Lamplighter

	

	

	Monster Blood Tattoo 02

	

	

	

	by
	D. M.C o r ni s h 

	

	

	
	
1
	Master Come-Lately
	
	Calendar(s)(noun) sometimes also called strigaturpis or just strig -- a general term forany combative woman; the Gotts call them mynchen -- after the do-goodingheldin-women of old. Calendars gatherthemselves into secretive societies called claves (its members known asclariards) -- constituted almost entirely of women -- organized about ideals ofsocial justice and philanthropy, particularly providing teratologicalprotection for the needy and the poor. They usually live in somewhat isolated strongholds -- manorburghs andbasterseighs -- known as calanseries. Some claves hide people -- typically women -- in trouble, protecting themin secluded fortlets known as sequesteries. Other claves offer to teach young girls their graces and fitness of limbin places known as mulierbriums. Calendars, however, are probably best known for the odd and eccentricclothing they don to advertise themselves. 
	
	Theshort run of road that went east from Winstermill to Wellnigh House had areputation as the easiest watch on the Wormway -- and for the most part itwas. Known as the Pettiwiggin or theHarrowmath Pike, it was so close to Winstermill, the mighty fortress of thelamplighters, that those who used it were rarely troubled by nickers orbogles. Close and safe, the Pettiwigginwas ideal for teaching young prentice-lighters the repetitious tasks of a lamplighter. 
	For nigh on two months the "lantern-sticks," as they werecalled by the scarred veterans who taught and chastised them, had been at theirtraining.In another two, if each boymade it through, he would be promoted to lampsman. On that great day it would be his privilegeto be billeted to one of the many cothouses -- the small fortresses punctuatingthe long leagues of the Wormway -- to begin his life as a lampsman proper. 
	At this middle point in their training the prentices were taken out onthe road to begin the lighting and the dousing of the great-lamps that lit theWormway.Until now they had marched anddrilled, learned their letters and practiced at lighting on yard-lanterns safewithin Winstermill. Rossamund had foundit all as boring as he once feared a lamplighter's life might be. Indeed, his first excursion out to lightlamps had been uniformly laborious and uneventful, the overnight stay inWellnigh House uncomfortable, and the return to the manse dousing the lanternsthe next morning was as dull as the night before. He keenly regretted that he might neverbecome a vinegaroon as he had once hoped, and often thought to himself, Oh, that's not how they'd do it in the navy; that's not what they'd do on a ram.
	For Rossamund the first half of prenticing had been long, yet not quiteas lonely as his old life at Madam Opera's Estimable Marine Society forFoundling Boys and Girls.Here atWinstermill he shared the trials of training with the other prentices, all boysof a similar age from poor and obscure origins like his. Together they fumbled through each movementof their fodicar drill; together they winced at each reluctant,shoulder-wrenching shot of pistol or fusil; together they balmed their feetafter day-long marching. Yet the otherlads were not nearly as keen on pamphlets or the matter they contained -- talesof the heroic progenitors of the Empire and the monsters they slew. Most could barely read, despite the attemptedremedies of "letters," the reading and writing class under Seltzerman1 st Class Humbert. None of themshowed any interest in the vinegar seas or the Senior Service, nor desired alife of a vinegaroon. Grass-combers, Master Fransitart, hisold dormitory master, would have called them -- true lubberly, ground-hugginglandsmen. 
	Rossamund's failure to get to the manse in time for the start ofprenticing meant he had missed that first crucial period when fragile bonds offriendship begin.He had been late onlyone week, but Lamplighter-Sergeant Grindrod had dubbed him "MasterCome-lately," and the name had stuck. 
	One skill he had learned at Madam Opera's proved exceptionallyuseful.The hours spent keenly watchinghis old master and dispensurist Craumpalin had shown their fruit, for he wasknown for his facility with potives and restoratives. He had been made the custodian of theprentice-watch's chemistry, doling out repellents or healing draughts wherenecessary. This earned him a littlerespect, but it meant that out on the road, while the others carried a short-barreledmusket known as a fusil, he was to content himself with his fodicar and asatchel of potives. However, he had seenthe effect of both musket ball and repellent. As reassuring as it was to have a firelock in your hands that couldcough and boom startlingly at an enemy, a well-aimed potive could deal withmany more monsters at once and often more effectively. 
	The evening of this second prentice-watch, Rossamund was called forward,joining the six others he had been listed with when he first began as aprentice-lighter.These were the boys ofthe 3 rd Prentice-Watch, Q Hesiod Gaeta. Though, by letter-fall order, Rossamund'sname should have appeared second-from-the-top in the appropriate triple-markedledgers ( B for Bookchild), he wasnevertheless gathered with the six whose names were at the end of it, lads likeGiddian Pillow and Crofton Wheede. For asecond afternoon these six and Rossamund stood in single file on the Forming Square asthe other prentices looked on. 
	The platoon of prentices was sectioned into three quartos, one of which wouldgo out on the road each evening to light the lamps, staying in Wellnigh Houseover the night and returning to Winstermill the next dawning, putting out thelights and getting back by midmorning.Each quarto was named after a doughty lamplighter of old: Q protogenes, Q Io Harpsicarus and Q HesiodGaeta, Rossamund's own. 
	With a cry of "A light to your path!" Lamplighter SergeantGrindrod led the watch through the great bronze gates of Winstermill down thesteep eastern drive known as the Approach and onto the Pettiwiggin.After them came the crusty Lampsmen 1 stClass Assimus, Bellicos and Puttinger, veteran lighters glaring and complainingunder their breath, barely tolerating the green incompetence of the prentices. 
	Much of the six-mile stretch of the highroad was raised on a dike ofearth, lifting it almost a yard above the Harrowmath -- the great flat plain onwhich Winstermill was built -- giving a clear view over the high wildgrasses.Ever the wayward lawn of theHarrowmath was mown by fatigue parties of pioneers and local farm laborers withtheir glinting scythes, ever it would grow back, thick and obscuring. At its eastern end, after five miles andeighteen lamps, the Pettiwiggin descended flush with that land and passedthrough a small woodland, the Briarywood. Tall sycamores and lithe wandlimbs grew on either side of the way, withshrubby evergreen myrtles and knotted briars flourishing thickly about theirroots. Yesternight, when theprentice-watch had worked through it, Rossamund had keenly felt the workings ofmild threwd -- that ghastly sensation of hidden watchfulness and threat thatthrilled all around. This evening it hadgrown a little stronger as he went along, tiny prickles of terror upon his neck,and its subtleties felt like a warning. 
	There was a great-lamp to light at the beginning of the Briary, one atits end and another right in its midst.This middle light was found in a small clearing on the shoulder of thehighroad. 
	After this only five lamps to go,Rossamund consoled himself. Puffing atthe stinging cold, he stared suspiciously at the darkling woods about him. The thorny twine of branch and limb crowdedthe broad verge, newly pruned by the day-watch fatigue party out gatheringfirewood. Anything might by creepingbehind these withy-walls, lurking in the dark beneath thin pale trunks, hungry,waiting. Behind him the glow of the coldevening gloaming could be seen through a grandly arched gap in the tall treeswhere the Pettiwiggin entered the woods. The sky showed all about as pallid slits between the black of thelithesome trees. In the thin lightRossamund adjusted the strap of his salumanticum -- the satchel holding thepotives -- and checked once more that all within were in their place. He had been as eager as the other boys tostart at lighting proper, but now here, out in this wild unwalled place, he wasnot so sure. He arched his back andlooked up past the steep brim of his almost new, lustrous black thrice-highthrough the overhanging branches at the wan measureless blue of evening. Without realizing it, he gave a nervoussound, almost a sigh. 
	"Are we keeping you up, Master Come-lately?"
	This was Lamplighter Sergeant Grindrod.Even when he hissed angrily, the lamplighter-sergeant seemed to beshouting. He was always shouting, evenwhen he was supposed to be talking with the habitual hush of the night-watch. 
	Rossamund snapped back his attention."No, Lamplighter-Sergeant, I just...!" 
	"Silence!"
	Ducking his head to hide a frown, Rossamund swallowed at an indignantlump and held his tongue.Can't he feel the horrors growing?
	From the first lamp of the afternoon until now, the prentice-watch hadstopped at every lamppost to wind out the light using the crank-hooks at theend of their blackened fodicars to ratchet the winch within each lamp.Bundled as best they could be against thebitter, biting night, they halted once again, stamping and huffing as Grindrodcalled Punthill Plod forward. The boypumped the winch a little awkwardly and wound out the phosphorescent bloom onits chain, drawing it out into the glass bell of the seltzer-filled lamps,where it came alive with steadily increasing effulgence. The prentices not working the lamp looked onwhile Lamplighter-Sergeant Grindrod spelled out each rote-learned step. 
	The little thrills of threwd prickled all the more, and Rossamund couldno longer watch so dutifully.Somethingwas coming, something foul and intending harm -- he could feel it in hisinnards. 
	There it was:the clatter ofhorses' hooves, wild and loud. Acarriage was approaching, and fast. 
	"Off the road, boys!Off theroad!" the lampsmen called in unison, herding the prentice-lighters ontothe verge with a push and a shove of their fodicars. Buffeted by the back or shoulders of severallarger boys, Rossamund was shoved with them, almost falling in the scramble. 
	"The wretched baskets!Who isfool enough to trot horses at this gloamin' hour?" Lamplighter-SergeantGrindrod snarled, mustachios bristling. "See if ye can eye the driver, lads -- we might have a writ to writeback at Winstermill!" 
	From out of the dark ahead six screaming horses bolted toward them,carrying park-drag -- a private coach -- with such bucking, rattling violence itwas sure to break to bits even as it shattered past the stunned lighters.
	The prickle of threwd at Rossamund's back became urgent.
	"There's no coachman, Sergeant!" someone cried.
	Rossamund's internals gripped and a yelp of terror was strangled as itformed.A dark, monstrous thing wasrising from the rear of the park-drag. Massive horns curled back from its crown; the slits of its eyes glowedwicked orange. Threwd exploded like painup the back of Rossamund's head as the carriage shot by, the stench of thehorn-ed thing upon it rushing up his nostrils with the gust of their passing. 
	Some boys wailed.
	"Frogs and toads!" Grindrod cursed."The carriage is attacked!" 
	More horn-ed monsters could be seen, horrifyingly large, as thecoach-and-six smashed on.They clung tothe sides of the carriage, worrying and wrestling with the passengerswithin. The weight and fury of thebeasts were so great the whole carriage tipped on to two wheels as itsped. A yellow-green flare of potiveburst from a window, flinging one vile nicker from the vehicle in a high,hissing arc and leaving a fizzing trail of reeking fume that rained fur andflesh on the prentices. Head aflame withfalse-fire, the monster crashed into the briars, a charred ruin. Even as this one flew, another beast leapedfrom the park-drag to the back of the lead mare. As large as the horse itself, the blightedcreature bit into the mane and neck of the hapless, panicked nag. The horse shrieked its dying whinny and fellbeneath the grinding hooves of its fellows. The whole vehicle careered and lurched as the team was brought down,sheer momentum tumbling the 
	
	carriage fromthe Wormway.With a sickening clash ofshattering wood and grinding bones, it skidded and smashed into a dense thicketof tall trunks on the farther side of the road. 
	For an agony of seconds there was a terrible stillness, the only soundsthe mewling of a single mortally injured horse and Grindrod's mutteredencouragements to the prentices.
	Rossamund struggled to accept what he had just seen, he and his fellowlantern-sticks agog a the barely lit suggestion of wreckage and mutilationbarely fifty yards away among the trees.
	"Ground crooks and present arms!" Lamplighter-Sergeant Grindrodgruffed, rousing the prentice-lighters from their stunned dumbness."Form two ranks for firing by quarto,prentices in front, lampsmen at back! Master Come-lately, stand to our right with yer potives. Show yer flintsbravely, lads!" 
	Driving their fodicars into the roadside to make a hedge of steel, theprentice-watch formed up in two lines behind these, facing the carriagewreck.With the coldly lambent light ofthe lamp at their backs, the six other boys crouched at the front, the four menstood behind. 
	Putting himself to the side of this formation, Rossamund gripped twoscripts in a trembling hand, a double dose ready for throwing.One was a cloth salpert of Frazzard's powderto stagger and blind; the other a fragile porcelain caste of loomblaze, a fierydoom. He desperately wished they had aleer with them to peer into the gathering dark and tell better where the monsterswere. 
	Indistinctly lit at the edge of the great-lamp's nimbus glow, greathorn-ed shadows stirred an began to stalk about the partly smashed cabin of thecoach.
	"At least five of the baskets, and as big and cruel as ye nevershould hope to meet," Lampsman Bellicos hissed in awe.
	"Aye," Grindrod growled, his voice all a-hush now."I hain't seen naught like 'embefore. Have ye, Assimus?" 
	Lampsman Assimus grunted."Where did they come from, I wonder?" 
	The lamplighter-sergeant's pale eyes glittered.We'll have to work some pretty steps tonightif we're going to preserve the lads." 
	A murmur of dismay shuddered through the prentices.
	Two or three of the huge, hunched shadows ripped and gnawed at thestricken horses.Others clawed at thebroken carriage, trying to get to the tasty morsels within who, obviously stillalive, could be heard crying out. Women's voices. 
	"That changes things!Otherlives are in the balance now, and protecting 'em is our duty," Grindrodsaid firmly. "Ply your firelocksbriskly, hit yer mark; a coward's mother never weeps his end. Master Lately! Time for ye to produce the worst yer salt-baghas to offer. Ye must defend us as wereload, boy! Prentices! Present and level on that blighted slip jackstumbling there!" 
	One of the horn-ed nickers had appeared on the road.Its silhouette was clear against the pallidglimpse of sky showing where the Pettiwiggin entered the wood. 
	"Ranks to fire together in volley!"With a rattle of unison action, prentice andlighter leveled their fusils on this creature even as it became aware ofthem. At the muted metallic dicker ofmany cocking flints, it fixed them with a gleaming, cunning gaze that seemed tosay, You're next... 
	Potives already in hand, Rossamund adjusted his salumanticum so that itwould not tangle a good throw.
	"Stay to the line!" Grintrod continued, low and grim."Reload handsomely if ye want to live --it may come to hand strokes soon enough, but I will see ye to yer billets safe tonight!" 
	Rossamund's throat gripped at his swallowing:to come to hand strokes -- to fight hand tohand with a bogle -- was to grapple with terror itself. Smaller, weaker-seeming bogles than thesecould make pie-mince of a large man. Heknew what hand strokes would mean: gashing and iron-tasting terror. It was only a barely learned duty that kept him to his place. 
	Grindrod raised his arm, the prelude to the order to fire, yet before hecould complete the command a great churning disorientation tumbled over theprentice-watch.
	Rossamund reeled as the world turned right ways wrong and outside in.
	The prentice-watch fumbled their weapons and some cursed in fright.
	"They've got a wit in there..." managed Lampsman Bellicosthrough spasming, grinding teeth.
	"And a bad one too..." Puttinger wheezed.
	Rossamund had spent some time with a fulgar on the way to Winstermill allthose weeks ago, and now here he was feeling the working of a wit.So thisis what it is to suffer their frission... The sensation quickly passed, leaving a sick headachy funk. 
	The nicker on the road was gone.
	There was a smarting flash from the ruined coach -- some kind ofilluminating potive that quickly became a glaring rose-colored flare liftedhigh by a small, slight figure.A womanwas struggling from the wreck, dazzling the scene with a brilliant ruby lightthat stung the eyes. The monsters shiedfrom that strange red glare, retreating into the darkness between tangledtrunks. 
	"Ah!Bitterbright!"growled Lampsman Assimus, shielding his sight with an outstretched arm. "That's a smart bit of skoldin'." 
	"Aye," Grindrod growled, "but wantonly witting and blindingus won't help us help them.Make readyand keep a squint so ye can see into that blasted night." 
	Amazed, struggling to see what was happening, Rossamund squinted, his eyeswatering in the quick, painful brilliance.Bitterbright was powerful chemistry that took great skill to keepburning, and amid the confusion he was desperate to see its maker. 
	Bold again, the monsters paced a careful circle about the woman, some ofthem showing as black shadows against the flare as they stalked between thecalendars and the lamplighters, their feral stink wafting over theprentice-watch.The smallest nicker wasat least seven foot, as far as Rossamund could tell, the biggest maybe overnine. A-bristle with stiff fur, sharpand slender horns curving back wickedly over their long skulls, they swayedmenacingly as they bobbed and lurched in complete and unnerving silence. Slowly the nickers arranged themselves withgrim deliberation. 
	Lamplighter-Sergeant Grindrod kept his eye fixed on the monsters."Level on that nearest brute. We'll see if we can't even odds alittle." 
	No sooner had he said this than a slight figure sprang out from thecarriage, a girl in strange costume, long hair flailing as she leaped.An angry, frightened call followed her,something like "Threnody, no!" The girl came on, dancing towarda monster, clutching at her temple. Oncemore Rossamund felt that weird and deeply unpleasant giddiness of frissioncontract in the middle of his head then quickly flex in the pit of hisstomach. His vision failed briefly thistime and he reeled, as did all those of the prentice-watch. Bellicos retched; Rossamund's fellow prenticeWrangle vomited and, finally overcome, three other boys collapsed. 
	Grindrod swore as he staggered."Lackbrained wit! What's sheplaying at?" 
	"They're stinkin' calendars!" Rossamund heard Assimus' angrywhisper.
	Rossamund had read of such as these.They were a society of women -- lahzars, skolds, pistoleers and the rest-- set to doing good, protecting the weak and pursuing other noble causes. 
	The agony rapidly passed, as it had before, leaving its aching inRossamund's skull.Yet he kept enough ofhis senses to see that though his fellow lighters were reeling, the monsterswere not suffering much at all. Thestriving of the long-haired calendar had done little to deter the nickers. She was not practiced enough at her witting --it was random, inept. And now themonsters pounced, the largest blocking Rossamund's view of her in its ravenousintent. 
	Again they felt the wit's wild frission, driving every one of theprentice-watch still standing to his knees.One of the nickers fell too. Witha weird shriek, two more oddly dressed figures pounced from the shattered woodand frame while a third, bearing the bitterbright, struggled after. By the swaying rose light the two dashed tothe young wit's defense, prancing and whirling, dancing about her as they begana mortal struggle with the horn-ed nickers, their hands trailing long,lacerating wires. The monsters shied andcast about wildly, raging with disturbing strangled yips as the figures harriedand slit first at one then another, keeping them at bay, pirouetting clear ofevery swipe. 
	One of the dancers misstepped, and that was her end as the horn-ed nickergripped and ripped and clawed her -- an end more terrible yet than Licurius' atthe carving nails of the grinnlings.Bile bubbled up from his gullet as Rossamund tried to conceive how aliving person could so quickly be bent and rent to a meaningless mash. Not even the stoutest proofing could stopsuch elemental strength. Even as thiswoman was slain the other dancer became frantic and, with a grieving wail,danced madly about the killer of her sister, cutting at it over and over,slicing off one of its horns, severing a mangled arm, removing an ear. Another beast sprang from a thicket, snatchedthe flailing woman about her stomach and chewed its great fangs into herface. With a flash-and-bang that echoedthrough the spindly, spiny wood, someone still inside the cabin fired a pistola-- a salinumbus by the flat, heavy slap of the discharge. Hit low with the shot, this ambuscadingnicker tottered, dropping its maimed prey. Another thick pistol-crack and a glare of orange flickered about thehead of the beast, followed quickly by boisterous crackling. Its head afire, the creature collapsed backwith a strange, husky howling, tripping over its victims and falling to theearth. The glare of its burning addedlight to the furor. 
	As these things were happening, several nickers had closed with thelong-haired wit, who cowered and sent out ineffectual flutterings of herwitting powers.Even from where hestood, Rossamund could feel threwd emanating from these monsters as the beastssought to best their prey through anguish and mad terror alone. 
	His fellow prentices whimpered.
	"Pernicious threwd!" cursed Assimus.
	"Take your aim on that leftmost basket!" Grindrod cried.
	The prentice-watch brought up their firelocks.
	"Fire!"
	With a sharp, rattling clatter the quarto fired, startling the horn-ednickers, gun-smoke obscuring their view.
	One of the monsters collapsed under many hits of musket ball and crumpledgasping to the verge.Sets of glimmeringmonster eyes -- maybe four, maybe five -- regarded the lighters malignantly. 
	"Reload!Reload!"Grindrod demanded, and the prentices hurried to comply. 
	The long-haired calendar sank to her knees.
	The monsters looked to her again and closed for the slaying.
	Yet the smallest calendar staggered in between.It was she who had set the bitterbright toburning and kept it bright for her sisters to see. She flung the glare at an encroaching nicker,the red glimmer dimming rapidly now that she no longer fed its chemistry. The beast recoiled as the potive struck and asmolder set in its fur, quickly turning to ruby flames that engulfed head andshoulders. Regardless, two othersapproached slavering noiselessly, tongues lolling and licking at the smell ofblood and smoke. 
	By the light of the failing bitterbright Rossamund could see that thisbrave woman wore the conical hat of a skold and white spoor lines down bothsides of her face. A thick hackle of cream-colored fur wrapped about her neckand shoulders, and strange little wings protruded from her back.She looked fragile, vulnerable, doomed. 
	One set of glowing eyes, however, had stayed fixed on the prenticeshurrying new rounds into their fusils.This nicker chose them as its next victims and pounced, taking fiveyards with each springing lope. 
	"By quarto!" Grindrod hollered.
	The lantern-sticks struggled to get their weapons up in time as in fivestrides the beast was halfway toward them, foul breath steaming from itsgnashing teeth.
	Rossamund lifted his arm ready to throw his chemistry.
	"Level!"
	The horn-ed terror arched itself as it ran at them, ready to pounce.Almost in unison the other nickers lashed thecalendars... and froze as if each was stricken. The monster rushing them toppled and skidded along the road in midstride. 
	"What the...!" Grindrod exclaimed.
	"Saved," whimpered Crofton Wheede.
	"She's a bane!" marveled Assimus.Both skold and with, banes were rare andextraordinary. 
	Indeed, the calendar, though clearly struggling, was now touching herleft temple, a gesture characteristic of a wit.The prentice-watch looked on in awe as, with a precise show offrightening potency, the woman caused the largest beast before her to writhe inparoxysms of agony while holding the other two frozen. So skilled was she that, unlike herlong-haired compatriot, she sent no wild washings of frission to trouble thelampsmen and their charges. AllRossamund could feel was a vague fluttering in his innards. 
	With a hoarse sound almost like a whinny, the monster bent on thelamplighters struggled to break free of the calendar's invisible grip.It stumbled sideways, tried to turn and lungeat the quarto of the prentice-watch, their weapons still leveled and ready. 
	"Fire!" Grindrod hollered, and the prentice-watch let go aclattering volley at the beast.It gavevoice to a disturbing, sheeplike bleat and ceased its struggling. 
	Still the calendar bane held the other two beasts in a prison unseenwhile a pistoleer pulled herself from the ruin of the transport.She drew forth two long-barreled pistolas andfired both point-blank into the glimmering, helpless eyes of one of thepinioned creatures. With a violent jerkand gouts of black pouring from its head, the beast expired. 
	All that remained was the largest monster.A tortured thing it was now, twisting andthrashing upon the ground, a captive of its own agony. The woman never moved, never touched it, ahand always at her temple. Slowly thecreature's movements slackened; slowly its writhings turned to twitchings andfinally to nothing. Its terrifyingorange eyes faded and at last were extinguished. 
	With an audible and weary exhalation, the calendar bane sagged to theground.
	Rossamund let out a quiet relieved sigh of his own.
	"Ye've done it, lads!" Grindrod exclaimed, proud and a littleamazed."Ye've just won through yerfirst theroscade." 
	It's not my first, Rossamundthought but kept to himself. 
	"There'll be punctings for ye all after this tonight," thelamplighter-sergeant continued.
	"It's been a prodigious long time since a prentice was marked,"Bellicos chipped in.
	The prentices grinned at each other weakly, happy simply to be alive.
	I don't want to be puncted!Rossamund fretted. 
	Grindrod turned to him."Ye're carrying the salt bag, Master Lately. Ye can come with me," he declared. 
	Leaving the lampsmen to organize the prentices into piquets, thelamplighter-sergeant stalked over to the wreck of the park-drag.The calendar bane and pistoleer were bentover one of their fallen while the long-haired wit sat slumped in the twigs anddirt by the bristled corpse of a dead nicker. 
	"The sniveling snot -- almost ruined us all with her wanton wit'spranks," Grindrod cursed under his breath, then called as they approached,"Hoi, calendars!Bravely fought andwell won, m'ladies! Lamplighter-SergeantGrindrod and a prentice come to offer what aid we might." 
	Crouched by the body of her comrade whose face was a gory mess, the banelooked up at him.Her cheeks and browglistened with a lustrous patina of sweat; her eyes were sunken and her skin wasflushed. Rossamund thought she lookedmore ill than injured. "We may havetriumphed in the fight, but the loss of two sisters is never well," shereturned in a soft voice, with a hint of a musical southern accent. "Lady Dolours you may call me, Lamplighter-Sergeant;bane and laude to the Lady Vey, esteemed august of the Right of the PacificDove. Your assistance is welcome. My sister languishes with these terriblebites to her face but will survive if attended to quickly. I would tend her myself, but I lack the rightscripts. Do you carry staunches? Vigorants?" All this time she had not stood, and theeffort of speaking left her breathless. 
	Keen to please, Rossamund nodded eagerly."Lamplighter-Sergeant, I have what she requires," he saidemphatically as he fossicked about in the potive satchel. "Thrombis and a jar ofbellpomash." The first would stop awound's flowing and the second revive spirits when taken in food or drink. 
	"As it should be, prentice."Grindrod nodded curt approval. "Ye may give them what they need." 
	Rossamund held the jars of potives as the pistoleer ministered to thegruesome injuries on her sister's face.He forced himself to keep watching, to not flinch and wince and lookaway from the gore: he was no use toanyone if he let others' wounds trouble him. With a fright he saw a flash on the edge of his sight, and was startledby a crack! as Bellicos put his fusilto the head of a prostrate nicker and brought its twitching throes to an end. 
	"I must ask ye, lady maiden-fraught, what possessed ye to betraveling in the eve of a day with a six-horse team?"Grindrod folded his arms. "Ye ought to know it only encourages thebogles!" 
	The diminutive calendar called Dolours looked the lamplighter-sergeant upand down as if her were a blockheaded simpleton."That I do," she returned wearily,"as does even the least schooled. The horses were proofed in shabraques, sir, and doused with the bestnullodours we possess; and had we been allowed a night's succor by yourless-than-cheerful brothers at Wellnigh, we would not have needed to ventureforth so foolishly in the unkind hours." She held the sergeant-lighter's stare. "But we were refused lodging at that cot, directly and to ourfaces. No room for a six-horse team, orso they said." 
	"That can't be right."Grindrod scowled. "Of coursesix horses can stable in Wellnigh -- wouldn't be much use if they couldn't! What other reason did they give?" 
	"No other reason at all, Lamplighter-Sergeant," the bane saidcoolly."After this exchange thecharming Major-of-House himself simply refused entry and sent us on ourway. Little less than storming the twinkeeps would have got us within." 
	"Bah!" Grindrod almost spat."Another of the Master-of-Clerks' spat-licking toadies," hemuttered. Aloud he said, "He's oneof the new lot shifted up from the Considine. If what ye say be true, I'll be having words with theLamplighter-Marshal -- refusing folks bain't the way we conduct ourselves outher on the Emperor's Highroad. Succor toall and a light to their path," he concluded, with one of the maxims withwhich the prentices had been indoctrinated from the very first day ofprenticing. 
	"A light to your path," intoned the prentices automatically, asthey had been taught.
	"Indeed, Lamplighter-Sergeant," Dolours returned, "theEmperor's lampsmen seem not to be what they once were."
	Gindrod bridled.
	Rossamund too felt a twinge of loyal offense.The lampsmen he had come to know worked hardto keep the roads lit and well tended. 
	"Attacks rise and numbers dwindle, madam," thelamplighter-sergeant countered, chin lifted in defensive pride, "yet theroad has the same figure of lamps and still we have to compass it all.So I ask again: what be yer business on the road?" 
	The calendar stayed her ground. "As I understand it," she saidslowly, "time is running short for your prentices to be sufficientlylearned in their trade, true?" 
	"Aye, precious short.What ofthat?" 
	"It's a simple thing, you see," Dolours said, ever soquietly.She looked to the long-hairedcalendar -- Threnody, they had called her -- who glared at both thelamplighter-sergeant and Rossamund. "This young lady desires to become a lamplighter." 

	2
	Wings of A Dove
	
	Fodicar(s)(noun) also lantern-crook, lamp- or lantern-switch, poke-pole or just poke; theinstrument of the lamplighter, a long iron pole with a perpendicular crank-hookprotruding from one end, used to activate the seltzer lamps that illuminatemany of the Empire's important roads. Thepike-head allows the fodicar to be employed as a weapon -- a kind of halberd --to fend off man and monster alike. 
	
	Fromthe little Rossamund know of these things, lamplighters rarely, if ever,employed women as lampsmen. As servants,as cothouse clerks, or even as soldiers maybe, but never a lighter. 
	Lamplighter-Sergeant Grindrod puffed his cheeks, his jaw juttingstubbornly."Her?" Then he laughed -- a loud, foolish noise inthe mourning-quiet after the attack. "She near brought us all to ruin. She'll be lucky I don't clap her in the pillory for impeding the goodlyduties of His Rightful Emperor's servants!" 
	Threnody stood, clench-fisted."I am a peer, you lowborn toadlet, of rank so far above yours,you'll be lucky I don't claim quo gratia and have you clapped in ironsyourself, you sot-headed dotard!" 
	Rossamund tried to pull his neck into his stock as a turtle might.
	His fellow lighters gathered near, awestruck.
	The lamplighter-sergeant was agog."Lowborn? Sot-headed? Quo gratia?" Grindrod's red face became an apoplecticpurple. "I'm not the want-wit whofrissioned my watch to a daze in the middle of a bogle attack! They wasted the surgeon's fees on ye,poppet!" 
	Threnody let out a tight, wordless yell, both her hands clutching hertemple.
	Rossamund's head, his entire gall, revolted, and his sense of up and downcollided.He staggered and fell, joiningGrindrod, the lampsmen, the prentices and even the pistoleer writhing in thedirt. 
	"Enough!"cried Dolours, and the wayward frissionceased. The bane was the only onestanding, her left hand to her temple, her right stretched over the now proneThrenody. She had witted the girl,striven one of her own. "Enough," she whispered again. Looking deeply unwell, she reached a conciliatory had to Grindrodregardless, an offer of help. 
	"I can get to me feet meself, madam," he seethed, totteringdazedly as he proved his words.
	As Rossamund and his fellows unsteadily regained their feet, Dolourssighed."That 'poppet,' Sergeant,is the daughter of our august and a marchioness-in-waiting in her ownright: you'd do well to pay your duerespect." 
	Lampsmen Bellicos, Puttinger and Assimus muttered grimly.
	The prentice-lighters looked to their sergeant.
	"And a great liability she'd be to ye too, I am sure."Grindrod smiled. He nodded a bow, saying louder, "Iapologize to ye." He wrestled withhimself a moment, then with deliberate, frosty calm, added, "I don't knowwhere such a custard-headed notion sprang from, madam, but women bain't wanted inthe lighters!" 
	"We know it well, Lamplighter-Sergeant!"The calendar bane stood unsteadily andRossamund saw her face turn a ghastly gray. Clearly she suffered from some feverish malady. She smiled sadly. "Perhaps you are right, but yet it isnot an impossible thing for a woman to take her place in your quartos, I amsure?" 
	Grindrod's mustachios bristled and writhed as he considered herwords."Bain't really for me to sayone way or t'other, bane," he said finally. "This shall have to be the decision ofthe Lamplighter-Marshal." 

	"Hence our journey to Winstermill, Lamplighter-Sergeant,"Dolours countered.
	"Well, our work tonight takes us in the contrarydirection."Grindrod rocked back onhis heels, his arms still folded across his broad chest. "However, I'll send back a transportwith guard to gather the fallen and bring ye all back to Wellnigh. Now ye're six horses less they'll be havingto give ye a billet, I reckon." With that, the lamplighter-sergeant pivoted on his brightly polishedheel and stepped out on to the road, calling the prentices and lampsmen to him. 
	Sick with too much frission, Rossamund came tumbling after, trying hardnot to trip over the putrid bodies of the dead bogles.The lamplighter-sergeant made hastyarrangements: he and Bellicos and theother prentices would continue on to Wellnigh House, the sturdy littlecottage-fortress to the east, continuing to light the remaining lanterns asthey went. Rossamund, however, aspossessor of the salumanticum, was to be left behind to tend the calendars'wounds. With him would remain LampsmenAssimus and Puttinger as a nominal guard and fatigue party to help with thefallen and to salvage the baggage. 
	With a cry of "Prentice-watch in single file, by the left,march!"Lamplighter-SergeantGrindrod, Lampsman 1 st Class Bellicos and the wide-eyed, nervousprentices went on, leaving Rossamund and the other two lampsmen with thevigilant, silent calendars. 
	Assimus and Puttinger ignored Rossamund.Lampsmen rarely shared in chitter-chatter with prentices till they werefull lampsmen themselves. Reluctantlythey set to work finding belongings and goods amid the shatters and splinters,making a pile of the broken trunks and half-rent valises. Typical of the older men who worked on thiseasy stretch of road, they were crotchety half-pay pokers whose job was tobabysit the lantern-sticks out on the road as they learned their trade. They paid no attention whatsoever to the ladsunless duty demanded. 
	Feeling uncomfortable and unnecessary, Rossamund hugged his arms againstthe searching chill.
	Balding branches rubbed together with whispering creaks.Dry twigs rattled. 
	Exposed and neglected, Rossamund looked to the calendars. Head bowed andshy, the young prentice fished about his salumanticum and brought out morebellpomash, offering it to Dolours with a nervous cough, "I thought youmight need this, m'lady.I'm sorry, Ihave nothing more appropriate for a fever -- no febrifuges or soothingsteams..." 
	She remained silent for a breath, looking to Rossamund's hands, then tohis face.There was an unreal calmnessin her gaze. Her spoors, those whitelines that went vertically from her hairline across both eyes to her jaw,showed clearly in the night. They madeher look serious, dangerous. Like Europe, she possessed a remote, almost casual deadliness. 
	Rossamund began to regret his boldness.
	"Thank you, young lampsman."The bane nodded graciously. "It was foolish of me to have left both ill and without thechemistry for even a single vigorant. Dispense away." 
	Putting down his fodicar, Rossamund set about his task, also giving outlordia -- to restore their humours, which, as he had read in a book fromWinstermill's small library, was essential after times of great stress andexertion.He had bought this from ahedgeman, a wandering script-grinder who had visited Winstermill not more thana month ago. 
	Each restorative was gratefully received.
	Such a concentrated collection of teratologists Rossamund had never seenbefore.While he dispensed, he sneakedbeady, fascinated looks at their odd costumes. The calendars hid their well-proofed silken bossocks beneath mantlespatterned in blue, orange and white. Dolours kept warm beneath a hackle of fur. She wore fleece-lined, buff-coveredoversleeves called manchins tied to her shoulders with ribbons. Rossamund could not help staring at herwings. Although they looked real --outstretched and ready to fly -- he knew they were simply ornaments. 
	Each of the calendars' feet was shod with quiet-shoes:flat-heeled, soft-soled, coming to apronounced, flattened point at the toe. The strange, ornate hats upon the calendars' heads -- known as dandicombs-- varied, however. The pistoleer -- whosename, he quickly learned, was Charllette -- wore a thrice-high; the maimeddancer had been wearing a tight, vertical bundle of black ribbon and many, manyhair tines -- these were being removed even as Rossamund watched. Threnody, evidently sulking, wore her ownhair, with no hat or other flamboyant head covering. She, too, had a spoor: a thin arrow pointing up from her left brow --the mark of a wit. Rossamund had readthat wits were always bald; he wondered how it was that this one was not. 
	With sad, taciturn direction from Dolours, the lampsmen discovered thebody of a sixth calendar in the mess of the carriage.The lampsmen placed it on the side of theroad, near the lamp and away from the corpses of bogles. Beside it they laid the fallen dancer,covering both in their patterned mantles and returning to their vitriolicmutterings and the search for luggage. If there was one thing Rossamund had learned well, it was thatlamplighters liked to gripe. 
	The three calendars stood by the bodies, their heads bowed.
	The lampsmen stopped their labors and watched, staying very much apartfrom the women as they grieved.Thinkingit polite, Rossamund removed himself too, sitting on the side of the road. Sad in sympathy, he thought he could hearThrenody softy weeping as Dolours whispered almost inaudibly, "Fare theewell, kind Pannette. Rest thee easy,dear Idesloe. The dove fold you in herdown-ed wings..." More was said,special funeral potives lit to ward off scavenging bogles and hushed lamentssung while the lampsmen stared. The sadtask over, the calendars retired to the edges of the lamplight. 
	Ritual done, the lampsmen recovered the last of the dunnage."They expect her to join us!"Assimus piped up as he and Puttinger wrestled a trunk to the small collectionof the calendars' belongings. "Theyexpect us to let a girl join! Have youever, ever heard of such a thing, Putt? I don't give a fig what the Marshal might do: I've never heard of such a thing in all mytime!" 
	Threnody, obviously overhearing, fixed them with an attempt at awithering eye.
	Rossamund was caught by it, and though they were not his words, heblushed and shuffled awkward feet.
	"You there," Threnody called, soft yet sour, "the littleledgermain.I am in need of evander, ifyou have this." 
	Rossamund hesitated.Evander hedid not have -- only gromwell, a cheap substitute courtesy of the miserliness ofthe clerks -- though it did in a pinch. He said as much, and the young calendarsnorted in mild disgust. 
	It will do, she said, and held out a hand to receive the restorative.
	He stepped over and gave to her a drab brown flasket marked with a Grto signify gromwell. Threnody took it,looked at it with a splenic expression, and then quaffed it in one brash gulp. 
	"That is all" was all she said as thanks, and with that saidignored him completely.
	Rossamund was not impressed.Shecould not have been more than a year or two his senior. 
	"I reckon she's taken a liking to ye, Master Come-lately,"Assimus chuckled archly.
	Rossamund turned his attention to nothing in particular and fixed itthere.This kind of jesting was, he hadlearned over the last two months, part of the lamplighter way. 
	"Not that you really want to get tangled with a calendar,boyo," Assimus continued quietly, unexpectedly willing to share hismanifold experiences."They'realways getting in our road on the road, if ye get me, always interfering with theirlofty machinations. Still," hesaid, patting the young prentice on the back, "since they've taken such ashine on ye, it seems it's fallen to thee to be their minder. Handsomely done, lad, a noble thing you'veset to, sparing us the burden. Handsomelydone!" 
	"But I thought it was the duty of all lamplighters to do the noblething," Rossamund returned seriously.
	Assimus looked awkward in turn, then collected himself."What do ye know of noble things,lantern-stick?" the lighter said churlishly. "What dangers have ye had to test yerthew? See what I've seen and then see ifye're so quick to judgment. Just keep toyer watching, and yer ignorant twitterings to yeself!" 
	Feeling chastened and foolish, Rossamund did as he was told.
	The cloudless night grew colder.The women whispered to each other in a foreign tongue, yet said littleto their three guardians. The calendarpistoleer attended to the hurts of her half-chewed and mercifully unconscioussister while Threnody brooded and Dolours sat suffering her fever. Heavy pistolas hanging ready at her hips,Charllette picked slowly through the fallen nickers, frequently looking outinto the darkling woods wanly lit by a rising moon. As she went from corpse to corpse, thepistoleer would crouch for a time, poking at the beast, then rise and move tothe next, slyly stowing things in her stout satchel each time. Puzzled, Rossamund watched her from thecorner of his gaze, trying not to look open and curious. At one of the dead monsters he saw herstopper an odd-shaped vial, one he recognized -- a bruicle it was called -- usedby physicians and surgeons to hold humours and by teratologists to hold... monster blood!
	He was curious to see the manner by which it was done -- his peregrinate,the waterproof almanac given him by Fransitart -- was only vague on thesubject.The epitome of failednonchalance, the young prentice sauntered over to a beast and stared at it,looking for signs of Charllette's gruesome work. The horn-ed nicker's eyes were wide andstaring, as vacantly black and blank and empty of energy as they had been wild,coal-fire orange when it lived. Rossamund looked into them sadly. Such an impressive, stalwart foe, never friend. And oh, the stink of it! Like a piggery, the jakes and an unmucked mangerin one. 
	"These are ugly, festering articles."The hushed voice of Lampsman Assimusmarveling to his right startled Rossamund. "Look'ee here!" Thelampsman poked at the heavy body with his fodicar. "This one we hit -- see the holes. Every bullet has its billet. I see those saucy coneys have taken theirfill already, but we have claim on this 'un's ichor too. Draw some, Putt -- we can get Drawk to punctus when we're off watch tomorrow." 
	Puttinger shook his head grimly as he drew forth a wicked-lookingutensil.
	A sprither, Rossamund realized.Itwas a tube of steel bent into an S-shape with a needle point on one end and ashort, flexible straw made out of gut protruding from the other. 
	"They'll claim the kill, no doubting," Puttinger said in his thickGott accent as he bent and stabbed the point of the sprither into a hole madeby a musket ball."But we had ourhands in it!" He sucked on thestraw briefly and squeezed it several times till the thick, dark brown blood --the ichor -- of the bogle trickled out. Pinching the straw to stem the flow, he unstoppered a bruicle of his ownand let the ichor drain into it. Fromwhat Rossamund understood, now that the ichor was contained outside the body,it was called cruor -- spilled blood. 
	Rossamund watched with rapt disgust.Then his own blood went cold. They shant mark me!To be puncted with a cruorpunxis was foul tothe young prentice ever since he had witnessed the end of the innocentMisbegotten Schrewd by Europe's hand. Not that he would ever express this aversion: an admission of such a thing would surely brand him a sedorner. With the lamplighters, as in the cities,monster-lovers were always hanged. Morethan once Rossamund had seen a man hanged in Right Tree Angle, the square inwhat was once his part of Boschenberg. He had never relished the spectacle as many others appeared to do, withtheir jostling and jeering and hoots of derision. "Traitor! Traitor! Who's going to caress the nickers now?" Such were the cries as the poor convict's facewent purple-black and his tongue swelled out. 
	Rossamund shuddered at the vivid recollection.
	"No blood-marking for thee, little lantern-stick," Puttingersaid gravely, as if her were reading Rossamund's thoughts."Though thy chums did, thee did not havethy hand in this killing." 
	Rossamund quickly returned to the present."Aye, Lampsman." Oh yes, he was very glad to be excluded fromthe kill -- even if these nickers were not so innocent. 
	Assimus stepped away and cautiously kicked at what was left of ahorse.He looked over to the calendarswith a snort. "Horses indeed! Much smarter choice, oxen, for traveling inthe night," he said to his fellow lighters, just loud enough for thecalendars to hear. Only Threnody paidhim any mind -- an ineffectual glare. "Not nearly as toothsome and attracting to the nickers as a team ofhalf-a-dozen glossy nags." Hescratched his head. "Thing is,Putt, how is it so many of the hugger-muggers have found themselves this farwest?" 
	Puttinger nodded gravely."Our brothers is pushed too hard out east and are letting theSchmuttlingers through. It is like thepeople is saying: the Marshal isstruggling." 
	"The Lamplighter-Marshal will have it in hand, and no fear,"said Assimus."We just do as hedirects and we'll win through. It's justlike that dark time back in -- when was it? Ye remember, Putt? When all thosenasty spindly things came out from the Gluepot and with them schrewds in hordesand we went out to help... It was 'causeof the Marshal we got 'em then, and we still have 'im now and we'll get 'em now-- easy as kiss me hand!" 
	"Yes."Puttinger did notsound convinced. He stowed the spritherand stepped away, looking suspiciously into the menacing shadows. 
	Rossamund had read of nickers and bogles -- "hugger-muggers"Assimus had called them -- gathering in numbers in determined assault on someremote or ailing community.Indays-now-gone maraudes of monsters would ravage everyman heartlands, even intothe parishes and right up to the walls of a city. Such terrors were so rare now as to bemythical, yet it was still the greatest fear of the subjects of theEmpire. Within every bosom dwelt thevague dread of cities overrun with murderous, civilization-ending bogles, of gashingpain and effusions of blood, of a world without humankind. Without vigilance, ancient history could tooeasily become present calamity. It wasthis dread that made imperial citizens so determinedly vengeful whenever asedorner was ferreted out from among them. 
	Yet here on the edge of the Idlewild, even Rossamund had heard thegrowing rumors of monsters setting on people in the lands about with alarmingregularity; read of it in the few periodical pamphlets he had managed to buyfrom the paper hawkers who drifted through the fortress.At first he had thought it was just a part of rural life, but ifweary veterans of the sinew of Lampsmen Assimus and Puttinger were troubled,then Rossamund was moved to be doubly so. He was surely glad to be in the company of a bane, even a weary one. 
	In the carriage debris a part-crushed hamper had been rescued.By the light of the great-lamp, as thecalendars and the lamplighters reluctantly gathered close for safety,Charllette rummaged among the cracked, dribbling pots ands smashed, smearedparcels, sharing any unspoiled vittles she found. The pistoleer called Rossamund's portion"a nice bit of coty gaute." Heexamined it skeptically: it looked likepie filled with odd-smelling chunks. 
	"It's quail pasty, lamp boy," Threnody said testily."Just eat it." 
	Rossamund did so, even though it was congealed-cold, it tasted rathergood.
	In the encroaching dusk, green Maudlin rose over the eastern hills andshowed how long the night had been.Indue time the lamplighter-sergeant returned with a guard of four sturdyhaubardiers of the Wellnigh House watch leading a dray pulled by a nervousox. The animal was draped in aflanchardt, a covering blanket of proofed Hessian. It was turned about and took the exhausted,injured or unconscious calendars, their two dead sisters, and their damagedeffects back to Wellnigh House. It wasagreed better to return to the cothouse rather than go on to Winstermill;better to get indoors as soon as possible while the night still lingered, andwith it the threat of more monsters. Theproper treatment of wounds would have to wait until tomorrow. 
	"Amble ye by the dray, Master Come-lately," Grindrodcommanded."Keep yerself availableto tend their hurts." 
	So Rossamund walked, as did Assimus and Puttinger and the haubardiers,staying by the ox dray, ready if a script was needed.On the farther side of the woodland Rossamundsaw the crumpled bodies of the park-drag driver and his side-armsman. They had been mauled then tossed from thestampeding vehicle to land dead on the side of the highroad. Wrapped in canvas tarpaulins, they were laidon the dray alongside the remains of the two calendars. 
	The round hills of the Tumblesloe Heap loomed black against he starlitgray.The lanterns became morefrequent: at last the cothouse was near. What swelling relief it was to finally spythe beacon flares and window-lights of the small twin keeps of Wellnigh Houseat the base of the hills. A pair ofsquat towers stood on either side of the Pettiwiggin, each fenced by a thickdrystone wall. These were connected by ahanging gallery known as the Omphalon, a bridge with walls of solid wood and asteep-sloping roof that spanned the road. In this raised gallery were the lighters' quarters, and the sight oflanterns winking from its narrow windows set Rossamund's thoughts to bed andsleep. 
	At last they entered the walled lane between the two keeps.Here they passed ornate warding censers,great brass domes that squatted in heavy three-legged stands on either side ofthe road. Within these domes, day andnight, nicker repellents were burned, their poison fumes seeping through holesbored in the dull metal. On Rossamund'svery first night at Wellnigh House he had sucked a lungful of their foul fetorand for an instant thought his end had come, but the wind had mercifully blownanother way and he recovered. From thatday he learned to stay upwind of the censers or hold his breath and shut hiseyes till he had passed. 
	What a relief it was to pass through the thick oak gates in the broadwall of the northern fastness and stand safe within the cothouse's tinyforeyard. The unhappy deeds that had ruined the night were already common talkthere, yet still the calendars received a barely civil reception. The long-faced Major-of-House was waiting forthem in the yard and insisted on a brief conference with Grindrod whileRossamund was made to remain in the cold. The lamplighter-sergeant looked mightily unimpressed with what he washearing. Dolours approached them as theyremonstrated under the light of a yard-lamp and the discussion came to anabrupt and obviously unsatisfactory end. The house-major raised a refusing hand, loudly declaring, "That isall, madam! I had my reasons. Take thematter up with our Marshal in Winstermill if you want further hearing." He dismissed Grindrod and called forRossamund with an authoritative wave. 
	The young prentice hurried over dutifully while, with stony face, Doloursturned wearily on her heel and returned to her sisters-in-arms.
	"I'm told these blighted women have taken a liking to you,boy," the house-major said quickly, not stopping for the inconvenience ofan answer, "so you can be their liaison.Meddlesome wenches -- you may not find them so agreeable once you'vespent time in their company. Take themnow to the store on the farther side of the Omphalon. They may rest their troublesome headsthere." 
	Rossamund groaned inwardly.He ledthe women through the windowless watch room on the ground floor of the northtower, pointing the way down narrow passages of dark wood and through thecramped rooms of a structure built for efficient military function rather thangenteel comfort. Up the tight stairwayto the gallery he took them, and over, along the access way of the raisedgallery and by the night sounds of the already sleeping prentices, to theirroom beyond in the southern keep. Hebecame aware that a hushed, earnest talk between Threnody and the bane Dolours-- begun in the front watch room -- had now become a repressed yet passionatestruggle. As he stood at the top of thesouthern stairs to point the way down, he heard Threnody exclaim throughclenched teeth with petulant words too low and hissing to distinguish. 
	Arriving at their hastily arranged quarters, the calendars testilyreviewed the inadequate lodging.Cratesand goods had been rearranged and foldable cots squeezed between, all stilldusty and crawling with earwigs. 
	Embarrassed, Rossamund bid them a fair night with a stiff bow.
	Despite their weariness, Dolours and the pistoleer returned the compliment,the bane saying, "Grace and manners.We are obliged to you, young lighter. You have been a great service to us." 
	Threnody just frowned and, with a huff of spleen, lay on her ill-madecot.
	His thoughts all for bed, Rossamund went to his own lodgings, shufflingamong the sleeping prentices, and threw himself down clothes, boots and all.

