The Foundling's Tale, Part Three: Factotum

by D M Cornish

“He must’ve just turned in,” Nectarius grumbled querulously, “while I was gettin’ Miss Pallette ’ere.”

  “Pallette, get Crispus!” the young factotum ordered. “Nectarius, hold the doors for me!” Careless of the spectacle, the young factotum lifted the old vinegaroon from his couch and carried him bodily from the hiatus to his room, ignoring Fransitart’s grizzling complaints that he could walk on his own!

  The nightlocksman was so stunned at this small show of Rossamünd’s strength that he forgot to prop open the servants’ port.

  “The door, Nectarius!” Rossamünd barked, not caring about the puzzled and uneasy looks the nightlocksman gave him as he struggled by and on to Fransitart’s cot.

  “Blood and bruises, man! Are you always the source of such dramas?” Crispus demanded of the old dormitory master as, clad in dressing gown, his hair a feral spray of white, the physician hurried into the pallet. “Where is your arm at now, sir!” All mildness gone, he rebuked Fransitart with a martial rigor Rossamünd had seen him use only against the Master-of-Clerks. “The erreption of a limb is no simple occasion; implements must be thoroughly thatigated, vital vessels duly cautered! What backlot shambleman did this favor for you?”

  Plainly addled by some kind of soporating spirit, Fransitart ducked his head and muttered a sullen obscenity.

  “It’d be Master Meech,” Craumpalin interjected in a guiltily quiet voice, struggling with crutches to rise from his own cot.

  “And pray who is he?” the physician demanded hotly.

  “He served as a loblolly on the Venerable with us, got a dischargement back in seventy-one on account of his sick mother and his game leg; settled in this here city on Change Lane to take up taxidermy.”

  “A taxidermist!” Crispus almost spat the word.

  “Always loved stuffin’ his animals.” Fransitart chuckled woozily. “Had a whole cabin squashed with ’em by the end, an’ ’is shop is to the top with ’em . . . I reckon he must give service to a great lot of folks, ’cause ’e ’as some right sharp bone knives handy . . .”

  “Master Frans!” Rossamünd added some chiding of his own.

  With a snort of reproach, Crispus bent to examine the stump closely. “Well, you can thank the course of the Lots and the will of Providence too that this Meech fellow seems to be handy with his business.You fellows!” he commanded Nectarius and Wenzel, standing as humbly as they could by the door as Kitchen appeared yawning. “Fetch me extra pillows. Mister Craumpalin! Master Bookchild! I am sure you know the script for birchet and vauqueline—”

  “Aye, that we do . . .”

  “Then go and test them. Let us hope this Meech is as good as the knot and fit of his bandaging suggest!”

  At this, the young factotum and the old dispenser meekly obeyed, brewing as fast as sensitive processes of chemistry and Craumpalin’s crutch-slow gait would allow. In his haste, Rossamünd left the old dispenser to come at his own pace from the saumery and hurried ahead with the vauqueline to find Europe just arrived at the old salts’ humble quarters. She looked unruffled at such an unseemly hour yet was clearly unhappy at the fuss.

  “Well betide you, madam.” The physician greeted Europe in his stiffest physicking manner. “Our friend is as well as can be expected, though perhaps feeling a little foolish . . .”

  Despite the meek slump in his shoulders, an obstinate gleam in the vinegaroon’s eye spoke most eloquently that he was yet determined in the set of his course.

  The fulgar took in the entire scene in an inkling. “The break not enough for you, Master Vinegar?” she asked coolly.

  “Why did you do it, Master Frans?” Rossamünd breathed.

  The ex-dormitory master regarded his onetime charge somberly, eyes full of a thousand thoughts.

  Folding her arms, Europe leaned against the doorjamb. “Indeed, Master Vinegar!” she said huskily. “Simply removing the offending patch of flesh would have sufficed, sir. What use are you to me with one limb?”

  Grumbling incoherently, Fransitart became genuinely sheepish. “Vinegars get their wings off for bone breaks all th’ time and still go on a-servin’ . . .” was about all that Rossamünd could make out, and maybe, “Ye need not fear—I’ll not be a make-weight to ye.”

  Realizing the moment, Crispus excused himself quietly, softly calling Pallette out with him.

  There was a bump at the door and Craumpalin bumbled back into the room, toiling in on his crutch, his brow glistening with sweat as he bore a pot of foul-smelling birchet. “Here, thee daft basket!” he gruffed. “Drink and get healing.” He nodded to the bandaged stump. “So it’s gone at last. Are thee any happier?”

