by D M Cornish
Rossamünd could see the man’s gaze momentarily flick to him.
Passion flared in the deeps of Europe’s eyes. “You can be assured, sir, that whatever path I take is the best to follow—and if it threatens otherwise, I will make sure that it becomes so.”
The Chief Emissary bowed in his seat. “My lady will make a dread duchess,” he said, and declared it an anno praeposter —an upside-down year.
The fulgar sighed a delicate laugh. “We all, dear Baron, are but murmurs in this tragical panto ...”
12
THE ARBORLUSTRA
wigbold(s) wit who prefers complete anonymity, refusing to make any signifying spoors or other marks and covering his or her telltale hair loss with all manner of wig—hence the name. Some wear pieces so outlandish they are a signifier in themselves, yet other wigbolds dress as normally as is fashionable, deadly lahzars walking about unheeded by the unsuspecting.
THE seat of the historied city’s government, the Brandendirk, was found well beyond the rush of the Spokes, among the many tall towers and halls of dark stone and red brick of a major bureaucratic district known as the Marchant. Scattering a crowd of ibis gathered on flagstones, the town coach ceased its journey in a wide square, the Florescende. Its faded paving, arranged in the forms of near-on every manner of blooming flower, was ceaselessly traversed by carriages and planquins careless of the beauty hurrying beneath hoof, foot and wheel. Low fortresslike façades of pale basalt stood about three sides of the Florescende, spiked and spired, perforated with a multitude of high, thin windows. This was the Parvis Main, the public courts of the Archduke of Brandenbrass.Towering over them at the farther end rose a lofty fortress, heavy and impregnable, the ancient stones of the Low Brassard visible from almost any high building in the city, the original keep about which through centuries the palace, the benches of government and bureaucracy, and indeed the city had grown.
“If I may, m’lady,” Finance said, “I shall remain in your fit and return in it to Highstile Hall.”
“Certainly, dear Baron,” Europe agreed, then called through the front grille to Latissimus in the box seat above, “Deposit the Baron to Highstile and that done, return to wait here.”
The Chief Emissary inclined his head in gratitude.
Rossamünd alighted to hand Europe out after him. “I should remain too,” he offered.
“Tish tosh, little man!” she retorted softly. “Your absence would be as good as an admission. Come along.”
Rossamünd kept close as she marched over a short draw-bridge flanked by a platoon of figures cast of dark bronze. Massive double doors of dark, carven wood as tall as the building itself rose before them.The rightmost stood ajar to allow the steady ingress of human traffic to the darkness beyond. As they approached, a white-suited scopp-boy dashed out, bearing dispatches in his light satchel strapped soldier-style across his back, soon followed by another.Through this opening—broad enough to allow a pair of men to walk side by side—they discovered a long and high-arched obverse of dark slate, lined with a platoon of haubardier guardsmen proofed in black and white with a flash of heaven’s blue. Past these grim wardens was another duo of enormous doors set with lesser, more human-sized portals in their lower halves. Here all incoming folk were met by severe gentlemen offering glowers for the lowly, stiff formality for the middling and bows for the lofty. Passing him a red velvet tab in exchange, one of the officious fellows took charge of the young factotum’s digitals, “to be retrieved again upon departure.”
The fulgar and her young factotum were then admitted to a shadowy hall paneled entirely in swarthy wood, its wide space made into aisles by row upon row of square wooden pillars. Above, the high ceiling of interlocking beams was pierced with numerous diamond skylights admitting the noonday in wanly luminous bands.
This public hall was filled with all manner of folk: people of humble station and even humbler clothes, and those of elevated degree in periwigs of glossy chestnut or lustrous silver, many wearing low wide tricorns with curled brims of a style Rossamünd had never seen before. Each kept with his or her kind, each class equally exclusive and dismissive of the rest. The mercantile set seemed most represented, men-of-business with thick folios of papers under arm and anxious, hawklike expressions on their faces, muttering one to the other.Yet whatever the social situation, every waiting soul was possessed by an impatient expectation till the room near vibrated with it, the collective murmur joining into a mumbling echo that muttered from every corner and made the air of the chamber fuggy, almost stifling.