	3
	On Returning To Winstermill
	
	Cothouse(s)(noun) type of fortalice; the small, often houselike, fortresses built alonghighroads to provide billet and protection to lamplighters and theirauxiliaries. Cothouses are usually builtno more than ten to twelve miles apart, so that the lamplighters will not beleft lighting lamps and exposed in the unfriendly night for too long. Their size goes from a simple high-house withslit windows well of the ground, through the standard structure of a main housewith small attendant buildings all surrounded by a wall, to the fortifiedbastion-houses like Haltmire on the Conduit Vermis or Tungoom on the ConduitFelix. 
	
	Rossamundwoke, having slept little, to the drum roll of "Stand While You Can,"a merry martial tune rattled out every morning at five-o'-the-clock to rousethe lantern-watch. 
	
	Stand while you can, lads,
	Stand while you can:
	For the Glory of Ol' Barny,
	Stand while you can.
	
	He gave a gentle groan.Thecommon-quarter night at Wellnigh had been full of snores and night shouts and apaucity of proper rest. He should havebeen used to this: it was how he hadspent all his sleeps at Madam Opera's. Two months' prenticing at Winstermill, however, with a cell of his own,had given him something he had never truly known, privacy. Cold and small though his might have bee,with a cot lumpy like tepid slogg-porridge, he had come to prize its seclusion. 
	Rousing himself, Rossamund rubbed grit-itchy eyes and sat, his head stillswimming with nightmares of gnashing shadows and carriages attacked.Fouracres, the ambling Imperial postman hehad met on his journey to Winstermill, had told him a lamplighter's life wasdangerous, and now the prentice well understood why. 
	A life of adventure.A life of violence. 
	Bright-limns were turned and their cool light slowly revealed the long,low quarters.Waking and rising, theother prentice-lighters hubbubbed with restrained excitement, retelling lastnight's theroscade. 
	"What about that young calendar!"Hanging by his arms from one of the low,steeply angled rafters, Punthill Plod gave a saucy whoop that set the sleepierones complaining. Morning always werehis better part of the day. 
	"Aye!She was a bit of a finedig," Tremendus Tworp leered, "though she couldn't wit worth agoose." 
	"Did ye hear of Grind-yer-bones last night?" Plodenthused."We might getmarked. Ye heard him: said prentices ain't been puncted in aprecious long time!" 
	"I'm not getting one," Rossamund declared, with more gladnessthan he meant to show.
	"Why not, Rosey?"Plodstopped his rafter swinging. 
	"Lampsman Puttinger said I did not have a hand in killinganything."
	"Oh" was all Plod said.
	"Ye don't sound too troubled, Rosey.Don't ye want one?" Tworp added. "Perhaps there should 'ave been more so you could've got yerself akill." He gave a sardonic grin. 
	"That was more than enough for me," Crofton Wheede put in,wide-eyed."I thought we were donein and no mistaking! It was like how mepoor mammy ended all over again..." 
	"Don't start on yer poor mammy, Wheede!" Eugus Smellgrovecalled testily, still lying abed.
	"Aye," Giddian Pillow offered, "just be grateful theyweren't one of them gudgeon-baskets I heard tell of -- them ones running wildout on Gathercoal way."
	"They reckon a wit can't stop a rever-man," Wheede shuddered,clearly glad it had not been a brace of these vile creatures on the road lastnight.
	Gudgeons!Rever-men? Rossamund sat up. "Where did you hear about that?" hecalled. 
	"When we were in Silvernook the other day," Pillowanswered."Some fellow at theskittle-alley on the Hackstone Row says he'd come from Makepeace and that itwas all abuzz about the quarry being haunted by some handmade beastie." 
	Rossamund nodded, aghast."but how did it get there? They have to be put somewhere, don't they? Rever-men don't just wander about on theirown -- do they? Someone has to makethem. Someone has to place them." 
	"It probably got loose from a hob-rousing pit," Pillow offeredwith a grim and knowing look.
	Hob-rousing was the illegal practice of setting monsters against gudgeonsand betting on the winner.Rossamundthought of Freckle and the rever-man once locked in the hold of the Hogshead. Maybethat was where they were headed?Hewas doubly glad now he had set Freckle free. "But that's wrong!" he exclaimed without thinking. 
	"Well, I've heard it that the fluffs use the baskets for guards toprotect all their jools and secrets," Plod said finally, rolling his eyesweirdly.He wiggled his fingers as if agreat shower of coins were pouring through them, causing a chuckle among hisfellows. 
	"I heard it said there's some poor fellow back at Winstermill who'sall agog from what they reckon was a gudgeon fight," Smellgrove joined in,fully awake at last."Was once afine lighter but has never been right in his intellectuals since." 
	"Clap it shut, little frogs!" Assimus snorted, startling themall, stomping into the room to rouse them out to the sip-pots to wash."Who talks on rever-men at this freshhour of day? Git ye up and git ye at'em! Out for yer scrubbing! Move yer carcasses!" 
	A line of tubs ran along a wall in a small yard adjacent to the foreyardof the northern keep.While theshivering boys scrubbed themselves in the freezing twilight, the topic of talksoon shifted to more friendly adventures. First it was the mischief done on the last Domesday visit to Silvernookand mischief planned for the next -- for Domesday was the common, weekly vigil-dayand their one occasion of rest. Much tothe other boys' bemused disapproval, Rossamund had never joined them on thesehalf-drunken jaunts, preferring to spend his money on pamphlets and remainbehind at the manse reading. In the timesince he started at Winstermill he had ventured down to Silvernook only twiceto get more pamphlets and to see if he might meet again with Fouracres, who hadhelped him so much on his way to prenticing. The restless postman had not had an opportunity to come to Winstermill. Silvernook and the dwellings of theBrindleshaws were his range, and he was so devoted to his "custom" --as he called the people he delivered to, he rarely had a common vigil himself. Their reunions had therefore been necessarilyand unsatisfactorily brief, and Rossamund was still hoping for a day where theymight sit and talk in earnest. 
	The boys' chatter changed again to the most common topic -- in whatcothouse each prentice thought he would like to serve once prenticing was doneand they had all become lampsmen 3rd class. 
	"I want to go to Makepeace Stile," Plod said eagerly."They work close with them obstacularsto catch bandits and dark traders and such." 
	"What about Haltmire?" pondered Tworp, leering at Wheede."Ye get to see plenty of nickers 
	there."
	"They don't send lampsmen 3rd class out thereTworp!" Wheede rose to the goad. "It's too unfriendly for new lighters." 
	"Aye," said Smellgrove, "the way ye was whimpering lastnight I can see why."
	Rossamund did not particularly care:where he was sent was where he was sent. Surely it would all be the same: light the lamp, douse the lamp, light the lamp, douse the lamp, lightthe lamp, douse the lamp, always waiting for some monster to spring and delivera horrible end... 
	Rossamund contrived to wash only his face and not remove his shirt beforebeing herded back to the gallery to dress in full.Today was the day when he was due to changehis nullodour: the Exstinker he hadpromise both Fransitart and Craumpalin to wear, splashed on the cambric sashwound about his chest, under his clothes. But his precious Exstinker was back at Winstermill, wrapped up in anoilcloth at the bottom of his bed chest at the base of the lumpy cot. 
	Before putting on his quabard -- the vest of rigid proofing all lighterswore over their coats -- he stared at the embroidered figure upon it.Stitched in thread-of-gold was an owldisplayed wings out, talons reaching, sewn over panels of rouge and leuc -- redand white. Sagix Glauxes Rex -- theSagacious Imperial Owl -- the sign of an Emperor's man. For theGlory of Ol' Barny indeed!
	The prentice-watch messed on the usual farrats and small beer (never asgood as that served at the Harefoot Dig -- always far too watery).Tomorrow's breakfast at the manse would be nobetter -- dark pong bread swilled down with saloop, a drink of sassafras andsugar boiled in milk. The morning afterthat it would be farrats once more, then pong the next, then farrats, over andover. 
	Breakfast wolfed down, they paraded out in the yard of the northern keepbefore the sun had even peeped.Now theymust douse all the lanterns back to Winstermill and be in time for limes, themorning interval between first morning instructions and second. This was where the prentices still atWinstermill were formed up to await the return of the lantern-watch, each givenlime-laced pints of small beer to fend off ill-health. Ready for this returning and looking forwardto limes, the boys stood shivering in the glow of bright seltzer lamps, themorning showing as a cold halo in a low and murky sky. This was the time of day figured safest, whennight monsters had found their beds once more and daytime prowlers were stillwaking. 
	Surly and overtired, Assimus, Bellicos and Puttinger poked the boys intocorrect dressing with rough tugs and prods of their fodicars.Grindrod called them to attention and marchedthem out the gates. Back to Winstermillthey went, to a little rest before resuming the solemn routines of theirprenticing. 
	Back to Winstermill, that is, except for Rossamund.He had been left behind as a courtesy fromthe lamplighter-sergeant to rouse the calendars and accompany them to themanse. Returning from the foreyard, hepassed Mister Bolt, the night-clerk and uhrsprechman, sitting in the north keepguardroom behind a small dirty stool that served as his table, and asked himthe time of day. 
	Groggy, smelling of claret and squinting with lack of sleep, Mister Boltpeered at Rossamund." Quota hora est, he asks!" thenight-clerk said, taking out his heavy fob. "What time is it indeed?" He glared at its cryptic face beadily. "Why, lantern-stick, it's a little before the half hour offive-o'-the-clock on this cruel chill's morning, and the bad half of a goodhour till the drummer wakes the rest and I get to me fleabag" (by which hemeant his bed). 
	By their own instruction the calendars were not to be troubled foranother hour.At last Rossamund had a momentof his own, without press or crowd or the impel of orders -- a precious-rarecommodity, he had learned, in a lamplighter's life. Secreting himself in a dim corner beneath thestairs that went up to the gallery, he hoped to remain inconspicuous, perhapsto read a little of his new pamphlet and avoid being discovered and set to someodious task. 
	He failed.
	As the drums ratplanned again to wake the rest of the cothouse foranother day, the house-major, on his way down to breakfast, spiedRossamund."You there! Lantern-stick! The one I spoke with last night," theofficer barked. "Feed thedogs. Their meat is in thekitchen." 
	"Aye, sir," the young prentice said with sinking wind.It was properly the duty of the house-watchto feed the dogs. The house-major musthave known that though Rossamund had been left behind, he was still part of thelantern-watch. He had rarely ever met adog of any sort -- they were not allowed in Madam Opera's -- and any time he had,the meeting had not been comfortable. Shaken, the young prentice nevertheless obeyed without demur, askingdirections of a kitchen hand. 
	"They're in the yard of the south keep," a rough-shaven kitchenhand explained, handing Rossamund a rotund pot of dig vittles."Mind the weight!" 
	Wrapping his arms about the pot's wide girth, Rossamund did not find theburden a trouble and, arms full of reeking offcuts, made his way to thesouthern keep of Wellnigh.He wrestledthe great pot past the house-watchmen, a half quarto of haubardiers pacingabout the edges of the road who jostled him as he tried to get around them. 
	"Move your ashes, scrub!"
	Tottering across the Pettiwiggin, he thumped with his elbow at the smallsally port in the wall of the south keep yard.No one answered, and he kept thumping until one of the haubardiers cameover and, with a sardonic grin, unlocked and opened the port to let him through. In the small, high-walled space beyond werethe great kennels, built up against the keep's base, barred with stout ironfounded in stone. This was the cage forthe dogs, five Greater Derehunds -- enormous creatures with spotted flanks andslobbering jowls -- that waited hungrily. Such dogs were kept at many cothouses and at Winstermill too, there tohowl and yammer with great commotion if a nicker was ever near. 
	The Derehunds began an awful growling as soon as they saw Rossamund, allfive hunched and threatening, a terrible gurgling rattle in their throats,pointed ears flat along their pied necks.
	"Hallo there," Rossamund tried, and waggled some stinkingoffal.
	With a jerk one hound gave a savage bawling bark that sent the rest mad,leaping over each other, back and forth, crashing against the bars, baying likeall wretchedness was loose.
	Rossamund leaped backward, scrambling and slipping on grimed cobbles.
	Officers, lighters and haubardiers rushed from all points, some shouting,some soothing the dogs in vain, many demanding, "What did ye do?"
	Some minor officer -- a lieutenant -- grabbed Rossamund hard under the armand pulled him away."What are youpracticing at?" 
	"Nothing, sir!" the young prentice quailed."I... I just tried to feed them, asordered." 
	"He's all right, sir," offered a lighter from theday-watch."He was a part of thatconfustication last night." 
	"Ah, cunning beasts," said a haubardier in obvious admirationof the hounds, "they can still tell the stink of the monsters on ye fromyester eve."
	"Well, get him out of here," demanded the lieutenant."Find him another task." 
	"You had best get back to hem harum-scarum ladies, lad," thelighter said quietly."Quick now,before the dogs get wilder." 
	Rossamund gratefully left the pot and went back to the northern keep, upthe stairs, over the gallery to the temporary lodgings of the calendars.
	Threnody greeted his polite good morning with little more than a coldstare and silence.Dolours looked aspoorly as she had on the night previous. 
	"May I offer you a draught mixed with bellpomash, m'lady?"Rossamund inquired.
	"You most certainly may," she returned gratefully.
	Rossamund went quickly to the kitchen and asked permission of the cook toprepare the restorative.The best hecould do was mix it with saloop and add some lordia too, but Dolours did notfuss. She drank it down and returned thebowl to him with a smile. 
	"My thanks to you.We will beready presently." 
	He waited a goodly while by the door as the calendars prepared to leave.
	Charllette the pistoleer was to stay behind and take a post-lentum backeast by way of the Roughmarch, the threwdish gap through the TumblesloeHeap.She would return to the Lady Veyand the stronghold of the calendars, bearing with her dispatches and the bodiesof the two dead. Dolours, Threnody andthe wounded dancer Pandome, who lay unconscious on a bier with her face andhead entirely bandaged, were to go west to Winstermill. Despite the bellpomash brew,

	the banestill showed the strain of her malady and Rossamund asked after her health oncemore.
	"Why, I thank you, young lighter," Dolours replied."Truly I would not have set out so illhad not the need been pressing. Youunderstand the life of service, I am sure." 
	Rossamund nodded wholeheartedly."I shall recommend you to our physician when we return,m'lady. They say there's nothing hecan't mend." 
	Dolours smiled and Threnody frowned.
	When all was ready the small party set out in pouring rain -- fighting weather, Europewould have called it. For a momentRossamund wondered where the terrible fulgar might be. Was she still in Sinster -- that city famousfor its transmogrifying surgeons, the makers of lahzars -- to be mended afterthe near-fatal spasming of her artificial fulgar's organs? Would she soon return, as she had promised,to see how he was getting on? A quietache set in his gall: despite hisabhorrence of her trade -- at her indiscriminate killing -- he was actuallymissing the teratologist. After all, shehad rescued him from the scurrilous rogue Poundinch. 
	Instead of an ox dray, the calendars traveled easy in a small coveredcurricle drawn by two sturdy donkeys.These were led by a laconic leer Rossamund had never properly met butknew from the milling of rumor and reputation to be Mister Clement. The fellow confirmed this with a sourintroduction to the calendars, giving them all a dour look with his weirdyellow and olive-drab eyes, as if the task was a great inconvenience. Before the leer put on his stheniconRossamund marveled at his wrong-colored eyes, so different fromSebastipole's. For Clement was alaggard, like Licurius, better able to spy things hidden in shadows anddarkness and nooks than a falseman, but less capable of spotting lies. His biologue in place, the leer took them outon the road. He talked little, insteadbending all his energy to searching ahead and aside for the evidences of amonster. 
	After his experience at the strangling hands of Licurius, Rossamundwalked a little uneasily beside Clement.Exposed to the foul weather and equally silent, the young prentice wasnevertheless grateful to have the leer's senses to forewarn them. That at least was a genuine comfort. 
	The calendars themselves also proved ill-disposed to speak, and the wholejourney from cothouse to manse was accomplished in silence.
	They traveled back through the Briarwood, back through its hintingthrewd, passing the scene of last night's violence. Despite a wet day, stainsof spilled blood still showed black in the dirt of the road.Under a heavy guard of haubardiers, with thechortling morning chorus of birds making light of the grisly work, a toilingfatigue party from Wellnigh House's day-watch struggled to build and light apyre of the fallen nickers and dead horses. The bodies of slain monsters needed to be disposed of promptly, for itwas held that, left to rot, a nicker's corpse always attracted more of theliving kind. 
	Walking through the Harrowmath, Rossamund started and stared at everyrustle in the high grass.The rainincreased and his thrice-high filled with water, which spilled inconvenientlywhenever he moved his head. 
	With each lamp they passed he felt a steady urgency to wind out thebloom, even though it was day.He hadbeen in lessons (Readings on Our Mandate and Matter with Mister Humbert) inwhich the prentices were belabored with the notion that the Conduit Vermis wasthe spine about which many towns and villages grew; that the road allowed thesetowns to be knit as more than just remote settlements; that it was for the lamplightersto toil and keep the Wormway clear; that if they did not, then the whole ofcivilization might fail and fall to rapid ruin. To light the lamps meant that the kingdoms of humankind could sleep wellat night. Every lamp they passed was amemorial to him of this heavy responsibility. He sighed, letting his fodicar drag in the soupy slick that filmed thehard-packed clay of the revered road. 
	"Lift your lantern-crook, boy!" came the rough command of theleer, and the young prentice obeyed with an unthinking start. Shrugging hisshoulders against the wet, Rossamund pushed on.Between the silence of the calendars, the taciturn concentration ofClement, and the broad, brooding Harrowmath, he lamented how different lifemight be as a vinegaroon or -- he wondered for a moment -- even as Europe'sfactotum. 

	4
	An Interview With The Surgeon
	
	post-lentum(s)( noun) among the carriagesmore commonly used to traverse the highroads and byroads of the Half-Continent,post-lentums deliver mail and taxi people (for a fare) from one post toanother. They are manned by a lentermanor driver, an escort (usually armed and armored) known as a side-armsman orcock robin (if wearing a red weskit of Imperial Service) or prussian (if wearinga deep blue weskit of private employment) and one or two backsteppers -- eithersplasher boys or post runners or amblers -- sitting upon the seats at the backof the roof. When traveling dangerousstretches, another backstepper may join -- a quarter-topman possessing afirelock and a keen gaze -- for extra protection. This crew is collectively referred to aslentermen. Po'lent is the common termfor these vehicles, an abbreviated derivation of po(st) lent(um). 
	
	Winstermillgrew step-by-step before them. Anancient stronghold, massive and lonely upon the flat moors of the Harrowmath,it was familiar and welcome to Rossamund already. He still marveled at the squat, graycartography of its lichen-blotched roofs and their chimney spires, at themightily thick outer walls and the foundations upon which the fortress waslifted high above the plain. When he hadfirst observed it those two months gone he had thought it like some great,overgrown manor house, but now he knew the fortress to be much more. Once a small outpost of the Tutins of old, thefortress of Winstermill had accreted over the centuries: towers added, floors added, the whole moundof Winstreslewe built up and encircled with a thick wall. Once it had stood at a junction of traderoutes; now it had grown over and submerged these roads in its footings. The western run of the Wormway and thenorth-south course of the Gainway made tunnels in Winstermill's foundations andjoined beneath the very fortress. As faras Rossamund knew, these tunnels were called the Bowels -- if they had any othername he had not heard it. In theevening, great grilles were lowered over their gaping mouths to preventmonsters and vagrants from setting up a home there, and mighty steams ofrepellents were regularly flushed through in the small hours of the morning toforce out any unwelcome lurkers. Theseduties were reserved for the house-watch, and Rossamund was glad of that. Not in all recorded history of the currentEmpire had a monster ever won its way into the manse. 
	The broad Imperial Spandarion that usually flapped proud and defiantabove the battlements hung limp now in the day's damp.The morning was already long, limes missedand second morning instructions well under way. Rossamund had never felt so tired. Passing through the mighty gates, their arrival counted by thetally-clerk and his cursors, they were greeted by one of the house-guardcalling down to them from the wall. 
	"Hoi there, me fellows!There's Lady Dry-stick ready to lash us with her dim-wits. Wit us too, like ye did our mates!" News of Threnody's actions had alreadytraveled ahead. 
	"Don't goad at her, chum," came another."She's as likely to fish us as soon asfart, from what I hear!" 
	"Fish was a vulgar term for frission.Rossamund shot a look to Threnody, sittingstiff on the seat behind. The youngcalendar's chin jutted high in supercilious display, yet she betrayed her angerwith the clenching and unclenching of her fine jaw. 
	The donkeys' hooves and carriage wheels made a harsh grinding in thewhite quartz gravel that formed a broad drive from the gate to the manse's mainentrance.The drive skirted three acresof paved ground known as the Grand Mead, which fronted the manse itself. It was large enough to contain kennels,several strong-houses, room for the parading and evolutions of the wholefortress and yet still allow for the frequent coming and going of carriages andother conveyances. There was even spacefor a well-tended green by the wall of the manse proper with benches and agrove of pines for the officers to sit beneath. Here a convention of territorial rooks would caw and cackle everyevening before returning to their roost in the manse's ridge-caps, eyeingeverything angrily and keeping pigeons away. At the end of the drive stood the Scaffold, a single gaunt tree thatRossamund had observed the night he first arrived. 
	As he walked by the curricle, Rossamund watched a company of haubardiersworking through drills under the shadow of the eastern wall, standing andmoving in well-practiced order.He couldnot see the other lantern-sticks; they would be at readings now, suffering direboredom in the Lectury with Mister Humbert. A post-lentum came through the gates, overtook them and rattled on tothe covered stables to the right of the main building. The postilion blew his long horn to heraldtheir arrival. The post is here!The post ishere! its call declared. 
	Rossamund felt an instinctive thrill, the sweet anticipation of a letterfrom a loved one -- from Verline perhaps (it had been a whole month since her firstmissive), or Fransitart... or maybe even one from Europe. 
	It was obvious the arrival of the calendars was expected, for a welcomeof officials turned out in their finest threads emerged from the manse.As Clement took the curricle through to haltbefore the front doors, the women were greeted first by Podious Whympre, theMaster-of-Clerks. An officious man whosmiled too much, he was dressed in sumptuous Imperial scarlet. He had only that year become actingsecond-in-command of Winstermill, and with the promotion his influence hadgrown. Joining him, and accompanied byall their particular secretaries, were other senior martial bureaucrats: the Quartermaster, the niggardlyCompter-of-Stores, the rotund General-Master-of-Labors and his Surveyor-of-the-Works,and a scowling General-Master-of-Palliateers. Even the rarely seen captain-of-Thaumateers was in attendance. A small file of clerks -- chief of which wasWitherscrawl -- followed, along with a guard of troubardier pediteers in theirbright lour-covered, proof-steel loricas and soft square pagrinine hats. Rather than their usual poleaxes, thepediteers bore high umbrellas to provide a roof against the steady drizzle. 
	Yet one among them refused to dress the dandy.A skulking fellow in a midnight-darksoutaine, he hovered at the Master-of-Clerks' back and stared viperlike withill-colored eyes of red orb and pale blue iris. This was Laudibus Pile, leer and faithful falseman to Podious Whympre. He could often be seen whispering at theMaster-of-Clerk's ear, a tell-tale saying what was truth and what was lie. To Rossamund he was a false-seeming falseman,and he was glad he had little to do with this fellow or his master. 
	The one person missing was the Lamplighter-Marshal.
	"Lady Threnody, you honor usat last." The Master-of-Clerksbowed, a perfect study of civility. "And Lady Dolours. We aremet again. It has been almost a yearsince you helped us against those brutish ashmongers in the Owlgrave." 
	Dolours gave the man a tired, knowing look.
	"And what a relief it was," the Master-of-Clerks continuedwithout pause, spreading his arms to include the various lampsmen inattendance, "to receive report that our tireless lighters did rescue youthis yesternight gone.How happy it isyou have both arrived sound and intact." 
	The bane had been looking most poorly but now she presented a halefront."Clerk-Master PodiousWhympre," she said with a subtle frown at the falseman Laudibusa-whisper-whisper behind the man, "A delight." She paused. "For the good deeds done last night I am grateful. Your Marshal is not present, I see. Matters more pressing keep him from us?" 
	Even Rossamund knew that the absence of the Lamplighter-Marshal was agreat affront.Of all the officers ofWinstermill, the Lamplighter-Marshal was not only the most senior, but also hadthe reputation as the most punctual and gentlemanly. 
	"Ah, ever-astute, Lady Bane, you do your clave proud.The Lamplighter-Marshal, I am certain, wouldgive sincere apology for his nonattendance were we able to find him." Though the Master-of-Clerks' face wasapologetic, his eyes were bright. 
	Dolours stepped past and went to push through the gaggle of officers andclerks."It is well, for propermeetings must sadly wait; our sister Pandome is deadly hurt. I hear your physic Crispus is of fairrepute. Would you consent to hisimmediately attending to her wounds?" 
	The Master-of-Clerks was obliged to step quickly, moving from theprecious cover of his troubardier-held umbrella and leaving his falseman behind."Indeed, madam, Doctor Crispus is a manof many parts," he said, his smile broadening almost to a sneer as atroubardier hurried to cover him with a high parasol. "Alas, however, he is gone away to RedScarfe to tend a disturbing outbreak of the fugous cankers. Ah, but all is not a loss! Grotius Swill, our surgeon and thephysician's locum, remains with us. Hewill serve, I'm sure." 
	The calendars looked less than pleased.
	"Whatever you might provide," Dolours said wearily.
	Even as the bureaucrats dispersed, the Lamplighter-Marshal, the Earl ofthe Baton Imperial of Fayelillian himself, hastened from the doors of themanse.He was a grand-looking old manwith long white mustachios, although unfashionable; he wore no wig, rather hisown hair kept short as a true lighter's. His mottle-and-harness were simple -- quabard over platoon-coat -- worneasy and naturally. In a way he lookedjust like an ordinary lampsman, the most physically capable, shrewd anddangerous ordinary lampsman you might ever meet. Yet there was a barely perceptible atmosphereof weariness about him, a sense of harassment and overwork. He acknowledged the calendars warmly enough,saying through a rueful smile, "My most sincere apologies to ye, dear,dear Lady Dolours; what a bumbling scrub I must seem. It is unforgivable that I was not here in thefirst to meet ye." Mustachiosa-bristle, the Marshal flashed a look of veiled wrath at Podious Whympre. "I would have been more timely, butfound myself needlessly summoned to the farthest end of the manse. I have only now been told of yerarrival." 
	Nodding an obsequious bow, the Master-of-Clerks tut-tutted."Those new clerks are quiteuseless. Unacceptable, sir,unacceptable. They shall be mostparticularly reprimanded." 
	There was a small silence.
	The Lamplighter-Marshal offered his hand to Dolours."It's clear ye're unwell, m'dear. Let's withdraw to the quiet of my dutyroom. I hope its comforts will makeamends. How is yer bonny august, theLady Vey? She sends communication?" 
	The two turned their backs on the Master-of-Clerks and, without a furtherword to him, went inside.With a pointedshow of proper manners, Podious Whympre bowed to their retreating backs. 
	As the bureaucrats dispersed, two porters were summoned to carry Pandometo the manse's infirmary.Rossamund hadnever -- thank the Signal Stars! -- been required to attend an appointment withthe surgeon. Brought by especial requestof the Master-of-Clerks, Grotius Swill, according to the common-mess rumor,held staunchly to the surgeon's creed of amputating first and investigatinglater; of fissicking about far too much in people's innards rather thanadministering the tried and proved chemical cures of dispensurist orphysician. How did the rhyme go?
	
	Honorius Ludius Grotius Swill
	Saws off your limbs, but eschewsthe pill;
	For a cough he removes fingers, asneeze he'll take toes,
	And fevers will cost you your earsand your nose.
	
	Rossamund shuddered -- he would never allow someone to dig about insidehim, and could not understand why lahzars and the like would pay to submitthemselves to such abominable treatment.
	With Threnody walking alongside her injured sister, he led the waythrough the empty vestibule down the Forward Hall and left through the rightangles and long passages that led to the infirmary.They moved through the domain of thebureaucracy of Winstermill, a place that had a reputation as a strange anduncomfortable place for those not of the clerical set, even for experiencedlighters. They passed white wooden doorsfrom which would sporadically emerge a secretary, clerk or servant. These would pass in turn with a mutteredapology or impatient sneer, 

	to disappearin another white port along the way.Going deeper into the manse, the smoky perfume of the dark, venerablewood of furniture, beam and wainscot soaked the atmosphere. It grew strongest as they entered a largepassage known as the Broad Hall. Severaldoors went at intervals down either side, the spandarions of the localcity-states mounted between. The firstdoor on the left was painted a lime green. 
	Through this was the infirmary.
	Rossamund stepped up and gave a reluctant tap.An epimelain answered almost instantly, herbroad brown skirts and oversized apron filling the entire doorway. The woman's expression exquisitely state, Yes?What do you want? I have no timefor this! without the use of asingle word. 
	Hat in hand, Rossamund bowed."This wounded lady needs a physic's mending, miss." 
	The epimelain looked over him to the stricken calendar, to the porters,then to Threnody and back to Rossamund.She gave a soft "humph," turned and sashayed away. This was enough permission for the porters,who immediately went in, shoving Rossamund aside. Threnody followed them without a thank-you. Within was a long hall, well-made beds downeither side, pillows arranged identically against the wall with prim regimentalexactitude, bed ends forming a squeezy aisle along which the epimelain's skirtsbrushed and rustled noisily as she hurried between. A few beds were occupied, various ailingsouls coughing or sighing in their discomfort, and another woman dressedsimilarly attended the bedside of one of the ill. 
	Behind a lectury desk was the person they sought:Honorius Ludius Grotius Swill, the carver oflamplighters, their surgeon. He wasshort and thin and sported a meticulous mustache and a fixed frown. Dressed immaculately, he sat with aflam-toothed saw in one hand and a hone gripped in the other, sharpening theblade to and for, careless of the patients about him. 
	"Your pardon, surgeon."
	With a small start, Surgeon Swill stood and faced the woman.He looked at the group a littleconfusedly. "Come, come," hesaid, finally fixing his attention on Rossamund, "let me look youover." 
	"Ahh... not me, sir."Rossamund gestured nervously to the stretcher-borne Pandome. "Her."
	The porters laid the bier on the closest empty bed and retreated promptlywithout so much as a good-bye, leaving Rossamund and Threnody with Swill.
	Threnody stepped up, chin high."I'll have you know, sir, that I have been under the steady knifeof the finest transmogrifier in or outside the Empire. Before I submit her to your ill-learned investigations,quacksalver, I would have you understand this: my mother is the Lady Vey, and should you mishandle my sister, your daysof lawful practice shall end." 
	Rossamund looked at the floor.This was surely not the way tot go on if she was seeking to become aprentice-lighter. 
	The surgeonlooked at her coldly."Moving aboutthe odd organ is enough for some toclaim great talent, but there are subtler things one can do with a knife. My ill learning will be learning enough toset your sister to rights." He tookup a weird-looking monocle, its protruding end a completely opaque black smoothness,and squinted it into his left eye. Itwas an even stranger instrument than Rossamund had seen Doctor Verhooverhovenwearing at the Harefoot Dig when treating Europeso ill from spasming. It was some kind ofobscure biologue, he was sure, designed to make a surgeon's or physician's workmore effective. 
	Threnody stoodclose and watched suspiciously as Swill bent over the bed and scrutinized theinjured, unconscious Pandome, peering pedantically through the monocle at everycut, gouge and contusion.The epimelainhovered, waiting to serve any command. Swill worked in silence but for a periodic "mm-him" and thescratching of a stylus on paper as he made notes of what he discovered. 
	Fascinated,Rossamund shuffled forward to get a clearer sight of what the surgeon saw.
	Swillstraightened and pinned him with a wintry eye."Stand back, prentice! It isnot necessary for you to see soclosely. Indeed, all of you -- pleasegive me space to work." 
	Threnodybridled."Tell me, surgeon, can youmend her?" she asked sternly. "Or should we wait for Doctor Crispus?" 
	Swillstraightened and, after a pause where he clearly calculated his answer, saidsourly, "I might serve under him, young madam, yet I can tell you I haveobserved and performed things DoctorCrispus would not credit as possible. What the good doctor has spent a lifetime acquiring, I learned inmonths. So, to you, dear, I say 'yes' toyour first inquiry, and 'no' to your second. This has become intolerable! Ifyou want the best for your sister-in-arms, then I must be allowed to labor inquietude. Do me the service ofleaving!" 
	Spreading histhin arms, Swill went to usher them out of the surgery.To Rossamund's dismay, Threnody was clearlyreluctant to depart and made to stand her ground. Swill balked at her stubborn immobility, andonly after a foolish, pointless standoff did she allow herself to be guided outto the less gruesome side of the door. It closed with a deliberate thump. 
	"Do youknow much of this Grotius Swill fellow, lamp boy?" Threnody demanded.
	"He seemscompetent enough, miss.I think he issupposed to be under Doctor Crispus' charge," Rossamund offered helpfully,ignoring the girl's imperious tone. "I must confess I've never been ill enough to need either his orthe doctor's work." 
	Threnodylooked less than satisfied."He didnot seem to be under anyone's charge to me. He'd better do it right: I madeno idle threat in there." 
	Rossamund wasnot in the smallest way impressed."I ought to return you to your Lady Dolours," he said simply. 
	At theLamplighter-Marshal's duty room the smiling registry clerk Inkwill greetedthem.
	"You'dbest go in, m'lady."
	Threnodyentered into the mystery of the duty room, leaving Rossamund without a word ofthanks or farewell.
	"Youmight want to idle here, Prentice Bookchild," suggested Inkwillkindly."I think that young lasswill be needing more guidance shortly." This was an unwelcome hint, or so Rossamund thought, that he and hisfellows might have to put up with this pompous peerlet for a good sight longer. 
	As he waitedan unwelcome pressure built in his bladder, but Rossamund dared not leave.Instead he paced the forward Halluncomfortably back and forth, pressure growing, until the door opened with abang. Sergeant Grindrod emerged from theduty room looking grave. He noddedbrusquely, said nothing and moved on. Soon after, Threnody stalked out, followed by Dolours and theLamplighter-Marshal himself. "Whatsay you, young fellow? We're going tohave a lady in our midst!" 
	The Lamplighter-Marshalhad clearly come to his decision.Threnody was to be the first girl prentice at Winstermill. 

	5
	Threnody Goes Forth
	
	Fusil( noun) also known as a fusee or a carabine or aharquebus; a lighter musket with a shortened barrel that makes it simplerloading, is less cumbersome to swing about in thickets and woodland, and savesconsiderable weight. Its shorter lengthalso makes it handy as a club when the fight comes to hand strokes. This makes the fusil a preferred weapon ofambuscadiers and other skirmishing foot soldiers, and also comes a-handy forthe drilling of smaller folk in the handling and employment of arms. 
	
	The morning did not improveafter its irregular beginning. Rossamundtook Threnody to the Room of Records, where she gave all her particulars andwas paid the Emperor's Billion; the master proofener, where she received hertwo quabards -- one full dress and one for continual day wear; the library, forher books on matter and drills and regulations; the armory, for her fusil and fodicar;and every other necessary place. Throughout, she showed nothing but arrogance and high-handedrudeness. She near drove the normallygood-natured Inkwill to distraction with each painfully extracted detail forthe register. She wrangled with the proofener'syeomen over the constitution of regulation dress. She insulted the librarian over a matterbook, insisting it was arrant drivel, that the books she had learned from back at Herbroulesse were far superior. She quibbled with the wool-slippered armorerover the one-sequine pledge required to secure her firelock and fodicar. And throughout she ignored Rossamund in themanner of someone used to the attendance of servants. 
	He had led herfrom place to place without complaint and with an ever-sinking feeling and thesharp jabbing of an overfull bladder.Joyful relief had come only when he finally showed Threnody to her ownnewly appointed cell where her luggage waited for her. While she changed to a lighter's harness,Rossamund made a quick dash for the jakes and returned in time for her toemerge with a wrinkled nose. 
	"Ugh!The stench of too many boys, too closetogether," she said. 
	Rossamundstayed mum.He had spent his life withtoo many boys, and it had made him insensible to any such odor. "Come along," he said instead, andguided her up to the dim, high-ceilinged mess hall in the rear quarters of themanse, where a roll of drums declared middens was about to be served. There the other prentices arrived as a mass,and, as they lined up, stared in open wonder at this newly presentedlantern-stick before them. 
	Threnody wentforth now in a rich, elegant variation of the gear of a lamplighter; silkenplatoon-coat, quabard, long-shanks, galliskins and a black tricorn sittingprettily upon her midnight tresses -- of the finest tailoring, as sumptuous asthat of any of the Master-of-Clerks' flunkies.The other prentices, by comparison, looked like drab weeds. 
	Threnodyignored them all as she had ignored Rossamund.In their turn the boys kept unashamedly at their gawping, some turningpuzzled looks on her fortunate companion. 
	Rossamund feltanything but fortunate as he received their middens meals, served by two short,fat cooks from the pots hanging in the gigantic fireplace at the farther end ofthe room.Steaming with faintlyappetizing smells, the larger pot was, as always, full of skilly, a savorygruel of leftover meat; the smaller with vummert, a mash of sprouts and peas. 
	Threnodyscowled at the food, at the cooks, at the boys and at the hall as she sat atone of a pair of long tables that filled the mess.
	"Are...are you all right, miss?" Rossamund asked cautiously, painfully aware thatshe had just occupied the usual seat of a less-than-friendly lad known asNoorderbreech.
	"Yes."Threnody's voice cracked a little. "No... What care is it of yours--?" 
	"Lookhere, miss, I..." complained Noorderbreech, leaving his place in the lineof unserved boys."Look here,normally I sit there." 
	Threnody didnot move, did not even give a hit she had even heard.
	"And --and that would be my apple," Noorderbreech insisted.
	A look cameinto Threnody's eye that Rossamund recognized -- a haughty, dangerous look.She glanced at the fruit mentioned, which saton the table before her. It appeared tobe the same as all the other apples placed evenly along the benches for theprentices to take away with them when the main meal was done. Threnody picked it up with a study offeminine grace. " This apple, do you mean?" she said,and bit into it deliberately, daring Noorderbreech to retaliate. 
	The lad puffedhimself up as threateningly as he might.
	Uncowed,Threnody crunched away as happily as if she were on a vigil-day hamper.Ever boy -- and the kitchen hands too -- heldtheir breath. 
	"Give memy apple, girly," Noorderbreech growled, "and go take yer place atthe far end.This is where we sit." 
	"Thisapple?"She took another bite. "You mean this apple, don't you?... Have it then! " The apple flew the full length of the benchin a well-aimed arc. It landed with a crack and a hissright in the midst of the hottest coals of the fire. 
	Everyonebecame very, very still.Some evenstopped chewing. 
	Rossamundwanted to shrink in on himself.
	"I'll sitwhere I like and eat what I please, you loose-jawed bumpkin," she hissed withsuch vehemence spittle flew.
	Wide-eyed,Noorderbreech stumbled back, mouth agape as if her were trying hard to proveThrenody's insult true, finding for himself a vacant place at the far end ofthe other bench.
	The prenticessitting near Threnody shifted away, afraid or glaring.No one other than Rossamund dared put himselftoo near. Angry mutters began tostir. Rossamund did not know what to sayand fixed his attention on his food, avoiding every other eye in the room. Yet the filling of stomachs finally tookpriority even over so shocking an event as just witnessed. The hubbub of general chatter and the patterof forks and spoons on plates swelled once more. 
	Threnody madeto eat as if naught was wrong."Whocan eat this glue?" she snarled eventually, pushing the slopping pannikinof skilly away in disgust. "Musteverything be against me today?" 
	"Againstyou, miss?" Rossamund dared after a few pensive chews.
	"I saveus from the ambush of those ungotten baskets," she suddenly fumed,floodgates inexplicably let free, "and all Lady Dolours can dwell upon is the possibility of bad things thatnever happened! We were thrown aboutinside the drag, tumbled roughly in its wreck, and Dolours so unwell she wasscarce capable of fighting. What elsewas I supposed to do?" 
	Rememberingthe startling and dangerously incompetent effect of her wild witting, Rossamundcould not quite see how Threnody had done any more than make a bad situationworse.The way he remembered the play ofthings, it had ultimately been Dolours who had saved them all, the lamplightersincluded. Indeed, given that theprentices had dispatched two of the horn-ed nickers themselves, Rossamundfigured a little more gratitude might have been shown. Still, he held his tongue: he would not gainsay a woman in her distress,especially not one as fiery as this. Shehad done her bit, and had not flinched from the fight -- and none should faulther on that. This girl had passion. All she needed was practice. 
	"I reckonyou did as boldly as you knew to, miss," Rossamund said matter-of-factly.
	She gave alittle start, as if this was the last encouragement she expected.
	"You sawme take on those wretched bugaboos, then?" she said.
	Felt, more like. "Aye, miss." 
	"I'll notshrink from the fact that I did not defeat them alone.Oh no," she declared with a flourishingwave of her hand, "my sisters and I did it together, mastered anddestroyed the nickers." 

	
	Rossamundthought on the valiant fight the calendars had made as a troupe."It was a genuine, heroical spectacle,miss," he said. "I've neverseen such a thing as happened last night." 
	"So itwas, I know.Yet they made me apologize!" Threnody seethed. "They made me apologize to that... that pompous muck hill." 
	By"apologize" Rossamund could only assume she had been made to repentof her clumsy, ill-advised witting; and by "pompous muck hill" shemeant Grindrod, the lamplighter-sergeant.He thought she might consider herself fortunate not to have been made toapologize to the lampsmen and prentices as well -- it was their lives she hadendangered. 
	"Yet itwas we who were refused atWellnigh!" She balled her fists. 
	"Hardlyseems fair, miss."
	"Hardlyindeed!Pannette dead! Idesloe dead!" the girl continued. "And Doloursinsists we make amends like your lot were the worst done by! To think I actually wanted to join in withyou clod-headed blunderers!" 
	"Don'tcount me in too quick with the clodheads or the blunderers, miss," hereplied.
	"Well,since you are but half the size of all the other boys I suppose it would behard to do so."
	Rossamundblinked at the sting of her insult.Heknew he was undersized: hisembarrassingly truncated fodicar was continual evidence. Dumbstruck and mortified that those nearmight have heard her, he realized she was no longer even paying him anymind. Instead she was looking up overhis right shoulder. Rossamund becameaware of the looming of somebody there. He looked up to find Arimus Arabis at his back. 
	The oldest,most worldly-wise of the prentices, Arimis Ababis was top of the manning lists-- both by letter fall and ability.Thefrankest shot with a fusil, he also considered himself handsome. Though Rossamund could not see it, a gaggleof dolly-mops in Silvernook confirmed Arabis' self-approval every Domesday,following him about on his jaunts about town and giggling at everything heuttered. 
	"Hullo tothee, Rossamund," he drawled, all charm and swagger.He leaned on Rossamund's shoulder and smiledknowingly at Threnody. He must have beendown in the cell row cleaning up for eating and missed her petulant antics withthe apple. "I see it's true. We have a fair Damsel of Callistia amongus. Would you care to introduceher?" 
	"No, hewould not," Threnody answered frostily."Go away!" 
	Arabis' grin vanished."Justmaking friendly," he retorted. Hetook his hand off Rossamund's shoulder immediately and straightened. "But you seem to know as much aboutbeing friendly as you do about witting." He clapped Rossamund on the back as he left. "Fair travels with that one,matey," he sneered, and made his way to the other table and immediatelybegan to talk to the prentices there. Laughter rose, and those boys glanced over at Threnody in disapproval. 
	Rossamund glumly sucked at his food.
	Threnody raised her chin a little higher -- a telltale sign, he wasbeginning to notice, of impatience or anger or embarrassment.
	"Did I hear your name a-right, lamp boy?"She was staring at him again. It seemed she needed someone to stare atright now. There was a vindictive gleamgrowing in her eye. "It can'treally be so, can it? Rossamund?" 
	"Many folk find some fun in my name, though I don't," hereplied evenly."It is what it isand I am who I am." 
	Threnody had enough grace to drop her gaze.
	For a while they ate in silence.Rossamund fretted vaguely and wished that, just for today, middens wasnot quite so long. Threnody poked at herfood and screwed up her nose at the small beer. 
	"Too small by half," the girl muttered at the beverage.
	"It certainly is that, miss.Much better down at the Harefoot Dig," Rossamund returned, happy topunctuate the awkwardness. 
	"Anything anywhere is better than here."Her face was right and unhappy. 
	Rossamund could not be quiet in the face of such misery."I don't understand. If all this makes you so wretched, why joinus?" he asked. 
	"You're an impertinent little lamp boy, aren't you?"She sniffed loftily. "Since you inquire, I joined because Iwanted to, why else?" 
	"Why not stay as a calendar?"Rossamund could not reckon such a thing. Calendars were mystical, romantic figures who resisted the powerful andhelped the destitute. They confrontedmonsters whenever these threatened and offered help wherever folk floundered. The way of a calendar was a goodlyadventurous life if ever one existed: making life better, not just mindlessly destroying monsters for pay likeEurope or the other pugnators. 
	"If you knew my mother..." she replied thickly, almost toherself."If you, too, were pinnedin the never-relaxing clutch of Marchessa Syntyche, the Lady Vey, August of theRight of the Pacific Dove, then you would understand. No choices. No schemes of your own." 
	"But you did have achoice." He could not helphimself. "You chose to come toWinstermill and be a lighter." 
	Taken aback, the girl pursed her lips."That was a rare lapse of my mother's. For once she let her grip slip. Mother and I are always at odds. I go left, she goes right. I say black, she says white. If I want something one way, she will alwayshave it the other. If I was ever trulylistened to -- if what I wanted counted, if she had ever faltered for a momentand remembered that underneath that waspy bosom she has a heart and think meher daughter..." Threnody seethed --her haughty mien subsumed by anger. "And not just a tool to preserve her precious clave, then I mightnever have become a blighted lahzar!" 
	Skilly forgotten, Rossamund listened, motionless.
	"I wanted to serve the Dove as a spendonette, blazing away atmonsters with my pistols, not..."Threnody pressed her knuckles against her brow, wincing. "Not spend the rest of my lifeswallowing down cures to quell revolting organs that do little more thanache!" 
	He knew enough about wits to know what she meant.Cathar's Treacle, twice a day, elseheadaches, spasms or worse would beset her. 
	"But once transmogrification was forced on me -- well, I chose thepath of the lightning-throwing astrapecrith just like the Branden Rose--"
	Rossamund's attention pricked at the mention of Europeby her more famouse title, but he did not interrupt the talk bubbling out ofthe girl prentice like froth from an overshaken beer bung. 
	"--but oh no!Dear Mother wasnot having that! I was ordered to becomea wit because the clave needed wits, and a good calendar always obeys her august. Iwould never have manage so long but for Dolours." 
	Middens was nearing its end.Otherprentices were rising and depositing their pannikins, mess-kids and tankards ona broad-palette for cleaning. 
	"Finally I made it all so terrible at home that Mother could bear meno longer.She's agreed to this,"she said, looking about to show the mess hall and all the prentices, "onlybecause it has made her life simpler,not through any care for me. And here Ican become a pistoleer. Not quite thegood calendar spendonette I wished for, but..." She shrugged, all angst submerged withbaffling alacrity. "Well, you havemy life's tale before you, so return in kind: why have you taken up with the lampsmen?" 
	Though it was time to leave, Rossamund paused in thought."Because I had no choice either; becauseit was this or be cooped up in the foundlingery forever. I'm a book child, and we get what we're givenand say thank you, like it or no." 
	How little we have in common then."Threnody tipped her plate, skilly and all, into the pail just meant forthe slops. 
	