  “Ye know full well, Pin, I took th’ mark back at that fortress ’cause o’ the two of us, I can afford to lose a wing easiest,” Fransitart gruffed in return. Rubbing his eyes irritably, he drank the foul-smelling draught.

  “You always meant to get it cut?” Rossamünd gasped incredulously.

  “I have to own that it’s so, lad, aye.” The old salt’s dogged expression fell. “I might ’ave got it off sooner but that I was put upon by my own girlish curiousness to see for sure if th’ punct would prove.”

  “But Swill had one anyway!” Rossamünd insisted, with as much hope as conviction.

  “Aye . . . There is that,” the ex-dormitory master conceded. “But ’e’s gone now. . .” He looked hard at Rossamünd, pain and confusion suddenly clear. “Don’t ye see, lad!” he returned bitterly. “One ill-got mark is enough in a lifetime, but two o’ them—an’ one made from yer own ever-livin’ claret, lad—is more’n I can bear!”

  Rossamünd had no answer to this. He grasped Fransitart’s free hand—his only hand—and as the old salt drifted off, just held it.

  25

  THE GRAND GALA

  flitterwills small winged bogles, their form often a crude simulacrum of everymen yet with more distorted proportions. One of the few flying bogles—since the exodus of the naeroë—who make use of the winds and air, they are found only in the remotest, often terribly threwdish places, though there are meant to be many lurking in the Schmetterlingerwald north of Wörms and ruled by the Duchess of Butterflies.This is all conjecture, of course; ancient texts hold them to be among the tribe of monster known as nissë, but in common culture flitterwills are pure myth.

  THE day of the grand gala finally arrived with a growl of far-off thunder.

  “Perfect!” Europe declared, sipping the morning’s plaudamentum and staring from her file window at the frowning southern sky. “Perfect . . . ,” she repeated softly.

  Cloche Arde was properly “tricked out”—as Fransitart called it, recovering well from his lost limb in one of the less prettified parts of the house—looking now like some Occidental pavilion. Europe’s entire set of bom e’do screens were placed to direct where to and where not to go, and the ceiling was virtually hidden behind a veritable constellation of lanterns—great skies of red, orange, yellow-green and white. Staging refectories were established on each floor so that the footmen could fetch and deliver drinks and the simpler vittles without the need to descend constantly to the kitchen.

  Feeling by middens that he had run a half mile making certain all was truly set, Rossamünd knocked at Europe’s door to inquire of his mistress to come out and give her own endorsement of the arrangements.

  “I am sure it is all excellent, Rossamünd,” she said with distracted impatience, strolling quickly about the ludion where the first orchestra—fully costumed in magenta frock suits and magenta bag-wigs—was already at its tuning on the elevated stage behind the stairs. “You and Kitchen and Mistress Clossette will have done a fine job,” she added, and returned to her file.

  In the afternoon the dance masters and entertainers arrived, all shown to their respective habitats to begin their own preparations, swelling the numbers already crammed into Cloche Arde until Rossamünd wondered where the guests themselves might fit. Chief among these was a Master Papelott, the paraductor—the master of the unfolding of th
e entire night—recommended by the Lady Madigan. Exchanging greetings in the hiatus, Rossamünd peered a little dubiously at the slight, almost sickly, man. Despite the gorgeousness of Master Papelott’s golden silk frock coat, it did little to give mass to his scrawny frame, yet when he spoke with what he called his “assembly tone,” he straightened admirably and the most articulate and astonishingly powerful voice boomed from his undernourished bosom and wiry throat. With such volume he easily marshaled the entire company of additional staff—mostly footmen dressed in full red and magenta livery—in the vestibule for inspection and instruction.

  Among the planned diversions, Rossamünd was gratified to discover that Europe had hired the lank-haired concometrist who had approached her for work when they had first come to Brandenbrass. “I’m to draw spedigraphs of as many guests as want them,” he explained, looking much less dismayed and introducing himself as Economous Musgrove.

