker would never foil a monster’s senses. “The noses you were keeping me safe from weren’t monsters but dogs and—and men.” This it had most certainly done. If it had not been for the Exstinker, Rossamünd knew full well that in his native monster’s stink he would have been slain out-of-hand by Licurius while he still hid in the boxthorn growing in the pastures of Sulk End or set dogs howling after his blood well before he was near them.
“Aye,” Craumpalin answered softly. “We wanted to give thee every chance at success.”
“Perchance locking him in a chest and hiding it in the buttery might have served better,” Europe murmured.
“But why did you not tell me before, Master Fransitart?” Rossamünd persisted, heedless of his mistress’ ironies. “Surely I could have avoided dangers better if I had known who—what—who I really am.”
“Hear, hear,” murmured Europe, attending them in perfect stillness. “Why not indeed . . .”
For a beat there was a painful silence.
Fransitart beheld his former charge, regret clear in his eyes. “We . . . ,” he croaked. “What would we tell ye, my boy? How do we tell ye? Of what dare we say? ‘Why, Rossamünd, did ye know ye was handed up to us by a bogle who claimed ye to be monstrous-born?’ Would ye believe me? Who would?The less spoke on it, the less folks to know, and the less heavy going we make of it.”
“You—,” Rossamünd started, but what could he say? Who would believe such outrageous stuff? He looked at his hand, to see that it was still real, that he was still he, and found that it was shaking uncontrollably.
“Thee has to fathom, Rossamünd,” Craumpalin said, coming to his old mate’s aid, “that if we ever spoke on it, such a calumn’ous revelation would only have thee ever worrying to thy back to see who might discover thy terrible secret.”
Swill’s witness he could discount: that his arrival in this world had never put a woman abed, that instead he had emerged fully knit from the boggy sump of some threwdish haunt, the mud-born replica of a poor bewildered and long-fallen child . . . This he could dismiss, but not the evidence of his dear masters. Suddenly Freckle’s words, spoken so long ago in the putrid hold of the listing Hogshead, rose unbidden . . . The time might come for knowing things, the glamgorn had said, and when the need of knowing’s nigh, you’ll know then what I do now . . . “I fathom it, Master Pin,” Rossamünd murmured. “I fathom it . . .”
Europe’s penetrating hazel gaze lingered on Rossamünd. “It seems remarkable to me that some diminutive bogle made it right into the heart of your city,” she said at last, “managing such a feat of utter invisibility to get over walls and elude every dog and gate ward.”
“Size ain’t no reckoning of potency, ma’am.” It was Craumpalin who answered. “The antiquarians have it that such feats are not beyond the mighty ones and that some of the leastly baskets in stature can be mightiest of them all.”
“You run it close to a sedorner’s prating, Master Salt,” the fulgar said warningly. “I can see from where you inherited your dangerous notions, little man.” She peered now at Rossamünd, her expression guarded, her thoughts opaque.
He held her gaze, wanting to say something about truth and knowing and doing right, yet nothing sensible formulated rapidly enough to speak.
The fulgar let out a long tired breath. “It might be said that worm-riddled texts with notions as crumbling as their spines and superstitious navy-men long past their prime do not make for trusty sources any more than a book-learned butcher with a grudge to grind. Let me, however, for Rossamünd’s sake, presume this is possible,” she said with a sidelong look to the ex-dormitory master. “I would think such fantastic claims required tangible proofs.”
“If that is how ye will have it,” Fransitart countered with sailorly bluntness, his jaw jutting and firm-set, looking first to Europe, then to Rossamünd, “there will be proof a-plenty in nigh on a seven-night paired. This mark here will show itself as cruorpunxis or braggart’s scab and end all argumentations!” He gripped at where the bandaged puncting had been made: that terrible experiment he and Rossamünd had submitted to at the hands of the surgeon Swill.
“A seven-night paired, indeed, man,” Europe said, raising a brow. “Such delightful argot: I gather you mean a fortnight?”
“Aye, madam. In a twin o’ weeks all wranglings will end.”
Rossamünd slouched in his seat as grim certainty established itself.
Europe might require such tangible proofs, yet he already fathomed which way the mark—made from his very own blood—would turn: that in two weeks less two days the puncting made with his own blood on Fransitart’s arm would show as a cruorpunxis, a monster-blood tattoo.
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, Rossamünd.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 y
ou will.” Then, instructing Rossamünd to join her in her file, she left the three to their goodbyes.
“Where will you go?” Rossamünd suddenly did not want to be parted from these best of men.
“We’ll lay along to the Dogget & 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, Rossamünd.”
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, Rossamünd,” Fransitart called gruffly from the window of Europe’s own day coach. “We’ll see ye through yet.”
Waving farewell, Rossamünd 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 Rossamünd 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 Rossamünd 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 Rossamünd’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, Rossamünd 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 Rossamünd’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 treacle in my file in one hour.”
Momentarily lost, Rossamünd 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 Rossamünd 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, Rossamünd 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.
<
br /> Rossamünd 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 Rossamünd a shock. “A timely testing, little man. Perhaps I’ll not regret you after all.”
Rossamünd’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.
Rossamünd 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 Rossamünd closely. “Know, Rossamünd, 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, Rossamünd tried to let what he supposed was a manly calm spread through his members.