	** * * * 

	The attack on the calendars' carriage so close to Winstermill had causedno small stir among the lighters.It wasuniversally agreed that the six fusil-bearing lads should all be marked with acruorpunxis for their part. It would bea small drawing of a drip of blood, as was commonly awarded when a prentice hadhad a hand in the slaying of a monster but the actual killer was not clear. In the bosom of many a hardened campaignerthere rose too a genuine, almost paternal concern for the batch of younglantern-sticks. Such was this concern,it prompted the Lamplighter-Marshal to cancel the prentice-watch and movedrills and tutelage normally conducted in the fields below Winstermill backwithin the fortress walls. Consequently,that afternoon, targets -- the handling, firing, cleaning and right use of afusil -- was to be held in a long foyer of dark, aromatic wood called theToxothanon in the westernmost end of the Low Gutter below the beautiful Hall ofPageants. 
	"Right, lads!Stand by twos at your lane!" Benedict, the Under-Sergeant-of-Prentices,stood behind the gaggle of lantern-sticks. "After two months of this I am expecting good aim and handyreloading." To those of Rossamund'swatch he said, "As for you lads who prevailed last night, I am expectingto be dazzled." 
	Standing in her own firing lane beside Rossamund, Threnody took the fusilwith elegant aplomb, handling her firelock with an accomplishment equal to allbut the frankest shot among the prentices.Much to Arabis' wry dismay, almost as many of Threnody's shots as hisown found the center bull in the targets fixed to the great bales of straw atthe farther end of the lanes. Benedicttwice acknowledged her wicked aim and went as far as to say, "You mightmake yourself useful yet, young lady." Her self-satisfaction was so clear, Threnody almost glowed. 
	Unfortunately Rossamund, who was an indifferent shot at best, had theworst day at targets yet, missing many of his shots entirely, one ball lodgingitself in alow crossing roof beam. His woeful aim did not, of course, escape thekeen observation of the under-sergeant. 
	"Master Bookchild!For shame,not one solitary ball true, sir. Sergeant Grindrod would say your fusil work is a clattering, gaffingembarrassment and a wanton waste of powder. One night's pots-and-pans for you. Let's hope some good hours scrubbing will teach your arms to hold afranker aim." 
	With sinking soul Rossamund kept to the work:make ready, present, level, fire -- over andover, till they were lined up for Evening Forming and the quiet tolling ofmains brought a merciful end to the training day. 
	Entering the manse via the sally -- the side door and only correct entryfor the prentices into the manse -- and stowing their fusils in the armorycupboard, the lads made their way back up to the mess hall and food.While they ate their boiled pork, boiledcabbage and soggy boiled rice, Mister Flough, an under-clerk to the Postmaster,hustled into the mess hall crying, "Postis arrived!"An excitedhubble-bubble warmed the room as the under-clerk extracted crushed packages andbent letters from a mostly empty satchel. 
	"Clothard...OnionMile... Bookchild..." 
	Rossamund found a letter slapped before him, its water-stained and slightlysmeared address still clearly stating:
	
	Master Rossamund Bookchild
	Apprenticed Lamplighter
	Winstermill Barracks
	The Harrowmath
	Sulk End
	
	Written in Verline's unmistakable hand.Trembling with delight, he prized open the rough seal. Dated twenty-third of Brumis, it might havetaken a week to make its way down the Humour through High Vesting and back upto Winstermill. It read: 
	
	Mydear courageous Rossamund,
	Thankyou for your dear letter of the 13th of Pulchrys. What gladness we had at the news of your safearrival -- and my what adventures you had! That Europa Branden Rose woman sounds very frightening, but what athrill to meet someone so famous! Youalways wanted adventure, and had I been you I think I might have had my fill ofit after such a journey. Little wonderyou were at Winstermill fortress a week late. Still, far better late than absent. 
	Myhope for you is that you are safe, that you are taking to your tasks with easeand that you have found like-minded souls there to share in further adventures,of which I am sure you are having many more.
	DearMaster Fransitart is still determined to come to you.Time has done nothing to still his unease,and if, as you say, you know not of what troubles him, then I must confess tobe at a loss. Craumpalin is nohelp. He and dear Fransitart worry likeold women about you. In fact they seemto be having second thoughts about your life with the lamplighters, thoughsince you say you are settling to the routine there they may be lesstroubled. I shall write more on thiswhen I can. 
	Whatis joy, though, is that Master Craumpalin's restoratives have begun theirmarvels on your dear Master Fransitart and he suffers much less from thestrains and aches of his seafaring ways.Your old dispenser sent beyond the Marrow to his contacts (he calledthem) for the scripts, and they have answered wonderfully. I do not fret for dear Fransitart's fortunesso much should he travel now. 
	MasterCraumpalin is very happy with your report of how well his bothersalts performed.He bids me to insist that you keep applyinghis nullodour, that you wear it at all times no matter where you are at. This was the first time I ever heard of sucharrangements. I can only assume you knowof what he speaks. He was in seriousearnest when he declared this, so I offer you to take him at his word and do ashe bids. 
	Timefor writing letters has come to its end, as anything worthy must.
	Takegreat care of yourself.Return when youare at your liberty to do so. Foreveryour 
	
	Verline
	
	P.S.Dear little Petite Fig (I am sure youremember her -- how stoutly you defended her from the older boys). Well the dear little one said that last nightshe saw Gosling moving about the street out front, spying on us from the laneacross the way. Madam declared itimpossible, but sent Master Fransitart and Barthomaeus with him to see. Of course they found nothing, and we are allperplexed. Even the littlest fret, forhe has already become a frightful legend though gone only a month. I did hear that the lad had tried to reunitewith his family, but that they did not want him back. (Who could spurn their own child so? It defies fathoming, as Master Fransitartwould say.) So perhaps he has taken uploitering about here for want of anywhere else to go? I can only hope naught will come of it. The thought of his presence oppresses almostas much as when he lived with us. Fransitart will think of something. 
	Writeback to me soon.
	
	I wager he was hanging about thefoundlingery.It's the kind of weak prankhe would do. I am glad to be rid of him! Rossamund shook his head, banished anyfurther thoughts of his old foundlingery foe and reread the welcome missive. 
	Threnody looked at him and then at the paper.
	"You have received an amiable letter, I see," she said.
	"Aye, miss," he replied, "all the way from my oldhome."
	He was well aware that she had received no friendly communication fromhome:jealousy was writ clear on herface. With a slight cough, Rossamund putthe letter away and began to eat. 
	While pudding (figgy dowdy filled with raisins and all poured over with arunny, barely sweet sauce) was being served, a summons came for Threnody fromthe Lady Dolours.Still suffering herfever, the bane had remained as a guest of the Lamplighter_Marshal, watchingover the recovering Pandome and convalescing herself. The messenger -- a little lighter's boy, tooyoung to start his prenticing -- delivered his message with many a faltering"beg yer pardon" and clearing of the throat. 
	"I must go to take my alembants," Threnody declared toRossamund and, under the guidance of the small messenger, departed withoutanother word.As she left, every otherset of eyes but Rossamund's followed her and their gaze was not kind. She was going to take her plaudamentum, and whateverother draughts wits needed to keep their organs in check. Nowthat surely is an impostition!An image ofEurope blossomed in Rossamund's memory, of herailing by a dying fire, teeth blackened by the thick treacle she had drunk,dead grinnlings lying near. How glad hewas not to be dependent on such foul chemistry. 
	At the very end of mains was a brief period called castigations.This was time when the record of that day'sminor infringements was reiterated and impositions meted out. Following centuries-oldcustom, Grindrod stood at the large double doors of the mess hall and boomed,"Lamplighter-Sergeant-of-Prentices stands at the port!" An ancient civility: the prentices' mess hall was the refuge ofthe prentices alone, addressed by those of higher rank only after thesenior-most prentice had granted permission. The boys ceased whatever they were doing and sat up straight. Arabis stood. In a clear confident voice he called, "Cross the threshold and bearup to the hearth; this hall bids thee welcome!" 
	Courtesies complete, Grindrod entered into a fine display of regularmilitary step.With him cameWitherscrawl, walking with civilian slouch and bearing a great black ledger --the Defaulters List, in which each day's misdemeanors were marked. With a look of dark satisfaction,Witherscrawl stood before the great fire, opened the Defaulters List and staredshrewishly at the boys. "On thisMaria Diem, being the sixth of Pulvis, HIR 1601..." he began, andproceeded to call off all those caught for minor breaches and the appropriatedisciplines. 
	Rossamund waited for his own name to be called.He knew what was coming. 
	"Bookchild, Rossamund, prentice-lighter -- accused of wasting blackpowder and of mishandling his firelock, the penalty being one imposition ofscullery duties to be performed three nights hence on the ninth of this month,during the appropriate period."
	Pots-and-pans!
	The imposition was a guilty weight in Rossamund's innards.He had washed many a dish in his time at thefoundlingery, but not as a punishment. Rossamund stared straight ahead, not lowering his eyes or his chin. 
	
	** * * * 
	
	The next day, Threnody spoke very little to anyone but Rossamund, eventhen only briefly, as a mere acquaintance and not someone to whom she had baredher soul.The experiences ofNoorderbreech and Arabis had quickly schooled the other prentices to leave heralone, and most of the lads began to mutter against her, darkly declaring thatgirls should not be allowed to be lighters. Even so, there were still some secret doe-eyed looks sent her way, andmany sniggering asides when she left the mess hall morning and night to makeher treacles. Chin in air, the calendarignored them all, rather setting her attention firmly on learning her newtrade. She proved quickly that shealready possessed most of the skills required, and those few she did not knowshe was apt to learn. Despite havingnever marched in her life, it took no more than her first afternoon ofevolutions to step-regular with as much facility as the rest. It had taken the other prentices more than aweek and much cursing and bawling from Grindrod and Benedict to do thesame. Rather than being impressed, theboys resented her quick learning and smug self-awareness. Though there had been no open discussion, itbecame a general accord that none of them wanted her in his prentice-watch. 
	Moreover, Threnody's advent posed a disruption to the symmetry of themanse's fine lists, and any one of the three quartos might be lumbered withher.With the suspension of the nightlyprentice-watch, the question as to which Threnody would join remainedunanswered. 

	6
	The Lantern-Watch
	
	skold-shot( noun) leaden balls fired from either a musket orpistol, and treated with various concoctions of powerful venificants known asgringollsis, particularly devised for the destruction of monsters. These potives are corrosive, damaging thebarrels of the firelocks from which they are fired and eating gradually, yetsteadily, away at the metal of the ball itself. Left long enough, a skold-shot ball will dissolve completely away. Very effective against most nickers andbogles, some of the best gringollisis actually poison a monster to the degreethat it becomes vulnerable to more mundane weapons. 
	
	Aswinter deepened, the weather had steadily soured. Great squalling showers would blow up fromthe Grume, or heavy thunderheads roll in over the Sparrow Downs. On the second morning since the carriageattack and Threnody's arrival, the prentices stepped-regular for Morning Formingout on Evolution Square. The night's driving rain had blown away tothe northeast, leaving murky puddles and a low solemn sky, and Grindrod steppedover a small mire as he stood before them. 
	"The Lamplighter-Marshal and I have revised our conclusions,"he called to the two ranks, obediently still."Knowing yer way on the highroad is too important to yer survivalas full-fledged lighters. I told himthat ye should never fear to tread the highroad just because of a singletheroscade. Such is the lighter's life,gentlemen," he declared. "Nogood will come of keeping ye from it. Therefore, from tonight, the prentice-watch shall resume." 
	The murmur that inevitably buzzed among the prentices over breakfast wasmostly of excitement, though there was a groan or three of anxiousconcern.Some of the boys were quietlyhappy to be kept off the road with monsters threatening. Rossamund's six watch-mates showed off thebandages about their arms that covered the small droplet-shaped cruorpunxisthey had received the night before. Their marking had been done in evenstalls without much ceremony byNullifus Drawk, one of the manse's skolds and its only puctographist. Now even Wheede was boldly pronouncing to themore timorous, "Ye don't have to worry, chums, if a hob comes a-calling --we'll see him off for ye!" 
	For the remainder of the day, under the earnest eye of Benedict, theprentices practiced the handling of a fodicar as tool and as weapon:trail arms, port arms, order arms, shoulderarms, present arms, reverse arms, quarter arms, over and over. Once a fodicar had made no more sense inRossamund's hands than had a harundo stock at Madam Opera's. Effectual instruction and plenty of time topractice had seen him improve a little, though today this did not prevent himfrom fumbling badly once and nearly letting his lantern-crook fall to theground. 
	At four o'clock that afternoon, at the end of yet more fodicar drill, theprentices formed up on the square for Lale -- the time when that night'slantern-watch got ready to go out to lighting.Their backs to the Low Gutter, they waited anxiously as maids broughtout saloop and fruit for sustenance. Waiting for his food, Rossamund noticed Dolours standing under a treeover on the Officers' Green, wrapped thickly in furs and observing them allclosely. He looked to Threnody to see ifshe saw her clave-fellow too but the girl was making a distinct show of notnoticing the bane. Peering from Doloursto Threnody and back, Arabis and his cronies muttered dark things to each otherabout the unsuitability of women for the lighting service. 
	As a post-lentum arrived with its usual hullabaloo, Rossamund fidgetedand drank his saloop in nervous gulps.Lantern-watch was resuming on the very night his quarter was rostered toserve. Grindrod stood before them. One by one each lad was called forward and,after a pause, Threnody too. She was tobe bundled in with him, the other latecomer, to the dismay of his own quartoand the open relief of the other two, lifting their quarto's number toeight. Rossamund gave her a quick lookas they lined up before the others, but she kept her eyes front, ignoring him. 
	While Benedict continued drills with the fourteen left behind, Grindrodmarched Q Hesiod Gaeta to the gates, forming them up in the designated place onthe southern edge of the Grand Mead. Lampsmen Assimus, Bellicos and Puttingerwere waiting there to take them out for the night's lighting.
	Bellicos thrust a box into Rossamund's hands, saying simply, "Holdthis!"
	Taking it, Rossamund immediately felt a deep unquiet.Looking within he found it contained manymusket balls that shimmered a telltale blue-black rather than the usual dulllead-gray. Skold-shot!These werebullets treated with pestilent and mordant scripts -- poisons and distinct acidsmade to do monsters far greater harm than an ordinary ball ever could. 
	"Before going out tonight," the lampsman said sourly,"each of ye is to load yer fusil with one of these."With great respect, he took a pair of priversand, from the box Rossamund still gripped reluctantly, plucked out a singleball. He held it up for the prentices tosee. "Salt lead we call it, orskold-shot if you prefer. I want ye totake one from the box Master Lately here holds just as I have with these hereprivers, and load it into yer firelocks. Let's us give any nasty hobnicker a good cause to pause." 
	The prentices obeyed, all but Rossamund; he carried no fusil, for he hadthe salumanticum.He stood andobediently offered the box for the other lads. Each took a turn and a ball. Eventhe lampsmen and Grindrod took rounds, filling their own bullet bags fromit. When the loading was done, Rossamundwas grateful to pass the foul-smelling box back to Bellicos. 
	Grindrod seized Threnody with his steely stare."I am here to tell ye plain hard: if there's a peep of witting out of ye -- evena were fishing flutter -- you'll be out of the lighters with no comingback!" 
	The girl lighter frowned truculently in return, but thelamplighter-sergeant appeared not to notice.He paced before the quarto when they had returned their firelocks totheir shoulders. "It has beendecided that a leer should be sent with us to improve the security of yeprecious lambs. Not that we needed fancy-eyed gogglers to watchout for us when we were the lantern-sticks." 
	Assimus, Bellicos and Puttinger snickered.
	Rossamund struggled to imagine the lamplighter-sergeant as a fumbling,square-gating lantern-stick.
	"Ah!"Grindrod lookedtoward the manse. "Here struts thefellow now." 
	Leaving off a conversation with Dolours, a tall dark fellow steppedtoward them.He bore a finely madelong-rifle, wore a tall thrice-high upon his head and a dark coachman's cloakthat hid all other attire and accoutrements, including his boots. 
	Mister Sebastipole!Here at last was the lamplighter's agent whohad hired Rossamund back at Madam Opera's. He looked straight at Rossamund -- with those disquieting red and blueeyes that signified his status as a falseman -- as he stopped before theprentices, but if Sebastipole recognized him it did not show. 
	"Well, Lamplighter's Agent Sebastipole" -- there was a coolnessin the manner of Grindrod's address -- "are ye ready to coddle we lowlylighters?"
	"If you and your lampsmen are ready to depart, Grindrod,"Sebastipole replied evenly, "I am ready to coddle."The leer turned and bowed to the boys. "Good evening, prentices." 
	"Good evening, sir," they all responded, as was their duty.
	"Let us light the way."Sebastipole led the prentice-watch down the stonework of the Approach. With a sharp toss of his head the leer dranksomething from a small black bottle. Whether this was some special concoction to enhance senses or preventthe sthenicon's organs from growing up his nose, Rossamund could not know. Drawing in several solid sniffs, the leertook out his sthenicon from its wooden case under his cloak. Rossamund was certain he saw a hint ofdisgust as the leer strapped the ordinary-looking box to his face. 
	Rossamundbreathed in the frigid airs. The whole Harrowmath stretched about him, a 

	
	slightlyundulating moor of rippling, swaying reeds, weeds and grass.It stretched far south to the low, hazy fellsof the Sparrow Downs, and reached long into the north where paler greens gaveover to the great straw-gray expanse of Sulk End. This unbroken pastoral flatness continued allthe way around to the west where, on clearer days, great, distant windmillscould be seen, sails lazily turning. Rossamundhad observed these very mills from the Vestiweg after his escape from the Hogshead. To the east, the stark, diminishing line ofthe Wormway ran out from under Rossamund's feet. On it went with the merest curve, rightthrough the dark of the Briarywood and out the other side, on to the ancient,bald hills of the Tumblesloe Heap. Thereit disappeared into the mystery of the shadowy cleft of the Roughmarch. Though he had never ventured so far,Rossamund knew that over the Tumblesloes the Idlewild began. Normally he might admire the vista, but thisevening it held only threat. 
	With a heavy sigh, he dutifully followed his comrades.
	Down the approach they went, down on to the Pettiwiggin, dark with thechill gloom of Winstermill's late afternoon shadow.The line of twenty-four lanterns they had towind began here, at the bottom of the stonework ramp. Lantern East Winst 1 West Well 24 was thevery first lamp on the Wormway, and as such was treated to special honors,writhen with a confusion of curls and finials of skillfully wrought iron. It even bore two gretchen-globes at eitherside of the main lamp-bell. They weresmall examples of the phosphorescent pearls formed inside the bellies ofkraulschwimmen, spat out for brave divers to collect from murky seabeds. It was an ostentatious show of Imperialwealth that such precious items should be used to light this remote place. It was an equal show of the lamplighters'vigilance that the local banditry had never tried to steal them. Assimus and Bellicos wound out the bloom, forno prentice was ever allowed to touch this most prized of lights. 
	Watching with his fellows, Rossamund wondered at the strangely lumpyspheres of the gretchen-globes with their soft, innate radiance, disbelievingthat such beauty could come from the foul innards of some monstrous sea-beast.He looked to Threnody to see if she too wasamazed by these pearlescent lights, but she stood stock-still, arms foldedagainst the cold and all the world too. On the other side of her, Punthill Plod was nonchalantly inching closer,his rapt and imperfectly hidden admiration showing he did not share hismessmates' ill opinion of her. He wastrying so very hard not to look hopelessly, gormlessly smitten, and doing sucha poor job of it, even Rossamund could see his intent. 
	"Things of rare purity, are they not?" came a strange, almostsquashed voice behind them.
	Rossamund looked to find Sebastipole there, his face hidden behind itssthenicon, its flat wooden front looking blankly at the gretchen-globes.The young prentice wondered how the lightsmight appear through the bizarre device. 
	"Aye," he agreed, unsure if the leer remembered him.He spoke low to avoid Grindrod's attention. 
	As Assimus and Bellicos did their work, the lamplighter-sergeant wasloudly describing the winding to the prentices, a quick revision he performedat the beginning of every watch.
	"I have it on good authority," Sebastipole continued quietly,"that there are whole navies who use even more marvelous liaphobes thanthese as sea lights on the backs of their rams."
	"Aft-lanterns, sir."Rossamund could not help giving the correct term. It was as reflexive as a blink. 
	"Aft-lanterns?"
	"Aye, Mister Sebastipole, aft-lanterns are fixed to the framethrough the taffrail at the stern of a vessel."
	Threnody snorted dismissively."Know-it-all," she muttered. "You sound like an edition of Lot'sBooks." 
	"You remember me, I see."The leer looked pointedly at Rossamund, passing over Threnody'saside. "Glad to see you made it tous after all. Bravo. I should know better than to misname theparts of a ram in the company of a marine-society lad." Even through thestrange sonics of the sthenicon, the leer's humble pleasure at Rossamund'srecognition was obvious. 
	"Altogether too much lip-flapping happening," Grindrod barked,addressing Rossamund and Threnody and conveniently ignoring that Sebastipoleoutranked him."Are ye wanting moreimpositions, lippy-lucies?" 
	"No, Lamplighter-Sergeant!"
	"Then attend to the winding, lantern-sticks, or ye'll attend aweek's worth of the foulest duties my cunning can devise!Have ye got me?" 
	"Aye, Lamplighter-Sergeant!"
	Grindrod gave Sebastipole a quick and frosty look.
	The leer made no comment.
	The lantern now glowing, the prentice-watch moved on, each watchman -- manand boy -- keeping a full fodicar's length between the next:the correct drill-book formation. The official wisdom had it that such spacinggave each lighter room to swing his lantern-crook, and the nicker a harder timeattacking more than one lighter at once. This practice went against the natural urge to bunch together forprotection, and Grindrod was continually correcting their gaps as the boysinstinctively drew close to each other. "Step back there, Wheede! Yewant to march behind the fellow, not take him home to yer mammy! If ye were any closer, Plod, I'd have toseparate ye and Pillow with a chisel!" 
	It was proving to be a drizzled, windy night.The Harrowmath sounded alive with the hissand rush of southerly gusts through its grasses, accompanied by the tunefulbuzzing of a rabble of frogs sending their sweet night music into thegloaming. And with this, along the gapof road between each lamp, the gritty, crunching unison footfalls of theregular-stepping prentice-watch added its own even rhythm. 
	Rossamund felt safer with Sebastipole at the work tonight.The leer swayed his sthenicon left and right,left and right, as they moved away from the manse -- a thorough, never ceasingreconnaissance. 
	At Lantern East Winst 8 West Well 17, Rossamund was required to wind outthe bloom, his shortened fodicar just barely reaching the ratchet.Twice he tried getting the crank-hook intothe ratchet housing way above him in the crown of the lamp. Twice he failed, the hook end uselessly hittingthe outer bracket of the housing and failing to slot home. Rossamund had been issued this shorterlantern-crook in the belief that he could not handle one of full size, yet ithad proved inadequate for the task. Winding out the bloom was one of the hardest skills to learn and a toolthat barely reached the ratchet did not make it any easier. 
	The other prentices shuffled in the cold and groaned their impatience.
	"Thank ye for the wait, Rosey!"
	"Master Come-any-later-and-we'll-be-here-till-Chill-ends!"
	Even the lampsmen shuffled their feet as they watched and grumbledtestily.
	"What ails ye, Master Lately?" fumed Sergeant Grindrod."If ye cannot get the crook in the hole,then what business have ye being a lighter? Ye boys'll be the end o' me afore I can make ye fit for lighting!" 
	Rossamund could not help but agree.As he was about to fumble a third time, Threnody stepped up. Her expression dared Grindrod to argue. She took the fodicar in a firm hand andguided it true. The hook end connectedinto the ratchet with that pleasant, snug, metal-on-metal sensation that toldit was properly engaged. 
	"Ah... Thank you, miss," Rossamund breathed.Shame-faced, he lifted the lantern-crook upfor three ticks of the gears and let it fall under its own weight; lift and letfall -- up tow three, down two three it went, to work the gears that wound outthe bloom. 
	The other prentices were stunned to muteness by Threnody's actions.
	Threnody said nothing and stepped away, keeping apart from the otherlighters.
	"Well, by front door or back, one still gets into the house,"Grindrod was clearly amused."Windit out faster, lantern-stick, there's only a set count of hours in a night!' 
	With much puffing and aching arms, Rossamund did his duty, the lamprewarding his effort with a gradual increasing gleam, and the prentice-watchmoved on.Behind them the broodingsafety of Winstermill, with its thousand lamps and window-lights, diminishedwith every vialimn lit. 
	At East Winst 15 West Well 10, Rossamund fared better with the winding,and at her own lights Threnody displayed her natural facility, working theratchet with ease.
	The glow of Lantern East Winst 17 West Well 8 on the approach to theBriarywood was discovered, once it was wound out, to have become a purulentyellow-green.The seltzer water had beengradually deteriorating. 
	Time to change the seltzer, justlike a bright-limn.
	A clothbound record was produced from Bellicos' satchel and the lantern'sstate recorded for Wellnigh House's seltzermen to attend to the next day.The wind gathered pace as this was done,buffeting out from icy storehouses down in the southeast, making ears noisywith its passing and quieting frog song. On the walk again, Rossamund twisted and craned his neck to relieve hishearing from the gusting airs, desperate to catch suspicious, dangeroussounds. Sebastipole kept at hisceaseless vigilance. 
	Too soon they reached the Briary, its tops creaking in the wind but atits roots deathly still.The pyre ofnicker corpses was a soggy charred mass that, even after three days, hissed andsteamed with incomplete combustion. Wet woodysmells sat heavy in the atmosphere. Itwas as if the threwd had worsened, not diminished; that the killing of thehorn-ed monsters in the wood had only stirred that place, not quelled it. Even the hardheaded, stonehearted Grindrodfelt the horrors tonight. The lampsmenhurried the prentices through, insisting upon winding the great-lanterns herethemselves to save time and their nerves. At each winding Rossamund truly expected Sebastipole to cry out that anicker was nigh upon them -- yet he did not. 
	With Phoebe lifting her nightly shrinking face over the darkling hills,the prentice-watch found themselves gratefully passing the great fuming censersof Wellnigh House and entering the safety of the cothouse confines.
	"How was it?" one of the house-watch asked.
	"The threwd grows," was Bellicos' curt reply.
	"Aye," the house-watchman returned, "don't it always,these days?"

	7
	Morning To Mourning
	
	burges( noun) small flags for signaling, made in sets of distinct patterns for therepresentation of letters, numbers, cardinal points, titles of rank or socialelevation, even whole words. The colorof a burge is first and foremost for distinction, though the meaning of thecolors can be inferred if a small multistripe, multicolored flag -- known as theparti-jack -- is flown with them. Burgesare used for both civil and military purposes on land and the vinegar seas. 
	
	Asit had been on their previous prentice-watches, Rossamund's quarto was rudelyawoken before the sun had properly started its own day. In the hurry of breakfast Rossamund thankedThrenody for her help with his lantern-crook. 
	"I could not help myself," she said a little stiffly."It is the way of a calendar: strive against the oppressor, relieve thoseoppressed, work for those who cannot afford a teratologist's labors, feed themthat cannot afford the food, give roof to the roofless, a bed to thebedless." She spoke her creed withthe monotone of rote learning. 
	The prentices were blessed with a friendly greeting from Sebastipole asthey formed up to leave, a profound contrast to the surliness of Assimus,Bellicos and Puttinger.The leer at thelead, out went the lantern-watch, out into the early gray when the air seemsespecially clear and still and cheeks hurt with the cold and everyone speaks ina hush; out to quell the lights for the glory of Ol' Barny once more. Dawning glimmers expanded to an astonishingrosy brilliance as they returned -- as they must -- through the Briary's broodingshadows. 
	Red dawning, traveler's warning...
	Even the hard veteran lampsmen kept quiet and looked often to theleer.Rossamund was sure he heardsuspicious rustlings and rattlings in the winter-barren woods, thick withfaintly luminous fogs, but Sebastipole did not give an alarm. 
	Out on the raised dike-road of the Harrowmath and free of theclaustrophobic thicket, the prentice-watch walked a little easier.From some hidden roost in the wild pasturesthe occasional lonely trilling of a wagtail echoed about the quiet. At lamppost East Winst 5 West Well 20 -- onlyfour more lamps till they could consider themselves safe within the fire arcsof the manse's great-guns -- Grindrod allowed them to take their ease. For a moment they sat on the roadside to sipat skins of water, chew on hardened slogg-porridge and liten to the tinkle of arunnel that flowed under the highroad. Called the Dribble, it apparently came from boggy ground to the north,went through a pipe beneath them in the dike's foundations and down to a smallmarsh known as Old Man's Itch in the south. Rossamund loved its bubbling melody and was grateful they had stopped byit. 
	Only Sebastipole did not stand easy, but took a quick drink through atube stuck into his sthenicon and resumed his silent survey.Something in the gloom of the Briarywoodthrough which they had passed only a little more than an hour before seemed tofix his attention. Noticing the leer'spointed stare, Rossamund tried to discover what lay there. Surelynot a monster?All he could see wasthe thick mist condensing up from the grasses and settling over the highroad. However, he did spy a hard-covered transportemerging from the rising fume. It was aboot truck pulled by a fully shabraqued mule hurrying as fast along thePettiwiggin as the fractious creature could manage. 
	"First traffic of the day," called Bellicos."Clear the way!" This was redundant, for all of theprentice-watch were sitting easy on steep verges. 
	"He cracks on apace!" spat Assimus.
	Though it was still a fair way off, the broad blue and white stripes thatcovered its windowless sides could be easily spotted.It was a butcher's wagon; something thatbelonged in a town or city. 
	"He is out of his normal pond," Puttinger mused.
	"What business has a butcher got in the early morn on hauntedroads?" Bellicos wondered aloud.
	"I reckon I've seen him and his before," Assimus posited."Comes and leaves from the manse twiceor thrice a year, more frequent yet ever since the oldComptroller-Master-General left." 
	The approaching vehicle did not distract Sebastipole.He pushed at one of the three small, slottedlevers on the side of his sthenicon and kept staring beyond it, farther downthe road. After a long, far-lookingscrutiny, he pushed at the biologue box again from the other side. "We must hurry ourselves, Lamplighter-Sergeant,"the leer said carefully, precisely. "There is a good reason for that truck's speed: it has picked up a follower." 
	"At what cardinal, leer?" Grindrod gruffed.
	"Directly east."
	The lamplighter-sergeant took out his perspective glass, a privilege ofhis rank, and took in the view indicated."Shadows within shadows," he growled obstinately after athorough scrutiny. "I see naught totrouble us." 
	"Yet there is troublethere," Sebastipole persisted patiently. "It remains in the fogs but will emerge soon enough. You must move now, man! There is an umbergog eagerly on thatbutcher's slot!" 
	An umbergog!Rossamund was gripped with fascination anddread. Umbergogs were reputed to beamong the largest of the land-walking nickers, some bigger even than ettins andfar more cantankerous and misanthropic. The only ettin he had met had not seemed mean at all, rather sad andconfused. He could see something there,emerging at the edge of clarity, clearly enormous and coming their way. 
	"Though our follower is still nigh on two miles distant,"Sebastipole said, never moving his gaze from the distant menace, "it ismoving extraordinarily fast.I suggestyou pick up the rate -- quickstep or double-quick, Mister Grindrod, and leaveoff the learning and the dousing till a friendlier day." 
	Grindrod bridled, but nevertheless he said, "Aye, leer, goodadvice--"
	"Not again!" quailed Crofton Wheede, too frightened to carethat he had interrupted the lamplighter-sergeant.
	"What's the chance of two theroscades within a week?" whimperedGiddian Pillow.
	"Steady, lads, steady," Grindrod cautioned."Ye faced 'em four nights gone and ye'lldo it again today if needs be. Now toyer marching -- we'll beat this nasty hugger-mugger home yet! The basket is still a goodly way thatway," he said, pointing open-palmed, soldier fashion, to his left. "And we have but three parts of a mileto succor and security at the opposite point. Keep yer dressing and eyes forward if ye want to avoid trouble: a threat near or far should never be allowedto ruin good and steady order! By theleft! At the double-quick, march! " 
	So they marched fast, Threnody keeping pace with the best of them.Frequently Sebastipole halted to assess thethreat, the lampsmen watching him almost as often, waiting hawklike for hisreaction. Each time he simply spurredthe prentice-watch on. 
	"How is it," Rossamund heard Puttinger wheeze in his thick Gottaccent, "that the basket does not go for the pile of charbroiled corpsesin the Briary?"
	"The stinker finds something more to its likin' in the butcher'sbuggy, I reckon," Bellicos offered.
	The butcher's truck rushed past with a noisy clatter even as theprentices themselves fled.The driverand the side-armsman were muffled up to the nose against the chill, their eyesunfriendly, frightened and staring ahead. The donkey was gasping, near blown, but still they pushed it as if allthe blightlings and baskets of the Ichormeer pursued them. In its flight it left a faint unfriendlytrail of moldering meat smells and the faintest whiff of something foul andhorrifyingly familiar -- Swine's lard!
	A nauseous chill rushed through Rossamund's innards.He wrestled off the horrors, his memorylurching back to rever-men slavering in a vessel's dark hold. Buthere?He cleared his head with ashake. 
	"I reckon I recognize 'I'm," Crofton Wheede gasped."He's the knacker from the woods aboveHinkersiegh where my sires are from. What's 'e doing all the way here?" 
	Almost immediately a horizontal gout of smoke erupted from the mansefollowed by the small thunder of cannon, which sent clouds of startled birdsbursting into the gelid morning with a great clamor from every hide and rooston the Harrowmath.The fortress wasfiring one of its long-guns, seeking the prentice-watch's startledattention. Burges were run up beneathOl' Barny, small flags lit bright in this clear morning and signaling the samewarning Sebastipole had just issued. 
	Bellicos pointed to the signal a cried out, "There's a nicker on the Harrowmath!"
	Behind, Rossamund heard Sebastipole say, as if to himself, "As Isaid..."
	"So yer prescient observation shows true, leer.Well done to ye." The lamplighter-sergeant did not actuallysound pleased or impressed. 
	The prentices kept bravely at their marching, but began to look aboutwildly, losing what was left of their even gait, quickly ceasing tostep-regular altogether.Rossamundstepped directly into Tremendus Tworp's broad back, receiving a blow to hischin and nose from the lad's flabby shoulder blade. Threnody managed to gracefully avoid thecollision. 
	"Reform yer file, ye clod-footed blunderers!" Grindrod barkedangrily.He looked back. "Where is the beast?" He looked again through his glass and musthave found something, for he said, "What an ugly article..." With a grunt, Grindrod passed the perspectiveglass to Bellicos. 
	With eight hundred yards still between them and Winstermill's sturdygates, some hulking thing was emerging from the fog.It had gained on them alarmingly. Even at a distance Rossamund could see itsgiant size: a lumbering brute with agreat spread of spikes about its head. And how fast its massive legs did carry it! Even as they watched it seemed to drawcloser. 
	"I reckon it's the Herdebog Trought!" wheezed Bellicos with thecautious calm of a hardened campaigner."Even from here I can recognize the basket. I remember it from its rampagings in'87." 
	"Can't be!" muttered Assimus."It's meant to have been chased by the Columbines all the way upinto the northern marches of the Gluepot and destroyed there." 
	"It's coming! "Wheede shrieked. 
	The other prentices whimpered.
	"I don't want to die by the jaws of a nicker..." burbled Tworp.
	"Cease yer panicking!"Lamplighter-Sergeant Grindrod bellowed. "I've been in far tighter contests than this." 
	"Grindrod!" Sebastipole barked, surprisingly clear from hisboxed face."With Puttinger, takethe prentices back to the manse as quickly as you think they can stand. Assimus and Bellicos and I shall be rearguard. Go now, Lamplighter-Sergeant --there's not a moment to lose!" 
	The lamplighter-sergeant repeated the orders as if they were hisown.The prentices hurried away; thedouble pace doubled again, leaving Sebastipole and the two lampsmen to do whatthey might to put the beast off. At EastWinst 3 West Well 22 the prentices paused, panting like overworked dogs. Rossamund looked back, and his eyes wentsaucerlike. 
	The umbergog was bearing down at a prodigious speed now, pulling itselfalong with the assistance of its long powerful arms.Less than two lantern-spans were between itand the rear guard. Half as tall againas the ettin Rossamund had met in the Brindleshaws, this nicker was like someenormous malformed deer, its great antlers spreading out above its head like aregiment of pikes. Its hide, knotted andmatted in thick curling beards about its chin, throat and down its chest, waslike clots of dirty pale brown felt. Theblack fur about its small, weeping, rage-red eyes radiated down its cheek likepoints on a wind rose. It gave vent to abellow like the lowing of a mighty, maniac bull, its hot breath expelled intothe cold as billows of yellow steam. 

	
	"At the doubled-double now.Lead on, Mister Puttinger." Grindrod hung back. "I'll keepan eye out rearward." 
	The prentices hustled forward, barely held panic spurring them.The thump of a long-gun pounded ahead ofthem, and the metal it threw flew close enough for Rossamund to hear itsunnerving, shuddering whine. The gunnersof the fortress clearly thought the beast close enough to try their aim. The shot struck the earth to the north of theroad, tearing a gap in the weeds and sending up a small spray of root-cloggedsoil well to the right of the charging monster. 
	Assimus, Bellicos and Sebastipole each discharged their locks though theywere well out of range, then retreated at a run.
	"Mister Puttinger, take the boys on," Grindrod ordered."I will stay to aid the rearguard." 
	"Yes, Lamplighter-Sergeant!" the old lampsman cried obediently.
	Threnody made to hold back too as Grindrod dropped behind; she wasfearless and clearly itching to do her part.
	"Keep up, girly!" Puttinger hollered with quick fury, andgrudgingly she picked up her pace again.
	The prentices were running now in line, a maneuver for which they had hadlittle training.Soon their formationwas only a ragged farce of a file. Yetwhat they lacked in skill they compensated for in speed. Straggling, struggling to breathe, they werenear enough to the fortress now to hear the terrible, distant baying of themanse's dogs lusting to be let at the mighty beast. With this came the distant clattering ofalarm posts tumbled out on drums, and the dong-dong-dongof the warning bell hung high in the Specular, the bell tower of the southerngatehouse. Yet as close as they were,Rossamund doubted they could reach the manse in time. The battlements buzzed and milled withagitation as little, far-off people called encouragement from the walls. 
	"Leg it, lads!Leg it!" 
	Soldiers began firing from the ramparts, their muskets cracking hot butdoing little more than fouling the air with their fumes.A few spent balls thwipped through thetangled grasses on either side of the road, posing more danger to the boys thanthe beast, and the ragged shooting soon stopped. 
	Ahead of them the butcher's truck kept at its cracking pace, the windeddonkey whipped to push beyond all endurance.It neared the Approach and the succor of Winstermill, and Rossamundbitterly wished he was upon it; yet instead of going up the steep ramp, thetruck clattered on to disappear into the Bowels beneath the fortress. 
	At the head of the prentices' line, Crofton Wheede stumbled as the roadchanged from tamped clay to pavers of dressed stone.He tripped out of file, dragging GiddianPillow with him. The other prenticesavoided the tumble, but Rossamund proved less nimble. Wheede's toppling fodicar caught him aboutthe shin and pulled him down. He saw aglimpse of gray sky and whirling horizon and hit the ground with a lazy puff offine road-dust, his hat spinning off into the Harrowmath grass. A deft roll and Rossamund was up on his feetagain looking east, then west, then east again. Threnody slowed, this time to help him, fright now clear on her face,but the other prentices ran on, screaming panicked encouragements over theirshoulders. Wheede and Pillow scrabbledto their feet and were off like hares from a covert, pelting after the otherswithout a rearward look, deserting fodicars, fusils, knapsacks, even a mess-kidin their renewed flight. Red-faced andgasping, Puttinger half-turned but, seeing the lads back on their feet,continued his own retreat. 
	With quick glances left and right, Rossamund could see that he was notgoing to get away.None of themwere: not Sebastipole nor Grindrod northe lampsmen dashing after them, not even Puttinger and the fleeingprentices. Only the butcher's truck wassafe -- the very one that had brought this terror. Surely there was something he could do otherthan run uselessly? Surely he couldattempt something to help his fellows escape? 
	From his salt-bag he took out one of two leakvanes he carried.The small box contain two scripts separatedby a heavy film of treated velvet. Whenmixed these burst into a repellent of the foulest kind. He had never used a leakvane, nor even seenone till he joined the lighters, and under less testing circumstances mighthave hesitated to try it. Yet, withcarelessness born of necessity, Rossamund pulled the red velvet tab that keptthe two volatiles apart and hurled the box as far as he could -- a surprisingway for so small a lad. The leakvanelanded with a skipping bounce on the Pettiwiggin, falling between him and theretreating lampsmen. Rossamund had noidea how long it would take for the chemistry to erupt from it and only hopedit would not go off till after the men had passed over. 
	The guns of Winstermill spoke again, five deep, rippling coughs, boomingso close in succession they were almost one sound.The distinct and frightening how oftwenty-four-pounder cannon shot came high and to the right. Three shots went well wide. One glanced off the umbergog's right arm toricochet crazily into the Harrowmath hay. The last was a direct hit. Itstruck squarely in the monster's ribs with a thick, dull slap, forcing acoughing belch from the Trought. Thecreature's flesh rippled violently under the blow, but the shot did notpenetrate and dropped uselessly to the road. The umbergog staggered and bellowed at the buzzing walls ofWinstermill. A thin cheer of manysmaller voices answered it faintly from the battlements. 
	Before the beast the four men of the rear guard fled, and as they ran theleakvane burst prematurely ahead of them with a hissing pop.Too soon it sent out a foul, warding steam, asmoking hedge that hung between Rossamund and the senior lighters. They waved their arms angrily and theprentice could hear Grindrod's indignation carry on the wind. 
	"What are ye doing, ye twice-stunted ape!" he roared."Are ye trying to trap and killus?" 
	The leer leaped through the repellent and, following his lead, Bellicosdarted about the side of the boiling smoke.So encouraged, Assimus and the lamplighter-sergeant hastily followed. 
	The fortress guns boomed a third time.The tearing shriek of their shots quickly followed. 
	With surprising and terrifying dexterity the beast ducked their fire andsprang forward, leaping nearly one hundred yards, as Rossamund could tell it,in that single bound.
	"Run!" Sebastipole commanded."Perhaps your chemistry will purchase us a little space!" 
	Puttinger and the prentices were near Winstermill's precipitate ramp;perhaps they would be safe after all?Rossamund could only wish he were among them. 
	The umbergog was closing.Only asingle lantern-span and the clouds of leakvane repellent stood between. The young prentice was sure he could feel itspowerful footfalls through the paving of the Pettiwiggin, yet when he dared arearward look the creature had slowed. The smoke of the leakvane had been spread about by contrary breezes, andthe reek boiled broadly over the road, going down either side of the dike andinto the thick weeds. The Trought wasobviously confounded and pulled short stupidly, turning its dripping nose up atthe fume. So close and so tall was thecreature that it eclipsed the rising sun. 
	The leer, the prentice and the three lighters ran.They had not gone far when Rossamund realizedwith horror that somehow Threnody was still behind them, making a stand beforethe hefty beast. Even now she tookcareful aim at the giant with her fusil while it sniffed bemusedly at theleakvane's brume. Realizing whatThrenody was doing, Sebastipole pulled up and turned, unshouldering, cockingand sighting his long-rifle in a single, easy action. 
	Hiss-CRACK!went Threnody's fusil, its gun-smoke acrid,the sound of Sebastipole's own fire quickly following. 
	One of the shots was true,Itstruck the umbergog just as the brute was daring to push through the broilingbarrier of repellent. The monster gave amighty yelp far out of proportion with the smallness of the hit and staggeredback, cracking the paving with its footfall and sending up a spray of graveland dust. 
	Such was the sting of skold-shot.
	With gloved hands, the leer instantly took another skold-shot ball from acartridge box hung over his shoulder and, quick and cool, reloaded hislong-barreled firelock.
	Ahead of them Threnody did the same.
	"I would appreciate it if you would come away now, m'dear,"Sebastipole called to her, but she did not acknowledge.
	The nicker, its abdomen now splattered with new-flowing gore, bounded atthem, head up, mouth gaping, its ponderously oversized antlers pointing widealong its back.Rossamund could feel thepounding of it mighty strides shaking the road beneath his feet. 
	Undaunted, both Threnody and Sebastipole coolly fired again.
	Hisss-C-CRACK!No more than a hundred yards from the, a goutof ichor came from the top of the umbergog's head, a piece of shattered antlerspun off. A prodigious shot, whosoeverit was. The beast cried its agony againas it was sent headlong, sprawling upon its knees across the road and slidingdown into the Harrowmath. 
	Sebastipole, seeing Rossamund, called, "if you have another of thoseleakvane boxes, I suggest you employ it now -- we could do with the help, Ithink."
	Rossamund quickly produced the second leakvane from hissalumanticum.He pulled its red velvettab, gave it a brisk shake and tossed the little box a short way up the road. 
	"Now, let us be off!" Sebastipole cried.
	The Herdebog Trought was getting to its feet again, pulling itself up bythose powerful arms, coughing and snuffling and shaking its great, bloodiedhead.
	As they ran, Sebastipole put himself between the monster and the twoprentices.
	Rossamund fossicked about in his salt-bag for a dose of Frazzard'spowder.He did not know how it mightwork on a nicker so big, but some potive in hand, however inadequate, felt farbetter than none. He looked back overhis shoulder. 