  Yet the most unusual of the performing set was Madam Lux, the benign mesmerist, her head utterly bald—surely as naked as the day she entered this world—and the corners of her eyes spoored with upward bent arrows. Above the gathered neckline of her draping cloak of soft silver peeped the dark red curlicues of many, many cruorpunxis, scrawled about the entire circumference of her throat. Here was the rarest of all rare creatures—an old lahzar. Walking with the help of a young woman—her own factotum, no doubt—and speaking so softly Rossamünd was forced to lean in to hear, Madam Lux presented a spectacle of harmlessness. Even so, the young factotum thought it very peculiar of the Branden Rose to allow a wit, no matter how aged, into her house.

  Everything about Europe is peculiar at the moment, he reflected with an inward shrug, showing the madam mesmerist to her place at a small black side table in the easily reached hiatus.

  When all was as ready as it could be, Rossamünd left the chaos in Master Papelott’s and Kitchen’s care, brewed treacle and deposited it at his mistress’ door, then finally retired to get ready. In his set the young factotum dutifully scrubbed himself twice, and after this submitted to a thorough primping. Teeth polished, nails pared, hair trimmed and waxed, he emerged from behind the screen in his finest shirt and longshanks to find a box left for him on the coverlet of his bed. It was wrapped in expensive red paper, and a simple card was slotted in its black ribbons.

  To My Fine Factotum,

  In anticipation that you have forgotten your own costume fancies, I provide this for you, and for our own and private jest.

  EU

  Prising the wrappings apart with shaking hands, Rossamünd let out a short barking laugh, for inside he found a maschencarde mask exquisitely fashioned in the form of a sparrow’s face. Beside it was laid a peacock blue coat made of shimmering cloth much in the hue of Cinnamon’s own flower-petal jacket and a white-and-black-striped weskit.To the bemusement of Pallette, he laughed again when he put it all on and reviewed himself in the mirror through the mask’s ample-looking holes. Perched on the sill of the open windows, Darter Brown flew in, and, twittering joyously, made circling loops about the young factotum’s sparrow-masked head.

  As Pallette left, Rossamünd held out his finger for the little fellow to alight upon. “Keep an eye out for Miss Europe, Darter,” he said.

  Peering at Rossamünd with almost human pondering, the he-sparrow voiced a single clear and positive chirrup! and launched himself outside once more.

  “Well-a-day, Master Sparrow!” Crispus chortled, recognizing Rossamünd’s fancies instantly as the young factotum entered Fransitart and Craumpalin’s pallet. “Your mistress plays a handsome joke!”

  Rossamünd gave half a beck in gratitude.

  Fransitart frowned. “A mite too handsome, I reckon . . . ,” he growled. Dressed in a lustrous black suit, the ex-dormitory master had the role for the evening—and Craumpalin too—of helping to keep the various drivers and lesser staff who would inevitably attend fed and occupied. Looking pale but well—his empty left sleeve pinned up to his shoulder like a naval hero’s—Fransitart pulled at the especially high collar and stock and tilted his head to and fro against the constriction. “Someone might guess at who he is.”

  “Aye,” said Craumpalin, clad very much like his friend. “Thee’d think there was enough dark conjecturing boiling away without throwing powder on the fire.”

  Crispus smiled. “I doubt anyone coming here tonight would know near enough of the true nature of the great world out there”—he waved his hand vaguely—“to deduce the truth of the origin of Rossamünd’s fancies.”

  As for the physician, he was dressed as a lamplighter. “In honor of our fallen manse and worthy brothers,” he elaborated. For Imperial quabard he had a simple soft vest half red, half yellow; for fodicar a broom shaft painted black with some sticks adhered to the top to simulate the crank-hook and sleeve-catcher. His stiff hair was pointing perpendicularly from the back of his head, gathered as best it could be in a gray bow. He was very nervous and kept rocking on his heels and shuffling through the cards he had prepared of his salient points for the oratory. “The big event has almost come.”

  As they talked, Wenzel appeared at the pallet door, red-faced and frustrated. “I ’ave been trying to find you all afternoon, sir,” he began. He then informed Rossamünd that an odd manner of parcel had arrived for him earlier that day and was even now sitting in the obverse. “It was the least troublesome resting place for it, sir,” he concluded, almost apologetically.

  Rossamünd asked who had delivered it, but Wenzel declared himself mystified.

  “I weren’t the one who took the delivery,” he explained. “But the general word is that it is most certainly yours.”

  Negotiating a way through the madness of final gala preparations, Rossamünd, and the three curious older men with him, found a broad yet shallow wooden box as Wenzel had said—no missive with it, not even an addressing bill or return directions, just blank dark wood bound tight in hemp strapping. Impatient, Rossamünd hurried it back to Fransitart and Craumpalin’s pallet and broke the bands with his hands alone, to find thick canvas wrappings within protecting . . . a painting.