Against this fervor, haubardiers stood fast about a series of clerical stages—three tiers of wooden platforms raised several feet off the main floor in the center of the space. Here a gaggle of secretaries and assisting clerks sat, lifted above the mass so that they could look down imperiously at the next poor citizen seeking their attention.
Among them all hurried scopps, distinct in their white coats and soft hats as they boldly approached the secretarial benches unbidden before sprinting off to some part of the mysterious palace or out of the enormous entrance.
Confronted with this scene, Europe did not hesitate but strode on with loud claps of her boot-steps on the flagstones, the throng parting like butter from a hot knife as she moved through. Her expression a detached blank, she barely acknowledged the awkward Beggin’ ye pardon, miss, the gallant How do you do? and near-salacious simpers that went wavelike before her. Rossamünd scampered in the brief gap left behind, stretching his stride to keep up with the confident pace of his mistress. To him she indeed looked like a rose—a radiant flower proud and glorious and untouchable among all these needy and ambitious men.
There were others here, however—hearers perhaps of foul gossip—who loured and sneered at her. From the thick someone dared in histrionic whisper, “Lady Squander, thorn among the roses . . .”
Loyalty flaring, Rossamünd searched for its dastardly origin but could not tell who or where it came from, which was perhaps just as well.
Ignoring it all, Europe aimed straight at a stage where a single secretary watched her approach with polite, almost conceited expectancy. Three paces to go she halted and stood aside for Rossamünd to pass, which he did, with only the briefest hesitation, handing the invitation to the secretary and saying the formula with as much resolution as he possessed, “Europa, Duchess-in-waiting of Naimes, the Branden Rose”—it felt very fine to reel off such a credential—“come upon the stated invitation of His . . . His Gracious Sufficiency the Archduke of Brandenbrass.”
The secretary took the document, gave it the most cursory look and, without once acknowledging Rossamünd, looked to his mistress instead and said with an artificial smile, “M’lady, you are most welcome.” With a wave of his hand crowds parted and a curator, fine-dressed in standard black and white, appeared. The invitation thrust unceremoniously back into his grasp, Rossamünd hurried to follow as Europe was taken to a door at the rear of the hall where the haubardier guards parted and they were let through.
Led by the curator, they traversed a vast hall; its extremities were lost in the murky shadows made by the pale sunlight, so defying any reckoning of its size. The Arborlustra, their guide proudly called it—the Illustrious Wood—and Rossamünd quickly discovered why. Arranged, indeed growing, in several rows down either hand through gaps in the very marble of the floor, were tall trees, sycamore and turpentine in sequence, one trunk pale, the next dark, forming a great natural colonnade of living columns, black then white, black then white all the way down.
Little lights of the softest blue shone from trunk and branch. About their roots and down the full length of the hall were arranged broad Dhaghi carpets figured with rabbits frolicking in black and white and gold woven into the sumptuous scarlet, worn almost to thread in places by uncounted years of footfalls. Up in the high vaulted spaces between the roof beams branches spread, obscuring the coffered roof lights, reaching right across the vacancy of each row to overlap and intertwine with the limbs of t
heir fellow trees. The fitful tweeting of hidden birds sounded from this elevated, knotted green. Just below the canopy an ingenious awning of fine mist-nets caught leaves, nuts and bird-leavings, while black-aproned servants hovered in the dimness, ready to broom the spillings.
“Close your mouth, little man,” Europe said dryly.
Standing between each trunk were several of the ducal lifeguards. These were the much celebrated Grognards—troubardiers whose members included modern heldins writ of in pamphlets—impressively harnessed in proof-steel lorica, checkered in black and bright metal, the long black hems of their frock coats flaring out from underneath. Upon their heads they wore black, brimless caps and upon their legs stockings of the most striking blue. They gripped cruel martels, long-handled hammers as tall as a man, with octagonal heads and thorny barbs down their tangs.
Walking in the weird internal twilight, Rossamünd marked tiny movements in the shadows about the trunks. Looking closely, he saw rabbits great and small loping carelessly over their carpet-woven cousins.