	Half standing, the Herdebog Trought peered at Rossamund, Threnody and thevaliant leer as if seeing them for the first time, then at the fleeinglamplighters, almost to the Approach now, almost home.It seemed puzzled, sniffing once more at theair, stooping to smell the ground and casting about confusedly. Rossamund did not get the same sense of puremalignancy from this creature as he did from the horn-ed nickers. The umbergog felt driven more by anger thanmalice. 
	The second leakvane burst at last with a whoof! of toxic smoke. Giving a wild bovine shout, the startled monster leaped up and overthem, passing close overhead. With agreat shudder of the ground and cracking of flagstones it landed on theopposite side of their small group. Bysome cause of Providence,the Herdebog Trought had let them be. Itlumbered away down the Pettiwiggin, covering a prodigious distance even asRossamund watched, its attention fixed on the tunnel-mouth into which thebutcher's van had fled. 
	Grindrod and the two lampsmen were close to the fortress now.They had caught up with the prentices, whowere struggling to make the last few dozen yards. The nicker was gaining on them all. The musketry resumed on the walls. Puffs of dirt flicked up as balls missed ordeflected from the monster's shaggy hide. 
	Rossamund could just see Bellicos turn and stand his ground.He cried something over his shoulder andflourished a pistol. There was a tinypuff of thick white from his hand and a pathetic pop of pistol shot. 
	The nicker hesitated.It must havebeen hit. 
	But one shot form such a sidearm, skold-shot or otherwise, could neverstop such a gargant -- not even Sebastipole or Threnody's fine aim had managedthat -- and the beast recovered in an instant.
	Sebastipole loaded and fired his long-rifle as quick as he might insupport of the lampsman, scoring a glancing hit on the monster's rump, a fineshot that did naught to stop it.
	Wailing "No!"Rossamund watched helpless as the Troughtgalloped forward and caught up Bellicos in its gangling violence, crumpling andcrushing the fellow as it ran on, flinging what remained to the eightwinds. A cry of indignant dismay camefrom the watchers on the wall. Bravelythe fellow had stood and bravely he had fallen, gaining a precious little spacefor his comrades. 
	With Grindrod, the two remaining lighters and the prentices still on theroad, the umbergog was upon them.Yetjust as it had disregarded Sebastipole, Threnody and Rossamund, the nickerignored the prentice-watch too as the scattered either side of the conduit intothe concealing weeds below. The beaststayed fixed on the Bowels and, ignoring all the firelocks firing, lumberedright up to the great gap in the foundations. The trought was too big to fit within, and reached into the tunnel withits great arms, bellowing into the cavity in rage. There was a clamorous ring of metal as theponderous grille was let to drop on the umberbog's questing limb. Roaring, clearly wounded in head and body,the beast wrenched free of the pinning portcullis. 
	The yowling of the dogs became louder as the heavy bronze portals of Winstermillwere swung open to release a company of troubardiers, the manse's entirecomplement.They were led by Josclin,the lighter's only scourge. His entirehead was wrapped with protective bandages of potive-treated fascins. The soldiers with him stepped high andstoutly, going out to defend their brothers, long spittendes -- barbed,cross-pieced pikes -- ready in their hands, their boots clattering on thedressed stone of the Approach. 
	Another was with them, wrapped in a cloak of orange, blue and white.It was the lady Dolours, without her wings,her bald head wrapped in a soft cap. Standing on the edge of the ramp and looking down on the Trought, sheraised a hand to her forehead. Rossamundsuddenly feared for the Trought's life: regardless of poor Bellicos, he was sure the beast did not deserve suchan end. Fully expecting the poor Troughtto expire instantly, he was amazed when the hugeous thing stumbled away fromthe fortress, slipping down the side of the highroad dike. 
	Why does she not kill it?
	Rossamund could see Plod and Wheede huddled on the same side of the road,frozen in confusion, wailing their fright.Close by, the Trought, equally distressed, collapsed to its haunches inthe grass of the Harrowmath, steam rising from the heaving back into themorning cold. 
	The troubardiers pressed forward with a derisive yell.Spittendes lowered in bristling threat, theyformed on the road with dangerous alacrity. The scourge stepped before them, standing on the verge, twirling a slingfilled with some deadly potive. Tenyards from the panting beast he gave a shout and flung his chemistry. The nicker raised an arm to ward off thehissing projectile, and the potive struck it with a dirty splash. The Trought recoiled screaming as part of itsforearm was dissolving to the bone. Evenits ponderous mass was not enough to save it from the ancient script. 
	The troubardiers charged down the side of the dike with a battle-yell,joined by the yammering dogs led by their handlers from the gate, and by the jeersof the lighters on the wall.Threnodyshouted with them, thrilling to the hope of victory soon won, thrilling to thehope of revenge. Rossamund just watched,not knowing who to feel sad for: man orbeast. 
	At last the monster half turned and staggered to its feet for severalheavy steps, then made off into the long grass of the Harrowmath.With pestilential steam streaming from thebubbling stump of its left arm it fled north, faster than the heavy pediteers couldfollow. The dogs were let go at last,great black tykehounds dashing out from the fortress and down the Approach,past the ranks of the troubardiers, to chase the wounded creature down and holdit at bay. Cheers grew louder, greathoots of victory from the men on the walls, many shouting the lead dog's names. 
	"Fly, Druker!"
	"At 'em, Griffstutzig!"
	"Get the masher, boys!"
	The troubardiers halted at the base of the dike and gave voice to anothercry as the Herdebog Trought quit the scene.
	In the awful silence that followed, Rossamund retrieved his hat from thesouthern slope of the highroad.Tornbetween his grief for Bellicos and for the Trought, he joined Threnody andSebastipole as they returned hastily to the manse. For much of the way no one said anything, theprentice hugging himself as his awareness of the cold returned. 
	"Will they kill it, sir?" he asked in a small voice.
	"Most certainly," Sebastipole returned."The brute has killed one of our own andmust be slain in turn." 
	Kill or be killed, wentRossamund's thoughts. "Oh," hesaid aloud. "That was some frankshooting, sir," he ventured after a lengthy silence. He said the words with said yet genuineadmiration, trying hard to ignore the red stains of Bellicos' pointless ruin onthe road. "And you too, miss,"he said to Threnody. 
	Flushed, staring out toward the far-off, fleeing umbergog, Threnody hadsaid nothing since her valiant stand.She now gave a zealous, self-satisfied smile. "I just wish it had been doglocks in myhands and not a fusil," she said warmly. 
	In his turn the leer bowed his head in thanks for Rossamund'scompliment."Improved aim is one ofthe genuine boons of this vile biologue," Sebastipole said mildly as heremoved his sthenicon with a sucking intake of breath. For several beats the leer seemed as if he hadbeen struck a heavy blow, slowing his pace, dazed and blinking rapidly. "But you, young woman, have clearly gota fine eye," he finally continued, still giving his head small, violentshakes. The sthenicon was returned toits ordinary-looking box, and a kerchief produced into which Sebastipole blewhis nose over and over. "And I thank you both for standingstoutly with me through it." Heacknowledged them both with an admiring nod and Threnody smiled again, clearlythinking she could now take her place among the men. 
	Rossamund did not feel so confident."I am so sorry for the leak vane bursting too quick, sir. It was--" 
	"Not another thought, young sir!" Sebastipole insisted."It was well intended and did its trickin the end. Tarbinaires like thoseleakvanes of yours are contraptions even in the wisest hands." 
	Dolours came down to them as they walked up the Approach, full of concernfor her mistress's daughter.She went towrap an arm around Threnody, but the girl bristled and with an angry soundrefused the bane's comfort. Dolourslooked to the heavens for a moment and followed. 
	Within the manse's fortified bosom, they found Grindrod and theprentice-watch gathered safe at last, formed up on Evolution Square as if theyhad just returned from a typical lantern-dousing.Every boy looked exhausted, harrowed; mostbore tear stains on their cheeks. Crofton Wheede still wept even as he tried to hide it. 
	The lamplighter-sergeant was doing his best to console the traumatizedboys."Well, ye lads have surelyhad a violent passage through yer prenticing..." It was with almost obvious relief that heturned his attention to Rossamund. "As for ye, Master Come-lately, ye're a fool of fools, boy! I'll have yer gizzards for gaiter straps forputting yer vile puffings in our way! Ithought it was the end of me! Of all thesponge-headed bedizened... Were youtrying to kill us all?" 
	"That will be enough, sergeant-lighter," Sebastipole warned,becoming very grave."You know verywell the placing of the leakvane was intended only to deter the nicker and giveus a screen to retreat behind." 
	"I'll remind ye, Sebastipole," Grindrod said, leaning into theleer's face, "that the prentices are my charge--"
	"And I'll remind you,Grindrod, that both you and they aremine," returned the lamplighter's agent, stepping to a gratefulRossamund's side. 
	Grindrod stared at Sebastipole and then changed his tack."Fine bit of marksmanship, leer,"he said. "Almost as good as thegirl." 
	Sebastipole simply blew his nose and turned his attention toRossamund.He gave the prentice anowlish look. "It has been apleasure to serve with you, young master Rossamund." He smiled politely. "I go to join the inevitable coursingparty. We will trap it and so bring itsend. Thank you again for yourassistance, sir." He looked over atThrenody, who stood silent on the edge of the group, unsure how to joinin. "And you, young woman. I would happily have either of you at my sideon any future outing." 
	Rossamund was even more confounded.This was high praise, but it left him terribly troubled. What part had he played in what was to be theTrought's ineluctable end? The killingof the horn-ed nickers had seemed right, necessary, but the Trought'sdestruction brought only baffled dismay. Indeed, Rossamund felt most angry at the butchers, for baiting thebeast. Was it really swine's lard I smelled?
	Threnody did not answer either, but stood with arms folded and chinraised.
	Mister Sebastipole was quickly away, clearly intent on joining the groupthat was forming by the gate, eager to hunt the nicker that had just slain oneof their own.The clamor of thetykehounds could still be heard coming distantly from the Harrowmath. 
	Grindrod bent right down into Rossamund's face."Ye, sir, will never make it to lampsmanif ye get in the way of yer fellow lighters and near cause their deaths." 
	Rossamund fumed silently.He haddone all he could to protect and defend his fellows. Mister Sebastipole had said he had donerightly; he would not back down. Nevertheless, he was wise enough to not speak. He knew what little good it would do him. 
	"Ye can forget yer Domesday vigil tomorrow, lantern-stick!" thelamplighter-sergeant hissed."Pots-and-pans for ye all day. Think yerself well off, for I would cheerfully make it worse!" 

	8
	Pots-And-Pans
	
	evolutionstraining in the correct movements in marching and theright handling of weapons and other equipment.Evolutions are taken very seriously in military organs, especially inarmies, where pediteers are drilled over and over and over in all the marchesand skills required until they become a habit. Failure to perform evolutions successfully is punished, sometimesseverely, and this is usually enough to scare people into excellence. 
	
	Thecoursing party that finally left by the middle of that very same day wasconstituted of the scourge Josclin and another skold Rossamund had never metbefore, Clement, Sebastipole, a quarto of lurksmen, a platoon of ambuscadiersand musketeers, the tractors of the dogs, and two mules with their muleteers tobear comestibles. No one thought thecoursers would be gone long, and everyone expected them to return victorious. 
	Dolours had not joined in the course, which Rossamund thought strangegiven her venturing out to help fight the Trought."Not well enough to travel," heoverheard the bane say in a brief word with Threnody. 
	Bellicos' death was a heavy blow to everyone at Winstermill.He might have been a world-weary veteranpensioned off, so to speak, along the safest stretch of the way, but he was oneof their own. Reports of lighters from other parts of the highroad coming totheir end were common enough, but this was the first lighter from the manse tobe killed in a long while. Ol' Barny wasflown at half mast, and the lighters, pediteers, servants and even the clerkswore long faces and did their duty perfunctorily. 
	At times, and more so at middens, the other prentices -- those who hadbeen safely in Winstermill washing and breakfasting and marching while theirfellows were fleeing the umbergog -- nagged those of Q Hesiod Gaeta to recountevery particular of their flight.Theirown deaths so nearly realized that morning, those of Rossamund's quarto wereunwilling to endlessly repeat their small parts in the rampaging of theTrought. Deeply shocked, they had noheart for the usual showing away and idle brags, but sat together in the messhall in a melancholy huddle. Threnodywould not sit with them, but stayed very near, cleaning her fusilostentatiously. Unsatisfied, theirfellows diverted themselves, wondering what the coursing party might do to thecreature, wandering off to ignorant conjectures about whether Clement orSebastipole or Laudibus Pile was the best leer. 
	Did yousee how the basket triedto get into the Bowels?" Crofton Wheede wondered quietly, his haunted gazelooking at nothing. "I thought hewas after us, but he was set fast on that meat cart." 
	"Maybe they were baiting it," Smellgrove offered in a whisper.
	"They looked too frightened for that," countered Pillow.
	"Exactly," said Threnody from outside the circle."Besides, who'd be simple-headed enoughto bait an umbergog?" 
	"Me dead dad," Wrangle muttered, flashing a look of suppressedfury at the girl.
	"Maybe they were delivering parts for the dark trades,"Rossamund spoke up, thinking of the hint of swine's lard he had detected.
	That struck the others dumb.
	"Carry for the dark trades right under our noses?" Smellgrovesnorted.
	Rossamund shrugged."I'veseen some bad fellows try to get a rever-man through the Spindle. It's not impossible." 
	His fellow prentices looked at him oddly and lapsed into ruminativesilence.
	Soon the mood of the Hesiod Gaeta prentices affected the whole platoon,and a heavy glumness settled on them all.
	For Rossamund, the sorrow of the lampsman's passing and the Trought'simminent destruction was far bleaker than that he had reckoned upon.In a few months he had seen so much death --violent and stark and shocking quick -- nothing like the glorious end that hispamphlets described for its heroes. Thelife of adventure was a life ofviolence. He had been seeking this, butnow found he did not want it; men died, monsters died, and only grief andself-doubt remained. Barely eating hisskilly and ignoring all about him, the young prentice felt a light touch on hisshoulder. It was Threnody, looking athim with guarded and unexpected sympathy, perhaps to show that sheunderstood. Rossamund was not sure anyonecould. Who else was able to comprehendsadness for the slaughter of a monster? 
	Grindrod was determined not to let the boys wallow in the aftermath.They were set to marching, stepping-regularacross the Grand Mead and back, across and back, left, right, left... for whatremained of that grief-struck day. "Good practicing for tomorrow morning's pageant-of-arms," asthe lamplighter-sergeant put it. However, Grindrod was himself more irascible than usual, and bawled outeven the slightest error. "Keep toyer dressing, ye splashing salamanders! I didn't stand out here hollering at ye for more than two months towitness this clod-footed display! Step-regular like I have showed ye! Swift and even!" 
	The Lamplighter-Marshal visited the prentices at mains.He told them that he had halted theprentice-watch once more, and spoke quietly to each member of Q HesiodGaeta. "It is a hard thing to lose abrother-in-arms, Prentice Bookchild," the Marshal said gently, pale eyesgenuine in their commiseration. Grievefreely, and remember well why it is we stand here against the wicked foe." 
	But what if the foe is one onlybecause we make him so?Rossamundquashed the troubling thought. 
	"Lamplighter-Marshal, sir?" piped Smellgrove."What happened to that butcher'swagon?" 
	The Marshal smiled."Ah,those fellows hid scared in the Bowels till middens then went down the Gainway,very anxious to be gone -- not like ye stout gents standing afore the front ofstiffest dangers!" He looked at allthe prentices with fatherly esteem. "Bravely done, my boys, bravely done!" 
	Every face, whether it had suffered trauma that day or not, beamed athim.
	A double tot of grog was given out as a treat that night, an especialconsideration to the boys who had suffered that morning.They all drank openly in memorial toBellicos, and the eight quietly in thankfulness for their own survival. 
	"A confusion on the nickers!" Arabis boisterously cried thehabitual toast.
	It was repeated lustily by all but Rossamund, who barely murmured, "A confusion on the nickers," andthen mouthed, and an end to my own. 
	Mains came to its end and evenstalls began.While the other prentices, Threnody withthem, went to their confines to polish and prepare for tomorrow's full parade,Rossamund was required to present himself at the kitchen for his scullerypunishment. He was given no dispensationfor the terrible attack of the Trought. Exhausted, he stowed his hat, frock coat and weskit safely in his cell,put on a smock issued to all prentices for laboring duties, then hurried out. 
	Only four sharp turns from the prentices' mess hall were the enormouskitchens with their sweating, white daubed walls and high ceilings ofintersecting smoke- and fat-blackened beams.Cookhouse, buttery, small-mill, scullery and slaughter yard weretogether run by the culinaire, a woman infamously known as the Snooks . She was stout and lumpy and not much tallerthan Rossamund, dressed in gray, with a puckered perspiring face, its agehidden beneath a trowel's worth of boudoir cream. Worse, her lips and jowls were pinked withrouge, making her look like an ancient kind of good-day gala-girl, such asthose Rossamund had passed in lessseemly parts of Boschenberg. 
	A near-mythic fear of her made pots-and-pans an excellent punishment fordefaulting prentices.From her throne atthe end of a long-scarred bench the Snooks glowered at Rossamund through thickdouble spectacles as he entered the steam, stink and sweat. 
	"Hark 'ee, another weedy lantern-stick sent by old Grind-yer-bonesto do me dishes!" she cried at him above the clangor of chopping knivesand stirring ladles."Ye lads cometo me so often I don't have any labors for me scullery maids to work," sheadded with a chuckle, a strangled wheezing gurgle. 
	Rossamund swallowed a gasp at the sharp, distinctly unpleasant odor ofthe kitchens.He had expected they wouldalways smell sweet, of baking crusts and roasting sides: where Mother Snooks sat reeked more of fatand some acrid cleaning paste. "I've come for pots-and-pans." 
	"Yes, yes, I know that!" the Snooks snapped."It's the only reason ye bantlings cometo me." She squinted at him throughfogging glasses, her lips pursing and puckering over and over. She took out a small, well-thumbed tally bookand flipped many pages. "Let us spyon who we've got ourselves here," she muttered, running a stubby finger asif down a list. "Ninth of Pulvis...ninth of... Ah! Here he be! Ye pasty li'l sugarloaf," she stated insmall triumph, then looked hard and close at the page. "Oh." She gave Rossamund a quizzing look. "Ye're not the new girl, are ye?" 
	"Ah...No, ma'am." Then it occurred to him what she meant. A little glimmer of self-respect expiredwithin. "I... I just have a -- agirl's name." 
	The Snooks gave a strange, high snort and her gurgling forgery of alaugh."Well, perhaps we shouldfind ye a pretty pinafore to wear!" This made her laugh even harder. 
	Rossamund stood stiffly and waited for her to stop.
	She wagged her head and dabbed at an oily tear."The burdens some of us have to bear,eh?" she signed. She marked thetally book with the greasy stub-end of a pencil and put the book away somewherein her apron. Pointing into theconfusion of the cries and the cooking she instructed him, "Off ye go --scullery's through there and down yon stairs. Philosotrata is always ready for the help." 
	Rossamund rolled up the sleeves of his smock and made his way through thebustling kitchen.He passed thesmall-mill, where the pistor ground and pounded the flour in a granite mortarready for hasty pudding, the little treat allowed the prentices onDomesdays. His stomach gurgled. Some might have said it was bland stuff,hasty pudding, but as an interruption to the repetitive menu, it was a smallladling of bliss. Rossamund steppedaside as the furner stoked the ten-door oven that dominated the center of thegreat room, bumping into one of the baxters as she prodded and checked herbaking breads. 
	"Oi there, pip-squeak," the Baxter warned."Best mind yourself, afore you wind upin one of me loaves!" 
	At last in the farther corner he found an oblong hole in the floorthrough which steam was continuously venting in churning swirls.The scullery cellar. Paved steps went down and Rossamund descendedtill he was standing by a line of scrubbers, great wooden vats brimful offrothy, near-scalding water. Therosy-faced scullery maids, arms up to elbows in suds, greeted him with singsongcheer. The head scullery maid,Philostrata, handed him a soap-greasy cloth. "Sooner to start is sooner to end." She pointed with a nod to a tub crowded aboutwith unsteady piles of grimed crockery and smeared turnery. 
	Vinegar flies floated about the stack delicately.
	Pots-and-pans!
	The water was tremendously hot, but when Rossamund flinched, the nearestscullery maid chided him gently."Don't be a mewling great babbie, now." She smiled. "You'll get used to the scald. Young lantern-sticks need to grow into hardy lighters." 
	Rossamund washed pots, pans, plates, griddles, saucers, fine Gomroonporcelain, dainty Heil glassware, sturdy mugs, cutlery and turnery.Sweat dripped form his brow and soaked hisshirt as he scrubbed away the grease and washed off the spittles andscraps. The water turned into a foul,tepid soup that was promptly replaced with steaming new water poured from largecoppers and made sudsy with great scoops of scarlet-powder. Scullery hands bustled about taking washedplates, drying them, hustling them off to be stored. 

	
	As the scullery maids worked they gossiped and griped."...Did you see what she upstairs had delivered today?"one woman huffed with a ceilingward glance and a dripping poke of her thumb inthe vague direction of the Snooks. "We only used to get the finest, but now she rules the roost. Acaciasays she carts in this awful cheapwheat dust from Doggenbrass! She ought to know better!" 
	"Tut!" another maid exclaimed."The finest fields in the Sundergird just north of us, and she's importing poor stuffs from acrossthe Grume! All because of thatpinch-a-goose, Odious Podious." 
	"Larks!Been her but threeyears and it's like he rules the place!" 
	"Or like he wants to," came the first scullery maid's shrewdanswer.
	"Mm-hmm," her colleagues-in-suds agreed.
	Rossamund washed for an hour, his puckered hands becoming insensible tothe steaming water, and was relieved when Philostrata told him that his job wasdone and he could leave.Feeling aweight lifted, he hurried up the scullery steps eager for the seclusion of hiscell. 
	His joy was premature.
	Finding the happy prentice without a task and ready to leave, the Snooksput a heavy arm about Rossamund and guided him over to an enormous fireplacefilled with chains and lumpish levers.The pendulous fat of her limb flowed about either side of his neck. Rossamund strained his head away from thenoxious mixing of her posy-perfume and the funk of her armpits. Before him was a great cauldron, removed fromits hooks over the hearth. 
	"Now I want ye to hop into there," the Snooks said, pointing tothe enormous pot, "and scrub away till it all gleams."
	The young prentice regarded the cauldron with sinking, wide-eyeddisgust.With a helping hoist up andover from a soup cook, he was made to climb inside, and to his horror the potwas still warm from its cooking. He wasexpected to scratch at the crust of ages within with little more than a bentbutter knife and an old brush. Squashedon his knees, Rossamund labored in dread of being forgotten and having someboiling, putrid fish-head stew poured atop him. Hacking at the crust with the handle of the brush, he had managed tomake a fair pile of burn smithereens at the bottom of the great pot when hefelt it being lifted and saw the stone mantel of the fireplace loom over therim to eclipse the smoke-stained white ceiling. They were going to boil him! 
	"Ahoy!Ahoy there! I'm in here!" he hollered. "I'm in here!" 
	The cauldron was tipped on its side and Rossamund rolled on to theslate-paved floor.Small unidentifiablepieces of char stuck to his face, hands and clothes. 
	"I'm sure ye're very tasty, me lad," the soup cook grinned,"though I reckon yer boots might make for some prodigious chewing."
	Shaking just a little, Rossamund grinned with him.Brushing off the char, he presented himselfback at the Snooks' chair. The kitchenwas beginning to empty now, staff retiring for the night as their dutiesfinished, and Rossamund was hopeful he would be among them. 
	Regarding him through light-reflecting lenses, the Snooks pursed andunpursed her lips."What to do withye now, eh?" she muttered. "What to do with ye now... I tell ye what, boyo," the oldpotato sack of a woman offered at last, "I need ye to do a little favorfor yer old Mother Snooks. What do yesay?" 
	"W-What would I have to do, ma'am?"
	"Why, just carry a trifling thing up some stairs for me, that isall."
	"I... er..." Rossamund started.
	"Or shall I tell dear old Grind-yer-bones just how contrary yeare?I'd be happy to give ye a moreregular place in me kitchen." TheSnooks gave him an appraising look. 
	Rossamund made a strangled noise.
	"I'll take that to be a 'yes,' shall I?"The culinaire grinned wickedly. "Good lantern-stick." 
	With that she took him back through the cookhouse and out into a smallquadrangle that he never knew existed.It was sunk right down like a well amid the lofty walls of Winstermilland was lit dimly by the light showing from the kitchen door and slitwindows. Stars showed through the highoblong hole above, blue Gethsemane -- the brightest -- winking at himsilently. In the twilight Rossamundcould tell the place was both manger and slaughterhouse, the stink of pig'ssweat, lanolin, dung and blood mixing with the smoke of a fitfully glowingbrazier. By it a man stood, warming hishands, clearly oblivious to the stink. He wore a striped apron and a belt holding wicked-looking carvers -- aslaughterman. 
	The Snooks went to him."Well,hello there, Slarks," she said in her friendliest voice. "Give my parel to the lad." 
	"Right you are, Mother Snooks."Slarks hesitated, looked dubiously at Rossamund from crown to boot-toeand then went to fetch this "parcel." With a grunt he hefted a sack and handed it straight to the youngprentice. "Watch out, lad -- itmight be a mite weighty for you!" 
	Rossamund grappeled with it clumsily, expecting to be toppled by aponderous weight.It smelled strongly ofpigs and made vile squished noises, but it was not heavy. 
	The slaughterman regarded Rossamund."You're a wiry little stick, ain't you?" He indicated the sack with a wink. "We won't be havin' the soup this week,eh?" 
	Rossamund had not notion o f what he meant.
	"Follow me, me darling dumb-muscle, follow me!"The Snooks led the way back through thekitchen, past the mill to the pantry stalls. Into the leftmost of these the culinaire ambled, going to the very back. Behind a stack of wheat and barley bags was ared door, ironbound and locked. With alarge key, the Snooks released the door, picked a bright-limn from the wall andtook Rossamund beyond into a small cold room. Here were kept all the sweet dainties and rare nourishments set asidefor the officers -- and especially the Master-of-Clerks. Labels -- handwritten, hand-pasted --identified the contents of many sacks, bags, boxes, tins and othercontainers: pickled peaches, plums,apricots, small black fish and so much more Rossamund could not catch a glimpseof in the swinging light as he was rushed through the store. For a breath they paused before a meat safeand several enormous earthen pots of unknown content. 
	What now? Rossamund wondered. 
	Partly concealed behind the pots was another door barely big enough forthe old woman to fit through.A secondkey opened this port, and she encouraged Rossamund through with a firm hand. 
	At first Rossamund thought he had been shown into some kind of cupboard,but as the Snooks pushed in with her bright-limn he discovered that it wasactually a landing.Before him hediscerned a tightly winding wooden stair going up and going down. It was a furtigrade -- a secret stair --cunningly built in a cavity between the walls, barely lit with ill-keptbright-limns fixed to the banister posts. 
	"This nasty squeeze'll take ye right up to where ye need togo."The Snooks patted a rail. "For too long I've been jamming me girthbetween them banisters, and now I hurt right deep in here," she said,patting her right hip tenderly. "I'd rather not climb anymore." 
	The meager width of the furtigrade was such that Rossamund marveled thatthe Snooks had been able to make the ascent at all.
	"So that's why ye're here and that's where ye're to go with yerbundle.Just take the stairs all the waytill ye come to a door and can't go no more. Bang hard low down and go through. To ye left ye'll find the surgeon's door, dark purple and banded iniron. Knock three times, then a pause,then three more, then another pause, then two." 
	Very unsure, Rossamund shifted his load."The surgeon, ma'am?" he asked bemusedly. "Do you mean Swill?" 
	"Aye!" she snapped."And ye tell him when he asks -- and I know he'll ask," thecorpulent culinaire insisted as sweat-melted boudoir-cream congealed on herbrow in the cool of the landing, "that Mother Snooks is a-getting tooage-ed to be running errands through back ways and is fed up of nasty, dusty,too-steep, too-narrow stairs. That shehas seen fit to send me -- that's ye, boyo -- in her stead." 
	Rossamund hesitated.
	"Up ye go, boyo!"Shegave a ghastly grin. 
	That was enough for the prentice; he climbed.Each stair was just that inch higher than wascomfortable to climb, requiring him to lift his feet awkwardly, every stepcreaking a protest as it bore his weight. 
	One--two--three--four--five--six--seven--eight--nine--ten,he counted under his breath, switch back!
	The whole structure seemed to tremble slightly with every step.Between the rough stone wall and rickety railthere was barely room for the prentice to swing his elbows. TheSnooks must have been squished like pudding in a dish to come up here. 
	Gritting his teeth determinedly, Rossamund climbed in the stuff, dusty,closetlike dark, marveling at this secret stair and wondering how many folk inWinstermill knew of its existence.Eyeswide to make the best of the weak light, he hoisted the sack over hisback. Something soft and blunt bumpedand prodded again and again into his kidney. 
	One--two--three--four--five--six--seven--eight--nine--ten... Switchback!
	Over and over, higher and higher, and it was colder and darker as hewent.
	On a landing by a dirty green bright-limn, Rossamund put the sackdown.As he caught his wind he indulgeda little curiosity. 
	He toed the bag.It rocked andsquelched softly. 
	He gingerly undid the cord that bound the top, already loose and in needof retying -- or so he told himself.Thesack sagged open but that was all. 
	He lifted it up to the light and peeked within... and sat back with astifled yelp.
	An eye had stared back at him.
	Rossamund recoiled, but the eye did not blink or twitch or twinkle withlife.A little shaken, the prenticereturned to his investigations. Hepulled at the sack's mouth, carefully, cautiously, and there was the eye again-- a dark, sightless eye and an enemic forehead a-bristle with short, white hairs...and a blunt, broad-nostriled snout. Thesmell of swine was strong now. 
	Looking closer he found it was indeed a pig -- or the head of one, atleast -- sitting atop a gelatinous know of gizzards.He grimaced. What could a surgeon possibly wantwith a pig's head?He closed thesack and tied the cord about with the best version of the previous knot hecould manage. He had read thatphysicians and surgeons like to practice stitching wounds on pig bits. Ormaybe he just wants to cut it up and see what's inside?Rossamund carried the sack for severalflights more, uneasy with his package now he was aware of its gruesomecontents, holding it away from his body as best he could. 
	At last the lights stopped at a square portal.
	With a low, whistling puff of relief, Rossamund caught a breath.
	There was no handle on the door before him, no grip or lock, just twosolid panels of wood, beg enough, he figured, for the Snooks to squeezethrough.He thumped it hard and low andwith a thunk, a click and a whirthat made Rossamund flinch and shy in fright,the portal opened. The gap revealed theother side was better lit. The prenticegladly snatched up his package and crouched through and saw that the panelswhich had slid clear of the portal were really the back of a heavy bureau. On the farther side of the square opening hewas amazed to find himself in a tight whitewashed corridor. There was a purple door at its farther end,just as the Snooks had described. Whatbusiness did Swill have with such a secluded venue? Through the smudgy mullions of a small windowset almost three feet into the wall Rossamund could see the frigid night, clearand starlit above the gray mass of Winstermill's roofs, and beyond this thedark line of the low hills of the Brindleshaws. 
	He rapped at the door just as he had been told:three knocks, three knocks, two. He could not hear any sound beyond, and wasbeginning to hope he could just leave the sack there and go back down to thekitchen. Douse-lanterns must be soon?Surely his imposition would be done by now? 
	The port slowly opened.
	Rossamund came to attention.
	Holding a bright-limn high, the owner of a flat round face regarded himshrewdly."Aye?" Her thin lips contorted. This certainly was not Grotius Swill. It was the epimelain from the infirmary. 
	He declared more boldly than he felt, "Mother Snooks sent meup," and held up the sack."Ihave a delivery for Mister Swill." 
	"Surgeon Swill to you, young man!"
	"Surgeon Swill,"Rossamund mouthed obediently. 
	The woman looked suspiciously down the long, narrow passage."Stay," she insisted, and with acrisp rustle turned and swung the purple door closed. Yet it did not shut, and Rossamund was leftwith a sliver of a view into the room beyond. Her bright-limn made ghastly shadows as the epimelain shuffled acrossthe room. He heard the creak andlatching of some other door, then stillness. Trying not to make a sound, the young prentice peered through the gapbetween door and jamb. In the barely litapartment was a long, low table with shallow gutters carved down each side thatbent to a stoppered drain at its end. Onthe floor next to this sat a wooden pail of sawdust. Between this table and thin, shutteredwindows in the right-hand wall stood a life-size armature of a human body madeof wood and porcelain complete with removable parts, which Rossamund at firstthought with a start was a sickly person retired into the corner. When he realized what it was, he stared for amoment in horror. Worse yet, what hecould see of the back wall was neatly arranged with several tall screensshowing oddly proportioned people in various stages of flaying, dismembermentor decay. In such grisly surroundings,Rossamund wondered how a person could possibly remain in his right mind. 
	He pushed at the door just a little, his compulsion to see moreovercoming his terror of being caught.
	Near the door on a stand was a tray a-clutter with tools designed toprize flesh apart, or clamp flesh together; things to gouge and maim -- all ofthem laid tidily inside velvet-lined boxes.Next to these were clumps of frayed cloth he recognized as pledgets andyards of tow, which must have been for tying off free-flowing wounds. Clustered above were many lamps shutteredwith mirror-backed hoods that would reflect and intensify their light when lit. 
	He took half a step inside the door.Between the windows was a gaunt bookshelf carefully stacked with paperypiles weighted with jars and pots of dessicated bits and parts: wizened embryos of unguessable genus, distortedeyeballs, withered organs, all decaying slowly, slowly, one tiny bubble at atime in preserving alcohols. Stackedwith them was a small library of books. Rossamund struggled to make out their titles with such littlelight: Phantasmagoria one read perhaps; the thickest of all maybe showing Ex Monsteria. He had learned enough from Craumpalin torealize that these were rare books on forbidden subjects not normally requiredfor a surgeon to read -- and Rossamund longed to look into them. 
	Swill's voice, angry and loud, came for some other room deeperwithin.Rossamund pulled away for thefascinating slivered view and as he did, glimpsed a terrible sight: the flayed skin of a person, glistening as iffresh, pinned out on a frame that stood right by the door. He stoppered a cry of fright and took aclumsy rearward step. 
	Better light flooded the apartment and determined steps tramped towardthe young prentice from behind the purple door.It flung wide and Grotius Swill stood there wearing a brown leatherapron besmeared with darker brown stains, his own bright-limn up by hisface. He looked furious. 
	"I... I have this for you, sir," Rossamund quailed, lifting thefoul sack."From MotherSnooks." 
	Swill took it, looking over his shoulder -- gaze catching for but aninstant on the flayed skin -- and back to Rossamund."Where is the Snooks? Why has she sent you? " 
	"She is down in the kitchens, I reckon, sir.She says her hip hurts too much to climb thestairs tonight." He delivered themessage exactly as the culinaire had told him. 
	Swill's lips pursed tight as he listened.His eyes became cold slits. 
	"I see," he said after a long pause."And you are her porter, are you?" 
	"I... I've just done what I've b-been told, sir," the prenticestammered.
	"Have you just?By which waydid you come, child?" The surgeon'svoice was pinched and menacing. "Who saw you come here?" 
	Rossamund tried to hide his fright."I -- ah -- I came by -- by the furtigrade, sir," he said in asmall voice, pointing back to the barely distinguishable shadow of thebureau. "I -- I don't reckon anyonecould have seen me, sir, not at all." 
	"I see."Swill scratchedat his throat. "Wait there,"he said quickly, and the door closed, properly this time. Presently it reopened. 
	"When you see the Snooks again, give her this."Swill presented Rossamund with a sealed foldof paper. "It's myreply." He smiled inscrutably. "She will understand." 
	Something thumped loudly in the darkened surgery behind.There was a short, stifled yelp and amuffled, maniac gibbering. 
	"Go on now, quick-quick, get along!Patients need my ministrations." The surgeon gripped Rossamund's upper arm and hustled him back towardthe hidden doorway. "Be certain togive that painted crone my reply," he insisted as the prentice clamberedquickly back through the hole in the wall, knocking his head. 
	The prentice needed no further encouragement but rushed down thefurtigrade, gasping, taking two or three steps with each stride, daring even toleap whole flights in his panic, the furtigrade shuddering dangerously.Pig's heads. Flayed skins. Clandestinestairs. What is all this?
	With douse-lanterns imminent, the kitchens were near empty, only thenight staff remaining to stir the pots and bake breads for the morrow'shungry.The Snooks was still at herdomestic throne, waiting for him. "Did ye get the surgeon his bag?" she hissed. 
	"Aye."
	"Did ye deliver me message?"
	"Aye."
	"Well?"The Snooks thrust her grinning, oily face atthe prentice. "How did he like ournew arrangement?" 
	"H-He just said 'I see'..."
	"Is that all?"Shegrabbed Rossamund by his sweat-stained smock front. "Just 'I see'?" 
	The prentice pulled away from her."And he told me to give you this," he said. The Snooks took the sealed fold of paperslowly and, reading it, went gray, her boudoir cream showing in ugly mealyblotches over her now ashen complexion. 
	Rossamund shuffled his feet and the Snooks gave him a sharp look.
	"Ye may go," she barked.
	The prentice hesitated.
	"Ye're clear, ye're free!Go! Begone!I'm sick of thesight of ye!" the culinaire cried, waving the paper in his face. Rossamund dashed from the kitchen. 
	"Douse lanterns!"came the call as Rossamund entered his own cell. He quickly shut the door and turned thebright-limn, undressing for bed in the settling gloom. Smockless, shirtless and shivering, Rossamundsneaked out to the passage between the cells and scrubbed at the sweat and thecook-room stink as best he might with the frigid water of the commonwashbasin. The cold and a silly fear ofsomething creeping at him from behind made him leave off washing, and he dashedback to his cold cot to shiver the night away, his bed chest dragged out tobarricade the cell's door. 

	9
	Pageant of Arms
	
	august( noun) ruler of a single calendar clave; typically a woman of some socialstature, perhaps a peer, or noble, with a social conscience. To have any chance of affecting theirsurrounds, calendars need money and political clout, and those with highstanding socially possess with these attributes natively. A clave that does not have ranking gentry ornobility at its head and core, or at least as a sponsor, will most certainly bemarginalized. Augusts are seconded by theirlaudes, who are their mouthpieces and their long reach. With a well-organized and talented clave whather, an august can be a daunting and influential figure in Imperial politicsand society. 
	
	Rossamundwas awoken by a heavy pounding on his cell door and a rough voice crying,"A lamp! A lamp to light yourpath! Up, you lounging lumps! Up and at 'em -- it's a fine day." 
	It took a few nauseated moments for the prentice to realize he was not infact being boiled alive in an enormous bottomless cauldron, but lay pinned intangled blankets on a lumpy horsehair mattress in a freezing cell in thebasements of the Imperial outpost of Winstermill.As the rousing groans of the other prenticescoughed across the gap between cells, Rossamund dragged the small chest awayfrom the cell door. What was it I saw in Swill's apartment? he fretted. Dopeople know about his room up there?Those were mighty strange books... and what about that flayed andpinned-out skin? Do I need to tellanybody about it? But who totell? At that moment a larger problemloomed, driving those unsettling things from his thoughts: the Domesday pageant-of-arms. 
	The ritual of Domesday for those under Imperial Service at Winstermillwas a military formality of unquestionable antiquity.Every Domesday morning, the whole fortressturned out on the Grand Mead, all bearing arms before the main building in apageant of flags, polish and rich, bright harness. Two-and-a-half hours of marching andspeeches, it was a show of strength of which Rossamund had quickly grownweary. He had once dearly wanted to seesuch spectacles: an array of soldierygathered as if ready for battle. Watching was one thing but participating quite another. To march in a parade was a ponderous andworrying chore where evolutions must be well performed or impositions wereimposed. 
	Sitting shivering on the edge of his cot, he looked forlornly at hisunprepared harness.Metal must bepolished with pipe clay and galliskins whitened, boots and belt blacked andbrightened. Denied the opportunity lastnight, Rossamund had to do his best to prepare now, which meant skippingbreakfast. With sinking wind he couldhear the other prentices stepping singly or in twos up the stairs of the cellrow on their way to eat. 
	Threnody appeared at his open cell door, already washed and fed,immaculate in her perfectly presented mottle."Well, a good morning toyou, lamp boy," she said, with a supercilious grin. "Not ready, I see." She sniffed the night-stale air of the celland pinched her nose. "Has someonebeen using you to wipe out the inside of a lard vat?" she exclaimed in anaffectedly nasal voice. 
	Rossamund blushed deep rose.
	"You'd better get your pace on or you'll never be ready,"Threnody continued unhelpfully."Ihave heard how these things go: you'llbe censured, brought before a court-martial, and stretched out on a Catherinewheel if you go out looking less than perfect." She shook her head. 
	Rossamund knew she was just being painful, though certainly morepots-and-pans could be expected for a slovenly showing out.
	Threnody huffed and put her hands on her hips as he was struggling tofold his cot corners."Leave off,lamp boy!" she insisted. "I'lldo that! You just set to yourclobber." 
	The girl worked a modest wonder, folding the corners on the bed neater,pulling the sheet and blanket tighter and smoothing the pillow better thanRossamund know was possible.Allextraneous items went into the bed chest, all inspected items arranged inregulation order on the small stool in the corner. Rossamund's cell had never looked so deftlyordered. 
	"Turn out for inspection!" came Under-Sergeant Benedict'swarning cry.There was a boisterousclatter as all the prentices scurried to their cells from the mess hall orwherever they had been. 
	Threnody quit the room without another word or even a glance back.
	Fumbling buckles and buttonholes, Rossamund finished dressing in a hurry,still wrestling with his quabard and his baldric as he took his place at thedoorpost.Teeth rubbed with a corner ofa bedsheet, hair combed with his fingers, he stood at attention by his doorwith only moments to spare. 
	Grindrod ducked his head to enter Rossamund's cell, and looked about,betraying the slightest surprise at its excellent state.He bounced a carlin off the blanket pulledand tucked drum-taut across Rossamund's cot. "All is in order, Prentice Bookchild," he said after he hadpeered into every cavity of the tiny quarter. "As it should be. Move outthe Rear Walk and make ready for the pageant." 
	Assembling with the rest along the tree-lined pathway of the Cypress Walkon the southern side of the manse, Rossamund mouthed an earnest "thankyou" to Threnody.To this sheresponded with the slightest suggestion of a curtsy, then snapped on a seriousface as Grindrod stalked past to check the prentice's dressing. With a cry the sergeant-lighter took histwenty-two charges out to form upon the Grand Mead, to take their place at therear of the pageant. Before them a crowdof much of Winstermill's inhabitants were also gathering in fine martial order,rugged against the cold. 
	Marching and standing with the companies of pediteers, peoneers,artillerists and thaumateers there were very few lampsmen -- not even a platoon,seltzermen included.Most able-bodiedlighters had been sent east, needed out on the road proper to replace thesteady -- and increasing -- losses from the various cothouses. Yet that small, aged group stood in theirplace bearing their fodicars proudly, resplendent in the rouge and or and leuc-- red and gold and white -- of the Haacobin Empire, and glossy black thrice-highs. Only Assimus and Puttinger looked a littleworse for wear, their evolutions poorly handled. 
	Formed on the soldiers' left was a veritable army of bureaucraticalstaff:clerks, under-clerks, registers,bookers, secretaries, amanuenses, file boys. Each pageant made Rossamund more aware of the diminishing ranks oflighters and the swelling number of clerks. 
	Rooks cawed from the pines by the Officers' Green, spry sparrows andnoisy miner birds hopped and flitted about the battlements, watching on shrewdly.The thin flags borne by color-parties at thefront of each collection whipped and cracked in sympathy with the winds thatrushed spasmodically across the Mead, joining the great ponderous snapping ofthe enormous Imperial Spandarion billowing above the gatehouse. 
	At his very first pageant, Rossamund had trembled at the sheer number offolk gathered, at the steady pounding din of feet marching on the quartz graveland at the stentorian hooting arrogance of flugelhorn, fife and snare.Yet now he was inured to the martialspectacle. It surprised him how quicklyhe could reconcile such astonishing wonders and think them a workadaycommonplace. 
	All the soldiers and their commanding officers were now gathered on theGrand Mead, decked in their finest.
	"Stand fast!" came the cry from Sergeant-Master Tacpharnias.
	With a rattling shuffle, the lighters, soldiers and staff came toattention as the seniormost officers strutted peacock-proud up on to atemporary podium -- erected every Domesday for just this purpose -- and stoodbefore the assiduously ordered soldiery.It was the task of the highest ranked to take turns addressing theparade, and first always was the Lamplighter-Marshal. Although he was a peer of some high degree,in his soldierly simplicity the Marshal was unlike many of those standing withhim. They were stiff and starched, theirrich, finicky, bragging uniforms boasting of more in themselves than theyreally possessed. 
	His volume modulating with the breezes, his words punctuated by the callingof the birds, the Lamplighter-Marshal spoke loudly and confidently about thedetails of the routines of Winstermill, on subjects almost everyone had heardbefore.He reminded them of dutiesbotched and the need for vigilance, for care, for the particular regard of oneanother. The pageant listened dutifully,for most loved their dear Marshal and knew these things needed to be said. However, their attention became genuine whenthe marshal-lighter turned to the disconcerting excesses of bogle and nicker. 
	"These theroscades have now become an ever-increasing problem,"he said gravely."Almost each dayreports come to me and I am applied to for aid. Yesterday I learned that the whole 2 nd Lantern-Watch ofAshenstall was slain without quarter, not six nights gone, and also lampspushed over on the Patrishalt stretch. Today already I have been informed of the taking of a family in thebroad of day by the walls of Makepeace." There was a chorused murmur of angry dismay among the lighters andpediteers, while the clerks remained quiet. "Aye, and no doubt ye are all informed of the assault witnessedfive nights ago by our own barely breeched prentices." The murmur grew to a growl, a rumble ofsolidarity and resentment. "Andyesterday morning were yourselves witness -- as was I -- to the end of one of ourdoughty veterans on the claws of a blighted beast!" 
	The growl turned voluble.
	"How dare the baskets try such things!"
	"We'll have our own back at 'em, just you wait!"
	"My brothers!"TheMarshal's steady voice stilled them. "From loftiest officer to lowliest lighter's boy, we must standtogether -- and we will. We have foughtthe long fight for eons beyond the telling of books. Humankind stands and will stand the longer ifwe stand together. Even now a faithful band seeks the very beastwho slew our brother, as we, undaunted, continue to keep the way clear andsafe. Lighters! We are the bulwark between our fellow men andhe raging monstrous malice: we are thebrave band who shall always light the way! Of discipline and limb!"he cried with a burst of steaming breath, jawjutting proudly and a deadly gleam a-flashing in his eye. 
	"Of discipline and limb!"cried the many hundred throats before him,Rossamund's among them. 
	Smiling with paternal grimness, the Lamplighter-Marshal took his place atthe head of the line of most senior officers as the Sergeant-Major-of-Pediteersstepped forward with a rousing monologue of his own.After him cam the bureaucrats, their ornamentalwigs drooping curls almost halfway down their backs: the Quartermaster, the Compter-of-Stores, therotund works-general, each complaining about some unheeded quibble of clericaldetail or neglected civil nicety. Lastof all was the Master-of-Clerks. Withsaccharine gentility and that never-shifting ingratiating smile, he dronedabout some new bit of paperwork required, some new process to record the changeof watches. At times he would say thingsthat Rossamund did not understand but had the vast plethora of clerks chucklingknowingly. As the bee's buzz went, theclerk-master was the darling of the bureaucrats of Winstermill. They looked up to him -- so Rossamund hadlearned -- not just as their most senior officer, but as a genius of perpetualadministrative reinvention. His onlyjoys were the minutiae of governance and refining of systems that alreadyworked. Tending to the clerical quibblesof fortress and highroad Rossamund had heard Assimus and Bellicos (when he hadlived) griping to each other -- Podious Whympre was getting a better grasp uponthe running of the manse than the overworked Lamplighter-Marshal. 
	Near the Master-of-Clerks -- as always -- was Laudibus Pile, lurking at theback of the podium, looking out over the pageant with narrowed, quizzingeye.For a beat Rossamund was sure thefalseman had fixed him with his lie-seeing eyes. The prentice was held in this distantinterrogation till Pile seemed to see what he sought and, satisfied, looked foranother to play this game upon. 
	Piebald gray clouds stretched over them from horizon to horizon like aroof on the day.Beneath these driftedsmaller, knobbled cumulus blown up by southern winds, increasing the impression of a vaporous ceiling. Cold clouds these were, but not rainyones. With the winds came the faintestscent of the Grume, the great bay to the south. Breathing deeply of this sweet-yet-acrid hint, Rossamund could havesworn he heard carried with it the faintest wailing of whimbrels -- the elegant,scavenging gulls of the southern coasts. The great, hopeless longing to serve at sea sat like cold gruel in thewinds. 
	With a cry from the gate-watch that cut through the Master-of-Clerks'chidings, the bronze gates were swung open and a glossy red and brown coachrushed through with all the self-importance of a post-lentum.It was a dyphr, a small carriage pulled bytwo horses, its sides raised and roof lowered. 
	"Eyes front, you slugs!" barked Grindrod, as several boysturned their heads to see.
	The vehicle dashed past the parade, peppering those standing nearest thedrive with fine gravel flicked from its wheels, and pulled up sharply beforethe great steps of the manse.
	Most of those on the podium made to continue, a bloody-minded show oftheir disregard for the impetuous arrival.Yet, as the surveyor-of-the-Works finished his housekeeping plaints andbefore the Master-of-Clerks could return to reiterate, the Lamplighter-Marshalstepped forward and, to general relief, ended proceedings prematurely. Finally, with a blare of horns and a rattleof toms, the pageant-of-arms was done. 
	Grindrod dismissed the prentices with a simple order of "Port arms!" -- perhaps keenhimself to be on with the vigil-day rest. "Master Lately, be sure to report to the kitchens," hereminded Rossamund with no evident satisfaction. With that the lamplighter-sergeant walkedabruptly off to join other sergeants milling at the edge of the Grand Mead towatch the small carriage. 
	Released from the painfully motionless dumb show of the pageant, thedelighted prentices hurried off to get ready for the jaunt to Silvernook, allinterest in the dyphr forgotten in their eagerness to be away.
	Rossamund stayed.He was intenselycurious to know of the passengers and in no hurry to start a long day ofpots-and-pans. 
	Threnody too observed the carriage, her expression strangelyintense.She gave a soft groan. "Yes, Mother, I have been a goodgirl..." 
	Rossamund looked askance at her.
	She appeared not to have noticed he was there.He gave a subtle cough. 
	Threnody nearly betrayed her surprise, but with a haughty toss of raventresses recovered.She cocked an eyebrowemphatically at the lentum and said bombastically, "Who is it that has soquickly come in yonder conveyance, you want to ask? Why, it's my mother, come to chastise herwayward daughter no doubt, and sermon me on the honor of our clave." 
	"Your mother?"
	"Indeed.She cannot leave mebe for a moment! I am not a week goneand a quarto of troubardiers. He wasfollowed by the Master-of-Clerks and that man's attendant crowd. Dolours too had appeared, waling over fromthe Officers' Green, her favorite spot it seemed, from where she must have beenwatching the entire pageant unheeded. Two calendars had already emerged from the dyphr clad in the mottle ofthe Right of the Pacific Dove, and they acknowledged the bane's approach withsubtle hand-signs. Rossamund recognizedone as Charllette the pistoleer, though the other he did not know. Standing proud upon the manse steps, themarshal-lighter greeted the passenger within the carriage with elegant manners,giving a gallant bow as he handed her out. 
	"Well betide you, O Lady Vey.A hale welcome to you, August of the Columbines, and to your attendants,from we simple lighters." Hisdeclaration was gracious without being fawning. 
	The last passenger, a woman with hard eyes, hooked nose and a sardoniccurl to the corners of her mouth, emerged and responded with equaldecorum."Well betide you,sir," the Lady Vey enunciated beautifully. She was tall, with black hair the hue of her daughter's, yet hers was asstraight as Threnody's was curly. Likeeveryone that morning, she was dressed against the chill in a thick mantle ofprecious, fur-lined silk with a sumptuous fitch of bristling white dovefeathers about her neck and shoulders. Lady Vey stepped away from the dyphr with all the poise and arrogance ofa peer. She glared at the lowering skyand pulled her mantle close with a twirling, theatrical flicking of its hems. 
	So that was the Lady Vey, the great august of a calendar clave.So that was Threnody's mother. 
	"Ah!There is my laude, theLady Dolours," the woman declared with a tight smile. 
	"Always her first, isn'tit, mother?" Threnody muttered. "Never a kind thought or concern for me..." 
	Dolours bent low, with apparent deep and genuine respect.
	"She has been abed with fever, gracious August," theLamplighter-Marshal declared."Butour locum has seen to her as best he can." 
	"And Pandome, my handmaiden?"The august looked at the faces about her. "I hear she is badly hurt." 
	"Your handmaiden mends well in the infirmary... and your daughtertoo has been installed safely in her new role.We are glad to have her among us." 
	"Yes, very good."TheLady Vey looked over her shoulder and gazed around slowly. She saw her daughter immediately, as if sheknew where she was all along. Somethingprofound and complex transmitted between mother and daughter, something beyondRossamund's comprehension. For all hertough talk and showing away, Threnody seemed to flinch, and hung her head inuncharacteristic defeat. The Lady Veyswept up the manse steps, unheeding of the bureaucrats and the attendants alldeferring a pace to give her room as she slid past. 
	Threnody rolled her eyes, bravado quickly returning."Off to my executioners," she saidwith ill-feigned indifference. 
	Rossamund frowned and blinked."Pardon?" 
	"My mother is never happywith me," she sighed. "And Igo to find out just how unhappy she is..." 
	"Oh."
	Hardening her face and hiding her dismay, Threnody obeyed some invisiblecommand and left to join the new arrivals.
	Left alone as the day-trippers left for Silvernook, Rossamund went hisreluctant way to the kitchens.
	Mother Snooks did not want to see him.Looking haggard, she dismissed the young prentice from her sight almostas soon as he entered. "Be on ye way! Whatever wicked crimes ye have to serve yerwretched day atonin' for, it won't be done here. Go!" 
	Knowing full well that Grindrod had just departed on a south-boundlentum, Rossamund was puzzled as to what to do next.It was tempting to exploit this as a twist offortune and take an easy day after all. However, if he did not serve one imposition now, he would only have toserve two later. Knocking at thesergeant's mess door, he asked Under-Sergeant Benedict instead. 
	"Well, Master Bookchild," the under-sergeant said, stroking hischin, "we must find you another task, else our kindly lamplighter-sergeantmight set you more.If the Snooks won'thave you, then perhaps Old Numps will." 
	"Who?" Rossamund asked.
	"He's a glimner working down in the Low Gutter.You'll find him in the lantern store, Door143, cleaning lantern-panes. You canclean them with him -- a nice simple task for a vigil-day imposition." 
	Rossamund felt anxious.He hadheard of the mad glimner in the Low Gutter. It was the same fellow Smellgrove had been telling of at Wellnigh. 
	"Be on your way, lad," Benedict instructed, "and work withNumps till middens.I'll report toGrindrod that your duty -- we'll call it panel detail -- was served. Don't lookso dismayed." 

