by D M Cornish
Rossamünd stared at the small volume in awe as it was handed to him. Within was a collection of disparate papers, marked mostly in two hands: one he did not recognize and the other he instantly identified as Licurius’ graceful script. The thaumacra were in order of incidence of use rather than letter-fall: saltegrade, unbordated felibrium, levinfuse, syntony, sangfaire and several more. Among the recipes were esoteric hints to sources of the best parts, impossible properties like falseman’s ichor or kraulschwimmen gall, and their nearest alternatives, quotes of ancient lore and even scrawled obscenities against the ünterman.
“Saltegrade is for before every fight,” Europe explained. “Levinfuse is for the biggest stouches, felibrium I have to take at the start of each week and am currently running low . . .” She went through them all.
A little lighter in his heart, Rossamünd stared at the script for saltegrade as if to press it into his mind, repeating the parts over and over under his breath, “Three parts Spice of Zichre . . . one part salt-in-gloom . . .” He looked up. “Miss Europe, I apologize for . . . for trying to save the Grackle . . . and provoking that Maupin fellow.”
Pursing her lips, Europe considered him, her eyes clouded, her intent unclear.
“One might think,” she said at last, “that with an Imperial Secretary, a military clerk and a massacar of minor talent as enemies, our tale had its count of antagonists without adding more.”
Rossamünd looked at her shamefacedly, but she did not notice, nodding rather to the black stink rising from the testing pan behind him.
“I think you will need to brew again, little man,” the fulgar said mildly, “unless char is to be your latest innovation on my treacle.”
11
A STATELY INVITATION
nuntio(s) official messengers of the Emperor and his regents, and, when required, bearing the authority of the one who sent them. Their private counterparts—used by magnates and peers—are the sillards (sing. silas). Both are distinct from scopps and mercers in that they are especially engaged by individuals for their exclusive service, rather than being available for general hire.
THE new day—the knaving day—was an insubstantial gleam when Rossamünd roused, washed, dressed, breakfasted and turned out in the coach yard with all the military haste of a pageant-of-arms at Winstermill.
“An unripe start for young and old, is it not, sir?” Latissimus muttered affably as he and the stablery hands heaved the tarpaulin-covered landaulet out into the yard proper, ready for hitching horses.
Rossamünd smiled and breathed into his cupped hands, staring up at the icily clear sky.To the south the element was souring, as spring was wont to do in these lower climes—a poor promise for a day of travel. The clitterty-clatterty jink and rough panting of horses sounded on the Harrow Road, bringing his attention earthward.To his astonishment two taut fellows rode into the yard, each astride a horse of the richest velvet black harnessed in shortened petrailles. In his first shock, Rossamünd thought them agents of Pater Maupin and the roust sponsors returning to reassert their demand for satisfaction, yet he quickly fathomed by the cut and mottle of their harness that these two were of a more official sort.
One rider in a black long coat and mitre was clearly a duffer. His companion, a man in courtly splendor, equally sable-clad but with fine lacings of pristine white and wearing a thick periwig of black, peered up at the house with veiled apprehension as he let one of the stablery hands take his horse by its bridle.
“Well-a-day, good sirs,” Rossamünd greeted them firmly, even as Mister Kitchen emerged from the house,Wenzel the footman in tow to do the same.
“Nuntio Malapropus,” the splendid periwigged fellow enunciated, looming over them on his well-harnessed steed, attention turning back and forth between Rossamünd and Kitchen, unsure of whom to address. “I am sent by his plenipotentiary graciousness, the Archduke, with a dispatch for the Lady Rose, Heiress of Naimes.”
A nuntio! The young factotum marveled. Such as these were only ever sent from important folk to other important folk upon important occasions. Instructing Kitchen to usher the ducal messenger to the hiatus, Rossamünd hurried to Europe’s file two or three steps at a time.
“The Branden Duke has dispatched a nuntio,” the fulgar observed coldly, issuing only half harnessed from the obscure door that led to her boudoir. “How sweet.” Patently unhappy at the interruption, she peered down into the yard. “I wonder what can have moved him to send to such humble folks as we,” she concluded frostily.