  “It’s of you, Rosey me lad!” Fransitart exclaimed.

  Indeed it was, for there in rich, deftly applied paint was Rossamünd, staring out at himself. “Miss Pluto has finished it!” he cried in amazement, unable to help staring right back at himself in his delight.

  The portrait was astoundingly lively, showing him sitting at the three-quarter yet looking squarely out from the picture with an expression of such frank and earnest searching that Rossamünd was forced to ask of the older men, “Do I truly look like this?”

  “I reckon Miss Pluto’s got yer fixed just right,” Fransitart chuckled.

  Grinning, Craumpalin nodded emphatically. “She’s shown thee true, me lad.”

  “What will ye do with it?” Fransitart asked, a hint perhaps of his own desire to possess the piece in his tone.

  “I—I do not know . . . ”

  “A fine, fine likeness,” Crispus proclaimed, holding the portrait at arm’s length to squint at it as if this might improve his view. “You ought to show it to your mistress.”

  Rossamünd shook his head. “I do not reckon she will appreciate it at this moment,” he said.Yet, returning to his duties with the image wrapped once more and under his arm, he thought again on his original determination. Approaching Europe’s file, he placed his portrait carefully against the carven door and there he left it.

  The sun’s sanguine glow finally faded in the west, flushing the sky a deep evening rose. The rain that had spent the day growling at the edge of the world blew up from the Grume. With its arrival came the gala’s first guests, dashing under parasols from their glossy carriages to the melodious and courtly welcome of Cloche Arde. Fighting weather, Rossamünd observed gravely at the grumble of thunder as he stood in the vestibule to welcome the invitees.

  As proper night enfolded them all, Master Papelott stood at the top of the first flight of the stairs, and, with
an august cry, declared, “Hale night and merry! The Duchess-in-waiting of Naimes welcomes all comers!” The grand gala was set under way.

  Unlike the joyous sweaty simplicity of a country fête, the grand gala was a noble gathering of graceful souls. In the ludion there was little laughter, scant clapping and certainly no appreciative stomping of feet. Instead it was a-buzz with restrained genteel conversation and the audible shuffling of august folk promenading with exquisite swaying unison to the playing of either of the thirty-piece orchestras that took turns to give them music. With much bowing and curtsying and subtle playing up to each other, these lofty people danced a turn or two, spoke and ate in exclusive huddles and strolled every floor taking in the entertainments, settling longest in the room most suited to their temperament or returning to dance again.

  At every turn on every floor Rossamünd was met with grave faces and serious conversation, the precise studied manners of the gala-goers at odds with the garish and often quite ludicrous costumery draping them. The quality of the fancies varied greatly, from simple paper and card facsimiles to real teratological equipment undoubtedly gained at great expense. There was many a goggle-eyed nicker and buck-toothed bogle as well as beasts from distant lands— crocidoles, lyons, even an orange-furred aurang; a set of women in clear cahoots were festooned in diaphanous wings like mythic flitterwills. Pretty—and not so pretty—young ladies in quest of advantageous marriages costumed themselves with clinching, flattering dresses and maschencarde masks to set off their fluttering lashes. Wrapped in flowing robes, many elder guests came as kings or queens of ancient days, though none dared dress as Idaho or Dido—such claims of costume would be gauche and overreaching in the extreme.Yet by far the most popular theme of costume for the night was teratologist, and of these, antique monster-slaying heldins were commonest.

  Grand and poised though this night might be, it certainly was noisy; not a general boisterousness, but rather a universal medley of conversation that swelled as certain personalities made exhibitions of themselves in mirth or passion. Moving between floors—from the methodical madness of the kitchens to the stately motion of the ludion—Rossamünd was constantly met with a cacophony of music and ceaseless conversation. Soon his night settled into rounds about the house, bumping through the tide of gentry seeing, strutting and being seen, to identify problems and offer to all who asked the formula he had been given earlier that day, “The Duchess-in-waiting makes especial preparations for the night and will attend as soon as she is able.” Met with many strange looks and interrupted conversations reduced to furtive whispering, Rossamünd never remained stationary long enough to hear more than snippets of talk, yet after only a short while his thoughts revolved unceasingly about sentences only partly heard.