“Historic decree set the first troupe of coneys in our illustrious hall long before the Tutins came,” their curator explained, noticing Rossamünd’s fascination. “Caretakers have ever since been put over them and, so established, a whole tribe has flourished in here since. Such was the reputation of these beasts that ancient folk once called our mighty city Largopolis. You may well still see it named thus among its official distinctions ...”
Rossamünd nodded politely, yet he did not reckon the city’s ancient name had to do with these little short-lived brothers and sisters of the great rabbit-lord ruling unfathomed from the heart of Brandenbrass. Feeling a cool attention upon him, he made a furtive search left and right to discover a figure pacing silently in the shadows on either side of them, well harnessed and neuroticrith-bald. His heart skipped beats. Is Europe such a threat?
Through a heavy wooden wall their path led them to a hubbub of many conversations coming through the trees ahead. In the midst of this disquieting imitation of nature, the twilight of the Arborlustra proper gave way to a high treeless space bright lit from above. Every recess of the coffered ceiling was perforated to allow light to stream in, the pallid folds of masonry reflecting it again and again until the roof seemed to glow of itself. “The Glade of Court,” their curator announced. The wide red carpet they had walked now became a narrow path leading across the bizarre clearing of checkered black-and-white marble surrounded on every side by trees. Hung from cables at the back of the “glade” was an enormous spandarion, half sable, half leuc, sky blue framed with a rampant rabbit stitched in silver upon it.
Rossamünd stared in awe, glorying in his secret knowledge. Did these people have even an inkling for whom their rabbit sigil properly stood, or from whom their city took its ancient name?
Collected here were a whole assembly of circumstantial folk, gathered like often with like, each clearly ensconced in earnest, even strident conversation. There were local peers with their secretaries; enormous elephantines and vulgar-ines with their less rotund, more agile representatives; ducal marshals and lesquin captains in their parti-hued harness and campaign wigs, their chests and waists bedecked with all manner of garlands of merit and ribands of status; ambassadors and nuntios of other states and kingdoms; obscure lobbyists, skulking on the fringes with their books of legal precedents waiting for a moment to catch an important attention; singular teratologists of singular renown and eccentric harness who eyed Europe with especial enmity; and many other pompous souls able to govern the doom of lesser folk with a word or a stroke of pen.
Rossamünd swallowed hard. Is Swill among these fellows?
With operatic gusto the curator announced Europe’s entrance.
The chatter was instantly stilled.
Sweating as if it were the height of a Turkic summer, a morbidly rotund magnate nearby raised an eyebrow first at the Branden Rose and then turned a little to do the same to Rossamünd, a small squeak of wheels coming from beneath the sweeping hem of the fellow’s pavilionlike soutaine.
In consternation Rossamünd recognized Imperial Secretary Sicus with him, the young factotum’s alarm rising as he saw his foe talking closely with none other than Pater Maupin. Anaesthesia Myrrh stood to one side, watching the gathered aristocracy with scarce-veiled disdain. Seeing Europe, the dexter sneered then gave a nod to her master.
Maupin turned and, beholding Europe coolly, sauntered over to her. “My, my, Lady Bramble. We have this very moment been speaking of you!” he said with feigned affability. “What has drawn you to this illustrious court?”
“Certainly not because I wish it, sir,” the Branden Rose returned dismissively, to Secretary Sicus’ open disapproval.
Maupin smiled stiffly. “I have been engrossed with this worthy.” He gestured to Sicus. “He and his man have such uncommonly interesting things to say of your more recent endeavors. It appears the loss of your trusty Licurius has made you a touch . . . eccentric. I was especially interested in what they offered regarding your troublesome runt.” He shot a dark look at Rossamünd.
The young factotum bristled.
Europe betrayed nothing, but inspected the gathering as if that were vastly more interesting.
Between Sicus and Maupin, Rossamünd suddenly discovered the intent weaselly mien of his chief accuser, the surgeon, Grotius Swill, staring in perverse fixation at Rossamünd, wearing a slight yet gloating smile very much like the smirk of a child who has tattled to the dormitory master and now expects retribution full and swift.
Rossamünd tried to shrink and disappear where he stood as Swill sidled about the Imperial Secretary and approached Europe.