	
	Rossamund tried to blank his face of worry.
	Benedict smiled and scratched the back of his cropped head."The glimner might have the blue ghastsfrom a tangle with gudgeons, but from what I hear the fellow is harmless." 
	Rossamund did not share the under-sergeant's confidence.

	10
	Numps
	
	seltzermen( noun) tradesmen responsible for the maintenance of all types oflamplights. Their main role is to makeand change the seltzer water used in the same. Among lamplighters, seltzermen have the duty of going out in the day toany lamp reported by the lantern-watch (in ledgers set aside for the purpose)as needing attention and performing the necessary repair. This can be anything from adding new seltzer,to adding new bloom, to replacing a broken pane or replacing the whole lamp-bell. 
	
	Exceptfor targets in the Toxothanon, Rossamund had never gone down into the LowGutter. He had often wanted to exploreits workings, but he now descended the double flights of the Medial Stair withflat despondency. A Domesday vigilwasted. 
	Despite a gathering storm roiling to the south, Rossamund did nothurry.He took time to stroll throughthe Low Gutter, fascinated by this hurry-scurry place. There were many here who rarely participatedin a vigil-day rest. Great fogs of steamseeped from doorway seals and boiled from the chimneys of the Tub Mill, whichstood on the other side of a wide cul-de-sac at the east end of theToxothanon. It was a-bustle with fullersentering and leaving, burdened with bundles of laundry in varying states ofcleanliness. The prentice stood asidefor a train of porters hefting loads of clean clothing back to the manse,wondering if any of his own clobber was among them. 
	Crossing a wide cul-de-sac, the All-About, and passing by the Mule Row, aneat three-story block of servant housing, Rossamund could hear the hammeringof a smith or a cooper, and with this the sawing of a carpenter.In the narrow lane beyond, muleteers trottedtheir mules in and out of the ass manger, mucking their stalls, scrubbing theanimals, feeding them. Beyond the mangerrose the near-monumental mass of the magazine, where much of the manse's blackpowder was stored. This structure wassaid to have ten-foot-thick walls of concrete but a roof of flimsy wood, thereonly to keep out rain. If there was everan explosion, it would be contained by the walls and erupt through thisfrangible top far less harmfully into the air. 
	Dodging a mule and its steaming deposit, Rossamund made his way acrossthe street to where the besomers sat beneath an awning determinedly bindingstraw with wire, making ready for brooms.
	"Well-a-day to you, young lampsman.What can we do for you?" one of the men called as the prenticeapproached. 
	"Hello, sirs," said Rossamund, and touched his forehead inrespect.Almost everyone in Winstermillwas of superior rank to a prentice-lighter. "I seek the lantern store and Mister Numps." 
	A queer look passed between the two besomers.
	"Do you, then?Well, justkeep on your way past us, past the well, and the magazine, through the work-stallsand behind the pitch stand -- that large hutch yonder there. You're looking for the big depository that'sbuilt right against the east-end wall. You want to go through Door 143." 
	Bidding thanks, Rossamund followed the friendly directions and foundhimself before a low wooden warehouse built beneath the shadow of the Gutter'seastern battlements.On the rightmostdoor he found a metal plate that read: 

	Even as the prentice approached the door the rain suddenly arrived,falling quick and hard. Unprotected byany eave or porch, Rossamund ignored all polite custom, opened "143"without a knock and ducked inside. 
	The depot beyond was truly the lantern store, he discovered, as his sightadjusted to the scant light.On eitherside of him were shelves, ceiling-high and sagging with all the equipmentneeded to mend and maintain the vialimns or great-lamps. Rows of lamp-bells without their glass stoodon their collets in a line or hung on hooks from the roof beams. Whole wrought lantern posts were laid flat inframes, ready to replace any ruined by time or the action of monsters. There were rolls of chain for mending thewinds and with them spools of wire. Atthe end of this crowded avenue of metal and wood hung a massive rack of toolsused for repair work. Chisels and heavysaws, sledgehammers, crowbars, mallets, rivet molds, powerful cutters andclamps and other devices were arranged upon it, all for the singular problems aseltzerman might face. 
	Despite the rain hammering on the lead-shingle roof, Rossamund could makeout a small, infrequent tinkling in the gloom, like two people touching glassesat a compliment.He could not fathom whysome happy pair might be taking a tipple in the dim lantern store. Curious, he followed the sporadic noise deeperinto the store. A low, lonely singing,true in tone, deep yet sweet, came through the dust and tools. 
	
	Will the Coster sat in posture,
	Upon his bed of hay.
	Will the Coster spake, "I'velost her!"
	Head sadly hung to sway.
	Such sad posture for Will Coster:
	"She ne're should goneaway."
	But Will Coster, he has lost her,
	And grieves it ev'ry day.
	
	Beguiled, Rossamund stepped out form among the shadows and equipment andinto the light.An old-fashionedgreat-lamp lit the space, with seltzer so new it glowed the color ofsummer-bleached straw. Cluttered aboutit was a motley collection of damaged and ruined bright-limns, great-lamps,flares, oil lanterns, even a corroded old censer like those that burned at thegate of Wellnigh House. Right in themiddle of it all was the singer. He wasalone, sitting on a wicker chair and bent over an engrossing task. He hunched strangely in his seat, his face adark profile against the seltzer light, his legs pulled up oddly in front. His buff-colored hair was in an advancedstate of thinning, and what little he possessed grew lank and thin to hisjawline. He was winter-wan, and glimpsesof his pallid skull gleamed in the clean light. 
	There was another "chink," and the prentice saw the fellow puta small pane of glittering glass upon a stack and then, with the same hand,replace this with another dull piece.This he placed in his lap and, still with the same hand, tipped gritpaste from a clay jar onto a cloth laid out on a broad barrel. He did something remarkable then. He put down the jar and, with a deft movementof his leg, picked up the cloth between nimble toes and began to polish. He used his foot -- bootless and stockinglesseven on this inclement day -- as easily as another might use a hand. 
	"H-Hello," Rossamund said softly.
	The fellow hesitated only briefly then kept polishing, round and roundwith his toe-gripped cloth."I feltyou there a-shuffling," he said quietly, almost a whisper, so desperatelyfragile that Rossamund stepped closer to hear it better. "Have you come to help me or to hurtme?" 
	"I -- ah... to help, I hope."The prentice smiled nervously to show that he was not a threat. 
	"You smell like a helper" was the baffling reply.
	Thrown by this, Rossamund stuttered, "Um... A-are you M-MisterNumps?"
	The fellow looked up and blinked languidly once, showing a shadowypreview of a lopsided face.Rossamundtried not to gasp or start in alarm, yet he still took an involuntary backward 

	
	step.The fellow's face, from the right-hand browand down, was a ruin with scars. Hischeek was collapsed, the right-side corner of his mouth torn wider than itshould have been. The cicatrice fleshwent farther, down the man's neck, mostly hidden by his collar and stock. 
	"No one has called me 'mister' for three years," Numps saidwith a sad inward look, speaking with that gentle voice from the left side ofhis mouth."But I was a 'mister'before. Mister Numption Orphias, Seltzerman1 st Class... hmm, that's who I was before. Just Numps now." 
	"Ah... well, hello, Mister Numps.I've been set duties with you." 
	The glimner frowned thoughtfully."All right, then," he said mildly, and went back tofastidiously polishing the pane in his lap, pressing hard at some stubborngrime. Rossamund could see that thesestacks of glass panes were for the frames of the lamps and lanterns, big andsmall. 
	"What can I do, sir?" Rossamund looked about uncertainly.
	"Well, you can tell me what yourname is, sir," Numps returned, fumbling and dropping his cleaning rag,then picking it up again with a bare foot. 
	Rossamund forgot himself a moment, transfixed by this simple, uncommonaction.
	"My name is Rossamund, Rossamund Bookchild, prentice-lighter."
	"Hello to you, Rossamund Bookchild, prentice-lighter,lantern-stick."Numps smiled shylythen frowned. "Oh, wait. That's not polite. Shouldn't say 'lantern-stick' to a prentice,should you? Just Rossamund then, MisterRossamund," he finished, grinning bashfully. "Aye?" 
	"Aye!" Rossamund returned the grin.This surely was no madman, just a simple,gentle fellow. He reached out his handfor shaking. 
	Numps sprang from his seat, the pane falling to splinter on theboards.His broken face was aghast, wideeyes dashing up and down from Rossamund's friendly limb to the prentice'shorrified expression. 
	It was only then that Rossamund realized the fellow's right arm wasmissing and not just the arm but the entire shoulder too.Not knowing what else to do, Rossamunddropped his hand. "I'm sosorry..." he mumbled. 
	"Oh dear, oh dear," Numps whimpered and began to shuffle thosevulnerable bare feet about in the shards smashed over the floor."Oh dear, Numps is dead." 
	"No!Stop!" Rossamundcried. "You'll cut yourself." 
	Yet this just seemed to distress Numps more, and he continued to shuffleand murmur, "Oh dear, oh dear..."A pan and brush were handy, propped against the shining great-lamp. Rossamund snatched these up and flicked thebroken glass from the floor and into the pan as quickly as he could. Yet he was not fast enough to stop theglimner from cutting himself badly, and the man began to splash about inpuddlets of his own blood. 
	"Mister Numps!Please sit,sir." Rossamund tried to nudge thefellow away from harm. He held him offwith his elbow and swept up the remaining shards from beneath Numps' feet,brushing up blood with them. "You must sit down, sir, please! Or step away!" Not seeing any other course, Rossamund stoodand gripped the man by one shoulder and what remained of the other and shovedhim back with surprising ease against the wicker chair. 
	Numps sat heavily without resistance, saying over and over, "Ohdear, oh dear, so much red.Oh dear, ohdear, ol' Numps is dead..." 
	"We must get your feet seen to by Crispus -- no, wait, he is goneaway..."Rossamund managed towrestle Numps' feet into a better position to see their injuries. His right foot was slashed with small cuts,especially between the toes, and the blood flowed easy and terribly free. His left foot had suffered only minorscratches. " Ill take you to Mister Swill--" 
	"No!"Numps screeched. Not the butcher and his butcher'sthoughts!" He wrenched his feetfrom Rossamund's grasp. The prentice wasknocked against the barrel, bumping his head painfully. The glimner's own chair tipped and fell,sending Numps sprawling head over end with a flail of limbs. He lay on the boards, his wounds stillbleeding free. 
	"But you need to have your foot mended," the prentice pleaded.
	"No! No no no..." Numps insisted in return and began tosing."Too much red, Numps isdead..." 
	Rossamund sat for an exasperated pause, rubbing the smarting egg alreadyswelling at the back of his head.Hecould not see how he could force Numps to do anything the man did notwant. I'll fix him myself, then.I'lluse my salumanticum! 
	He grabbed at the nearest, cleanest looking rags and pressed them toNumps' bare foot, insisting the man hold them there."I will be back with potives. Just press firm till then!" he saidrapidly and, forgetting his hat, dashed up the avenue of metal and out Door143. The rain, prodding him like fingersupon his crown, hurt his bruised scalp. The inclement weather had driven all others indoors. The windows of the Low Gutter glowed red,orange, yellow, green, while the noise of working still rang out above the fallof water. 
	Rossamund was quickly soaked as he dashed up the nearest stair to theGrand Mead, his hasty feet splicker-splacksplicker-splackin the quicklygrowing puddles, his thoughts tripping with him, I didn't mean to scare him, I didn't mean to scare him... 
	Across Evolution Green he ran, all the way down the Cypress Walk, turnedright through the Sally at the side of the manse and dripped water all alongthe polished floor and down the steps to his cell.His salumanticum always sat beside his bedchest. He took it up and made hastyinventory of its contents. What heneeded most was missing: the blackpowder called thrombis that made wounds clot rapidly. It was all used on Pandome's wounds. Indeed, he had attempted to restock hissalt-bag soon after the attack on the calendars, but was still waiting for thecorrect permission papers from Grindrod. 
	"Off to the dispensary, then," he muttered to himself, and ranout of his cell and up the steps again."Surely they'll give some to me for an emergency!" 
	The dispensary was accessed from the infirmary.Entering, Rossamund recognized Pandome in anearby bunk, despite the bandages that hid most of her face. She was still senseless. With a shudder, the prentice thought ofNumps' ruined features. 
	From the other end of the long room Surgeon Swill glanced at Rossamunddismissively at first, then beadily, discomfortingly, causing the prentice tohesitate.Yet the surgeon said nothingand returned his attention to an attending epimelain. 
	Through the dispensary door was a small white anteroom with a barredwindow at the farther end.He stepped upto this dispensary window. 
	It was not attended.
	A velvet rope hung by, and the prentice gave this two hearty tugs, whichset a hidden bell to violent ringing.Standing on tiptoes, Rossamund peered through the bars. From the aisles of boxes, bottles, drawersand shadows emerged a sharp-nosed, flabby-jowled fellow with a high collar anda crotchety, querulous mien. This wasthe almonder, Obbolute Fibullar, script-grinder and assistant to Volitus --Winstermill's dispensurist. He was adifficult fellow, about as opposite in temperament to Craumpalin as Rossamundreckoned possible. The prentice clearedhis throat and, as confidently as he could, made his request. 
	"What d'you need thrombis for, lantern-stick, coming in here to dripand dribble all over my floors and onto my counter?"Obbolute leaned toward the bars and glareddown at him. "Are youbleeding?" 
	"No, sir, I am run out of thrombis," Rossamund returned,startling himself with his own, unexpectedly"what-else-do-you-reckon" manner.He held up his salumanticum as evidence. 
	The dispensary door swung, but Rossamund, intent on getting the neededpotive, ignored this.
	"You can wave that salt-bag about and gum away rudely all you like,young fellow."The obstructivealmonder sat back. "I'll need a chitof authority from your commanding officer." 
	"But..."
	"Aye, aye, always 'but,'" Obbolute mocked."No chit, no parts! That's the way it runs here. Time to learn it, don't you think?" He looked up beyond Rossamund, dismissing theprentice with a single gesture. "Ah, welcome back among us once more, sir. How went the course? Did you get the basket?" 
	Rossamund looked up quickly and straight into the mildly amused red and blueeyes of Sebastipole.The prentice had nonotion that the coursing party had returned. 
	"Well, my boy," he said, ignoring the almonder, "glad tosee you again.I have just come backfrom the hunt. A grim event when all wasdone." 
	"Hello, Mister Sebastipole," Rossamund replied.There was not time for chatter. Mister Numps' foot must be attended to. His thoughts spun quickly. Terrible glimpses of Numps dead in a puddleof red ran through his head. "Please, sir. I needthrombis urgently." 
	Sebastipole looked at him strangely.He turned to Obbolute, producing a fold of paper. "I will be needing puleblande, asix-months' dose, and the same of gromwell too, for all it's worth. And... pass me your stylus, man." 
	"Of course you will, sir."The dispensurist half turned, ready to fetch these potives, all politeeagerness to this reader-of-truth. Hepulled the pencil from behind his ear and pushed it through the bars. 
	"And," the leer continued, looking down to Rossamund again ashe scratched words onto the fold, "a salumanticum's worth of thrombis too,or any other siccustrumn you might have."
	Rossamund could have cheered for joy and thrown his arms about the leer.
	Obbolute's eyes narrowed as Sebastipole handed the paper and pencilthrough the barred gap. A glimpse oftemper trembled across the assistant's brow. He clearly wanted to contradict this request, yet how could he? A chit had been provided and, more so, theleer was his superior. 
	"I, ah -- well, I," he spluttered, his thoughts clearly at war,"what were you needing that last item for, sir?"He looked narrowly at Rossamund. 
	"Because this lighter needs it and you will not give it him,"Sebastipole returned, his sangfroid as much as his rank impossible to arguewith."Perhaps you will give it tome?" 
	A hoarse grumble from his throat and a pointed pause was about all thecontrariness Obbolute dared as he filled the order.The leer took the potives with a solemnthank-you that the almonder did not acknowledge. As they left the infirmary, Sebastipole gaveRossamund the thrombis. 
	"So tell me, young Rossamund," he said, "how have yourecovered from our excitement upon the road?"
	At any other time the prentice would have been all forquestion-and-answers and exploring his confusions, but this was not thatoccasion.
	"I am well, sir..." he answered, looking over his shoulder downthe passage to his path back to Numps.
	The leer squinted at him sagely."Indeed? So tell me, whatgive you such cause for haste?" 
	"Someone has cut himself terribly, Mister Sebastipole, and I need toget to him right quick to stop the bleeding!"
	"Why did you not bring this 'him' to the infirmary?"Sebastipole pressed.
	"Because he most definitely refused to come, sir... refuses to beseen by Swill -- um, Surgeon Swill, I meant."Rossamund could not obey forms of rightconduct any longer. "I really mustgo now, sir -- please give me leave." 
	"Yes, yes!In fact I shall doone better." Sebastipole put agloved hand on Rossamund's shoulder. "Lead on and I will help how I can. Perhaps this fellow to get to the infirmary where he belongs." 
	Rossamund dashed back out the Sally, into the rain and down to the LowGutter, Sebastipole just one step behind.
	"Where do you take us?" the leer called over the rush offalling waters."Who is it that ishurt so urgently?" 
	Through gasps and rain, Rossamund called over his shoulder."To the lantern store" -- puff -- "Door 143" -- wheeze -- "It's Mister Numps -- he'scut his foot with glass..." Healmost staggered in a muddy puddle. 
	Sebastipole caught the prentice under his arm, saving him from the fall,and dragged him on.The leer quickenedhis stride, flying down the alley by the Pitch Stand, Rossamund trying as besthe could to keep pace. 
	Throwing back Door 143 and springing inside, they found Numps sleepy yetstill holding the rags to his foot.
	"Oh, Numption," Sebastipole hissed.
	Rossamund was amazed at the genuine distress held in that expiration.
	"Ready your thrombis, prentice -- quick and steady.Now I understand your dilemma." 
	Hands a-tremble, Rossamund opened the box and brought out a small sack ofthe "bonny dust" -- as Craumpalin used to call it.
	"We must act apace!"Theleer righted the toppled wicker chair and wrestled Numps' leg upon it. "How did this happen?" 
	"I just went to shake his hand."Rossamund's confession babbled out. "Just to make his friendship, and hejumped and started and the glass fell from his hand and smashed about hisfeet." 
	Numps looked up with slow eyes."Oh, Mister 'Pole, oh dear, you're swimming in my red again... Ohdear, Numps is dead..." 
	"Yes, indeed, Numps, I find you all bloody like before.Easy, now. We'll fix you right, just like then." Once more Rossamund was struck by the gentleanxiety in Sebastipole's voice. He neverexpected a leer might show such tenderness. 
	"There is glass still in the cuts," the leer continued."Do you have forceps? Or spivers?" 
	Rossamund shook his head, but had a thought."I spied pliers on the rack therethough, sir," he said, even as he went to fetch them. "Here, sir." 
	"They will do."Sebastipole snatched them. "With haste, Rossamund, grip his leg under your arm and hold itfirm and sure. This will not be easy -- Iam no man of physics." 
	The prentice obeyed with alacrity.
	Numps writhed and wailed as the leer poked and probed and tugged at thewounds. "Help me, sparrow-man! They tear me apart! Limb from limb!" The glimner cried, "Sparrow-man!" while Sebastipole shouted, "Don'tmind his calls, my boy, just hold him steady!" Rossamund never let go of Numps' ankle norallowed his squirming to disrupt Mister Sebastipole's delicate work. 
	"Bravo, my boy," Sebastipole muttered as he pulled out awicked-looking shard, "you have yourself a strong grip there."
	The make-do surgery was mercifully brief.With light-headed relief the prentice tapped hearty mounds of thethrombis on to a particularly nasty laceration under the knuckle of the bigtoe. It was from here that most of theblood had come. He watched as the darkpowder quickly mixed with the gore, coagulating to a sticky, adhering masswherever it did. When he was satisfiedthe thrombis had done its work, Rossamund bound Numps' foot as tightly as hecould with all the swathes kept in his salumanticum. He sprinkled more thrombis between each bindtill the box of it was all but empty and only Numps' toe tips showed. 
	Dazed from pain and distress, Numps remained supine among the old lamps.
	"When Crispus returns, I'll ask him to come here and do what hecan," said Sebastipole."Tillthen you'll just have to hop about, Mister Numps. Fetch that handle cup." He spoke suddenly to Rossamund, and pointedto a ladle lying by a puncheon of water near at hand. "He will need fluid. One who has let free much blood alwaysdoes." 
	Rossamund filled the cup and carefully brought it over.
	Sebastipole let Numps drink with noisy thirsty gulps, cradling theglimner's head as he did.
	Crouching by, Rossamund watched, feeling it all his fault."I'm so... so... sorry for..." hetried. 
	"Don't fret, prentice-lighter," Sebastipole said."Our Numps has never been right in theintellectuals since surviving a theroscade. He has hurt himself before. Itwas providential I met you when I did, wouldn't you say? Had I not needed pule-blande so urgently Iwould have already been in a meetingwith the Lamplighter-Marshal." 
	"Will Mister Numps mend, sir?"
	"Doctor Crispus cites it the worst case of malingering horrors hehas ever encountered," Sebastipole continued, putting a friendly hand onthe glimner's shoulder."We do whatwe can, do we not, Mister Numps, but it just isn't the same, is it?" 
	Clearly dazed, Numps still managed to answer."No, Mister 'Pole, never the same, poorNumps, and por glass too." Hestarted to look around the floor about him. 
	"You know Mister Numps well, Mister Sebastipole?" Rossamund asked,feeling a sudden surge of affection for the leer, so different from the otherleers the prentice had encountered.
	"We are acquainted, yes," Sebastipole said.
	Rossamund hoped he might say more and waited, but the leer showed noinclination to speak further.He stood,helping Numps to sit against the glowing great-lamp. The glimner was shivering, and the lampoffered no heat. 
	Retrieving his thrice-high from where it dropped, Sebastipole said,"Sit easy now, Numps.Don't youtread on those clever feet of yours -- we don't want them to bleed again." 
	To this Numps nodded slowly."Poor Numps' clever feet. You put me back together again, Mister 'Pole." 
	"Indeed, we did what we could."The leer looked pointedly at Rossamund. "This young master and I shall find you a blanket." 
	Rossamund followed as he went to the farther end of the lantern store.
	Sebastipole turned over a bright-limn sitting on a shelf and its softglow soon revealed a pile of sacks neatly folded in a flimsy crate.He gathered several and deposited them inRossamund's arms, declaring lightly and loudly, "These will answernicely!" He fixed the prentice withhis disconcerting eyes. "It was Iwho found him," the leer said low and serious, "alone and horriblymangled after the other two seltzermen had been devoured or carried away." 
	Rossamund's ears rang as his attention became very focused."Devoured, sir? Carried away?" he said, equally softly. 
	"Yes, carried away."Sebastipole paused, closing his eyes. "It was in the first year that our Master-of-Clerks arrived. I remember it so because one of his firstacts was to insist on a thorough inspection of all the great-lamps along theroad. Numps and others had beenattending to a vialimn out east beyond the Heap, past the Roughmarch and TumblesloeCot. As you know, seltzermen go out inthrees -- two to work, one to watch with a salinumbus at the half cock -- andreturn before the lantern-watch starts. But this day they did not arrive by the correct time, a remarkablething, for as you know a lamplighter's life ispunctuality. Wry and knowing, Sebastipole looked toRossamund, the blue of his eye showing strangely bright in the seltzer light. 
	The prentice was too intent on poor Numps' story to notice this smalljoke.
	"Though not normally enough to stop the work of alantern-watch," Sebastipole continued with a cough, "what they foundsent them quickly back to Tumblesloe, half the lanterns still unlit.By East Sloe 10 West Dove 13 the seltzermen'stools lay scattered, their cart shattered, its mule torn and mostly eaten, andtoo close for comfort, they could hear a horrible inhuman calling from thehills." 
	Rossamund let his breath out slowly."Were you with the lamp-watch, Mister Sebastipole?" 
	"No, Rossamund, I arrived the next day.Myself and Mister Clement and Scourge Josclinand a dragging party of pediteers, lighters and dogs. We did not have to go far to find poor Numps,though. He was sitting up against the samelamppost where the previous night only signs of attack had been present. His arm was gone, torn from his body at theshoulder. His face and jaw were badlygouged, yet somehow he managed to live, even to crawl back to the road. The cold must have kept him alive, freezingthe flow of his terrible wounds. Beforeor since I've never known a man to survive such mortal harm." 
	"Frogs and toads!" Rossamund whispered in awe.
	"Indeed."Sebastipolestood. "But it gets more remarkablestill. For not only had a man somortally mangled and comatose somehow pulled himself along for who knows howlong, he had also bound his own wounds and stuffed the socket of his shouldertoo, using grasses and leaves with an expertise not even a two-armed man mightachieve. How he did this is a puzzlethat still beggars solving... We bundledhim back to Winstermill. He woke on theway, yammering from the horrors and saying such things as you heard him crytoday, especially about that little sparrow-man. From what I know of it, Crispus fought torevive the man while Swill thought it more a mercy to let him languish anddie." 
	"What a merciless sod-botherer," Rossamund growled."Little wonder Mister Numps refused togo to the infirmary with only the surgeon about." 
	"Indeed."Sebastipolestroked his chin. "Fortunately forNumps, Doctor Crispus is the senior man and a brilliant physician. Though I wonder if it would not have been thegreater mercy to let poor Numption pass." 
	Rossamund shuddered, glad never to have faced such an impossiblechoice."What of the otherseltzermen?" he could not help but ask. "Did you ever find them?" 
	"We searched as much as we dared."The leer rubbed at his neck like a manexhausted. "Josclin followed me asI followed the smell of the slot and sight of the drag far up into HallowSill. It was not like any monster's trailI had pursued before: foreign and muchfouler. It was a trace I had onlysmelled once before, but knew only too well. It was gudgeons. For a week wesearched but found only torn clothing and discarded equipage. The calendars of Herbroulesse joined us for atime, speaking of a mighty combat heard in the woods beyond their walls, and ofdriving off some terrible fear two nights before; but still there was no traceof the other men. I am sure they hadbeen eaten, for the drag I spied through my sthenicon showed little hint ofhuman traffic, and the slot smelled only of death and that evil revenantstink. We traced it back in hope offinding where the revers had come from. Yet the trail ended nowhere, out in the wilds of the southern marches of the Tumblesloes. We returned to Winstermill with nothing morethan tatters and conjecture, though Lady Dolours searched on. A tenacious woman, she followed the foul,foreign trail far into marshy lands along the northern marches of the Idlewild,but she too returned with nothing." 
	Rossamund's attention pricked at the sound of Dolours' name."The calendars helped you?" heasked. 
	"Indeed.I have worked withthem from time to time, and they with me -- especially the Lady Dolours --snaring corsers and commerce men, foiling the dark trades where we can, beatingoff the bogles and the nickers. It'sinevitable; in a ditchland everyone must cooperate or perish in theirisolation. The Idlewild prevails becauseof work as well as ours." Sebastipole peered at Rossamund. 
	"How did a gudgeon find a way out here?" asked Rossamund."Did it come from a hob-rousingpit?" 
	A cold and dangerous look set in Sebastipole's weird eyes."Not very likely. Such criminal and vile practices do not lastlong about here, my boy." 
	"But I thought a dead monster was good whichever way it'sdone?"Rossamund spouted the usualdogma. 
	The leer regarded Rossamund closely for a moment."Some folk might say it's so," hesaid carefully, "but I don't care for the justifications they offer onrousing a bogle against a gudgeon. Coursing monsters as we have done is a needful thing, but making sportof them, especially with something as abominable as a revenant, is useless andcruel. More so, it ties up the monies ofmen who can ill afford it and is ruinous to the lives of the wagerers wholose." He stopped, took abreath. "We came down very hard onthe lurchers after Numps' theroscade." 
	"Why the lurchers?"
	"Because these are the beginning of the whole rotten chain of thedark trades.You can only get livebogles from the lurchers or human remains from the corsers. If you stop them, then you stop thetherlanes, who then can't supply the commerce men, who have nothing to give tothe ashmongers, leaving them without stock to sell to the massacars or therouse-masters. Try as we might, therehave yet been other gudgeons marauding, though never again an assault on alighter. Enough now! Let us tend again to the needs of Numps. I can hear him shuffling about. We have muttered overlong on his past and nowshould labor for his present, after which I must leave you to your duties as Iattend to mine." 
	Rossamund returned with the leer, back to the clutter of lamps andlanterns.There Numps, againstinstruction, had moved to sit again in his wicker chair and, patiently humming,was polishing another lantern-window. 

	11
	Hither And Thither
	
	Course( verb) to hunt, particularly to hunt monsters; ( noun) the hunt itself,usually referred to as a coursing party, or in such phrases as "to go on acourse." A course is, obviously, adangerous affair. One undertaken lightlywill always result in the doom of some, if not all, of those involved. A prospective courser is always advised totake at least one skold and one leer -- or, if they are unavailable, a quarto oflurksmen, even a navigator or wayfarer, and a hefty weight of potives andskold-shot. Not to be confused with"corse," meaning a dead body, a corpse. 
	
	ThoughRossamund was wanting to ask Sebastipole of the coursing of the Trought, theleer soon left him and Numps, saying that he was well overdue for an interviewwith the Lamplighter-Marshal. 
	Numps, wide-eyed, watched the leer leave and then bent to his labors oncemore, humming as he cleaned.Rossamunddid not know how to talk to Numps. Hewas afraid to frighten the nervous glimner again and so he moved slowly,looking for work to do. He found a rag,sat on an empty chest on the other side of the bright great-lamp and silentlybegan to polish lantern-windows. 
	Wrapped in the canvas sacks for warmth, Numps did not complain.He did not even acknowledge Rossamund. Instead he took every pane the prenticecleaned and polished each one again just as fastidiously as if it had neverbeen worked, adding it to the sack of other lustrous panes. Frustrating as this was, Rossamund did notgrumble but kept at the task. Every sooften he would lean down and check Numps' feet, to make certain no blood showedthrough the bandages, or chide the glimner carefully if, from habit, he shouldtry to use his foot to grip or hold. They kept at this for an hour or more till he accidentally grasped atthe same dirty pane the glimner grasped from the top of the diminishing stack. 
	"Oh" was all Numps said, letting the pane go and humbly placinghis hand in his lap.
	"Sorry, Mister Numps... and I'm sorry about before.For scaring you and making you drop the glassand cut your feet." 
	Numps must have rarely received an apology, for with each contrite wordthat Rossamund uttered, the glimner interjected with a blink and an odd, hesitant"Oh."
	"That's just silly poor Numps forgetting his-self.All a-flipperty-gibberty since Mister 'Polefound me swimming in red." He hunghis head. "I've never been as Iwas." He sat like this for severalminutes, Rossamund not daring to move or interrupt. "Time to make seltzer!" Numps suddenly straightened, ready to get tohis feet. 
	"No!Mister Numps!" Rossamund lurched to his feet, forgetting hiscaution in his concern for the man's wounded sole. For an instant he feared he might havespooked the man again, but Numps just looked at him, puzzled, holding himselfbetween sitting and standing. "Youmust have a care to stay off your bad foot. Hop on your good foot like Mister Sebastipole said, till Doctor Crispushas declared you whole." 
	Offering himself as a small crutch, the prentice helped Numps out of hisseat and guided the limping glimner over to where he pointed:a collection of barrels and chests gatheredin a corner between the wooden wall of the store and one of the too-clutteredshelves. 
	"They say I'm struck with horrors," the glimner said, pressingdown heavily on Rossamund with each hop, "and I know I'm not the oldNumps, just poor Numps now; but I still remember how to mix the seltzer -- theystill come to me to make it 'cause no one makes it as well.I might be rummaged all about up here,"he said, patting himself on the side of his head, "them pale runnymonsters saw to that, but that don't mean I have forgotten." 
	Numps prized off the lid of one barrel, releasing a distinct tang intothe stuffy lantern store, and Rossamund immediately recognized the sealike odorof sweet brine -- the beginning of seltzer water.Humming tunefully, the glimner began to takeall manner of chemicals from chests and boxes close to hand. With precise care he dripped, scooped, tappedand tipped each part into the barrel of brine. At each addition he stirred with slow, fine movements; first one turn ofthe clock then the other for set counts that he spoke under his breath. "Once clockingwise, fours contrawise..." 
	Rossamund knew the basic constitution of seltzer water:spirit-of-cadmia, bluesalts, chordic vinegarand wine-dilute penthil-salts. He hadbeen shown this by Seltzerman Humbert, and at first Numps followed the recipeproperly but then he put in only half the chordic vinegar, left out the penthilaltogether and began to add other things -- unusual-looking things. Of what Rossamund saw, he recognized a dashof ethulate and pinches of soursugar, plus a fine sandy powder that smelledlike the vinegar sea and sludge that looked ever so much like the mucking of agastrine. 
	"What are these for, Mister Numps?" the prentice inquired ofthe extra parts."I have seenseltzer made -- Seltzerman 1 st Class Humbert has shown us, but henever added these." 
	"Oh... ah... Mister Humble-burt is good at the simple seltzer, butthis is our own seltzer.Better seltzerfor Numps' friends. Numps and his cleverold friend, we figured this, figured it out before poor Numps' poor clever oldfriend is gone now but Numps still remembers; makes the bloom bloom it does,good for Numps' friends." 
	"What friends, Mister Numps?"Rossamund was finding it hard to follow the thread of wanderingtalk. "Do you look after all thebloom?" 
	The glimner became silent at this, and would say no more on the subjectof bloom or seltzer or friends new or old.Rather he kept pointedly at his mixing until he had made three kegs fullof seltzer -- smelling far more rich and full than seltzer usually did. 
	As the day waned someone came a-calling.At first they simply heard her. "Numps! Numps! was thedemand. "Hullo there, my darlingmuddle-head! Help me git this glassthrough yer door!" 
	"Oh, oh, oh," fretted Numps, up to his bicep in seltzer."The barrow woman is here. The barrow woman." 
	"I'll go.You stayhere." 
	Rossamund answered the shout in the glimner's stead, stepping down theavenue of shelves to discover a woman wrestling a heavy load through Door143.She wore a buff-leather apron overher maid's clothes and was towing a barrow stacked high with panes andlantern-windows. When this laboring ladysaw a well-presented prentice-lighter she pulled up short and smiled. "Oh, hello, my lovely." 
	"Hello," Rossamund replied."May I take that?" Hehad gripped the barrow by the handles before she could reply. 
	"What a precious little mite you are!'She exclaimed. "Doing my job for me? And grateful I am too." She leaned toward him and whisperedconspiratorily, "That seltzerman is a bit too gone in the intellectualsfor my liking. I don't much enjoy havingto come down here. Folks avoid him, youknow." 
	"No need then for you to see him today, mother labor,"Rossamund replied peevishly.
	The woman gave Rossamund a sharp, appraising look."Ye must have done summat right bad tobe sent here, lad." She peeredclosely, seeking the fatal flaw. "Ye've got to take him in hand, pet, if ye're going to get anythingdone with him," she said. "He's naught but a limpling-head," she finished loudly, for Numpsto hear. 
	Rossamund felt a surge of anger.He almost forgot his manners as she bid good day, scowling after thewoman as she left. 
	With her departure Rossamund and Numps set to stacking then polishingthese new deliveries and kept at this for what remained of the day.Neither spoke, and there came no other noisebut the chink of picking up and putting down till mains was rung and Rossamundrealized he had missed middens, entirely forgotten. With a bow he went to hurry off. "Good evening to you, MisterNumps," he said as he left. "Ihope your foot heals right quick. Don'twalk on it nor use it for any work, please. Wait for Doctor Crispus to see you." 
	Numps blinked at him, nodded -- with a small, cryptic smile lighting hisface -- and said, "Will you come back tomorrow and check on poor Numps'poor foot?"
	"I will, Mister Numps."
	Rossamund returned to the manse, wishing he had met this fascinatingfellow well before today.
	
	** * * * 
	
	The other prentice-lighters were not due back from Silvernook till aftermains -- part of the vigil-day privilege.Rossamund took himself to the mess hall to eat alone. There he found Threnody back from interviewswith her mother and by the fire, sitting on a tandem chair reading a book -- anovel, no less, that most frivolous of frivolous things. Two small pots, one of deliciousmuttony-greasy and one with gray pease, bubbled over the fire for any who hadstayed. On the table there was also somehardtack and apples still untouched from middens, and piping Domesday pudding. As he was serving mutton into a shallowsquare pannikin, Threnody walked wearily over and did the same. She sat before Rossamund, full of mystery andreticence. 
	Rossamund broached the hush."I thought you'd eat with your mother." 
	"So did she." Threnody smiled sourly, then added, "Itold her I was a lighter now and was duty bound to mess with myfellows-in-arms." 
	"She came a fair way to see you.Did she not insist?" 
	Bent over her food, the girl looked at him sharply through herbrows."She ranted and railed, asalways." 
	"What did she say?"Rossamund knew he had asked too much as soon as he said the words. 
	Threnody stared at him owlishly."Insufficient to detain me... clearly." 
	Muteness descended and stretched out into a heavy awkwardness.The cooking fire crackled in the hearth. Merry fife music, distant, rhythmic stompingand timely claps drifted through the mess-hall door. This was the ruckus of soused lampsmen andpediteers cozy in their own mess-room making happy on their vigil-day rest. 
	Rossamund sighed.Threnody was hard work. "And Pandome -- is she healing?" 
	Threnody bowed her head.
	Have I said too much again?Rossamund wondered. 
	"She... recovers," the girl replied eventually."She will return with Mother though bothphysic and surgeon agree that she is unlikely to fight again." For a breath she looked truly, openlysad. "Do youthink I'm to blame,Rossamund Bookchild?" 
	Rossamund hesitated."Blame?" 
	"For Pandome's hurts!"Threnody stared hard at him. "For -- Idesloe's death..." 
	He was unsure of how to soothe her sorrow.
	"I returned from Sinster's sanguinariums little more than eightmonths ago," she continued, her whispered words spilling, wide eyesimploring."I have only been allowedto begin using my new 'skills' in the last month. Yet, I am a wit: what else could I do? I had no pistols. We were attacked. I did my part, defended my clave, did duty tothem firstmost!The others were all too battered by thecrash. I had to act! If I had been made a fulgar I would have donebetter, and better yet as a pistoleer -- you saw how frank my shots were againstthat umbergog thing. It was not someself-centered display of valor. Wasit? Did I set us all to risk like Motherinsists I must have?" 
	This was more than Rossamund wanted to answer.
	"Practice makes it, miss," he tried, feeling veryinadequate."It's as my dormitorymaster used to say: learn it as rote andit'll work freely like hearth-softened butter, if you get my meaning." 
	Impatience flickered across Threnody's face."I'm not sure that I do." Her earnest openness vanished like the snapof a closing lid. 
	"Well -- I was-" Rossamund started and did not know where to go-- trying not to be rude, he concludedto himself. 
	Threnody arched an eyebrow.
	"Will you be returning to your mother this evening?" Rossamundquickly changed tack.
	"No, she has said all she wanted to say -- and more besides,"Threnody answered sourly."We aredone. Fortunately, she will leave againtomorrow and take Dolours and dear Pandome back to Herbroulesse. 
	With a thump the prentices, soused and swaggering from their vigil-dayexcursion, bundled into the mess hall.
	The strange, strained conversation ceased.
	"Hoy there, you sobersides!You should have seen it!" Punthill Plod effused. 
	"Seen what?" Threnody returned icily.
	"Aye, Rosey, you missed a real bust-up," bragged Arabis,completely ignoring Threnody."Acarriage was attacked by some nickers -- horses dead, lentermen dead, passengersdead." 
	"Just like we saw on lantern-watch," Plod continued.
	"I heard them say in town that it was done by some nasty grinningblightlings," Crofton Wheede added.
	Rossamund'smilt went cold. Grinnlings?
	"That company of lesquins we saw camped just a mile farther down wasnot much use to them poor folks, was it?" said a prentice named FoistinGall.
	Rossamund's ears pricked up at the mention of lesquins, those gaudilydressed sell-swords -- the best, most arrogant fighters, who gathered intolegions and sold themselves to fight in the petty wars of the states.
	"What are they doingthere?" Threnody frowned. 
	"People are saying because we can't stop the baskets on the Wormwaythat the Gainway is under threat!" said Onion Mole in awe.
	"Not as under threat as that sweet li'l dolly-mop at the DrainedMouse, not from the looks you were giving her, Moley," guffawed Tworpstupidly, and several boys brayed in drunken delight.
	Threnody gave them all a single dirty look and left.
	Mind spinning what memories of Licurius collapsing under a press ofgrinnling bogles, Rossamund was not long in following.
	
	** * * * 
	
	The routine of the next day began as it always did, with the ritualwake-up cry, hurried dressing and stomping out to line up for the morningforming on the Cypress Walk by thesideof the manse. There Grindrod confirmedthe attack on the carriage between the fortress and Silvernook, everyoneslaughtered. He quickly moved on toproperly inform the prentices that the coursing party had returned the previousday while the boys were living it large in Silvernook. The courser's homecoming had beensomber. They were less five dogs, includingthe leader Druker. And Groffstitzig was badly hurt. An ambuscadier was dead, the badly woundedJosclin borne back on a litter. Thesewere bitter blows indeed after Bellicos' death. Even mortality hurt, the harried umbergog had proved a terrible adversary,trapped in a hollow on the western flanks of the Tumblesloe Heap far to thenorth. It was slain at last by thechemistry of Josclin and a final, fatal shot from Sebastipole's deadlylong-rifle. The severed head of thevanquished monster had been dragged all the way back by the mules. 
	The prentices did not know how to react to this:was it good news? Was it bad? 
	Grindrod also advertised that that very night in the Hall of Pageantsthere would be the puncting -- the marking with the monster's blood -- of thosewho had had a hand in slaying the Herdebog Trought.Collected from the dead umbergog at the timeof its slaying, the cruor was in the care of Nullifus Drawk. He was apparently eager and ready to mark themonster's killers. Rossamund did not wantto go. He had lost his fascination forcruorpunxis. Their gaining wassurrounded by too much sorrow and confusion. He well understood why his old dormitory master was ashamed of thetattoo he wore. 
	After breakfast the prentices were set to more marching.Rain set in, a gray shimmering swathe, anddripping-drenched they formed up along the side of the gravel drive to mark theLady Vey's otherwise unfeted departure. "Present arms!"came the order. Next to Rossamund, Threnody obeyed, staringfixedly ahead, chin high, a sardonic half smile barely hidden. For her part, as the dyphr clattered by, theaugust ignored her daughter and the twin-file of prentices with her, her nickheld stiff and chin raised. 
	As mother, as daughter,Rossamund observed. 
	