Taking her time to dress in partial harness, Europe finally stalked from her file, Rossamünd scuttling after. Down in the vestibule, the Branden Rose thrust open its glossy black doors with a flourish.
“Gracious lady,” cried the sartorially splendid nuntio with stilted enthusiasm, turning with a hasty jerk from his candid inspection of a great painted screen of a bogle hunt stretching across one whole wall. Bowing long and low, the man swept his white-edged tricorn before him in a complex movement, ending with it wedged firmly under his left armpit. Draped across his black wide-hemmed frock coat with its white trimmings was a silken sash of sky blue that matched the vibrant stockings and fancy mules he wore instead of boots. High upon his back he bore a satchel of buff, cowhide naturally blotched black and white in the mottle of Brandenbrass. The nuntio straightened and stood tall, impressively dignified.
“I am come to stand for his grace, the Archduke of our most beloved city, and, upon his behalf and the behalf of his loyal Parliament, offer you a worthy invitation.”
“An invitation, indeed,” Europe returned, utterly unimpressed. “Have I been good or have I been bad, to warrant such a gesture?”
The nuntio said nothing but simply produced a black hide envelope from his satchel and handed it to her.
Looking down at it with one brow arched, Europe took the communication between thumb and forefinger as if it were an unsavory item. “You shall have my answer presently, man.”
The messenger hesitated, ashen-faced. Clearly he expected an immediate response. “I should not wish to burden you, my lady, with any insistence, but—”
“Then don’t,” Europe said with the finality of a firmly closed door, pulling a bell-rope. “You may remain in my yard—it is a fine day to be out. One of my servants shall bring a reply when there is one to bring. Mister Kitchen!” She tilted her head, raising her voice ever so slightly. “Please see Master Nuntio to the door, thank you.”
The nuntio remained for a moment longer, weighing his response. Finally, with another grand sweep of hat and arm, he declared, “I shall await your answer outside.” Bidding them good day in a cold, stately voice, he left, shepherded out by Europe’s steward.
Europe left the hiatus to go to her file, black buff envelope in hand, still unopened. “Are you coming, little man?”
He hurried after.
In her file, the fulgar finally opened the communication, producing from it a fine-looking fold of high-quality paper edged in equispaced squares formed of some dark metallic substance. At the top was a sigil device in black of a rabbit in rampant pose above the letters PDetC.
“It is indeed an invitation,” Europe affirmed, clearly reading far ahead of Rossamünd’s own wondering, sluggish pace. “The dear,” she growled—by which Rossamünd could only assume she meant the Archduke of Brandenbrass—“wants this very day to meet with me!”
“Why?” Rossamünd said in fright. “Does it say?”
But she did not answer him, pronouncing instead, “Go, Rossamünd. Put on your new harness. Our knave is suspended again.” She almost spat this last. “Today we meet instead with the ruler of this terrible city.”
Kitchen was called, her reply given and the nuntio departed.
To the clatter of retreating hooves, Rossamünd went directly to his set to ready himself.
“A meeting with the duke hisself,” Pallette breathed in awe as she bustled in bearing a new jug of water for washing.
Deeply impressed, Rossamünd washe
d for a second time that morning, scrubbing back of neck and behind ears; he pared his nails and Pallette waxed his hair so flat and stiff that it sat like an arming-cap upon his head. When all was done, he felt so clean it stung.
For such a meeting the Branden Rose went dressed in a long-hemmed weskit of scarlet soe with intricate black piping down its front and a high buttoned collar in black. Despite the cool spring day, her arms were thinly covered in bag-sleeves of white gossamer gathered tight over her forearm with short black vambrins. With this she wore a wide skirt of sleek deep magenta with glorious twirls and lacings of thread-of-silver along its pleats and hem, and her usual bright-black equiteer boots. Most of her hair she wore down, with her rebellious fringe pinned under a compact variation on a tricorn fixed somehow to her crown by a glossy black comb and two simple hair tines. Finished with a light dusting of cosmetic unctions, she looked almost girl-like, winsome even, someone you might want to protect.