“You may feign your innocence here, oh great lady,” the surgeon sneered softly to Europe, “but what will you do when the mark shows?” Though he addressed the Duchess-in-waiting, he never ceased his sour scrutiny of Rossamünd.
Bridling slightly, Europe eyed the impertinent fellow with brief and singularly feline contempt.
“Yes, yes, Master Swill,” Maupin interjected. “Time and place, man, time and place.” Looking again at Europe, he went on, “You ought to know that the Archduke has been most attentive in his concern over the distress your servant has done me. You see, a harm to me is a harm to the Archduke . . .”
“Away with you and your thin threats, man,” Europe finally said, her tone entirely dismissive.
“I do not threaten, Lady Bramble, I do.”
“Then please, do somewhere else, sir . . .”
“Oh, I sha—”
“Lo! It is the Rose of the Fulgars!” came the amiable call, almost like a rescue, from the midst of the courtly, hostile crowd. There, walking through a respectful channel made quickly amid the gathered, strode a moderately tall man in a gorgeous black and white and sky blue frock coat, head hatless, his dark, shining, long-groomed hair tied back in a blue riband whose ends hung well down his back.
The Archduke of Brandenbrass!
Keen and critical intelligence dwelt in the stately lord’s dark eyes, and the evidence of a sardonic wit twitched at the corner of his mouth. His fine mustachios were curled and combed, as was his beard, a fashion he himself had made famous. Dressed very similarly to his Grognard guards, he stopped a polite distance from Europe and bent graciously low, a fine show of welcome glowing in his countenance—or was it gloating?
At his approach Maupin and Sicus and Swill bowed deeply and retreated.
“Here you are, m’dear,” the Archduke crooned, “returned not a bare week from your coursing in the east, having slain a glorious count of dastardly nickers! Thank you for condescending to attend my spring court. I thank you too—as I always do—for your defense of the rightful place of everymen and our tenuous grip on the fringes of land allowed us by the murderous therian. What a joy it must be to put the wicked monster to flight and bring liberty to all the goodly people of this, our mighty Empire.”
The assembled throng murmured in affected approbation. Some even began an a
wkward applause that, for want of general support, quickly sputtered and ceased.
The Duchess-in-waiting was openly unimpressed; even from Rossamünd’s obscure view of the side of her face, the fulgar’s distaste was obvious.
“How is my cousin Naimes?”
“Civil greeting to you, cousin Brandenate.” Europe gracefully bobbed her head, eyes fixed boldly on this lofty man, arms extending elegantly, a fluid gesture of one equal to another. “I am well.”
“Here, you have brought your faithful factotum.” The Archduke peered directly at Rossamünd. “He has shrunk some since last I remember him. Did you leave him in a coat pocket for the fuller-lady to wash in too-hot water by accident?” He barely fluttered an eyelid at the approving laughter of his court.
THE ARCHDUKE OF BRANDENBRASS
Feeling tiny and utterly ignorant, Rossamünd stood behind his mistress, hands at sides, silent, as he had been schooled to do.
Europe herself showed the hint of a smile, the kind that spoke of death and danger. “I must confess you at an advantage, cousin Brandenate,” she said with a nod. “I cannot speak on a fuller’s labors and must defer to your obvious expertise in the lowly matter of laundry.”
This elicited a spontaneous murmur of approbation from the court—far less in volume but greater in genuine mirth—that, with many coughs and shuffling feet, was quickly transmuted to a tart and uncharitable hubble-bubble.
The Archduke’s self-approving grin tightened into a fixed grimace. “Dear sister Rose,” he returned, his voice sickly kind, “how I miss your attendance at my court.” He bowed to hide this patent lie. “I understand how diverting it must be to cast your long shadow upon the churls and bumpkins clamoring for your aid. As for myself,” he went on before the Duchess-in-waiting could react, “I am preparing for this season’s campaigning. The Emperor, as usual, wants me to join his grand Imperial armies against the sedorner kings of the west.” He made a slight motion to the marshals and captains stood together, watching Europe with what Rossamünd could only think to call hungry eyes. “Care to accompany us?”