	** * * * 
	
	For 2nd morning instructions the prentices went to the lecturyfor lantern workings with Seltzerman 1 st Class Humbert. Rossamund liked the subject: he actually understood and admired themechanism of a seltzer lamp and the constitution of seltzer water itself. This study was a relief from marching andevolutions and targets. In fact, anddespite himself, he welcomed the safety of routine. The last week had been as event-filled asever he wanted. Too much adventure lefthim craving easy predictability. With acontented lift in his regular-step Rossamund entered the lectury carryingstylus, books and lark-lamp -- a small replica of a great-lamp given to all theprentices. Rossamund was intrigued bythe curious way its covers folded open upon many hinges, fascinated with thedown-scaled workings revealed within, which were just like those that operatedthe real lights of the road. He paidclose attention to all that was taught, but most of the other prentices couldnot have given two geese about the what or how or why of a great-lamp'sinternal parts. Humbert noticedneither. He simply droned on. 
	Rossamund had quickly learned that lampsmen naturally, though unfairly,regarded seltzermen as failed lighters who only ever ventured out into the wildswith the sun, and then only when need demanded.They were appreciated, certainly -- repairing the great-lamps wasnecessary work -- but not respected. Consequently, it was with mixed gratitude that Rossamund received MisterHumbert's uncharacteristic praise when, in the face of his fellow prentices'ignorance, he speedily identified a limp, pale yellow frond the seltzerman heldup as "glimbloom drying out and past saving, Mister Humbert." 
	"Correct!" the seltzerman returned."How long can the glimbloom survive outof seltzer before it reaches this irrevocably parched state?" 
	"No more than a day, Mister Humbert."
	"Well, Master Bookchild, you know what you're about with themparts."The seltzerman 1 stclass brightened. "It takes justthis kind of nous to keep these plants working. We'll make a seltzerman out of you yet." 
	"Aye," Rossamund heard muttered behind him, "or maybeyou'd make a good weed-keeper, Rosey?"There was the sound of soft laughter. 
	Rossamund did not look around.
	However, Threnody did."Betterto be good for something than a good-for-nothing bustle-chaser," shehissed, unable to tell between good-natured jape or insult. 
	"Young lady!" Mister Humbert called long-sufferingly."You might be the only lass atprenticing, but don't think you'll have special concession from me. Please turn around and refrain fromdisturbing the others." 
	
	** * * * 
	
	Skipping the sit-down meal at middens, Rossamund grabbed some slices ofpong and hurried to Door 143 in the Low Gutter and his promised visit with Numps.The Gutter was busier on a normal day, andRossamund had to negotiate the bustle of laborers and servants andsoldiers. He entered the lantern storequietly and heard speaking: not one ofthe soft monologues of Numps, but the voice of a learned man. 
	Rossamund became very still and listened.
	"...Poor old Numps wouldn't tolerate Mister Swill, eh?" thevoice declared.It sounded like DoctorCrispus. He must have returned from hiscurative tour. "I must say I canbarely compass the man myself: entirelytoo wily, all secrets and heavy-lidded looks and smelling some highlyquestionable chemistry..." 
	Although he was aware that it would be proper to make his presence knownto the speaker, a guilty fascination held Rossamund and he remained tense andquiet.
	"...Coming with his uncertain credentials, when all the while aproper young physic might have been satisfactorily summoned from the finephysacteries of Brandenbrass or Quimperpund.A product of the clerical innovations of that Podious Whympre. Everything in triplicate and quadruplicateand quintruplicate now! One thousandtimes the paperwork for the most trifling things, and all requiring ourEarl-Marshal's mark. How the poor fellowbears with the smother of chits and ledgers is beyond me: my own pile near wastes half my day!" 
	As Rossamund moved to the end of the aisle he found it was indeed DoctorCrispus, sitting on a stool and ministering to the dressings on the glimner'sfoot with intense concentration.He hadexamined Rossamund on the prentice's very first day as a lamplighter, and hadhad naught to do with him since. Numpswas sitting meekly on a barrel waiting for the physician to finish. He looked up at Rossamund before the lad hadmade a sound and smiled in greeting. Thephysician himself had still not noticed Rossamund. 
	"Ah, Doctor Crispus?" the prentice tried, shuffling his feet toadd emphasis.
	With a start, the physician stood and quickly turned, catching at hissatchel as it slid from his lap.
	"I have come to help Mister Numps again," Rossamund added.
	"Cuts and sutures, lad!" Crispus exclaimed with a flusteredcough."You gave me a smartsurprise!" A towering, slender man-- Doctor Crispus must have been the tallest fellow in the whole fortress andprobably all of Sulk End and the Idlewild too -- he was sartorially splendid indark gray pinstriped silk, wearing his own snow-white hair slicked and juttingfrom the back of his head like a plume. He wore small spectacles the color of ale-bottles, and a sharp,intelligent glimmer in his eye boded ill for any puzzle-headed notions. "Ah, hmm..." The man composed himself. "Master Bookchild, is it not?" 
	"Aye, Doctor," the prentice answered with a respectfulbow."At your service, sir,"he added. 
	"And so you have been, Master Bookchild," the physician said,clicking his heels and giving a cursory nod, "of service to me, and moreso to this poor fellow here, as I understand it."He gave a single, paternal pat on Numps'shoulder. 
	Numps hung his head and smiled a sheepish smile.
	Rossamund did not know what to say, so he simply said, "Aye,Doctor."
	"See, Mister Doctor Crispus, see:Mister Rossamund has come back again and Numps has a new oldfriend. They let him in, did youknow? They never let my friends like himin before, did they? Maybe one daythey'll let the sparrow-man in too?" 
	Crispus smiled ingratiatingly."Yes, Numps, yes. Isee." 
	Baffled but deeply gratified by this reception, Rossamund asked,"How is your foot today, Mister Numps?"The bandages seemed still tightly bound and intheir right place. 
	"Oh, poor Numps' poor foot," Numps sighed."It hurts, it itches. But Mister Doctor Crispus told me well sternthis morn that I was to leave it be... so I leave it be." He wiggled his toes. 
	"And so you must."Distractedly the physician pulled a fob from his pocket. "Ah! Middens is already this ten minutes gone," he declared. "I must eat like any man jack." 

	
	"Doctor Crispus?" Rossamund dared.
	"Yes, Master Bookchild, quickly now:middens is not the meal to be missed. Breakfast maybe, mains surely -- but never middens." Crispus took off his glasses and dabbed atthem with the hem of his sleek frock coat. 
	"Was Mister Numps right not to want to go to Swill?" Rossamundinquired.
	The physician nearly blushed."Oh... Heard my complaints, did you?" He paused thoughtfully for severalbreaths. "Please disregard anunguarded moment. Those were justprofessional frustrations requiring a little letting. It's a small understanding between Numps andI -- whenever we meet: I run away at themouth, he listens. That being so,"Doctor Crispus carefully continued, "I would rather you came to me withyour ills, or the dispensurist or even Obbolute if I'm incommunicado; or justgo sick until I return, than put yourself into the hands of that hacksaw." With a cough Crispus looked Rossamund squarein the eye. "I would thank you notto say any more of that which you have overheard." 
	Rossamund ducked his head, going shy from the confidence this eminentadult was putting in him."Not aword, Doctor." He nodded gravely. 
	"How-be-it, eating is overdue."Doctor Crispus pointed at Numps' legs. "I have applied new bandages but that is all: your use of the siccustrumn was exactlyright. The lacerations are deep but thepotive has been well applied and is doing the healing work far better than anyI could now. You have been given chargeover a salumanticum for good reason, prentice-lighter." 
	Rossamund bowed again, unable to hide his grin of delight.
	"Enough now, food awaits."Doctor Crispus gathered up his satchel and stray instruments. "After that it's back to that stoutfellow, Josclin --may his skies seldom cloud." 
	"Is he mending, Doctor?" Rossamund ventured.
	"If you are a wagering man, Master Bookchild," Crispus said ashe began his exit, "I would put my haquins and carlins on Mister Josclin'sfull recovery!Good diem to you and gooddiem to you, Mister Numps. I shallreturn in a few days to ensure your clever foot -- as you call it -- is stillmending. I have seen you return from thevery doors of death, my man. Your footwill not unduly trouble you." 
	With that the physician hustled out of the lantern store.
	Numps immediately began cleaning panes."Mister Doctor Crispus and Mister 'Pole doesn't know all whathappened." The glimner did not lookup, but spoke into his own lap. 
	There was a long pause.
	"Doesn't know what?" the prentice pressed as gently as hecould.
	"He didn't tell it like things happened..."The glimner went on. "I didn't go a-crawling back to thelamppost..." 
	Realizing what Numps was talking about, Rossamund leaned a little closer.
	"I remember...Even now whenI sleep I remember. Poor Numps was deadin his puddle of red, no crawling about for him. It was the little sparrow-man that helpedme." 
	Rossamund's attention prickled."The little sparrow-man, Mister Numps?" he asked veryquietly. This was the type of talk thatcould get you branded 'sedorner.' 
	"Yes, yes."Numpssmiled, looking up at last. "Theymight have got my arm to gnaw on, but they didn't get all of poor Numps. It was the little sparrow-man that fought thepale, runny men--" 
	"I heard you were hurt by rever-men!"
	"Oh aye, aye!Pale, runny menripping us all to stuff and bits and that little sparrow-man came and tore them limb from limb and saved me -- myfirst new old friend. He plugged all thepains with weeds and stopped the red from its flow-flow-flowing... Fed me dirtyroots. That made me feel safe." 
	"That little sparrow-man?" Rossamund repeated.
	"Aye, this big" -- still gripping a pane, Numps adumbrated acreature of short stature with his hand -- "and with a large head like asparrow's, a-blink-blink-blink."
	A hunch tickled at the back of Rossamund's mind.Couldit be the same creature?"Ithink I have seen him myself," he said. 
	Numps became all attention, and he too bent forward in his seat.
	"Not a long time ago I spied him," Rossamund continued,"on the side of the Gainway going down to High Vesting, a nuglung with asparrow's head all dark about the eyes and white on his chest, blinking at mefrom a bush."
	A little taken aback, Numps blinked quickly."Yes yes, Cinnamon -- he helped me! I reckon he's got more names than I've gotspace in my limpling head to count, he's been about for so, so long... Long-living monsters with long lists ofnames." 
	Cinnamon, Rossamundmarveled. "How do you know this,Mister Numps?" he whispered. 
	"Hmm, well, because he told me," Numps answered simply."Cinnamon is poor Numps' friend too,see, 'cause it was him hat beat the runny men." 
	Rossamund felt something between awe and a habitual, thoughtlesshorror."You are friends with anuglung?" he breathed, reflexively looking over his shoulder for unwelcomelisteners. 
	Numps grinned."Ah-huh. Cinnamon said he was come from thesparrow-king who lives down in the south hills. He keeps an eye out for old Numps, sends his little helpers towatch." 
	"The sparrow-king?"Rossamund scratched his face in bewilderment. His thoughts reeled at the thought of amonster-lord living near. 
	"Yes yes," Numps enthused."The Duke of Sparrows, the sparrow-duke; he has lots of names too. 
	
	The Sparrowling
	Is an urchin-king
	Who rules from courts of trees.
	He guards us here
	From the Ichormeer
	And keeps folks in their ease."
	
	"Have you seen the Duke of Sparrows, Mister Numps?"
	Numps shook his head."But Iwould like to, though." 
	"So would I," Rossamund admitted.
	"But you can see him anytime, Mister Rossamund!"The glimner pulled a perplexed face. "All the old friends would be your friends, wouldn't they?" 
	The young prentice hesitated."All the old friends? Whatdo you mean, Mister Numps?" 
	"Yes, yes!My poor limplinghead -- the nuggle-lungs and glammergorns and the other old friends." 
	"I -- I have one old friend such as this," Rossamund dared."His name is Freckle. He is a glammergorn who helped me when wewere trapped in a boat with a rever-man. We set Freckle free." 
	Numps listened to this short telling with growing intensity.At its conclusion he grinned rapturously anddid a little sit-down dance, chiming, 
	
	Yes yes, you set him free,
	trapped in gaol is no place to be.
	
	...you are agood friend indeed for Numps to have who sets his fellows loose fromtraps.Good for Freckle too." 
	"I don't like to tell anyone about him," Rossamund warned."You should not say either, MisterNumps, about Freckle or Cinnamon. Mostpeople don't like those who are kind to nickers." 
	Numps' enthusiasm vanished."I remember that folks hate the nuggle-lungs." He nodded glumly. "And the hobble-possums and all thegnashers, friend or bad. I remember thatthem that talk with them nor think them friends are hated too. Don't be a-worrying and a-fretting, I won'tsay naught 'bout Cinnamon nor Freckle, and I'll not say naught 'bout youneither. 
	They set to polishing panes again, Numps redoing Rossamund's as he haddone on the day before.This time theprentice did not mind. He was alreadybeing wooed by the timber-and-seltzer-perfumed ease of the lantern store, therumble of rain on its shingle roof adding a merry, monotonous melody. It was with profound reluctance that hereturned to his usual tasks at middens' end. 

	12
	Punctings And Posters
	
	graille(s)(noun) tools of a punctographist. Amarker needs four particular utensils to make a cruorpunxis upon the skin: the guillion -- also called an acuse orzechnennadel -- the needle dipped in cruor and then pricked into the skin; theorbis -- in full, orbis malleus, a disc-headed mallet with which the guillion istapped to puncture the skin and leave a mark; the sprither -- the device used to extract the blood from a monster inthe first place; the bruicle -- the container in which cruor is kept till neededand into which the guillion is dipped every twenty taps or so to refresh theblood. Other tools necessary to apunctographist are a notebook and a stylus to take a likeness of the fallenmonster's face (either by description or by the presence of a corpse -- or thehead at least). From this the design ofthe mark is then figured, usually in consultation with the "markee." 
	
	Thatnight after mains the prentices gleefully attended the evenstalls puncting,happy to have something to celebrate. Waiting for the officers and other senior ranks to enter before them,the lantern-sticks formed up along the low fence that hedged the Dead Patch, wherethe corpses of the first common lighters and pediteers had been buried into thevery foundations, feetfirst to conserve room. There they waited dutifully as he higher ranked -- dazzling in the polishof their uniforms -- entered the hall. The Dead Patch always made Rossamund fretful; he associated graveyardswith the dark trades and, after his experience in the hold of the Hogshead, with rever-men too. It was just as well the Dead Patch wasproperly lit, for this helped a little with the prickling terrors that creptunder his scalp and down his neck. Heshivered at thoughts of boatholds and fould things snatching from the dark. 
	"Be still!" Threnody complained alongside him.
	"Be still yourself," Rossamund spat back, under breath, with arapid glance in Grindrod's direction.Despite himself, Rossamund was growing weary of Threnody's fractiousmanners. On his other side he feltWrangle shift minutely and dart a worried, warning look at them both. 
	Threnody stared hard at him from the corner of her eye."What's your trouble, lamp boy? Missing your old nursery maid?" 
	"Shh!" Onion Mole hissed over his shoulder.
	"Shh yourself, dolt," she hissed in turn.
	There was never any talking when the prentices were in line, but ifRossamund did not say something she might go on and on at him."Clamp it, Threnody, or we'll all getpots-and-pans! For you prenticing mightbe just to get away from your mother, but for me it's my life." 
	Threnody went pale and did not say another word.
	Rossamund was grateful when he and his fellows were finally orderedinside, making their solemn way over the ledger-stones of long past heroes thatpaved the path to the Hall of Pageants.
	Within was a small oblong amphitheater.On three sides tiered stalls of seats rose about a rectangularfloor. Displayed grandly at the farther endof the amphitheater were the mighty antlers of the Herdebog Trought, each onelustrous black and as long as two tall men lying end-on-end. The monstrous trophy had been stood uprightin a makeshift frame, the violent curves of both antlers spreading out over thestalls from one side of the hall to the other. Removed from the Trought's corpse with sectitheres, the horns hadrequired a whole platoon of peoneers to bring them into the hall. Rossamund had faced the Trought upon the roadand seen its great size firsthand, but the dimensions of its antlers astoundedhim. The rancid musk of the monster wasin them, tainting the air thickly, and he could see the damage from Threnody'sor Sebastipole's shooting: an obviouspale gouge in the glossy black velvet. The strong smell brought up unwelcome confusions. He wondered sadly how long the creature hadwalked the world before the ambitions of men had interrupted its ancientexistence. 
	Before the antlers were two chairs and a small desk arrayed with odd-lookingtools.
	The Hall of Pageants was filled to standing room, everyone decked intheir best and cleanest.The greaterranks sat in the lowest, most padded and plush pews. At the very back on the highest, farthest,least comfortable benches, the prentices took their place. Troubardiers stood along the wall partlysilhouetted against the long, thin windows that showed the last blood-orangeglow of sunset against a turbid cloud bank rolling north in a close, blue sky. 
	"Stand fast!" came the cry, and the room stood to attention,hats off indoors and respectfully in hand.The Lamplighter-Marshal and the Master-of-Clerks and all those ofeminence filed from some hidden ingress and took their easy seats in thefrontmost rows. They sat and the rest ofthe room followed. The baritone buzz ofquiet eagerness resumed till two men stepped onto the floor and strodeconspicuously to the chairs. 
	Quiet reigned again.
	Bemused, Rossamund knew the first man to be Nullifus Drawk, skold andpunctographist.The other was Sebastipole. 
	Both men bowed to the Lamplighter-Marshal and the senior officers.
	Rossamund could not imagine the leer and lamplighter's agent as thestripe of person who would actually want a monster-blood tattoo.It shocked him to see Sebastipole standing beforehis comrades calmly rolling up his shirt's white sleeve, waiting to bemarked. Rossamund thought he glimpsed atleast one other cruorpunxis showing from under the rolled cloth. 
	As Sebastipole sat, Nullifus Drawk addressed the room, crying,"Officers, lighters, foot soldiers, clerks!It has been decided that Josclin andSebastipole do share the distinction of slaying the mighty Herdebog Trought,that the falseman's aim did play its part as much as the scourge'spotives. Yet as our brother Josclin islying broken but well mending in the infirmary, it will be, as you can see, ourgoodly agent Sebastipole who will gain his prize tonight." 
	Nullifus Drawk took up a guillion needle and a small disc-headedorbis.Dipping the point of the guillioninto a beaker of the Trought's cruor, he referred to a small notebook that layopen on the table and found his place on Sebastipole's bare arm. There he began to gently yet rapidly strikethe broad, blunt end of the needle, taptap tap. The hall was profoundly silentas each observer savored the marking of yet another victory over the monstrousfoe. 
	Fixated yet appalled, Rossamund was convinced that Sebastipole was notenjoying this spectacle.He was certainthat, as when he put on his sthenicon, the leer found the punctingdistasteful. Yet truly, disappointingly,Rossamund knew it could not be so. "Like chasing after Phoebe," Verline would have said -- wishingafter impossible things: a leer's job was to seek, to find and,inevitably, to join in the killing of monsters. Could he be what Rossamund considered a good man and still do this? Could a man be wrong for doing what hethought was right? 
	Threnody showed sympathy neither for the monster nor the men.By his other side he six watch-mates gingeredtheir bandages beneath their coats, impatient for the punxis to be healed andtattoos ready to show away. 
	Tap tap tap. Drawk hammered lightly with his guillion, dippingfrequently into the cruor dabbing at the stippled place on Sebastipole's armwith thick pledgets. The leer sat stiffand still, never flinching. For a weekor two the mark would be invisible other than a suppurating scab, which wouldfinally slough off and reveal the craftily formed image. And so they all watched till the honor wasdone, then gave a rousing cheer. 
	Stepping regular at the rear of the file, Rossamund was grateful to leavethe closeness of the Hall of Pageants, which was almost toxic with theexhalations of a crowd and the heavy musk of monster.Breathing deeply of the clean frosty night,he resolved never to see another puncting as long as his days had span. 
	Dismissed, Rossamund hurried with the other prentices past the DeadPatch, some of them distracted by a collection of lighters, pediteers andlaborers gathering around a tree by the lamp at the top of the Postern Stair.

	
	Threnody pulled at his arm, their earlier conflict clearlyforgotten."Come," she said asshe dragged him toward the inquisitive group. 
	Rossamund resisted."It'll bedouse-lamps any minute. We have to go toour cells." 
	"By the dove's wings!Something interesting in this regulation-strangled den of boredom andyou want to go night-nights?" Sheyanked at his sleeve and pulled him over to the tree. This trunk was a common place for publicmessages to be fixed, and against the tatters of older bills, rotten and moldyand mostly illegible, a large new bill had been posted. Taking the risk of being late, Rossamundsqueezed between the lampsmen and pediteers and their muttered complaints andstood with Threnody before the proclamation. It read: 

	
	"Elsegood brought this'un up from the Nook," said Assimus tohis colleague and the world in general."Bills just like this here one are all about the Sulk End and theIdlewild, he says, even down in Winstermill and maybe over the Gizzard inBrandenbrass and Fayelillian and even down in Doggenbrass." 
	"Aye," coughed an old corporal-of-musketeers, "invitingall manner of violent, adventurous foringers to the manse -- to our home." The man looked the type to consider anyonenot from Winstermill a 'foringer.' 
	"There's another one of these just been handed about the officers'mess," growled a haubardier." We can handle the baskets. Don't need no outside hesitance, thanks allthe same. The Marshal'll keep it all inhand." 
	"So ye say, Turbidius," countered the corporal, "but yehave to give that it's been a cram-full of theroscades unchecked these lastcouple o' years, particularly this year, and most particularly thiswinter.The Marshal ain't kept that allin hand -- it be his name on the bill, bain't it? He's the one admitting to needing help." 
	Assimus ground his teeth."And if ye was buriedunder a mountain of paper and chits such as our Lamplighter-Marshal be thesefew years, then I beg to suggest ye might be needing some help too!" 
	Rossamund was, more than anything, boggled at the idea of the manse fullof teratologists in all their weird gaudery.As people moved on to their business, a notion dawned on him. Maybe Europe will be coming? Reading the bill closely, he did not doubtthat her 'thew' would be sturdy enough, though he wondered if her 'repute'might be fine enough. She would havebeen finished in Sinster by now, surely. The thought of her returning into his life made Rossamund feel strange.He was apprehensive yet oddly hopeful. 
	"I don't know why the Emperor don't send us some more lighters fromthem kinder highroads like what's down in the Patricine -- like the ConduitAxium or the Bridle," continued the corporal.
	"Aye, or reinforce us with a battalion o' musketeers or such,"some other voice put in."He's gotmore'n enough to spare with all his armies up in the Seat and down in theAlternats." 
	"Aye, well, the Emperor's too busy using them same musketeers tofight with our hereward neighbors and has none to spare us in ourtroubles."
	Rossamund had some notion of the wars being fought to the west of theEmpire with the princes of Sebastian and the landgraves of Stanislaus andWenclesaus.This was an age-old strugglewith the sedorner-kings that lived just beyond the grasp of the HaacobinDynasty, accused of traffic with the monsters and worthy of annihilation. Centuries had gone and still these realms hadrefused to be subdued. 
	"Ye'd think our most Serene Highness might reckon it more importantto fight the nickers nigh on his doorstep," that other voice put in.
	"Aye, and ye'd think it wouldn't be much use conquerin' some otherfolks for loving the nickers when your own home is overrun with 'em!" thecorporal concluded."Don't he knowhow tough we've got it?" 
	With a corporate grumble of agreement people retired for the night.
	"Listen to them mew about how hard it has been!What do they know?" Threnody growled asthe crowd thinned. "My sisters havebeen stretched to exhaustion for years defending the people. These grot-headed lightermen don't know torecognize an ally when they they've got one!" 
	Close by a sparrow flitted through the dark from one withered conifer tothe next, disappearing into the foliage to twitter from its covert.With a last sharp tweet, it burst out anddashed away, followed by its mate, going southeast up across the roofs of theLow Gutter to disappear over the wall. 
	"Those things are uncommonly active of a nighttime," Threnodyremarked."Maybe they're watchersfor the Duke of Sparrows..." 
	Rossamund started.How does she know of the Duke of Sparrows?He turned to stare where the bird had flownto hide his surprise. Were they trulybeing watched? "How can you knowthat?" he asked. 
	"I have heard Dolours say an urchin-lord dwells in the SparrowDowns," the girl said smugly, clearly pleased to get a reaction out ofhim."The Duke of Sparrows, who shesays watches over things and keeps other bogles at bay." 
	"What would the Duke of Sparrows have to watch in here?"Rossamund marveled aloud, his sense of the lay of things shifting profoundly.
	"Who can know?" Threnody replied dismissively."We can't even be certain such acreature exists. Oh, never-you-mind,lamp boy. Dolours is often quietlytelling me things like that: enough tomake some people cry Sedorner!" She finished with an untowardshout. 
	Rossamund looked about in fright.
	"But I'm not one of those mindless folk," Threnody concluded,"whateer Mother might insist."
	"Is that why Dolours did not kill the Trought?" Rossamund saidin the smallest whisper.
	With a start, Threnody stared at him."What do you mean, lamp boy?" she demanded. 
	"I -- I would have reckoned she could slay it with one thought, butshe just seemed to drive it away--"
	"How would you know whatthe Lady Dolours can and can't do?" Threnody stood tall and arrogant. 
	"Well -- I --"
	"Bookchild!Vey!"Demanded Benedict from the step of the Sally. "Inside at the double! Getto confinations afore the lamplighter-sergeant sees you!" 
	I hope the Duke of Sparrows does exist, thought Rossamund as he obeyedthe under-sergeant.The notion of abenevolent monster-lord out there seeking to help humans and not harm them wasalmost too good to be possible. 

	13
	An Unanswered Question
	
	caladines(noun) also aleteins, solitarines or just solitaires; calendars who travel longand far from their clave spreading the work of good-doing and protection forthe undermonied. The most fanatical oftheir sisters, caladines are typically the most colorfully mottled andstrangely clothed of the calendars, wearing elaborate dandicombs of horns orhevenhills (inordinately high thrice-highs) or henins and so on. They too will mark themselves with outlandishspoors often imitating the patterns of the more unusual creatures that theirwide-faring way may have brought onto their path. 
	
	Bythe new week all manner of teratologists began to fetch up at Winstermill,braving the unfriendly traveling weather for the prospect of reward -- anImperial declaration always held thepromise of sous at the end. There wereskolds and scourges, fulgars and wits, pistoleers and gangs of filibusters andother pugnators. Some appeared alone,others brought their factotums, and a few swaggerers were served by a wholestaff of cogs -- clerks and secretaries and other fiddlers of details. There came too the learned folk: habilists and natural philosophers, withtheir pensive expressions and chests of books. Even peltrymen -- trappers and fur traders -- answered the call. Bloodless and severe, they arrived from allthe wooded nooks, lured from their own perilous labors by the lucrativepromises. Every one of theseopportunists and sell-swords would come there by foot, by post-lentum, by hiredcaboose, by private carriage, and stay for a moment and no more than a night,just long enough to gain a precious Writ of the Course. This Imperial document was a guarantee ofpayment that gave the bearer the right to claim head-money for the slaughter ofbogles. 
	With all these came the usual motley crowd of hucilluctors, fabulists,cantebanks and clowns, pollcarries, brocanders selling their secondhandproofing, even wandering punctographists.Peregrinating, posturing upstarts were coming and going and millingabout the manse, some foolishly camping near the foot of the fortress on the drierparts of the Harowmath. More a nuisancethan a novelty, they soon found themselves firmly encouraged to shuffle on toother places. 
	Yet it was among the teratologists, of course, that Rossamund discoveredthe most unusual folk of all.Once in awhile there arrived a person dressed in the likeness of an animal or a bird, ormonster even; and wherever these animal-costumed folk went and whatever theydid, they went and did in dance. Herecognized something of their prancings in the two calendars who had fought in the Briarywood. At limes, between fodicar drill andevolutions, a pair of these slowly spinning, skipping teratologists dancedthrough the gates on foot, costumed as cruel blackbirds. 
	"What are they, Threnody?"Rossamund stared at these, fascinated. 
	She looked at him as if he were the dumbest boy on watch."Sagaars, of course!" she answeredcontemptuously. 
	Rossamund stayed dumb.
	Threnody narrowed her eyes and wagged her head."With all those pamphlets you read onewould think you'd be sharper, lamp boy, she continued with a huff. "Sagaars live to be dancing all the daylong -- some even try it in their sleep -- and while they dance they kill thenickers with venomous theromoirs. Several serve my mother and the Right." 
	"Like Pannette and Pandome?"
	Threnody hesitated, closing her eyes."Yes," she whispered, "like Pannette and Pandome." 
	As these pugnators pranced proud and upset much of the manse's rhythm,the little varying schedule of prentice life remained.So it went, day come and day go, tillRossamund was sure the whole of the east must be squeezed full with themonster-wrecking bravoes. As opportunityallowed, he would carefully and keenly review the arrivals, hoping -- daring notto admit he hoped -- to spy a flash of a deep scarlet frock coat with flaringhems. He could not rightly say why hewas so keen to see Europe: he had known her only for the short side of aweek, and she was the epitome of deeds he found very hard to reconcile. Regardless, he missed her. Yet with such frequency of arrivings andleavings, such a plenitude of lahzars, Europe,the Branden Rose, was never among them. 
	
	** * * * 
	
	By the middle of the week something finally did break the prentice'sroutine.The morning was clear andachingly cold; the cerulean sky flat, brilliant, puffed all over with cleanwhite fists of cloud rushed northwest by a whipping wind that was bringingfouler weather with it. The prenticeswere out and swinging their fodicars about in a tidy and orderly manner,postilion horn-calls an irregular, intermittent music. Teratologists and their attendant gaggles hadbeen steadily coming and going all day. Some would take a turn on the borders of the Grand Mead as they waitedfor connecting posts or the resolving of kinds of paperwork. 
	It was limes, and the prentices were formed up and formally sucking ontheir bitter lemon rinds and sipping tinctured small beer while Grindrodwatched to make sure they swallowed it all.This would normally be the time that a quarto would be returning from lighting,had the prentice-watches not been suspended. Rossamund was considering paying a call on Numps at middens whenBenedict marched onto the ground. 
	The under-sergeant muttered for a moment with Grindrod, then summonedRossamund out of file, to the surprise of all the lantern-sticks.Benedict wore an odd expression -- somewherebetween bemusement and admiration -- as he took the young prentice aside. "You have an eminent visitor,prentice-lighter, and have been granted the time to spend with them," he saidofficiously, adding in a friendly undertone, "and might I say you keepsome odd and powerful company, lad." 
	"Who--"Yet beforeRossamund could finish asking he smelled a welcome, well-known perfume driftpast. Heart pounding, he spunabout. There, in all her healthy bloom,was Europe, the Branden Rose, theDuchess-in-waiting of Naimes, the one who had saved him from a foul end, theone he himself had rescued. 
	"Well hello, little man," she said in her silke voice, smiling,amused, maybe even happy to see him."Still fumbling your way through, I see." 
	"Hello, Miss Europe."Hecould barely manage a hoarse wheeze. Itwas such a strange sensation to see her familiar face in these familiarprecincts. Her hair was pinned up butwithout the usual crow's claw hair-tine; her deep scarlet frock coat was ofanother style, made from some kind of short-cropped hide -- like the head of anew-barbered lighter -- its glossy reds shifting and mottled. Over this she wore a short black pollern-coatwith broad collars and sleeves of creamy-hued fur that was faintly spangled atits cuffs with darker spots. Her blackboots were trimmed with fur, which made a fuzzy hem at the top of each boot andprotruded between the buckles up thesides. This was Europerugged against the cold. 
	Rossamund did not know what to do with himself:some of him wanted to throw his arms abouther in sheer delight. The significantpart -- that part which governs in the end what we really do rather than what wewish we might -- was afraid. So he juststood and stared. "You'vecome," he managed. 
	The fulgar raised an amused eyebrow."So it would appear. I havecome to knave myself to these kind lamplighters and the citizens of thePlacidia Solitus, in so desperate straits they send their pleading bills allthe way south to Sinster." Her facewas straight but her voice amused. "What's a kind-minded girl to do when such plaintive notes aresung?" She was in finer fettle thanof their last parting, rosy-cheeked with a shrewd twinkle in her eye. The surgeons of Sinster must have done theirinfamous work well. "Tell me,little man..." Europeleaned forward a little. 

	Why did younot write me?Did you not miss me?" 
	"I thought you would be too busy to read any letter of mine, MissEurope," Rossamund answered.
	"Why, I do believe he blushes!" Europelaughed. "That young lady certainlywatches us keenly," she said, shifting subjects. "She knows you?" 
	Rossamund looked and saw Threnody standing alone on Evolution Green, theother prentices gone now, dismissed for readings.Her arms folded and her face shadowed underthe brim of her thrice-high, she was clearly paying Europeand Rossamund pointed attention. 
	"Aye, Miss Europe, that's Threnody.She's a prentice like me." Rossamund attempted a small wave. 
	Threnody flushed, turned on her heel and marched away without a rearwardlook.
	"A girl as a lighter -- how intriguing.I think she might have set her heart on you,little man." 
	Rossamund blushed deeper shades."Hardly, miss! She's neverhappy with anything I say and spends most of her time either ignoring me orhuffing and puffing and rolling her eyes. Besides which, she's older--" 
	Europe gave a loud peal of honestmirth. "My, my!" 
	At the start of the Cypress Walk, Threnody turned to the happy, incongruoussound, and Rossamund was sure she glowered.
	Touching the corners of her eyes, the fulgar asked with a smile still inher voice, "And how did she find her way here to vex you so?"
	"She was a calendar before, but she has come here to get away fromher mother."
	Europe gave a wry smile. "I know how she feels," the fulgarmurmured. "Mothers are bestfled... Now come along, little man, I havebeen granted the rest of the day with you by your kindly Marshal. Let us get out of this cold." She handed him a small, beautifully wrappedparcel. "It is just as well Ibrought this trifle for you. Your neckis bluer than a wren's." 
	Within the gaudy, fashionably spotted package was a magenta-red scarfmade with fine twine.
	"It's tinctured sabine," the fulgar explained airily."You can only get it from this onelittle fellow on the high-walks in Flint. It looks good on you -- matches prettily withthe harness." 
	Rossamund was happily dumbfounded.Europe wanted to spend the day with himand she had given him a present. When they had last parted company she had notsaid a word in final farewell, nor even waved good-bye. Yet here she was seeking his company. He felt rather odd following the fulgar witha present under his arm. Heads turned asshe led him down along the drive and through the coach yard: lentermen, postilions and yardsmen gazed,distracted, habitually disapproving of her trade but heartily admiring her faceand grace. 
	"I have sent the landaulet back to Brandenbrass."She chatted easily, oblivious to the stir shewas causing. "It was too muchtrouble to find both horse and driverat once. It will be a relief not to haveto fuss about stabling and repairs and thrown shoes. Let another worry about that..." 
	She led him up a steep flight of stairs to the guest billets.Like a small wayhouse, it lacked a commonroom but had private rooms in its stead, and secluded dinner rooms as well as alounge for guests to receive guests of their own. This last was Europe'sdestination, a small, warm apartment with comfortable chairs along each wall,thin windows looking out to the business of coach yard and Mead below. A well-fueled fire crackled in thefriendliest of ways in the corner. 
	Summoning refreshments, the Branden Rose took off her pollern and sat ona long tandem chair, stretching out like a man, her back slouching, long legscrossed over at the ankles.
	"So how isthe life of a lamplighter turning foryou?" she inquired complacently. "Still as adventurous as that pawky postman made it out tobe?" 
	Perching himself on the edge of the settee adjacent to the recliningfulgar, Rossamund put his hat beside him as his eyes roamed the room."It has been mostly come and go andmarch and stop, Miss Europe, and very little time for reading or thinking. But in the last couple of weeks there havebeen two theroscades. I have also met aglimner called Mister Numps and delivered a pig's head to our surgeon for theSnooks." 
	Europe fixed him with her sharp hazelgaze. "Tell me of these monstersattacking." 
	Refreshments arrived in the hands of a bobbing porter and Europe ordered food for the two of them. As they waited Rossamund recounted the twotheroscades, starting with the horn-ed nickers assaulting the carriage and thedeeds of the calendars. "That iswhen Threnody joined us." 
	"The girl lampsman who was so fascinated earlier?" Europe asked, oh so casually. "She is a wit? " 
	"Aye, and she's the daughter of the calendars' august."
	"My.How veryimpressive. The Lady Vey's progeny is awit, a calendar and a lamplighter?" 
	Rossamund ignored the sarcasm."You know of her mother?" 
	"We have had occasion to meet, yes."The fulgar raised her hand as if to say thatwas all she would tell. 
	Heeding this, Rossamund pressed on with an account of the flight from theHerdebog Trought and Bellicos' death, still so large in his memory.His telling was briefer, more subdued. 
	Europe sat a little straighter. "It is a... difficult thing to lose oneyou know to the wickedness of some unworthy nickery basket," she saidsoftly. "Do you wish you had becomemy factotum after all?" 
	"I've wished a lot of things since being here, Miss Europe,"Rossamund demurred, "but I am signed to serve as a lamplighter now andhave been given the Emperor's Billion and all."
	"So you choose to be stuck on one stretch of road for the rest ofyour days?What a waste." 
	The two of them looked at each other for a long moment until Rossamunddropped his gaze."I don't want alife of violence," he said. 
	"You're living one now!" the fulgar retorted."I tell you, child, this life is nothingbut violence -- even if you do not seek it, others will bring it toyou." She leaned forward and fixedhim with a terrible eye. "Do not makethe mistake, Rossamund, of living easy behind the feats of others and all thewhile thinking yourself better for not joining the slaughter." 
	Cheeks burning from her rebuke, Rossamund shrank back, confronted withhow little he know of this pugnacious woman.
	"How can we not be violent when violence breeds in the very mud andmakes monsters of us all?" Europepersisted. "Stay here and you willbe fighting just as you have been, always fighting: if not with nickers then with men. What did you think a life of adventurewas?" She smiledcondescendingly. "It is a life of violence. Come with me, and at least your foe will beclear." 
	"Not allmonsters are our enemies," Rossamundinsisted doggedly. 
	Europe regarded him with an unfathomableexpression. "Truly?" she saideventually. "You might want toshift yourself to Cloudeslee if you insist upon spouting talk like that. Sedorners get short shrift in the Emperor'scountries." 
	"But what about that poor Misbegotten Schrewd?He was just simple, not wicked, yet youkilled him all the same. And you wantedto slay Freckle when he had helped me. Icould never join you in that!" 
	Europe sat back, her gaze dangerouslyglassy, a threat in her tone. "Nextyou'll be telling me those triply undone blightling were right for killing mydear Licurius." 
	"No!" he said quickly, eyes wide with horror."I would never say that!" 
	There was a strained silence.
	Europe sipped at a glass of deep redtoscanelle and looked away. "Youare a small and ignorant urbanite; once you have lived and watched and beenforced to such things as I have you will not be so simple-headed." 
	Rossamund could not collect his thoughts sufficiently to answer.He was right but so was she, though he wishedshe was not. Mercifully they wereinterrupted by the arrival of meals. 
	For a time they ate and did not talk.
	"Little man," Europe finallyoffered between bites, "tell me of this pig's head and that Snooks fellow,the surgeon." 
	"Oh, the Snooks is not the surgeon, that's Grotius Swill--"
	Europe stopped eating. "Did you just say Swill? Honorius Ludius Grotius Swill?" 
	"Aye."The young prenticestopped his chewing too. 
	"Hmm.I have heard of theman," the fulgar said gravely. "He has an evil reputation in Later Sinster. What has he done to you?" 
	"Naught!I only took up theguts and head of a pig to him," Rossamund explained, and told of the atticsurgery and the books and the flayed skin. "What is his reputation?" 
	"I heard that the fellow was caught dabbling in the darker habilismsand had traffic with folks all but the most scurrilous butchers avoid.Rumor is a poor transmitter of truth, but itwas said that the Soratche were becoming increasingly curious about hisexertions." 
	Rossamund frowned at this revelation."The who, miss?" 
	"The Soratche:they are aloose confederacy of those do-good calendar-kind keen on foilingmassacars." 
	"Is Swill a massacar, then?" Rossamund gasped."We should tell theLamplighter-Marshal!" 
	Europe raised a calming hand. "There was much conjecture in LaterSinster, but nothing proved. I am sureyour kindly old Earl has things well in view. In such a tight place as this fortress, genuinely nefarious deeds wouldbe hard to hide." 
	Aye, but what if the fortress isnot as tight as it should be? Rossamund wondered. Even he could tell the manse was creeping todisarray in the failing grip of the overworked marshal-lighter, a punctiliousclerk-master and men so stretched that there were none left to plug thebreaches. Rossamund shifted histhoughts. "Miss Europe?" 
	"Yes, little man?" the fulgar replied absently, taking out andchewing on a little rock salt.
	"What was it like going to Sinster?" he asked."What did you do there?" 
	Europe cocked her head and looked tohim, a wry, energetic twinkle in her eye. "The journey was brief," she said. "I left High Vesting the same day asyou; took a fast packet down to Flint -- where the doughty crew discouraged acurious sea-nicker with their fine gunner and well-aimed lambasts. Then a barge up the Ichabod and I was underthe transmogrifier's catlin not more than two weeks after I first metyou." 
	"You saw a sea-nicker, miss?" Rossamund's imagination ran withthe image of a ram firing its broadside at some enormous, marauding, eel-likething with spines and needle teeth.Hehad never seen a sea-nicker or a kraulschwimmen, nor any such creature -- notfor real -- just poorly executed etchings in his pamphlets. 
	"I actually saw very little of it but for a great amount ofsplashing and some distant screaming," the fulgar answered."I was directed to the seating decksoon after it appeared. It was a closething for a time, but the fast packet was truly that and we outran the beast inthe end. A good thing, for I do notthink I would have been much help had the thing won its way aboard us. Even if I had been at my best, the puddlesand splashes on deck would have taken my arcs to places they were notintended." 
	"Did the surgeon mend you?" Rossamund pressed.
	"Yes, he did."Europe straightened, rubbing her arm as if it ached. "I feel greatly improved. He told me to keep to my treacle and it willbe less likely for my organs to vaoriate in the future as they did that nightin the Brindleshaws." Bitternessreturned briefly to her countenance. 
	"Vaoriate, miss?"
	The horn of a post-lentum sounded, dulled by wall and window.
	"Spasm," she said distractedly.
	There was a hasty knock at the door.It opened and a porter put his head inside. "The post's ready, m'lady. Do ye need yer bags lumbered out?" 
	Europe nodded and handed him a chit sohe might retrieve her luggage from a stowage closet below. 
	"Listen, Rossamund, I am leaving on the last post today.I would sooner have you with me than not --your flair for a good treacle is hard to forgo. Yet as you say, you have taken the Emperor's Billion and a solemn oathon the day of joining. Imperial Serviceis not something that can be put on then off again like some ill-tailoredjackcoat. If you proved faithless inthis, then what trust could a girl put in you?" she said slowly, withdeliberate calm. She stared at thefloor, lips pressed thin. "However,I wonder if you young prentices should not first be schooled in the rotten coreof the Empire you serve before being offered a shiny Emperor's Billion." 
	"A rotten core, Miss Europe?"
	"Ask your Marshal, little man -- he is more recently schooled inImperial machinations than I.Suchthings I escaped a long time ago." She paced out of the room without a rearward glance. 
	Down in the foreparts of the coach yard, the Branden Rose mounted thelentum ready to depart for the Idlewild and the mysteries of the east.Standing on the highest step, she stareddarkly for a time at the spandarion rumpling in the fitful wind that movedabove the battlements, and at the house-watch that moved along them. 
	Below, waiting, Rossamund watched her silently.
	"I go to do my usual labors -- find a nicker, kill a nicker,"said Europe finally by way of farewell. "I may be wintering at the Brisking Caton the highroad at the SourspanBridge. If you wish to write me, send to there and Ishall get it either way." 
	"I will," the prentice answered.There was a pause. He wanted to say that he sometimes regrettednot taking up her repeated offer of work, yet could not think how. Moreover, after his refusals such sentimentsseemed a little late and a little foolish. Either way, he could never willingly accept a living made through aperpetual, thoughtless slaughter of bogles. 
	Europe peered at him knowingly. 
	"Do not be troubled, little man," she said finally."The last word is yet to be said on yourservice: just because you begin alongone way does not mean it will be your end. Go back inside, Rossamund. I willwait for thee, if thou wouldst come with me. Go back to your lampsmen chums," she said as she entered thecarriage. "And stay well clear ofthat Swill fellow." The lentum doorwas shut with an impatient bang by the splasher boy. 
	"Good-bye, Miss Europe," Rossamund called to her.
	With a brash hoot of its horn the post-lentum was whipped on and took theBranden Rose -- still without a factotum -- out of Winstermill.As suddenly as she had arrived, so she left. 

	Watching her depart, Rossamund was caught in a collision of manyemotions, but above them all he felt as if he had been left behind.

	14
	The Undercroft
	
	The Skillionsthesoutheastern corner of the Low Gutter in the fortress of Winstermill.It gains its somewhat derogatory name fromthe many small, wood-built single-story sheds, warehouses and work-stalls foundthere. These are a recent addition tothis part of the Gutter, it previously being the site of a stately old buildingdesignated for multiple uses, including the growing of bloom and the making andstoring of lanterns. This reputedlyburned down in mysterious circumstances two generations ago, outside of anycurrent occupant's memory. 
	
	Thoughthe menagerie of teratologists had begun to move into the Idlewild, disturbingreports continued to arrive at Winstermill. One told of the cothouse of Dovecote Bolt east of the Tumblesloe Heap thathad lost three lamp-watchmen to an unseen unterman. Another told of a small band of nickershaving the audacity to attack Cripplebolt near the farthest end of the Wormway,destroying lamps in the process. Forthree days -- the report said -- they maintained a kid of siege before reliefarrived from the fortress of Haltmire. 
	The weather grew foul, either storming or foggy.Roads became nigh impassable. With the continued monstrous threat to theWormway, the regular merchants from the south became reluctant to deliver. Only paying triple or quadruple the fairprice for the essentials seemed to make them willing to come up from Silvernookand High Vesting. Informed by theMaster-of-Clerks that the coffers could ill afford such prices, theLamplighter-Marshal was forced to introduce restrictions to the diet and habitsof the manse. Starting with theprentices, the fortress had been on short commons for the whole week. Rumors abounded of the clerks getting betterfare than the lighters, of certain well-to-do officers using private resourcesto purchase delicacies for themselves but not share them about. 
	Worse yet, the lighters discovered during a wet and dismalpageant-of-arms that their customary vigil-trip was canceled.The prentices were in foul spirits by thetime they were dismissed to loiter about the manse with little to occupythemselves. "Who does the Marshalthink he is, making us miss our stingos!" some of them grumbled. Small arguments broke out between boysharboring worthless grudges. Otherprentices bickered over their high-stakes card games of lesquin andpunt-royale, and cell row and mess hall became unbearable. Rossamund sat on an easy chair in the cornerof the mess hall, regretting he had not gone with Europe. He had been reading and rereading the sameline in an already well-read pamphlet while beside him a semantic spat betweenSmellgrove and a stock prentice by the name of Hapfauf revolved endlessly. To Rossamund's surprise Threnody sought himout and suggested they take a walk outside despite the inclement weather. He took only a little convincing to go. He rugged his neck with the scarf that Europe had given him and followed, Arabis giving him asly wink as he exited. 
	Out into the biting squall they bravely ventured, clutching theirregular-issue oiled pallmains tightly about, heads bowed against the sleet,ducking involuntarily at the mighty cracks of thunder that snapped above theHarrowmath.Having never owned a hattill he had left the foundlingery, Rossamund found them an absolute boon forkeeping rain off the face. He couldendure the foulest weather if his dial was not being splashed and pelted withwater. 
	"Who wasthat woman yesterday?" Threnody had found a small garden lean-to bythe vegetable patch and they were at least now out of the rain. "Was it truly the Branden Rose? It certainly looked like it was. How do youknow her?" 
	"Aye, it was.She and I meton my way here." It seemed atoo-simple explanation. He wriggleduneasily, trying to get comfortable atop a rather smelly sack that was digginginto his buttocks and dampening the seat of his longshanks. 
	"But how did someone like youmeet someone like her?" 