Sitting next to her, Rossamünd tried not to blush.
“Whatever troubles you?” the fulgar asked him, her gaze at once challenging and amused. “Have you never seen a woman before?”
They set out aboard the covered town coach pulled by a pair of glossy black geldings.These were superb-looking creatures, different from the drab nag Rossamünd remembered taking them across the Brindleshaws all those months ago.
Barely across the Midwetter bridge, the coach was intercepted by a gaunt, plain-harnessed gentleman running before a planquin-chair borne by four wiry men liveried in rouge and deep carmine—the mottle of Naimes. Possessing an air of solemn, predatory confidence, the gaunt fellow looked into the cabin and regarded them with all the shrewd patience of a hunter.
“Mister Slitt, is it not?” Europe spoke first, crooking a brow at the man.
“Aye, m’lady, Elecrobus Slitt, appendant to the Legation of Naimes,” the fellow answered, half bowing and touching a knuckle to his grizzled and balding pate. “And I pray thy pardon for the interruption, duchess-daughter, but my Lord Sainte wishes to speak with you.”
Out from the comfortable box climbed Lord Finance, Baron of Sainte, Captain-Secretary and Chief Emissary of the Naimes diplomatic mission, his smile warmer than the weak morning sun. “I hear you are off to the Archduke’s court,” he observed lightly as he clutched the door frame and sprang boldly to the long step. “May I join your diurnal jaunt, gracious daughter of Naimes?”
Rossamünd looked sidelong at the man. He already knows?
Europe regarded Finance subtly. “I shall not hinder you, sir.”
The Baron’s smile broadened—if such a thing were possible. “Thank you, Mister Slitt,” he called behind to the gaunt man standing guard close behind. “You may return to Highstile Hall.”
Regarding his master with uncomplaining—Rossamünd thought almost sad—eyes, Mister Slitt gave a curt bow and led the dogged planquin-carriers back down the Harrow Road.
With unexpected nimbleness, the Baron leaned out, opened the carriage door and swung in to sit a little heavily beside Rossamünd. He let out a contented sigh. “I come to furnish you with intriguing intelligence regarding your ducal summons.”
“Do you now, Baron?” Europe remained cool.
A pause.
The fulgar would not be drawn.
“You must have figured for yourself, duchess-daughter,” the Baron continued, “that after his excursion from his seldom-left den to accost you yesterday, Pater Maupin went immediately to complain to the Archduke of you and, once again, of your servant brooding here beside me.You are quite the busy fellow, are you not, Mister Bookchild?”
Feeling his cheeks redden, Rossamünd maintained his inspection of the passing city. Was there anything this fellow did not know?
“He certainly tests an exceptional treacle,” Europe added drolly, giving her young factotum a satirical look.
The Baron’s expression was tight now. “I am sure, gracious heir, he does. But you must know too—as one of Brandenbrass’ worst-kept secrets—that the duke himself has a stake in the pit your factotum is supposed to have spoiled and that the missing wit—one Syncratis Pater—is . . . or rather was a nephew of Maupin’s.”
Rossamünd held back a groan of regret. I should have come home sooner! He began to chide himself, then stopped. If he had done so, the Grackle would be dead now and Ginger-rice, and a good many other undeserving frair with them. As hard as the way was becoming, it was still the better path.
“The servants of Maupin ought to think better than to come after my own,” the Duchess-in-waiting proclaimed. “Do you truly conceive my small-framed factotum could have undone this Syncratis fellow?”
“Surely not, m’lady,” the Baron conceded. “Yet which version do you figure the Archduke will prefer? He was, dare I confess, pleased to have such witness against you. I overheard him quip that the Rose was falling at last on her own thorns.” He lingered on this last phrase pointedly.
“Tell me something novel, sir,” Europe growled. “His resentment of my residence in his state is common stuff.”
Touching his knuckle to his lips, Finance made a small coughing sound. “I have to own, gracious lady, that no stately lord would desire the heir of a rival living within his curtains. As much as anything, he fears war with your mother should any ill befall you whilst in his care ...
IDIAS FINANCE
BARON OF SAINTE
“So you side with the Archduke, Lord Sainte?”
Finance’s genial manner finally slipped. “We have argued this at many turns, m’lady,” he said gravely, “and you know my side is ever with you, limb and blood.”
A pause lingered pregnantly.
The Baron pressed knuckle to lip again. “I might dare to offer that you consider leaving this city before we suffer more of Mister Bookchild’s adventures.”
Obstinacy flashed briefly in the fulgar’s veiled thoughts, but her voice remained even. “We would be on the knave this very morning but for my cousin duke’s beckoning.”
Finance’s mien brightened again, and he dipped his head in approval. “A politic endeavor, m’lady, its success working entirely in your favor and, I venture,” he said with a pointed smile, “a better use of your servant’s proclivity for mayhem ...”
Rossamünd could not determine whether he liked or loathed this fellow.
Smirk subsiding, the Baron went on. “An Imperial Secretary arrived not two days gone via Vesting High—one Scrupulus Sicus—come directly from the obscure fortress, Winstreslewe, to complain boldly to this city’s senior lord of none other than yourself, dear duchess-daughter, verifying all the rumor of you with compelling clarity.”
Rossamünd fixed his attention on the passing streets, fully expecting some irate soul to step from the civic press, point and cry, “OUTRAGE! INFAMY! HERE IS THE BEASTLY BASKETLY BOY-MONSTER!”
“The Archduke was much moved to hear Secretary Sicus’ report,” Finance continued. “But he was most animated by the expositions brought by the Secretary’s protégé: a surgeon and archivist by the ridiculously quadrupled appellations of Honorius Ludius Grotius Swill.”
Innards clenching, ears ringing, Rossamünd stopped breathing.
Europe preserved her silence.
“This Swill fellow tells an uncommonly absorbing tale too, as simple as it is fabulous ...” The Chief Emissary lingered pointedly, seeking a reaction. When it was not forthcoming, he pressed on. “He made claim to the nature of your young servant here . . . that he is not as he seems but is in truth the rarest tribe of creature, a monster in the form of a man, blaming the theroscades I hear are plaguing that region on this very allegation. He uttered his gruesome contentions with such credible passion—authenticated no less by Secretary Sicus himself—that he almost had me convinced . . .” Smiling, he inspected Rossamünd briefly.
The young factotum swallowed against the constriction clutching at his gourmand’s cork. That very moment they passed by the Moldwood Park, dark, pensive, a reminder and an accusation.
“Should I be, dear lady?” The Baron of Sainte’s eyes narrowed.
“Of course not, man!”
His cheerful façade remained, but the subtleties in his expression told that he believed the duchess-daughter by choice rather than conviction.
“It is Swill and the temporary Marshal Whympre with him who are exciting the local nickers with their traffic in revermen,” Europe continued. “To this my factotum can openly attest.”
“Truly?” Finance looked fully at the young factotum, wonder hid behind the bright regard of his pearl-gray eyes.
Rossamünd stiffened. “Yes, sir. I fought one of their gudgeons in the lower cellars of Winstermill.”
“On your own?”
Rossamünd flashed a look to Europe. “Aye, sir.”
Gaze twinkling, the Baron Sainte continued to regard him sagely. “Shall I set my amphigorers to start contrary rumor of our own, gracious lady?”
“Your offer is well intentioned, sir, but must be refused,” the heiress of Naimes returned. “This is my private embroilment, and despite my mother’s tireless desire to intervene in my affairs, I am sure you have better things to do with your agents.”
The baron gave another of his winningly warm smiles. “When it is to do with you, marvelous lady, nothing is purely private . . .”
Europe considered him with a calculating look. “Indeed.”
They traveled in silence for a time, passing the grandiose architecture of the governing district, its towering, manycolumned structures replete with statues and whorled and knotted pediments and capitals. On some other, brighter day Rossamünd might have wondered at them, but now they and all the grandiose folk that walked so elegantly beneath them went by unheeded.
“If I may, benevolent duchess-daughter,” Baron Finance eventually said, in continued gravity, “your graciousness takes our state down a strange and difficult path.”