	
	"Well," he said slowly, aware of how foolish he might sound,"the truth is that she found me hiding in a boxthorn on the side of theVestiweg."
	"What in the Sundergird were you doing there?Hardly anyone travels that way -- at least notanyone in their right minds. It's just asupply road for the Spindle." 
	He told Threnody the story of his journey, beginning with the daySebastipole had come to select him.Ashe told it he was struck by the extraordinary nature of that adventure -- had hereally done all those things and survived those dangers? 
	She leaned in close as he told his story, never interrupting, and when hehad finished, she stretched and let out a sigh."Who'd have thought it, lamp boy? A stick like you fighting pirate captains and, what did you callthem? Grinnlings? And all the while that amazing woman isfeeding you whortleberries and letting you make her treacle?" Threnody's face was alight with a deep,previously hidden enthusiasm. "Ialways have to make my own treacle. Motherhas drummed into me that you should always make your own -- that way you knowwhat is in it and that it will work. But, oh! Tell me, what does awhortleberry taste like?" 
	Rossamund opened his mouth to answer but the girl plowed on.
	"I tell you, if I hadn't seen the Branden Rose talking to you Iwouldn't believe a lot of your impossible story."She hesitated. "Is this all really the truth?" 
	"Of course it's thetruth. She wants me to become herfactotum!" 
	"You! " Threnody barked an incredulous laugh. 
	He scowled, wanting to say several things at once but saying nothing atall.
	For a few moments they sat in silence together.
	Threnody took out a vial of sticky red liquid.About to take a draught from it, she noticedRossamund's scrutiny and said testily, "What do you goggle at, lampboy? It's just Friscan's wead. Have you never seen a girl drink heralembants before?" 
	Rossamund gave a wordless splutter and quickly looked out to the soddenview.
	"I should have been a fulgar."Threnody spoke softly after she had secreted the vial. "They only need two treacles; did youknow that? I have cartloads of potivesto take. Wits need so many differenttreacles and alembants at so many different times it's a wonder we do anythingelse at all. If anyone needs a factotum,it's a wit." She glowered at thewintry garden patch, and Rossamund wondered what he was meant to say in reply. He had only rarely seen her take a sip of hermany draughts: a far greater variety ofred and blue and black liquors, taken far more frequently than Europe's. 
	"It does seem somewhat unfair..." he offered into her angrysilence.
	"And she gets to keep herhair." 
	"Well, you have kept your hair," Rossamund remarked cautiously.
	Threnody looked at him acidly, as if he had made a foul and tactlessjest, then out at the saturated roofs of the Low Gutter.Her expression was unfathomable. "Well, yes." She fiddled absently with a raven curl. "I have..." 
	Rossamund was beginning to regret coming out with her.He decided to try a different tack. "I've met a man call Mister Numps--" 
	Threnody cut him off before he could finish his sentence.
	"Of course, Mother does not think the Branden Rose is much good atall.In fact, she very much dislikesher." 
	It was best to remain silent.
	"But really, she and my mother have a lot in common."
	Rossamund waited.He could notfathom what these two women might share. 
	"They were at the sequestury in Fontrevault together when they weremy age.The Branden Rose was set to be acalendar, you know, except that she was expelled. I grew up hearing all about her: about the scores of men that pursued her;about how she loves herself most of all. Mother says she is an embarrassment to her state, her mother and herentire lineage, that if Mother had such a proud heritage she would never carryon so." Threnody paused. "The Branden Rose was the reason I sowanted to be a fulgar," she murmured, looking sadly at her elegantly shodfeet. 
	Between those revelations of Europe'smysterious past and Threnody's twists of mood, Rossamund could think of nothingto say. He looked dumbly out the openfront of the lean-to to the dripping garden. A damp sparrow, all puffed and ruffled, was sitting atop a bare stakesunk deep in the moldy loam. It regardedhim with definite, unsettling wisdom, as if it knew only too well the trials ofbeing a boy making sense of a girl. 
	"So this Mister Numps is a glimner living in the Low Gutter,"Rossamund tried again."I'm goingthere this afternoon. You could come ifyou want." He immediately regrettedthe invitation. 
	Fortunately Threnody did not take him up on it, but stood and strodequickly to the doorway, tossing her hair over her shoulder."Have you even been listening to me atall?" she demanded. "You wouldhave to be the rudest, most ignorant boy I know!" And with that she left him. 
	Rossamund blinked hard, frowned, took a breath.Verline had been much easier and a thousandtimes more pleasant to be with than these bizarre, belligerent women. Rossamund might live till he was a thousandand still come no closer to understanding them. The sparrow chirped cheekily and left with a whir of wings. The young prentice could have sworn it winkedat him before it vanished. 
	
	** * * * 
	
	Middens was a desultory affair.Noone seemed to know why or when, but the Snooks had mysteriously departedWinstermill, and the new culinaire -- hired particularly by the Master-of-Clerks-- did not possess the talent to make strict rations appetizing. The food was plain, the smells were unsavoryand the company was decidedly unhappy. While Threnody and Rossamund had been outside, Smellgrove and Hapfauf'sdisagreement had ended in blows, and with other boys taking sides, half theprentices had earned themselves pots-and-pans. Now one side of the hall was not speaking to the other side. 
	Threnody ignored Rossamund utterly.
	As soon as he could, Rossamund took up his salumanticum and made his waydown to the Low Gutter to see Numps.After watching the man make his special seltzer he was hoping he mightlearn a chemical trick or two from the glimner today. He was cold and damp when he arrived but,once safe within the lantern store, he shook off his pallmain and left it andhis thrice-high on a hook by the door to drip themselves dry. He was thankful to have his new scarf. One of the detractions of seltzer light wasthat it gave no heat, and consequently the store was often too cold. 
	"Hello, Mister Rossamund," the glimner chuckled."Chill's biting my feettoday." He lifted his legs to showspatterdashes buckled about his shins, his bare soles poking a little from thebottom. Numps waggled his toes on hishealing foot. "Numps' frosty feetare bitten with the cold, but Mister Doctor Crispus says I can use themagain." 
	Rossamund grinned."Afternoon,Mister Numps. Another day for furbishingthe lantern-lights?" 
	"Ahhh,"Numps touchedhis handsome nose and chuckled again. Hecupped his hand about his mouth and whispered loudly to no one in particular. "I've got one on Mister Rossamund. He doesn't know it's not to be light-cleaningtoday, does he?" 
	For a moment Rossamund thought the glimner was actually talking to somethird person."What will we dotoday if we don't clean?" he asked. 
	The glimner just gave that merry little chortle in answer and stood.Wrapping himself in old oiled canvas andsecreting a bright-limn and a small, plump satchel beneath it, Numps made toexit. 
	"Come along, Mister Rossamund," he said softly and steppedoutside, rain swirling in from without.Putting his own dripping pallmain and hat back on, Rossamund followed,thoughts alight with puzzled wonder. 
	Producing the bright-limn to guide them, Numps took a left turn by thelantern store down through a riddle of narrow alleys, another left, then aright and along an ill-cobbled lane with a trickling drain that sneaked betweenthe fortress wall and the black planking of a great storehouse.Beneath the high eaves of the store, it wasmore like a tunnel, and so cramped they were forced to walk sideways. Hammering rain found its way through splitsand cracks to dribble from above. Ratsand other nervous skitterers stared from time-gathered detritus or scurriedbefore them, disappearing down unexpected gaps and grilles in the stonework oneither side. While they went, Numps gavesweet voice to brief nonsense songs about fish and frogs at a tea party, men wooingmilkmaids with whortleberry jam and some old general with a wooden leg and noarmy. 
	Creeping carefully, taking heed not to trip on the litter of planks,broken lamps, musket stocks, various tins and pots half-filled with stagnantwater or worse, wire spools, wire knots, broken bottles and even a pile ofunidentifiable bones, Rossamund stayed behind the glimner.Whereis this place?he marveled, steppingover the remains of an older foundation, some agglomeration of brick and stoneand cement. They were clearly in aforgotten precinct of Winstermill. 
	The tunnel-like lane ended abruptly, depositing them in a small, remotesquare where two other cramped lanes and their drains joined and gurgled down alarge, sunken grate.As clear of debrisas the lane was full, the square was surrounded on three sides by stonefoundations and wooden walls and on the fourth by the works of Winstermill'sbattlements. Weakly illuminated througha drizzling opening between roof and wall, it felt as removed from the bustleof the fortress as any haunted, lonely spot out in the wilds. Wind and rain wailed on high, lightningcrashed, but down here it was still; the bubbling waters and Numps' lilt theonly tunes. 
	Pausing, Numps put a finger to his mouth, indicating quiet.They could have talked at volume for allanyone would have heard. Bemused,Rossamund nevertheless nodded, and clamped his lips together for emphasis. Giving him the lantern, Numps crouched by thesunken grate and reached down between its squared bars, grabbing at somethingon their underside. There was a slightclank and the grate sprang up slightly, splitting in two like a gate. It was an entrance. Stone stairs led down an arched tunnel intodamp warmth and darkness. The water ofthe drains did not pour directly into the hole revealed, but was caught in agutter about the rim and channeled into a pipe at one corner. The dark below smelled faintly familiar; thesweet salt of seltzer blended with that almost-but-not-quite neutral odor ofhigh humidity. 
	Without hesitation, Numps went down, encouraging Rossamund to follow,pointing downward.Rossamund squeezedpast and Numps closed the grate again and came after. "Down, down, down we go," theglimner enthused, giving Rossamund a gentle nudge. 
	As they went the din of wild weather above was dulled almost tosilence.The prentice could hear dropsdripping steadily below, and occasional soft mechanical squeaks as well echoingup the stone stairway. This stair wentdeeper than Rossamund expected, down into what must have been part of thestructure of old Winstreslewe, the ancient bastion founded in Dido's time uponwhose ruined piles Winstermill had been raised. 
	The stair ended in a low undercroft of indeterminate size, its slatefloor crowded with square columns and arches of brick.Packed between each pillar were large, squat,square vats of blackened wood. Some vatsshone clean light to the low ceiling, others a verdant grassy green and yetothers showed little light at all. Together they lit the vast subfoundational space with soft effulgencelike an early, misty morning. The warmthhere was peculiar: the close air tepidand clinging. A tinkling music soundedin the dimness, made by the sporadic drizzle that formed in the humidity anddripped from the rough ceiling into the vats. 
	"What is this place?" Rossamund breathed, swinging thebright-limn about to shine on Numps' face.
	The glimner grinned in lopsided delight."This is where the bloom is made," he whispered. "Oh, where it used to be made, long,long before old Numps became poor Numps. This old Numps and his old friend found these baths and we put somelittle bit of bloom from a broken lamp in and we kept it alive till it grew tofill one bath and then the other bath and then the other and then more bathsstill! I have kept them alive, all thesetimes." Numps' smile becamesentimental, even paternal. "They're my special friends -- like you and Mister Sebastipole andCinnamon. Look, go on -- lookinside." By the kindest pressure onRossamund's upper arm, the glimner encouraged the prentice to peer inside avat. "But be careful not to let thelight shine in too long, and stay quiet, 'cause they like it still and dark andpeaceful." 
	The black wooden vats had a girth of roughly twice the width ofRossamund's cot and, straining on his toes, the prentice could see that withinwas water or something akin to it, perhaps a little greener.In this water was row on row of trailingplant-like growths, long horizontal strands of a kind of submerged grass wavingin its rippling bath. 
	Bloom!Rossamund realized. Native, unsprung, inprismedbloom! 
	To most they would have been simply a plant; just some kind of dull,underwater weed; boring old bloom:butto the prentice it was wonderful to see it growing freely, long and wild, bushyand eagerly verdant. Puncheons of thestuff were sitting in most domiciles the land over, stumpy, pruned sprigs readyto put into a bright-limn when the old had died. Here it was closer to how it might be in itsnative dwelling, the littoral waters of southern mares. 
	Rossamund stared for a long time, enjoying the deep echo of the drops,the faint trickling of the rippling water set in motion by some unseen agent,watching the elongated tendrils swaying, swaying, swaying in the green.It was a place of near-complete peace -- amodel of subterranean calm. 
	"This is wonderful..." he breathed.
	Numps beamed even as he took the bright-limn from Rossamund's hand.
	"Too much light," he explained, and sat down on a nest ofhessian and hemp."I come here andthe bloom trickle-trickle-trickles to me and gives me sleep and kindnoises." 
	They sat for a time, both silent in this hidden undercroft of bloombaths.
	"How does the rippling in the tubs happen?" Rossamund asked atlast.
	Numps stood, leaned into the vat, shone the light within and said,"By the flippers flapping, of course."
	Rossamund looked again and saw flat paddles waving slowly in the depthslike the swimming feet of an idling duck.Numps took him farther into the undercroft, threading past many morebaths than Rossamund had first reckoned. In the midst of it all Numps halted and pointed with open palm and aself-satisfied expression to a large brassbound wooden contraption. It was a pull-box, a small kind of gastrineabout the size of a limber. From itsflywheel a series of wheels and belts drove all the modulating paddles that setthe tub water to gentle motion, squeaking occasionally in their lazy to andfor. Rossamund could see the convolutedconnection of the belts all about the roof of the undercroft, one reaching downto the paddles of each vat. 
	"I feed it and muck it -- and the bloom too, and keep it all runningmyself.No one else will." Numps closed his eyes like a fellow foundlingreciting verse in one of Master Pinsum's lessons at the foundlingery. "Sometimes I put a little of one of myfriends into a great-lantern that's to go back out to the road, and these liveand live and live much longer than the poor things they grow otherwise." 
	In anyone else, this claim would be discounted as pure boast, but notwith Numps; not with such obvious proofs of his skill before them.
	Rossamund was powerfully impressed."What do you feed the pull-box?" 
	"The cuttings and prunings and dead bits from the bloom," Numpsreturned matter-of-factly, though a self-satisfied grin ticked at the unscarredcorner of his mouth.
	"What do you do with the pull-muck?"
	Grin growing, clearly proud of himself, the glimner answered, "Feedit to the bloom. They reckon it's the tastiest stuff they ever havetasted.They feed the pull, the pullfeeds them -- on and on and on and on." 
	"Why aren't these used in all the lamps all the time?"
	"Oh, they have their own blooms up there," Numps replied,"in tubs not so old and leaky nor hard to get to.I always have to plug the cracks and gaps inthis soggy wood." He patted theside of a bath tenderly. "Besides,the master-clerker and all his clerker-chums wouldn't like a thing like this. It's him who says where the bloom comes fromnowadays." 
	Rossamund stood and watched the entire mechanism in silent admiration,just listening to the deep soothe of the trickling, rippling waters."You'd have to be the best seltzermanever there was, Mister Numps!" he whispered. 
	"Ahh, not poor limpling-headed Numps," the glimner saidbashfully, then grinned.
	They sat then, side by side in the soporific warmth, the glimner and theprentice, Numps humming, Rossamund wishing heartily that he could come hereagain.Safe and warm and brimming withpeace, it was simply the best place in the whole Half-Continent. In the soft darkness of the old forgottenbloom baths, Rossamund slept. 

	15
	The Way Least Went
	
	Moss-lightalso know as alimnulin or limulight; this is a small, pocketable device, a simple biologueconsisting of a lidded box holding a clump of naturally phosphorescent mosslikelichens (either funkelmoos or micareen), set on a thick bed of nutrient to keepit alive.This nutrient bed can bereinvigorated with drops of liquid similar to seltzer. The light provided by a limnulin is notbright, but can give you enough to see your way right on a dark night, and isdiffuse enough not to attract immediate attention. 
	
	Witha panicked, convulsing suck of breath,Rossamund awoke. He sat up indisoriented fright, looking every way with hasty, sightless alarm as theswilling of water trickled all about. Then easy realization brought peace: he was still in the undercroft, with the bloom baths. 
	Numps stirred more peaceably, saying sleepily, "Oh, oh, wake up,sleepyheads, no time for dozing."
	"What's the o'clock?" Rossamund asked loudly, still a littlemizzled.
	Numps scratched his head."Uh, sorry, Mister Rossamund, I'm a glimner, not anight-clerk." 
	Rossamund got to his feet."It feels late," he said, and ran up the steps to observed thesky through the grate. With profoundconsternation he discovered that the clear black dome of night hung above. He could not quite believe it. His heart skipping several beats, he openedthe grate and clambered up to the square to get a better view. Maudlin green was riding high in thedark. It was desperately, impossiblylate. Douse-lanterns had come and waslong gone and all prentices should be in their cells asleep. No one was permitted to roam the grounds atnight, especially not some lowly lantern-stick. A quick trot to the jakes across the hall was all a prentice was allowedduring the night-watches. To be at largenow was the worst breach, punishable by an afternoon in the pillory by theFeuterer's Cottage. 
	Rossamund leaped back down the steps, three at a time, utterly flustered,dreading the worst punishments."I'm late. I'm lockedout. Frogs and toads, Mister Numps! How am I to get back into my cell?" 
	Numps was still sitting as the prentice had left him.
	"I have to go right now, Mister Numps."Rossamund's voice quavered with anxiety. "It's past douse-lanterns... Oh, I'm in so much trouble..." 
	"Oh -- oh -- um, oh dear -- there's better ways home again."Numps nodded. Numps' hiding-hole goes more places than just here." With that he stood and jogged off through thebaths. 
	Rossamund followed.
	Through the convoluted clearances between the battery of baths theyhastened.In the farthest corner of theundercroft was a hole in the wall, round like a drain. Upon a hook at the apex of the drain's archhung a bright-limn with the healthiest looking bloom Rossamund had ever seenglowing bright in its near-clear seltzer. Beyond the throw of clean light the cavity of the drain was exquisitelyblack and blank and mysterious. Numpstook the bright-limn off its stay and, with a solemn nod to Rossamund and asoft "shh," entered the round gap. 
	Close behind, the prentice saw that they were in a tunnel, most probablyan ancient sewer pipe.On left and rightdown the length of the tunnel they passed the small dark mouths of lesser pipesbeady with reflecting retinas and echoing with light patters and rodentsqueaks. The gray-mousers that hauntedthe manse could grow happily fat down here. 
	In this moldy, claustrophobic place Rossamund's sense of distance beganto distort, and with it time.To him itfelt that they had walked far enough to be somewhere out on the Harrowmath. Several times the tunnel kinked and branchedtill Rossamund was disoriented and very glad that the glimner knew theway. Numps finally took a right turn andthey began to descend. The new way wasof greater diameter than the previous drain and took them down so sharply thatRossamund was made to lean backward with the effort of climbing, scrabbling atthe slimy bricks to prevent a slip. 
	Lifting the bright-limn high, Numps paused when the tunnel became levelagain."We are right under themanse-house," the glimner said, looking up and ducking his head. 
	Looking to the immuring bricks just above, Rossamund shrank a little atthe thought of the great press of masonry, the tons of stone and hundreds ofsleeping lighters and staff all on top of him.It was so deep not even the vermin ventured here. 
	Shouldn't we be going up?Rossamund fretted. 
	Numps continued forward, and there, by an intersecting pipe was a smalldoor of corroding iron a few feet above the floor, reached by three largesteps.He grinned at Rossamund, hisgeniality made ghastly by the play of seltzer light on his scars. Rossamund smiled back, alive to the immensetrust the glimner was showing him, the secrets the man was revealing. 
	"Through here now, and up, up, up," Numps said softly.He produced a key pulled from somewhere onhis person, unlocked the rusty door and shone the seltzer light through. Beyond was the landing of a tight stairway ofnear-failing timbers, rising into shadows of architectural gloom. 
	Another fustigrade!
	Unlike the one reached through the kitchens, this was not lit at all.
	How often does he come here?Rossamund's whole sense of Winstermillshifted with the thought of the glimner wandering about beneath them as theylabored, ate, even slept. 
	Numps stood by the door, waiting.
	"Mister Numps?"
	"I don't like to go up to the manse."The glimner's face was drawn and gray, hiseyes animated with deep troubles. "I won't go any farther -- oh dear no; I don't like it in themanse... never have." 
	"Can I find my own way from here?" Rossamund asked.
	The glimner clucked his tongue."Mister Rossamund can indeed go himself." 
	"What more is ahead?" the prentice asked.
	Numps looked to the furtigrade distractedly."Oh -- oh, more tunnels, morestairs: just go up -- up -- up -- do notstop at any doors until the very top and turn the bolt and slide the door, downthe passage and through the hole and you shall come out on to the lecturyfloor." 
	A start of panic knotted in Rossamund's innards."Are you sure?" he pressed. 
	Numps nodded emphatically.Theglimner had led him a long and twisted way but now he must go ahead alone -- toa place that might not lead anywhere. I could be lost or found out late! -- betweenthe stone and the sty, as Fransitart would say.I found my way to Winstermill and I can do this too. 
	Stepping onto the tiny landing, Rossamund looked up.He could see only a few flights above, beyondwhich darkness brooded. Helistened: he could hear nothing but hisown workings beating, lub-dub lub-dub. 
	"You must go gently-gently," said the glimner."Some others are up here too, alla-wandering. I hear them sometimes downhere but they don't hear me. Ohno." He took something from hissatchel and pressed it into Rossamund's hands. "Here, Mister Rossamund, take this; it's too dark upthere." It was a small pewter box,like those is which pediteers carried their playing cards, but this had a thickleather strap attached and felt almost empty. The prentice did not know what to say. 
	"It's a moss-light," Numps explained."Push -- push at the top." 
	Rossamund did as instructed.Thetop panel proved to be a lid that, when slid up, exposed a diffuse blue-greenglow within. With a closer look he foundthe box was hollow with a glass top, and stuffed with a bizarre kind of plant,its tiny leaves radiant with that odd, natural effulgence like bloom. 
	"So you will find the way."Numps blessed Rossamund with his crooked smile once more. 
	"Oh, thank you, Mister Numps."Rossamund felt a small relief: atleast he would see his way -- even if he was not certain where that way would lead him. 
	"Go, go,"Numps bobbedhis head bashfully. "Up up to thetop, slide the door, through the hole and off to bed just like me. Bye, bye..." Mumbling, he shuffled back along the reverseof his path. 
	By the eerie nimbus-light of Numps' gift, Rossamund began to climb thefurtigrade.It was steep, of course, andso very cramped he was obliged to climb slowly. Heeding the warning that the glimner had given of others above, heworked hard to make his footfalls light and prevent the flimsy stair fromcreaking. Three flights and still thefurtigrade went on. At the fourth thelooming shadows resolved themselves into a doorway, but the stair went on. Nostopping at any doors, Mister Numps said. Rossamund continued to climb. Hisascent was soon foiled, however. Notmore than another two flights higher he discovered to his great dismay that apart of the stair had collapsed, making a wreck of gray splinters that made thefurtigrade impassable. He could go nofarther. What now?His mind's cogsraced. I'll try the door I saw below. 
	Rossamund crept down to this door,the glow of the moss-light muffled against his chest, and listened: nothing but drips and the rush of hisheart. He dared a little more light andpeered gingerly beyond the doorway. Thefloor of the space was a mirror of the ceiling, a broad shallow drain thatformed a vaulted junction with three other tunnels. Forward or back he was lost, he figured, butback meant certain discovery and the pillory while forward at least held achance of undetected return. So forward it is... 
	He had heard somewhere -- probably from Master Fransitart -- that whencaught in a maze you should always go left and eventually you would winfree.Taking a deep breath he wentleft. If this did not work he wouldsimply return and choose again. 
	Rossamund followed the leftward tunnel and it took him farther andfarther from the junction, finally terminating in eight steps that led up to abrick wall.A dead end!But there,hammered into the mildewed bricks with corroded pegs of iron, was a crudeladder. Hanging the moss-light by itsstrap about his neck, the prentice scuttered up and pulled himself through intoa tight valley in the masonry that smelled of century-settled dust andstillness. Brittle twig-weeds sprouted fromany suggestion of a crack between floor and wall. How they managed to live at all down in thissubterranean night he did not know. 
	Leftward was blocked by a wall, and so Rossamund went right.In the meager moss-light, he thought he coulddiscern what looked like the blank sockets of windows high in the wallsabove. Soon this architectural chasmended bluntly in a redbrick barrier fronted by yet another furtigrade going upand going down. Up was closer toWinstermill, he reasoned, so he began to wearily climb again. 
	The night was never going to end!
	I should never have come thisway.I should have knocked on the Sallydoor... or even the front door. 
	Becoming used to this creeping dark, he took the ascent a little moreconfidently, but the stair soon reached its end.At its summit he was confronted with a wallinto which was sunk and oblong trap-hole, about his height and nearly an arm'slength deep. It was blocked by a stainedpanel of dark rusted iron fixed with a corroded handle and barely held shut bya sliding bar of wood and iron. Rossamund tried it in hope, and the flaking metal resisted at first butthen slid back with a loud crack. Maybe this is the door Numps was thinking of... He tugged, and the door did not shift. He shoved with hearty frustration, and ina small burst of rusting dust from itsage-blackened hinges the portal bulged inward -- just a little. Through this crack was a glimpse intoblackness, and from it exhaled the foul odor of decay, so much like that farworse hint he had once detected in the hold of the Hogshead. In the bowels ofthe cromster it had been heavily masked with swine's lard, but here it was fulland oppressively potent, smothering him in its dread stink. 
	A rever-man!he intuited, stepping away from the door. Downhere?But how? He could not believe it. 
	There was a sound, some nondescript evidence of motion; a step, a shuffle-- Rossamund could not tell, but he knew something moved behind thatstubborn-hinged door.
	I must try another way!He reached for the handle of the panel toshut it. 
	Some misshapen thing lurched at the space from the black within.Pallid hands, blotched and scabbed, grippeddoor and post and wrenched powerfully. Metal groaned, wood buckled and the door-gap widened. A pale head thrust through, craning andtwisting right, then left, its spasmodic breath coming in a quiveringwheeze. Its toothy, lipless mouth seepedsaliva, at which it sucked almost as often as it breathed. The abominable creature twisted about andfixed its callous attention on him, pinning him with its morbidfascination. With a white flash of dreadhe realized this was a gudgeon. Heretruly was a rever-man -- uncaged,unfettered, dreadfully free. 
	Rossamund bit back a scream.Hisinnards churned. His thoughts wailed. Arever-man!A rever-man here inWinstermill! 
	For a breath Rossamund's mind was overthrown as he tottered back,struggling to fathom what he saw.Yetwith the cold, radiating dread that cried Run!Run! In a tiny, terrified voice within came a wholly unexpected rage. Faced now with a rever-man, a blasphemouslymade-thing, uncaged and visible, Rossamund's terror did not overcome him. His hand went instinctively to his salumanticumand found the Frazzard's powder. 
	The gudgeon shifted its grasp.Tinylittle piggy eyes regarded him coldly -- soulless, dead -- as slowly, inexorablythe panel-door was forced open. Large,furry, inhuman ears swiveled and twitched at either side of its long andbulging skull. Swathes of filthybandages and even a rope were wrapped about its trunk, keeping its heavingchest and stitch-grafted abdomen together. What struck Rossamund most was the utter absence of any threwd about thething. A threwdless monster:how couldyou ever tell it was coming? Indeed,it was devoid of even a flicker of real vitality: a man-made thing, a dead thing. Yet its full and putrid reek, unmasked byswine's lard, was potent. The gudgeonopened its slavering mouth and a long tongue like a lizard's lolled obscenely,flicking in the dusty air. Even asRossamund stumbled backward onto the furtigrade and down the way he had come,the abomination stared with hungry curiosity as the crack between door and wallgrew ineluctably wider. 
	"Hmm," it seethed, licking at the gap between it and the prentice,"yooouuu mmake mmeee huuunnngreee..."
	With one powerful spring, the made-monster flung itself through the gap,viper-quick, at Rossamund, slamming into the balustrade as it made pursuit.
	Tripping, nearly falling, Rossamund blundered down the stair.The gudgeon staggered and turned with a dry,rattling hiss. On the lower landingRossamund twisted and flung the potive at it as it pounced at him from onhigh. His aim was as true at a naturalthrow as it was off with a firelock. TheFrazzard's powder bust against the creature's neck and shoulder with a flash ofbluish sparks and a series of tight detonations that sounded like the poppingof corks. 
	"Aaiieeee!"The creature hit the wooden steps with acrash and tumbled into Rossamund as it fell. A thousand stars erupting across his senses, the prentice was crushedover and over between wooden step and rever-man. Together they toppled a whole other flight,then another, striking the banister rail on the lower landing hard, causing itto crack dangerously. 
	The gudgeon was on him in an instant, pressing him down, its whelmingstench all about him, teeth snapping clack!clack! Seeking to nip at exposed flesh: fingers, knees, cheeks. In white,blind terror Rossamund heaved the abominable creature off and shoved it --almost threw it though it was twice his size -- across the tiny landing. Free of its imprisoning bulk, he sprang upthe stairs he had just descended so painfully, pointlessly crying, "Help!Help!" 
	"Ahhh!Yoouuu liiittle beeeast!" he heard it hiss behind him. The rever-man was fumbling about on hands andknees, its piggy little eyes burned out by the Frazzardian chemistry. The 

	distinct peppery-salty smell ofthe spent potive spiced the close fug of the furtigrade."I caaan stiiill heeeaaarrryoouu..." 
	The gudgeon shuffled toward Rossamund and he turned to face it,scuttering up each step upon his bottom.
	It made a strange cackling."I could eeeat yoouuurrr kiiind aaall the looong looongdaayyy!" It sprang catlike at whatit believed to be Rossamund's position, and struck the banister three stepsbelow the prentice with enough force to smash the rails to flinders, whichtoppled down into the darkness. Nothingcould stop the gudgeon. It bounced offthe ruined wood, its arm a spasming dead weight, the left shoulder dislocatedand deformed by the blow -- the vile creature was so utterly ravening it wasdestroying itself to get to him. Itpounced again. 
	Rossamund kicked out with all the might his horror could muster -- andmissed.The unhallowed thing gripped hisflailing leg and bit at his skin, a bite meant to tear away muscle. Its crooked teeth met proofed galliskins,cruelly pinching flesh against bone but failing to penetrate. Once again Rossamund had been saved by thewonders of gauld. With a yelp, he lashedwith his free leg, striking the putrid thing upon its face. The gudgeon must not have been well knit, forits jaw gave way with sickening ease under his boot-heel; teeth sprayed andclattered about the stair. Thecobbled-together thing gurgled and shrieked and sought to grasp Rossamund in adeath grip. Kicking again, the prenticegot his footing and bounded up the stairs. 
	Below, the gudgeon was hissing and sucking through its mangled mouth,struggling once again up the furtigrade seeking nothing but gory murder,utterly heedless of its broken parts.
	Rossamund extracted another salpert of Frazzard's powder.Oh, forsomething more deadly!Yet he didnot dare use the loomblaze for fear it would cause the dry, dusty furtigrade totake fire, and start an unstoppable conflagration right within the foundationsof the manse. He threw the potive hardon the step before the gudgeon, seeking to make a brief barrier, to give theabomination second thoughts. The potivepopped and crackled as it erupted and sprayed the gudgeon again. With its cries of rage oddly flat and muffledin the squeeze of the dusty furtigrade, Rossamund dashed up the stairs, painjarring up his bitten shin. 
	The foul thing was staggering up after him -- he could see it through theframe and rails -- eyes fizzing, weeping gore, utterly ruined by two doses ofFrazzard's powder, jaw a crooked mass, mouth dribbling unstoppably.There was something almost pathetic aboutthis abominable creature with its terrible injuries, yet it did not heed itsdamage. With long, clumsy reaches o fitsarms, the gudgeon slapped its hands of an higher step, felt the way and pulleditself up, gaining pace. There was noescaping the thing. Rossamund could onlytry to flee up the furtigrade and out into the unknown cavities of the vaultabove. 
	"Help!"he cried, a small pathetic sound in thisclaustrophobic fastness. 
	The gudgeon slunk around the landing below, starting up the very stair hewas upon.It jabbered at himincomprehensibly, trying to form vile taunts with its broken, dribbling maw. 
	"Help!"Rossamund bellowed again. He knew it was hopeless, but sanguine hopekept him crying. 
	He set his feet on the creaking boards of the tiny landing by thewrenched door, giving himself a little space to fight from, and seized a casteof loomblaze from his salumanticum.Hehad to risk it or perish. Rossamundwatched the ill-gotten thing climb, and waited. Waited till it was close enough. 
	"Whhyyy-bbll-ssooo-blbb-ssstiiilll-blbl,littlbblle-bbl-mooorsel-bbl," the horrordrooled and, despite blindness, gathered itself to pounce. 
	With a terrorlike wail, Rossamund leaped down the stairs and grappled thefoul creature once more, hitting the banister rail as they collided, wrenchingit with an ominous crack.The gudgeontried to pound at him, but Rossamund was in close, too close for its swings tobe effective. It thumped at hisshoulders, pushing him down beneath its wrath. He gagged and spat bile. Yet asit smothered him, the prentice gripped the gudgeon about its festering neck andshoved the caste of loomblaze down into the foul, broken mouth, right into itscrop. The gudgeon tried to chew off hishand, its broken jaw doing little more than a gory flapping. It wrapped its tongue about Rossamund's wristand with groping, gripping hands sought to gouge at the prentice's face. Straining and twisting his head, Rossamundwrenched himself loose and away, bringing his arm back sharply to chop at thecreature's throat, where the frangible vial had lodged. At the second blow the gudgeon gave aconvulsing, gargling shriek: ahalf-human, piglike squeal. Yellow-greengouts of light flared from its mouth and nostrils as the loomblaze eruptedwithin its neck. It writhed and archedits back, still screaming as Rossamund kicked it away and fumbled for safety onhigher steps. He watched in horror asthe burning rever-man toppled against the already weakened rail. It gave way and the beast plummeted throughthe thin gap about which the furtigrade wound, shattering the rail below;falling, colliding and falling again a score of times more than Rossamund couldfollow, before abruptly halting, a small bright fire in the darkest depthsbelow. 
	Laboring for breath, shin a torture, his mind's eye revisiting the horrorover and over in a giddy spin, Rossamund pulled himself away from the edge ofthe gap.He shook himself, stood, and onwobbling legs went as fast as he could down the furtigrade, terrified that someother revenant-beast might be waiting for him above. Far down the dangerously shuddering stair,deeper still, he could see the dying flicker of the loomblaze burning. The frame of the furtigrade began to crackand sag, the age-rotten wood not able to support such rough use. Back at the walled valley he leaped from thetottering stair and ran, legs still shaky, back the way he had come, findingthe original four-way vault. Going leftagain he pushed on, listening always for sounds of pursuit, another caste ofloomblaze ever ready in his grasp. Sointent was he on knowing if he was followed he took little notice of theperpendicular twists and the turns, choosing left when he could, going eitherup or down with an instinct born of desperation. If he hit a dead end he would simply turnabout and take the next left, eyes wide as wide could be, ears pricked for anywheezing or shuffling of a gudgeon in pursuit. 
	Driven by the nauseating urgency to be free of this crowding, dustylabyrinth, Rossamund pushed on through more and more cramped passages andburied, forgotten rooms.Stumblingdizzily several times, he had no notion of how long or how far he had come, butat some point the way became straighter and the architecture familiar. At the top of a solid flight of stone stepshe stopped in front of a door with a very ordinary-looking handle in it, justlike those on the doors of the manse. Excited, he tugged. The doorresisted at first, but after a determined pull it opened with a clatter. The relief was powerful, hysterical. Rossamund sprang out, all sense of decorumabandoned. "Raise the alarm!" he hollered. "A rever-man! A rever-man! 
	And there, on the other side, he found himself staring directly at theshocked face of the Master-of-Clerks.

	16
	The Lamplighter-Marshal
	
	Telltale(s)falsemanretained by one of office or status to inform their employers of the veracityof others' statements or actions, to signal if fellow interlocuters are lyingor dissembling or masking the truth in any other way.If they could afford to, most people of anyprominence would employ telltales, but there simply are not enough falsemen tofill so many vacancies. This means thata leer can earn a truly handsome living as a telltale. Then there are those honorable few who do itsimply because it is their job and responsibility. Despite this rarity, many of the prominentwork hard to nullify the advantage a telltale will give, either by employingtheir own falseman, or having a palliatrix (a highly trained liar -- even rarerthan a falseman) attend in their stead. 
	
	Rossamunddid not much like the Master-of-Clerks, but right then the officious fellow wasan astoundingly welcome sight. 
	"Blight your eyes, boy!" the clerk-master almost shrieked, paleand breathing hard from the fright."You were nigh on the end of me! Where have you come from? How didyou get here? Where did you get thatrunning gash upon your crown?" 
	"A rever-man below us, sir!Arever-man in the tunnels underneath!" 
	"A 'rever-man'?What do youmean?" the clerk-master snapped, recovering his composure and sittingagain on his seat at the long table that dominated the room. The man was without his gorgeous wig, lookingslightly ridiculous, his head bound with cloth and showing tufts of croppedwiry hair. 
	Rossamund could not believe the man did not know what a rever-manwas."A revenant, sir! A gudgeon!" 
	"Nonsense, child!Utterfiddle-faddle!" TheMaster-of-Clerks flicked his hand in angry dismissal. 
	Laudibus Pile appeared as if from nowhere."What is the trouble, sir?" hepurred with his oily voice, his disturbing eyes narrow and calculating as hesaw Rossamund standing where he should never have been. 
	Looking about in a daze, Rossamund began to realize he was actually inthe Master-of-Clerks' private file.Hehad been here just once before. "Mister Pile!" he effused, unaware that he had just cut acrosshis superior. "I fought a rever-mandown in the tunnels of old Winstreslewe!" 
	"The boy has a wound to the head.He is delirious! He forgetshimself! Send for Surgeon Swill,"Podious Whympre seemed to demand of the air itself. 
	Rossamund felt at his head.Hishat was gone, lost somewhere in the horrid under-dark. His hand came away bloody. "I am notdelirious." He frowned at thered. "I fought a gudgeon!" He could not understand the resistance, the lackof action. 
	"I do not know what you are jabbering about, child, but I wouldrecommend you lower your volume and mend your manner," theMaster-of-Clerks ordered with a dangerous look."You are in thick enough without adding insubordination to yourtroubles!" 
	Feeling equal parts perplexity and fright, Rossamund obeyed.
	All the while Pile had been shrewdly examining the young prentice.He now bent to murmur into theMaster-of-Clerks' ear. 
	Exposed, the prentice held the leer's gaze regardless.He had no lies to hide. 
	"I see," said Whympre at the leer's secret words."Well, young prentice, show us this --this rever-man." He spoke the word as if it were a vulgarthing. "Take us to where you thinkyou found such an unlikely creature." 
	Rossamund turned to go back down.He did not want to return to the benighted maze beneath but was eager toprove what he had been through. It wasthen he realized he did not know how to return to the scene of violence, sokeen had he been on getting out. Some ofhis lefts had become rights in the end, and there was no telling preciselywhich and when. He hesitated. 
	Surgeon Swill arrived in the enormous room and all notions of going belowwere subordinated as, with an intently professional expression, he examinedRossamund's hurts."This is a nastyblow," he declared after a silent observation of the young prentice'shead. "The boy must surely be in adaze. How did you get the wound? Knock your cranium on a doorpost or the like,yes?" 
	"No, sir, the basket did this to me!" he said, watchingnervously as the surgeon reached into a sinister-looking case.
	"He persists with this daft notion of a monster in thecellars," the Master-of-Clerks said with strange, affected sympathy."Poor, foolish child." 
	"Indeed.Clearly dazed,"Swill insisted, producing a bandage. "Such an injury can make one believe he sees all kinds ofphantasms. Bed rest and a callic draughtare the best for you, young lantern-stick. Let this be a lesson to you not to be dashing about afterdouse-lanterns!" 
	Callic draughts were for drowsing the mentally infirm -- Rossamund knewhis potives too well.He did not want anaddled, forgetful sleep. He wanted totell the horrible news that the unthinkable had happened: that a monster had been found inside Winstermill. As he submitted to the bandage being wrappedabout his crown, Rossamund was keenly aware of the unsympathetic gazes uponhim. "I have to tell theLamplighter-Marshal!" he insisted. 
	"And so you shall," said Whympre, "and illuminate him andme both as to your illegal surveyings and nocturnal invasions. I warn you though, child, your chatter aboutburied bogles will not wash with him either. The only event for which we have proof unavoidable is your trespass inmy rooms." 
	"Mister Sebastipole will confirm I tell the truth, sir,"Rossamund said obstinately with an angry glance at Pile.
	The falseman gave Rossamund a cool, almost venomous look.
	The Master-of-Clerks and the falseman and the surgeon exchanged themerest hint of a pointed glance.
	Whympre declared firmly, "Well then, it's off to the Marshal we go,prentice.He will not be pleased, for heis always busy with his papers. Batterstyx!" he called to the air. "Batterstyx! Myperruque!" An aged private manappeared from some other door bearing the clerk-master's lustrous blackwig. Once it was fitted to the greatman's satisfaction, the Master-of-Clerks strode forth. "Come along!" 
	Rossamund was marched through the perpendicular geometry of themanse.Accompanied by the three men, hewas taken from the far back corner to somewhere near the front, where theLamplighter-Marshal's duty room was found. Pile knocked for them and they waited. 
	Presently this port sprang open and Inkwill emerged, lookingoverworked."Master-of-Clerks," the registry clerk said, managing a wrysmile. "What troublesome punctiliotroubles you now, sir?" 
	Whympre sniffed as if to indicate Inkwill was beneath his notice."We have a disturbing breach of securityto relay to the Marshal. Go tell this tohim." 
	Why not just tell him of therever-man?Rossamund thoughtangrily. He knew there were forms tofollow, but in a circumstance such as this, surely they could be put aside? 
	"Aye, sir."The registryclerk nodded, his eyes going a little wide at the bandage about Rossamund'shead. 
	The door closed, there was a wait; it opened again and Inkwill reappearedto gesture the four through.Theanteclave was empty of its usual crowd of the Marshal's secretaries andassisting clerks, yet many piles of paper remained. Even to Rossamund -- for whom these countlessdocuments had no relevance -- such a mass of paper gave the room a feeling ofnagging, insurmountable and never-ending labor. Inkwill guided him though the thin lane between desks. 
	"Stay here, prentice," the Master-of-Clerks ordered.
	Rossamund obeyed, his head starting to throb uncomfortably, whileWhympre, Swill and Pile went on into the Lamplighter-Marshal's duty room.Very quickly Inkwill was back, dashingthrough the anteclave without a word. 
	More waiting, and the throb in Rossamund's pate grew into an ache.
	Inkwill returned now with Sebastipole in tow, the leer giving Rossamundone look and saying, "That is a fine bump you have got yourself, myboy.Follow me, if you will,"before going directly in to the Marshal. 
	In the shadow of Sebastipole, the young prentice inched his way into thevery soul of Winstermill's existence, hands habitually gripped before him at anow absent thrice-high.To Rossamund'sleft, the Master-of-Clerks had stationed himself on a richly cushioned tandemchair. Swill was on his right, poisedstiffly on the edge of a hall chair, alert, waiting. On the clerk-master's left stood LaudibusPile, leaning against a false architrave, head down. But right before him, behind a desk piledwith documents, sat the Lamplighter-Marshal, the eighth Earl of the BatonImperial of Fayelillian. He appeareddrawn, and sharply aware of the entire substance of his manifold burdens, andwas staring keenly at Rossamund. "Good evening, Prentice-Lighter Bookchild," he said, his warmvoice crackling slightly with weariness. The Marshal's quick gaze, penetrating and wily, seemed to sum upRossamund, standing as stiff as an Old Gate Pensioner, in one acute look. He cleared his throat and gestured to thehall chair. "Please, take yourease." Despite dark sags ofsleeplessness, the man's amiable, fatherly appearance remained. Indeed, with his sweeping white mustachios, anoble lift to his chin and a white-blond forelock curling almost boyishly uponhis brow, the effect this close was magnified. 
	Sebastipole stood at the corner of the massive table while Inkwill showedRossamund to his seat, positioned squarely before the great man.
	"I am told by the clerk-master," the Marshal continued,"that ye believe yerself to have fought with a homunculid in the ancienttunnels below us.Is this so,prentice?" 
	"Aye, sir."Rossamundswallowed hard. He was about to let thewhole tale burble out, when, with a cold stab in his innards, he realized hemight betray Numps by telling of the undercroft. With a flicker of a look to the two leers,Rossamund faltered and went silent. 
	With this, Laudibus Pile raised his face and, with a dark glance atSebastipole, fixed Rossamund with his own see-all stare.It was profoundly daunting to have a twin offalsemen's eyes -- red orb, blue iris -- staring cannily from left andright. Rossamund shifted on the hardseat in his discomfort. 
	"Are ye well, son?I hopethat wound does not overly trouble ye," the Lamplighter-Marshal said,nodding to the thick bandage about the prentice's head. 
	"A little, sir."
	"I did my best to mend him, Lamplighter-Marshal," Swill putin."It is a nasty cut underneathall that cloth and I am sure, however it was sustained, it is enough to knockthe sense out of the boy." 
	"So ye said before, surgeon," the Marshal said gravely."Tell me, Rossamund, do ye feel knockedabout in yer intellectuals?" 
	"Somewhat, sir, but I was fully aware before and I am fully awarenow."
	The Marshal smiled genially."Good man." He shuffledsome papers before him. "The goodclerk-master has told me his take on yer tale, prentice, and is skeptical. I would like to hear yer own recollection andwe shall go on from that. Proceed, youngfellow." 
	Rossamund cleared his throat, took a rattling, timorous breath, clearedhis throat a second time and finally began."I had missed douse-lanterns, sir, and found a way under the manseand it took me through all kinds of furtigrades and passages..." And so he told of the terrific events,passing very quickly over the how of his presence, avoiding any mention of thebloom baths or Numps, concentrating most on the battle with the prefabricatedhorror. All present listened in unmovedsilence until his short recounting was finished. Upon its completion the Lamplighter-Marshallnodded gravely and smoothed his mustachios with forefinger and thumb. "I am not a 

	
	commander wholikes to set one fellow's telling against another's, yet ye seem a ratherslight lad to be the conqueror of so fearsome a thing as a rever-man.More than this is how such a beastie ever woninto places no monster has ever made it to before. How-be-it, my boy, ye were the only onepresent and my telltale finds no fault with yer summation." 
	Rossamund had not been aware of any communication between the Marshal andthe lamplighter's agent, yet somehow Sebastipole had made what he observedclear to the Lamplighter-Marshal.Theleer gave a barely perceptible nod to the prentice. "Indeed, sir, what he has told us hascontained no lie." 
	He believes me after all!Rossamund could have done a little caper forjoy, but kept still and somber. 
	Laudibus Pile darted a calculating, ill-willed squint at Sebastipole.
	"As it is, this is a most difficult situation, prentice."The Lamplighter-Marshall became verystern. "Ye have placed me in abind, for on the one hand ye must be applauded -- surely awarded -- for yercourage and sheer pluck at prevailing in such a mismatched contest as ever afellow was set to." 
	Rossamund's heart leaped with hope.
	"Yet," the Lamplighter-Marshal went on firmly, "thecircumstances surrounding yer feat of arms are drastically irregular, would yenot agree, lad?To be out beyonddouse-lanterns though not of the lantern-watch or the night-watch is a gravebreach. Entering restricted parts of themanse, another grave breach. Perhaps weshould simply all be glad for the blighted thing's destruction. But a rule for all is a rule for one, and arule for one is a rule for all, do ye agree, Prentice Bookchild?" 
	The prentice swallowed hard."Aye, sir." Though hehad never heard entering the underregions of Winstermill formally proscribed,this revelation did not surprise him -- most things were out-of-bounds for aprentice. 
	The Master-of-Clerks stirred."If I may interject here, most honored Marshal, with theobservation that my own telltale does not find all particulars of theprentice's retelling wholly satisfying." 
	With a single, stiff nod, Laudibus Pile confirmed his master's claim.
	"When falsemen disagree, eh?"The Lamplighter-Marshal became even sterner, hard, almost angry -- withwhom, Rossamund could not tell, and he swallowed again at the anxiousnessparching his throat. 
	"In fact, sir," the Master-of-Clerks pressed, "I might goso far as to state that one does not need to be a falseman to detect theirregularities in this... this one's story.Perhaps your telltale does not see it so clearly? I am rather in the line that this little oneis just grasping for glories to cover his defaulting." He bent his attention on Rossamund. "You have waxed eloquent upon your fightwith the wretched creature, child, and the proof that you came to blows with something is clear; but I still do notfollow how it is that you came to be in the passeyards at all or why it is thatyour journey took you to my very sanctum? You avoided the question before, but you shall not do so now." 
	"The passeyards, sir?" Rossamund asked.
	"Yes."TheMaster-of-Clerks flurried his fingers impatiently. The interleaves, the cuniculus, the slypes --the passages twixt walls and beneath halls, boy!" 
	"Oh."
	The Lamplighter-Marshal raised his right hand, a signal for silence,stopping the Master-of-Clerks cold."Yer point is made, clerk-master. Prentice Bookchild, ye have a reputation for lateness, do ye not? As I understand it, ye have gained themoniker 'Master Come-lately,' aye?" 
	"Aye, sir."
	"So tell us true:how is itye found such well-hidden tunnels as those ye occupied tonight?" 
	Ashamed, Rossamund dropped his head then darted a look to the Marshal,whose mild attentive expression shoed no hint of his thoughts or opinion."I was with the glimner, Mister Numps,down in the Low Gutter, and I forgot the time so -- so I went by the drains so Icould get into the manse after douse-lanterns." He was determined not to implicate MisterNumps in any manner, but with a falseman at both sides, it was an impossibleploy. Yet Rossamund was desperate enoughto attempt to dissemble. "I foundthem... through... through somewhere under the... the Low Gutter, sir--" 
	Laudibus Pile's glittering gaze narrowed."Liar!" the falseman hissed caustically. 
	"Ye will address an Emperor's servant with respect, sir," themarshal-lighter pronounced sharply, "be he above or below ye instation!"
	"He does not lie, Pile!" Sebastipole added grimly.
	"He dissembles!" Laudibus snapped, with a black look to theMarshal then his counterpart.
	"Indeed he might," Sebastipole countered smoothly, "but hedoes not lie."
	"Enough, gentlemen!"TheMarshal cut through, and there was silence. He returned his attention to Rossamund. "Now, my man, whitewashing tends only to make one look guilty. Say it straight: we only want to find how this gudgeon-basketgot into our so-long inviolate home, and so stop it happening again. Where did ye gain entry into the under parts?" 
	"Through the old bloom baths."Rossamund dropped his head, feeling the most wretched blackguard thatever weaseled another. "Under theSkillions, where they once tended the bloom." He did not mind trouble for himself near halfas much as implicating Numps. 
	The Marshal just nodded.
	"What old bloom baths?" asked the Master-of-Clerks sharply,forgetting his place perhaps, interrupting the Marshal's inquiries."How, by the blight, did you find such aplace on your own? A place, I mightadd," he continued with the barest hint of a displeased look to theMarshal, "that Ihave only heard of tonight! You cannot expect us to believe youdiscovered such a place in solus!" 
	"In solus, sir?"
	"By yourself," he returned tartly."Who showed you where they are?" 
	"I--" Rossamund did not know how to answer.
	"Speak it all!" Laudibus Pile spat.
	"Silence!"barked the Lamplighter-Marshal. "Another gust from ye, sir, and ye will be exiting these rooms!" 
	An undaunted, cunning light flickered in the depths of Pile's eyes, yethe yielded and seemed to retreat deeply within himself.
	After an uncomfortable, ringing pause, the Master-of-Clerks fixed theprentice with his near-hungry stare."You must tell us, prentice," he said softly, "how thendo you know of such a place?" 
	"It is common enough knowledge that there are ancient, seldomvisited waterworks and cavities underneath our own pile, sir," cameSebastipole's unexpected interjection.
	"I think, Master-of-Clerks," was the Lamplighter-Marshal'sfirma and timely addition, "that ye may leave this line of questioningnow.The boy has been brought up shortenough with the night's ordeal ipseadversus -- standing alone! What ismore, it brings no clarity to the more troubling details." 
	The Master-of-Clerks became a picture of pious obedience."Certainly, sir," he returnedrespectfully, smoothing the gorgeous hems of his frock coat. "I am just troubled that the existenceof those old bloom baths is what has allowed the creature -- if it exists -- tofind its way in. If that be so, then wewill most certainly have to do away with the whole place," theMaster-of-Clerks declared officiously, "to be thorough." 
	From across the Marshal's desk Rossamund could see the tension inSebastipole, the lamplighter's agent's jaw tightening, loosening, tightening,loosening with rhythmic distraction.
	"But the rever-man was shut up in some old room a long way from thebloom baths," the young prentice dared.
	"So you say, child."TheMaster-of-Clerks smiled serenely at Rossamund, a sweet face to cover sharpwords. "Yet if a mere prentice canfind his way so deep in forgotten places, then why not some mindless monster,and these unvetted baths may well be the cause." 
	The Lamplighter-Marshal raised his hand, stopping Podious Whympreshort."There is no need andnothing gained from despoiling those old baths," he said firmly. "They have been here for longer than we,and are buried deeply enough, and no harm will come from the quiet pottering offaithful, incapacitated lighters." 
	"You already know of it, sir?" the Master-of-Clerks repliedwith a studied expression."This --this continued unregistered, unrecorded activity? Why was I not informed... sir?" 
	"I do know of it, Clerk-Master Whympre," the Marshal replied,"and I iterate again it is not the case of most concern.I could well ask ye how it is that there is away down from yer own chambers into these buried levels." 
	The Master-of-Clerks blanched."It is a private store, sir. I had no idea it connected to regions more clandestine," he explainedquickly. 
	Other questions continued.Rossamund felt unable to answer any of them to full satisfaction: did he have any inkling of where the gudgeonhad come from? 
	No, sir, he did not.It had, byall evidence, been locked in the room rather than having arrived fromsomewhere. In the end he simply had toconclude that he truly had no idea of the how or the why or the where of thegudgeon's advent. 
	Did he recognize where he found the gudgeon?
	No, sir, he did not.
	Would he be able to find that place again -- or give instructions toanother to do the same?
	Rossamund hesitated; he could only do his best, sir.He described his left-hand logic to solvingthe maze and as much of the actual lay of the passages and the rest as he couldrecall. 
	And all the while the Master-of-Clerks was looking at him with hispeculiar, predatory gaze.Pile seemed tosulk, and said nothing. 
	"I will look into this, sir," Sebastipole declared."Josclin is still not well enough;Clement and I shall take Drawk and some other trusty men and seek out thisburied room." With that thelamplighter's agent left. 
	"If you could excuse me, Lamplighter-Marshal."Swill stood and bowed. "I must attend to pressing duties,"he said with a quick look to Sebastipole's back. 
	"Certainly, surgeon," the Marshal replied."Ye are free to go -- and ye may departtoo, clerk-master. Yer prompt action iscommendable." 
	"And what of this young trespasser?"The Master-of-Clerks peered down his nose atRossamund. "I hope you will betaking him in hand. Whatever other deedsmight or might not surround him, you cannot deny that he has contravened twomost inviolate rules, and it is grossly unsatisfactory that he has violated myown offices." 
	"What I do with Prentice Bookchild is between him and me," theMarshal returned firmly."Goodnight, Podious!" 
	With a polite and contrite bow the Master-of-Clerks left, his telltaleand the surgeon following.
	Grindrod was admitted in their stead, hastily dressed and lookingslightly frowzy.
	"Ah, Lamplighter-Sergeant!" the Marshal cried."Ye seem to have been missing one of yercharges, but here I am returning him to ye." 
	"Aye, sir," Grindrod stood straight and, appearing a littleembarrassed, gave Rossamund a quick yet thunderous glare."Thank ye, sir." 
	"Not at all," the Marshal answered."Ye make fine lampsmen,Sergeant-lighter. This young prenticehas been doing the duites of a lamplighter even as his fellows sleep. Return him to his cot and set a strong guardover his cell row. Fell doing have beenafoot. We shall discuss his deedsafter." 
	The lamplighter-sergeant looked stunned."Aye, sir." Thunderturned to puzzled satisfaction. 
	"Our thanks to ye, Prentice Bookchild," the Lamplighter-Marshalsaid to Rossamund."Yer part her isdone; ye played the man frank and true. Ye may turn in to yer cot at last. Be sure to report to Doctor Crispus tomorrow morning. Good night, prentice." 
	With that the interview was ended.
	Rossamund left under the charge of Grindrod, feeling a traitor.While he was sent to sleep, he was aware of agrowing bustle about as the soldiery of the manse were woken up to defend itfrom any other rever-men that might emerge from below. 
	"I don't know whether to castigate or commend ye, youngLately!" the lamplighter-sergeant grumped as he led the prentice along thepassages."Just get yer blunderingbones to yer cot and I'll figure a fitting end for yer tomorrow." 
	For another night Rossamund readied himself in the cold drak and sleptwith his bed chest pulled across the door to his cell.

	17
	Hasty Departures
	
	sis edisserumTutin term,loosely meaning "please explain", this is an order from a superior (usually theEmperor) to appear before him and a panel of peers forthwith to offer reasons,excuses, evidence, testimony and whatever else might be required to elucidateupon whatever demands clarity.A sisedisserum is usually seen as a portent of Imperial ire, a sign that the personor people so summoned are in it deep and must work hard to restore Clementine'sconfidence. A sis edisserum is a "blackmark" against your name, and very troublesome to remove. 
	
	Rossamundawoke with the worst ache of head and body that he had ever known and hisbladder fit to burst. He hurt like theaftermath of the most severe concussion he had ever received in harundopractice. For a time he could notremember much of yesterday, though a lurking apprehension warned him the memorywould be unwelcome. With the sight ofhis salumanticum discarded on the floor and the bed chest blocking the doorrecollection struck. A gudgeon... agudgeon in the marrow of the headquarters of the lamplighters! A monster loose in Winstermill! 
	He dragged back the chest and opened the door to find Threnody there,leaning on the wall as if she had been waiting.
	"You missed the most extraordinary pudding at mains last night, shesaid dryly.Evidently she had elected tospeak to him again. 
	"Aye..."Rossamund knewby "extraordinary" she did not mean "good." Threnody had always hated the food served to the prentices, and the newculinaire was achieving new acmes of inedibility. 
	"You might be a poor conversationalist," she continued as theywent to morning forming, completely heedless of the thick bandage about hishead, "but at least you're interesting.Between Arabis having the others ignore me, and Plod mooning and staringall through the awful meal, it was a very long evening." She peered at him. "Where's your hat?" But by then Grindrod was shouting attentionand all talk ceased. 
	In files out on the Cypress Walk it was obvious the manse was in a stateof agitation, with the house-watch marching regular patrols about the Mead andthe feuterers letting the dogs out on leads to sniff at every crevice andcranny.Under a louring sky theatmosphere of the fortress was tense and watchful. 
	"Do not be distracted byall this hustle ye see today, lads," Grindrod advised tersely. "There was an unwelcome guest in ourcellars last night, but the rotted clenchpoop is done in now." He looked meaningfully at Rossamund. "Just attend to yer duties with yerregular vigor." 
	At breakfast the other prentices stared openly at Rossamund's bandagedhead.
	"How's it, Lately?" asked Smellgrove as Rossamund sat down withhis fellows of Q Hesiod Gaeta."Isthe bee's buzz true?" 
	"What buzz?"
	"That you came to hand strokes with a gudgeon last night," saidWheede, pointing to Rossamund's bound noggin.
	"Ah, aye, it nearly ruined itself trying to destroy me."
	"Pullets and cockerels!" said several boys on either side.
	Insisting others shift to make room, Threnody sat next to him."Have any of you others fought onebefore?" she asked knowingly. 
	Universal shakes of the head.
	"Because I can tell you," she boasted, "that a full-formedlamplighter would struggle to win against one, let alone a half-done lampboy."
	"I have heard it that wits can't do much to them either."This was Arabis, listening at the far end ofthe bench. 
	Threnody lifted her chin and pretended she had not heard him.
	"Tell us, Rosey," asked Pillow, "how did you do the thingin?"
	"I burned the basket's head out with loomblaze!" Rossamundsaid, with more passion than he intended."It went smashing down through the stair into the pits deepunderneath." 
	There was an approving mutter of amazement.The looks of awe turned Rossamund's way weresimultaneously intoxicating and hard to bear. He ducked his head to hide his confused delight, but one increduloussnort from Threnody and his small, uncommon joy was obliterated in an instant. 
	After breakfast Grindrod did to say any more about Rossamund'syesternight excursions.However, he didseem to address Rossamund with a touch more dignity as he sent him to DoctorCrispus for further examination. "Ye may take yer time, Prentice Bookchild: well-earned wounds need propertreating." 
	
	** * * * 
	
	Cuts and sutures, my boy, you certainly have a bump and a gash upon yourscalp to show for some kind of scuffle," the physician declared as hecleaned the nasty contusion on Rossamund's hairline and rebandaged it.
	"Swill tried to recommend callic for me last night," Rossamundsaid pointedly.
	Crispus wagged his head in disapproval."Fumbling butchering novice," he said, clucking histongue. "Even a first-year tyrowould know callic is to for concussions. By your current alertness I can assume he did not succeed in hisfuddle-brained prescription?" 
	"No he did not, Doctor.Iknow enough of the chemistry to have not taken any even if he had." 
	"My apologies, Rossamund.Hecertainly is not who I would have here," Crispus complained. "But the young quackeen is onlynominally under my authority; rather he answers to the Master-of-Clerkshimself. Very unsatisfactory, and aclear nuisance when he comes a-quacking in my trim infirmary." He clucked his tongue again. "A mere articled man strutting about asif he is a senior surgeon." 
	"He certainly reads some strange books for a surgeon," saidRossamund.
	"Does he, indeed?" Crispus blinked owlishly.
	"Aye, sir."Rossamundsquinted at the ceiling in recollection. "Dark books, from what my old Master Craumpalin told me." 
	"Where did you see these, child?" the physician pressed.
	"In Swill's apartment, way up in the manse's attics.Mother Snooks sent me up the kitchenfurtigrade, delivering a pig's head to him." 
	"The kitchen furtigrade?"Crispus looked utterly amazed. "I did not know one existed, though Winstermill is old enough tohave a thousand such obscure places. Youcertainly have had a tour of the slypes, haven't you?" 
	"And the attic apartment?"
	"Oh, that place is just his personal library, a place of privatereflection.'Do not disturb' and allthat. I've never begrudged himthis: a professional man must have hissanctuary for study -- I have one of my own. In our profession there are some strange tomes -- some better had wenever read them, of course. And as forthe pig's head -- well, a surgeon must practice his sutures, I suppose." 
	Rossamund was unconvinced.
	Sebastipole entered the infirmary and, after asking of Rossamund'shealth, went on to request a personal word.The dressing of the wound complete, Crispus left them and attended toother patients. 

	
	"Did you find anything in the tunnels, Mister Sebastipole?"Rossamund asked eagerly but in a low voice.
	"There was no gudgeon corpse," the leer answered.
	Rossamund soul sank.
	"And all that was left of the stair was splinters and wood-dust,"Sebastipole went on.
	Rossamund's dismay deepened.Hisdesperate struggle must have wrenched the ancient furtigrade too much. 
	"I have heard of gudgeons so cunningly made they dissolve into apuddle after they expire," Sebastipole expounded further."Do not worry, Rossamund, you arebelieved," he added, seeing the young prentice's dismay. "But I must tell you it was touch and goto even find your path; we found our way more by your instructions than yourtrail. Were you using a nullodour last nightat all?" 
	Rossamund felt a caustic flush of guilt, as if he had been caughtout."You can smell anullodour?" He had no reason tofeel this, yet he did. 
	"Actually, no:they do theirjob just as they should -- all smells gone where applied. It is rather that absence of scent that isthe telltale signifier. Think of it likereading a letter where a clumsy author has cut out his errors with a blade andas you read there are great holes in the sentences. You know something was there but you'd behard-pressed to say what it was." Sebastipole sniffed, then blew his nose. "Such a ruse will work against a brute beast but not against thepragmatical senses of a well-learned leer." He looked at Rossamund searchingly. 
	"Oh," the young prentice said in a small voice, "and therewere no smells down there?"
	"Exactly so."The leer'sexpression was impenetrable. "Thewhole area was a great blank, with only the merest suggestion of manyobliterated smells. If you pressed me Imight say that more than one nullodour was employed, but it is too hard toprove so now." 
	"Oh... I am sorry, Mister Sebastipole," Rossamundmurmured."My... my old mastershave me wearing a little each day... to keep me safe, they said, from sniffingnoses." He could not see the sensein hiding it now. 
	"Indeed?"The leerlooked astutely at him, held him with a silent, penetrating regard. "I detected a nullodour on you the nightwe went out lighting together." 
	Rossamund ducked his head and blushed."My old masters are very protective of me." 
	"And you are very obedient to them,it would appear." 
	Rossamund nodded sheepishly.
	Sebastipole smiled."Yet,Rossamund, I did manage to detect themerest smell of your foe. It was exactlylike the foreign, foul slot of Numption's attackers." 
	"What does that mean, sir?"
	"I have not encountered enough gudgeons to know beyond doubt, butthe similarity seems suspicious to me.It may well mean the creature that beset Numption and that which youslew last night -- though separated by three years or more -- have come from thesame benighted test, made by the same black habilist. If that is so, the wretch has grown arrogantenough to try his constructions on us again!" The anger in Sebastipole's eyes was made moreterrible by their unnatural hue. "More galling still, we did not find how the homunculid found itsway in. Others could come." 
	Rossamund's imagination fired with the abhorrent scene of the fortressoverrun with rever-men.
	"Hmm."The leer becameruminative. "I can say that itcertainly did not come from the region of Numption's bloom baths." 
	"I did not want to tell about them," Rossamund confessedforlornly.
	"I know you did not, Rossamund."The leer spoke up quickly. "You are an honest fellow and yourhonesty last night made proceedings easier. Fret not for dear Mister Numps: he is protected, and his 'friends' with him. I asked him to let us in and only took thosewith me who would treat him kindly." 
	Rossamund felt a little relief at this.
	Sebastipole put an encouraging hand on the young prentice'sshoulder."No more nighttimewanderings for you, my boy. Play theman, Rossamund, be not afraid but be on your guard and carry your salumanticumwith you always: strange and suspiciousthings turn in the manse now." Withthis warning the leer left him, and Rossamund went out of the infirmary andrejoined the slightly awed prentices stepping regular out on Evolution Green. 
	
	** * * * 
	
	At middens Rossamund rushed down to the lantern store, the guiltyconviction that he had failed Numps a heavy weight right in the pit of hisgizzards.Yet what else could he havedone? Oh!If only I hadn't slept pastdouse-lanterns! 
	His compunction was not eased either when Numps looked at him only verybriefly with big, timid eyes and said nothing for a long time."I heard it that you were set upon by apale, runny man yesternight, Mister Rossamund," the glimner eventuallymuttered softly, not looking up from his working. "Just like old Numps was." 
	"Aye, Mister Numps, I was," Rossamund answered.
	"Oh dear, oh dear -- I'm sorry, Mister Rossamund, I'm sorry!You wanted my help and I showed you intotrouble -- poor, limpling-headed Numps!" 
	This made Rossamund feel more miserable than ever."I -- I could have turned back, Isuppose. Besides, I beat the rever-manand got out." 
	Numps stopped polishing the lamp-pane gripped by the nimble toes of hisleft foot.
	"It is me who must say his sorries, Mister Numps, for telling themabout the bloom baths," Rossamund blurted out."I did not want to say... but I had tobe honest -- I... I..." Rossamund'swords felt very thin and meaningless. 
	For a while Numps sat, staring at his lap.Finally he looked up. "Fair is fair. One 'sorry' each. You had to fight the runny man because ofNumps' limpling head and then some people want to talk and talk about it andask things, the same things over and over till you're all done with it. I remember it, just the same on the day ofall my red." 
	"Aye, I suppose."Rossamund was not soothed by all this sorrying. 
	The hollow sensation of friendship part-fractured persisted, and the twocleaned panes in reflective silence.
	"Mister Sebastipole reckons my gudgeon and the one you fought mightcome from the same maker," Rossamund finally tried."He said they could not find where myrever-man got in, though. Do you haveany notion, Mister Numps?" 
	Numps shook his head."No onecan get from out there into here." He smiled. "Even I knowthat. Only the sparrows of theSparrowling make it here... oh, and you. But I reckon they let you in 'cause you look right, but it is stillclever to cover the smell." Hetapped his handsome nose and his smile grew cryptic. 
	With the chime from a bell, Rossamund realized with an assault of frightin his chest that middens was ended.Having learned his lesson for lateness only too well, he scrambled histangibles together, and with a quick bow and a short "goodafternoon," took hasty leave of the startled glimner. 
	
	** * * * 
	
	Though the discovery of a gudgeon within was disconcerting news,Rossamund's victory over it was powerfully encouraging, and the lightersparticularly held him a mite-sized example of true lampsman valor.Among the greater share of the clerks,however, the rumor prevailed that he hadmade the whole tale up to cover his disobedience. From what Rossamund had heard, theMaster-of-Clerks was furious that no disciplinary action was to be taken foreither Rossamund's lateness or his unauthorized presence in Whympre's chambers. 
	"I think that bump on yer brain-box serves ye a better reminder todo yer duty than any reprimand I can give ye," the Lamplighter-Marshal haddeclared during a brief interview the next morning.
	Coursing for rever-men beneath the manse continued, Sebastipole findingalternative routes into the foundations other than Numps' undercroft.The progress was slow and incomplete, thesearchers hampered by the strange terrain and, as rumor would have it, by theMaster-of-Clerks' insistence that underneath was the sole property of theEmperor and not somewhere for lighters to be roaming about carelessly orwithout permissions or reports in triplicate. 
	Meanwhile the prentices went on with their routines, and the awe of the otherlads toward Rossamund waned.Out onEvolution Green each day, Rossamund noticed Laudibus Pile sometimes lurking,watching them at their marching and training where he had never lurked norwatched before. It was not constant, butenough to be annoying. 
	"See, it's himagain," he pointed out to Threnody as the prentices were between drills. 
	"Perhaps he finds our movements appealing," she offeredlightly."Though what interminablestepping-regular and fodicar movements have to do with lighting lamps I do notknow. I'm glad there is only a monthleft of it." 
	Scowling at the leer, Rossamund was glad too that the last month ofprenticing was approaching.He would beable to serve on the road at last and do his part. 
	
	** * * * 
	
	On the last day of Pulvis, with only one month and four pageants-of-armsleft till Billeting Day, Rossamund was with Numps again at middens.Door 143 gave a rattling bang, andSebastipole quickly appeared from the avenue of shelves and parts. He was disturbingly, uncharacteristicallyagitated, the blue of his eyes too pale, their red like new-spilled blood. 
	Rossamund stood, frowning with dismay."Mister Sebastipole?" 
	"Young Master Rossamund.Good, I am spared the time to find you too." The leer's brow glistened with perspiration. 
	Rossamund had never seen Sebastipole so agitated -- not even when he wasfacing the Trought."Are... are youdistressed, sir?" 
	Hello, Mister 'Pole."Numpswas clearly delighted to see the leer. "Come to see my friends again?" 
	"Not today, Numption," the leer answered, returning theglimner's smile with one of his own, brotherly and arm despite his mysteriousurgency."I am glad you haveRossamund for a friend now too, for today I will be leaving." 
	The prentice's innards gave a lurch.Sebastipole leaving?Rossamund did not care for such a notion: themanse felt safer with the leer somewhere at hand. 
	Attention now fixed on a particularly grimy lantern-window, Numpsnodded."All right, Mister 'Pole,Numps will see you again soon, then." 
	"You're going, Mister Sebastipole?" Rossamund asked.
	"Indeed," the leer returned, "I will most probably be gonefor a goodly while."
	The glimner finally looked up from his rubbing."More days than Numps has fingers ortoes?" 
	"Yes, Numption, more even than that."Sebastipole gave him a sad, affectionatelook. "I do not know for how long Iwill be absent." 
	Numps' joy collapsed."Butwhy?" 
	The leer crouched down and looked up at the glimner.
	"The short of it is, my old friend, the Lamplighter-Marshal has beenserved a sis edisserum.Do you know whatthat is?" 
	Though Sebastipole was talking to Numps, Rossamund nodded.This Imperial summons had played infrequentbut significant parts in the more exciting stories in his old pamphlets. 
	Numps just blinked slowly, his look of distress mixing with increasingconfusion.
	"It means that the Marshal must appear before the Emperor'srepresentatives posthaste," Sebastipole explained, "and as hisfalseman -- his telltale -- I am to go with him."
	"But why does the Marshal have to go?" Numps persisted.
	The leer hesitated."Because... because the Emperor's ministers have ordered him to meetwith them all the way down in the Considine." 
	The Considine?Rossamund was amazed: he had hoped to see the subcapital as avinegaroon visiting as part of a ram's crew, to tread slowly into harbor andadmire its grand buildings and massive walls. "Why have they done that?" he piped, with questions of hisown. "What has theLamplighter-Marshal done?" 
	Sebastipole looked at him squarely."He has donenothing," the leer said with contained anger. "But somehow they have already heard ofthe gudgeon in our bowels and he is required to explain both this and what theyconsider our failure to check the great many theroscades and depredations alongthe highroad." 
	"It's not the Lamplighter-Marshal's fault that bogles and nickersattack!"Rossamund could notbelieve the folly of such a notion. "Nor that the rever-man was found in here! How can he explain something he couldn'tknow? It was those butchers who broughtthe poor Trought down on us, not the Marshal!" 
	"I suspect there is more behind this sis edisserum than a simple'please explain.'Someone plots theMarshal's embarrassment, perhaps, or his removal." 
	"Who would want such a terrible thing?" Rossamund askedindignantly.
	"Maybe those who covet his popularity with the lamplighters and thepeople of the Idlewild, and his position as a peer," answered theleer."Those who will happilydestroy any good just so they can have it their way, without any thought towisdom or right." 
	How could anyone be black-heartedenough to wish ill on such a great man? Rossamund reflected bitterly. 
	"But why do you have to go?" Numps interjected, frowning withintense, puzzled concentration.
	"I go because the Marshal needs me."Sebastipole became kinder. "I must see through all the lies andtraps of cunning meant for him. While Iam gone you must be careful, do you follow me, Numption?" The leer bent his neck sideways to look Numpsin the eye. "If you are scared,hide with your hidden friends. Yes?" 
	The glimner nodded, his head dropping dejectedly."Yes Mister 'Pole, if I'm scared I willhide, yes." 
	Standing, Sebastipole turned to Rossamund."Watch out for my friend,Rossamund. Only you and Crispus show himany abiding kindness, and the doctor is a man daily beleaguered with too manytasks." Sebastipole grippedRossamund firmly by his shoulder, startling him. "Will you do this?" the leer asked,uncommon anxiety clear in his queer-colored gaze. 
	"Aye, Mister Sebastipole," Rossamund said seriously."Aye, I most certainly will." 
	"Bravo!Good man! Now I must go. We have been given little time to satisfy thesummons." 
	"You come back again, Mister 'Pole," Numps insisted.
	"You know I have to go away at times.But I always return, do I not?" He fixed Numps with a firm look. "Do I not?" 
	Sniffing, Numps eventually, grudgingly, nodded.
	"And I will write to you as I have before," the leer pressed,"and Doctor Crispus will still be here... and so will Rossamund."
	At that Numps looked at the prentice and gave a pathetic smile.
	Nodding, Rossamund grinned awkwardly in return.
	Sebastipole sat with Numps for a little longer, then said, "And now,friend Numption, I must must go and you must trust me and Rossamund as yourfriend." Sebastipole stood. 
	"Yes, Mister 'Pole," Numps relented."You aremy for-always friend, and Rossamund is my new old friend. I will see you back here soon again,yes?" 
	"Yes, you shall -- as soon as is possible.May well betide both of you," he saidwith feeling. "We shall meet again-- I will make certain of it! Until thenI will write if able, though there will be much work to do, great laborsperhaps, but I will still attempt a letter. Good-bye!" With that, heturned quickly with a flick of his coachman's cloak and exited the lanternstore. 
	Numps began to sing and mutter.
	Rossamund could feel -- almost see -- the glimner withdraw into himself, nolonger heeding the prentice sitting by him.Rossamund quietly returned to the manse and left the glimner to hisintrospections. 

	18
	Wretchedness Revealed
	
	Considine, the ~one of thealternates or subcapitals situated at strategic places within the HaacobinEmpire.Alternats were founded to allowthe Empire to keep greater control over it subject states, most of which liebeyond inveterately threwdish land, well past easy reach. Large armies and navies are kept at eachalternat, ready to venture forth and chastise any overweening state or peer or defendthe lands against the monsters. In theSoutlands, the Considine is the larger, older and therefore senior of twoalternates, the other being the Serenine, farther south. 
	
	Theprentices were not even properly awake when the Lamplighter-Marshal,Sebastipole, the Marshal's adjutant, accompanying secretaries and a smallquarto of lifeguards left in three lectums that next morning. Preparing for parade with a heavy heart,Rossamund marched out with his subdued fellows to find the entirepageant-of-arms in similar mood. Thesudden departure of their beloved Marshal to duties in the Idlewild was not souncommon, yet word had got about that it was a sis edisserum that had taken himaway -- and this was shocking. Rossamundcould almost sense resentment bubbling under this veneer of fine martial orderas they gathered on the Grand Mead. 
	The weather-shared the oppressive mood.There had been frost that morning after a clear, cold night. But as the sun slimbed to its meridian,powerful winds blew from south of southeast, their gusts only partly foiled byWinstermill's ponderous walls. Clouds sothick they were almost black arrived on its threatening breath, and the tang ofrain and lightning was heavy on the air. 
	Standing preeminent before the entire population of the manse, PodiousWhympre, Master-of-Clerks and next in line of command after theLamplighter-Marshal, looked out upon all those now under his sway,peacock-proud, and peacock-preened.Laudibus Pile, Witherscrawl and his genuflection of sycophants stoodclose behind. 
	Wooden screens had been pegged to the ground with guy ropes and stakes tospare Whympre and his tail any ruffling buffets of wind.His audience simply endured and, during thecourse of the pageant, many hats found wing in the gusts and crashed into thenorthern wall or sought the broad meadows of the Harrowmath. 
	"Our beloved Lamplighter-Marshal has been recalled to theConsidine," Whympre began with clerkly sobriety."The Emperor is concerned for the properadministration of his beloved highroad and seeks an accounting from our ownfaithful Marshal. A Most HonorableImperial Secretary" -- murmurs through all ranks -- "arrived from HighVesting bearing the directive of the subcapital late yesterday evening with asis edisserum marked by the Emperor's own Chief-of-Staff." He took a breath, waiting for the troubledrumbling of the assembly to still. "Therefore, our dear, dear Marshal was compelled to leave at firstchange of watch this morning and may well be gone for an extended time." 
	Though the lighters and auxiliaries already knew the Lamplighter-Marshalhad departed, there was nevertheless a small roar of dismay at this finalconfirmation.It was unheard of --powerfully discomfiting to all -- and only with the severest reprimands was apretense of order maintained. 
	"With his absence," the Master-of-Clerks continued, "needmust fall to me to take the daily toil of our glorious manse in hand.I shall endeavor to lead in his stead, in amanner truly befitting an outpost of the most Serene and Mighty Emperor. In that capacity I shall be forced to assumethe rank of Marshal-Subrogat..." Hecontinued like this for a numbingly long stretch. His loyal aides did the same, extolling theMaster-of-Clerks, inflating his virtues, sounding as if they were trying toconvince those gathered of the clerk-master's fitness to lead. Within all this gabbling came the firstsignificant announcement: TheMaster-of-Clerks was to allow vigil-day visits to Silvernook -- beginning onthat very day. Even as he said this, neara dozen lentums began to roll out from the yard, ready to take those interestedin a day on the town. In their delightthe wind of many lifted and they began to think their new executive officer acapital fellow after all. A happymumbling stirred through the prentices, though Rossamund did not share theireasily won enthusiasm. 
	"Button it shut, flabberers, or ye'll all be staying in yer cellsfor the day!" Grindrod growled huskily, and stillness was purposefullyrestored.For the entire pageant tillnow the lamplighter-sergeant had been glaring up at the clerk-master,mustachios bristling in disgust. "What does he know of lighting?" Rossamund heard him mutter toBenedict. 
	The Master-of-Clerks mollified them all still further by adding that theycould expect roasted mutton with thick gravy for mains and treacle crowdy forpuddings, with rich bully-dicey to be served at middens for those left behind.Had it been allowed, all the other prenticesand many lampsmen and pediteers and the clerks would have shouted for glee. 
	"The hearts of the crowd are found in their bellies," Threnodymuttered after they were marched back to the Cypress Walk and dismissed bytheir unusually subdued officers.
	"Perhaps the change of command might be a turn for the good," aprentice pondered a little too loudly.
	"Cleave your tongue to yer teeth, Gail!" Grindrod bawled,sending the loose-lipped prentice white with fright."Ye're as shatterbrained as yer nunclethe lector! Pots-and-pans for ye tonightand the rest of the long week! Themarshal-lighter is as fine a man and officer as anyone could ever hope to sharea generation with! And if a single oneof ye goes down to Silvernook today, ye'll have my mark as a baseborn runionfink not worthy of a lighter's fodicar!" 
	All the lantern-sticks were astounded at his outburst.None said another peep about the Marshal'sdeparture -- good or bad -- for fear of another flaring of temper. Not one prentice took the day in Silvernookeither, and if any were disappointed by this, he dared not show it. 
	Brooding, Rossamund sat on his cot in his cell.Threnody, having invited herself in, wasperched on his bed chest, her back against the wall. 
	"Is it just me," said Threnody, "or have theLamplighter-Marshal's troubles turned out rather nicely for our newMarshal-Subrogat?"
	"I suppose they have," Rossamund agreed guardedly."It cannot be helped that theclerk-master is next in rank." Mister Sebastipole does have a notion that someone might be seeking the Marshal's ruin. "How long would it take a message to getfrom here to the Considine and back?" he asked. 
	"You would need a fortnight," Threnody said huffily."Why?" 
	Rossamund scratched at his bandage."What has my head turning is that Mister Sebastipole sayingyesterday that someone in the subcapital must have already heard about therever-man and was calling for an explanation. Barely a week has passed--" 
	"You already knew the Marshal was leaving on a sis edisserum and youdid not say?"
	"It was not my information to tell!" Rossamund returnedindignantly.
	"Oh truly?Very convenient." Threnody rolled her eyes. "Will you always be this dim?" 
	"I cannot say," Rossamund countered, an angry rush in hisbelly."Will you always be thisrude!" His mouth spoke before hiskinder thoughts could marshal themselves to intervene. 
	Threnody gaped.
	"Oi, Rosey!" called Arabis down the steps of the cell row."I saw your old middens-chum blubberingon the Mead." 
	Rossamund leaped off his cot and put his head out of the cell door."You saw what?" 
	"Aye, what's-his-name -- the Numps or somewhat like it."The older prentice shrugged. "The daffy cove looked mighty put out bysomething." 
	Numps!Blubbering on the Mead? 
	Leaving Threnody flabbergasted in his cell, Rossamund was up the steps,down the passage and out on to the Cypress Walk in a twinkling.Before he was clear of the Walk, he couldhear a 

	
	distant,agonized wailing coming from the Grand Mead, and very quickly he recognized itas coming from the throat of Numps.There were rapid steps behind: Threnody was following. 
	Clear of the manse, he saw -- at the farther end of the Grand Mead on theedge of the gravel drive -- Numps, hampered between two hefty troubardiers ofthe Master-of-Clerks' own foot-guards.The glimner was writhing and pulling against their restraint. Rossamund had never seen him so wild and soawfully animated. 
	Then he saw why.
	Upon the gaunt beams of the scaffold, the great dead tree that stood atthe northern end of the manse, great tendrils of still verdant bloom werehanging upon the gaunt branches to dry and slowly die.As Rossamund well knew, glimbloom will notlive long out of water, becoming parched and yellow, its tiny leaves finallyrotting to slime. Between the laddersand the many, many barrows holding the bloom stood the Master-of-Clerksdirecting an industrious band of peoneers with remonstrative gusto. Beside him a man Rossamund recognized as theportly works-general stood, shamefaced, determinedly avoiding the sight of thegrief-racked glimner while Witherscrawl wrote Phoebe-knows-what in a portableledger. 
	The old dead tree was already draped with such a vast amount of bloomthat it looked to have wondrously returned to life; and the stuff was sovigorous-green and thick it could have come from only one place:Numps' secluded undercroft. 
	A shout of anguish escaped Rossamund before he even knew to stop it.He ran the length of the gravel drive,heedless of any shouts or reprimands, groaning, "...This is all my fault,this is all my fault..." 
	Doctor Crispus ran into the narrow scope of Rossamund's panicked vision,striding fast on his long, stiltlike legs, crying something to the troubardiersthat Rossamund could not understand in his rush.With a great waving of hands and arms, thephysician remonstrated with the foot-guards -- who did not relax their detentionof Numps -- before turning away sharply to confront the Master-of-Clerks. 
	As Rossamund got closer he could see that one of the men had a pincergrip on Numps' arm while the other corralled him with the shaft of hispoleax.Though the two foot-guards weremuch heavier men than the glimner, they were hard-pressed to keep him in hand. The prentice pulled up smartly before thestruggling three, skidding on the quartz pebbles of the drive, cut to his heartat the expression of utter desolation wrenching Numps' already distorted,tear-washed face. Bent with agony, theglimner howled, "My friend! Myfriend! They're killing my friend!"pushing and pulling at the grip of the foot-guards. 
	"Let him go!What are youdoing?" Rossamund hollered. 
	"Clap up your squealing, little sprat!" one of the soldiersspat."Get back to yourquarters!" For added effect the manshied at Rossamund with a steel-shot boot, roughly shoving him away. 
	Rossamund yelped as the force of the push sat him on the gravel.All he wanted to do now was set Numpsfree. A burst of Frazzard's powder inthe foot-guards' vile puds would have served perfectly, but the prentice was withouthis salumanticum. 
	Amid the horrible yawling, he heard a shout of anger behind him.
	"Poke at him like that again, you bamboozle-winded dung sop, andyou'll spend the rest of Chill confusing your head for your tail!"It was Threnody, arriving to intervene. She planted herself before the lofty foot-guard,hand raised to temple in a wit's telltale attitude. 
	The man looked down at her, his expression thunderous."Shove it up your wheeze-end, littleharridan!" 
	His fellow foot-guard glanced at Threnody hesitantly; however, Rossamundwas sure he could see nervous perspiration twinkling on the fellow's brow.
	"All this fuss and trouble is hardly worthy of you, my people,"the Master-of-Clerks declaimed, interrupting the contest of wills as he strodeimperiously toward them."The bloommust be left to die. They are welllikely to be responsible for that wicked gudgeon finding its way in and causingour generous, unfortunate Marshal such embarrassment!" 
	Rossamund knew this was a bald, pettifogging lie:monsters did not care two figs forbloom. "That's not tr--" 
	The Master-of-Clerks raised his hand." Silence!Stop your rabble-rousing and get back to yourduties! I will not tolerate suchaffronts. What a foolish weight of griefwasted over a few dripping weeds. Foot-guards, stuff a rag in its nose and return this one to its place oflabor--" 
	"Your sturdy roughs have done their worst, man!" Doctor Crispussaid with cold deliberation, glowering at one of the fellows as if he shouldknow better."As the manse'sphysician, I declare this poor fellow has taken a great strain of soul todayand now needs a gentler hand. By therights granted me through the Accord of Menschen over the health of pensionedmilitary persons, I demand he be released to my care and relieved of any moremanhandling." 
	"We are not at war, sir!" Whympre contradicted.
	"I think you shall find that the Accord differs with you,sir."Crispus was not to be soeasily beaten. "As would the bravelighters out there on the road." 
	The Master-of-Clerks considered, eyes narrowing, lips pursing."This is most decidedly irregular,Doctor. I would advise you to go back toyour infirmary and keep your opinions within its four walls." 
	"The clerking of our Emperor's manse is for you to determine, sir --the healing of its limbs is mine."Crispus stood tall, looking down on the clerk-master with the peremptoryauthority of the learned. "Insidethe infirmary's four walls and out!" 
	Tear-diluted spittle was running freely from Numps' nose and mouth as hebegan to sag in the cruel grip of his restrainers.
	With a cold glare the Master-of-Clerks eventually nodded."I can see the wretch is ridiculouslydistressed. Please! Take him and set him to ease if he needsit. He will see the wisdom of today astime brings clarity. Guard-Sergeant? You may let thatNumplings fellow go." 
	The troubardiers obeyed and Numps collapsed.Rossamund was at his side in an instant. 
	"Lady Threnody."TheMaster-of-Clerks gave a slight, barely respectful bow to the girl lighter. "If I see you attempt to strive again Ishall call your mother here and have her take you away." While the peoneers worked callously on, hestrode into the manse, Witherscrawl, the works-general and foot-guards scutteringafter. 
	"Look at them leave to heel, like the curs they are!" Threnodyhissed.
	Numps lay curled about himself, making strange gulping noises, whispering"Oh, my friend... oh, my friend" to himself between sobbing gasps,his eyes red and swollen, his cheeks gray and drawn.Oblivious to the sharp pebbles of the drive,Rossamund knelt and embraced the glimner as best he could, an awkward,inadequate reach across the man's convulsing back. 
	Doctor Crispus was unwilling to provoke Numps further by taking him intothe manse.Calling for two porters and astretcher, he had the glimner taken to the lantern store. Rossamund and Threnody accompanied them as,whimpering and unresponsive, Numps was set gingerly on his pallet in a small,nestlike domestic nook of the store. 
	"I shall return presently with a soothing draught for the poorfellow," Crispus instructed Rossamund."There is no circumstance under which this would have happened ifthe Marshal was still present," he concluded heatedly. 
	"My , how kitten does play with father cat away," Threnody concurred."The clerk-master behaves a littledifferently without someone to check him." 
	"Indeed, my dear.The wormhas turned, I think." With a bow,the physician left. 
	Speechless with shame and regret, Rossamund could think of no comfort asNumps lay curled about himself, rocking on his cot by the clean, cold light ofthe well-kept great-lamp.When he didfinally find voice, all he could say for a time was, "Sorry... I'm sosorry." 
	But all he got in reply from Numps was, over and over, "My friend...you're killed again..."
	"If I had known the Master-of-Clerks would treat your baths so,there is nothing that would have made me tell of them!" Rossamund saidbitterly, tears threatening.
	"There's no way you could have guessed ahead to that fellow'swretchedness, Rossamund," Threnody murmured, touching him on the arm andactually managing to bring some comfort."I'm sure Dolours would say something much the same were shehere," the girl added as a qualification for her soothing. 
	When Crispus returned, it was a bitter fortune that the glimner, soinsensible with shock, went quickly to sleep under the influence of thephysician's soother.Crispus, Threnodyand Rossamund sat for a while by Numps' side, watching over him. 
	"What is going to happen to him, Doctor?" whispered Rossamund.
	"He will recover, my boy."The physician smiled kindly. "I have seen him through worse and will see him throughagain." 
	Rossamund was in doubt."Heshould have gone with Mister Sebastipole." 
	"I do not think the Considine is a good place for him either,"Crispus replied."In fact, youwould have a hard time getting him out of Winstermill. It was remarkable that he even ventured up onto the Mead today." 
	Rossamund sat in silent thought."Doctor Crispus, what will happen to Winstermill -- to us all --without the Marshal here?" 
	The physician sighed, deep and sad."I have not one notion, my boy, though if today's travesty is anindicator of our new leader's method, then it just might be an unhappy end forus all." 
	"Here I was beginning to enjoy the life."Threnody's muttered words were heavy withirony. "I was telling Rossamundbefore, good doctor, that events have fallen very well for our dastardly clerk-master." 
	"Why, child, I suppose they have."Crispus stroked his chin. "Yet I can hardly conceive of himorchestrating all the manifold trials that have beset us and the brave Marshalmost of all." 
	"I have been a pupil of Mother's long enough to know only a prodhere and a coaxing there is enough to bring another down," Threnody waxed sagaciously."Their troubles do the rest foryou." 
	The physician looked at her for a moment."Is that so, child? I wonderat the rather bleak nature of the lessons your good mother holds." 
	Rossamund marveled at this glimpse of the bizarre life the girl must haveled before she joined the lighters.
	Inevitably Crispus' duties called him away, and middens' call coaxedThrenody back to the manse.
	Rossamund was left to continue the observance alone.Sitting there in the quiet of the store, hebegan to arrange a plan in his grieving thoughts: a scheme to offer some small consolation tothe harrowed man. It was quite simple,and required only a clear occasion to be done. He would go to the scaffold and rescue what bloom he could. The best of time was mains, when the mansewas a little stupid with the filling of its myriad stomachs, and the vigilanceof its watch directed more outward to the Harrowmath. Prentices were allowed a relative freedom ofmovement during meals, and he was going to make full use of the privilege. Rossamund would take a smock and a barrow --of which there was a conspicuously ample supply all about this part of theGutter -- and, like a gardener, steal on to the Mead and take back the bloom. The plan fixed so firmly in his mind as the onlyway he might make any kind of amends, he determined to go through with it thatvery evening. 
	He stood to put the plan into motion.The smock would be from his own trunk. Of all its intended uses, he reflected, impersonating a groundsman wasprobably not among them. The woodenbarrow -- found in the lantern store itself -- he hid in a gap between thePrincipal Stair and front boarded wall of the store, wedging it behind a rainbarrel, and with it a rusty fodicar to aid him in hooking the bloom down. 
	Preparations done, the prentice looked in on the insensible glimner onelast time and returned to the manse.
	
	** * * * 
	
	The evening was as blustery a one as Rossamund could recall.Clouds blossomed and expanded, unravelingfrom horizon to horizon over the whole Harrowmath: low, mountainous-dark, and turned an oddlyluminescent, muddy hue by the westering sun they hid. Southerly, loam-perfumed winds blustered overthe shorter walls of the Low Gutter; wild, freezing vortices spun across theMead and down the Cypress Walk, prodding Rossamund with every gust, bringing tohis cold aching ears the angry hiss of the tempest-tossed grasses on the plain. 
	Gripping the thin linen smock and its meager extra warmth about him, theprentice skipped down the postern stair and scurried along the poorly lit lanesof the Gutter.His healing crown achingunder the bandages, he wished he still had his hat to protect his head from theblustery buffeting. This was a bad nightto be in the open, but it was a good night for clandestine or nefariousdeeds. He reckoned upon less chance ofdiscovery or questions by this route, and his reckoning proved right. Not one other soul crossed his way but a graygrimalkin, one of the tribe of mousing cats allowed free roam of the whole fortress. Wise enough to leave the vermin to themselveson such an ugly eve, it blinked knowingly at him from its shelter beneath astack of unused hogsheads, puncheons and barrels. 
	Past the bill-posting trees, across the All-About, by the Magazine andbetween the warehouses and work-stalls he went, arriving at the lantern storein a state of thrumming anxiety.Hehastily pulled the barrow from behind its rain-barrel nook. Rossamund pushed it up the long cartage-ramp-- the Axial -- to the edge of the Grand Mead, the axle creaking quietly and thewheel making a pleasant, continuous crunch on the gravel. The Mead proved as empty of people as it hadbeen that very first evening the coach had deposited him at Winstermill. Back then he had thought the manse huge andvacant, but now he knew the Mead's current state of inoccupation made a lie ofthe fortress's hectic daytime activity. Honey-hued window-lights flickered invitingly -- glimmering like watchingeyes in the gatehouses, the Cursory, the Feuterers' Cottage and the Yardsman'sRow. Snatches of ribald songs reachedhim modulated on the wind's frenetic breath, but the great, walled valleybefore him was deserted. 
	Rossamund paused.He knew that itwas possible hidden eyes were looking from cavities in the structures where themost faithful house-watchmen kept a diligent eye. There was very little he could do about theseunseen observers but hope his thin ruse of a groundsman on a late errand wouldfool them. 
	Rossamund took a steadying breath.
	Lit behind by one of the few lamps on the grounds, the Scaffold wasunmistakable:a stark shadow of limbs sounnaturally perpendicular that Rossamund could well see how it earned itsname. The dying bloom still thicklyfurbished every branch as high as the peoneers' ladders had reached, warpingand writhing violently in stormy gusts. Touched with a ghastly yellow hue, the plants were clearly drying, theirvigor failing. Steeling himself, Rossamundpushed the barrow steadily along the left-hand edge of the drive, walking witha show of purpose directly to the dead tree, hurrying only when he crossed thebrightly lit ground before the manse's front doors. Under the tree, the hanging bloom was far toohigh for him to get with his diminutive reach. Even the corroding fodicar was little help, the single hook requiringimpossible precision to snag the wildly wind-dancing tendrils. Over and over Rossamund swung and poked atthese elusive targets till he was near to sobbing with the futility of the task. Too often when he did achieve a hooking, thefailing plant would tear and shower him with its wilting leaflets. 
	Frogs and toads!Confinations will be starting soon. 
	It had been his great Plan with a capital Pto fill the barrow withgreat armfuls of the stuff, but now he was hard-pressed to gather ahandful. He threw the fodicar down indisgust and it bounced butt-end first off the iron-hard roots of the Scaffold,flipped over several times and skidded clatteringly to a stop against the wallof the manse. 
	With a clinch of dread at such a din, Rossamund froze -- he had nevermeant to hurl the fodicar so hard or so far -- and instantly realized he neednot have toiled so fruitlessly.Forthere, all about the fodicar's final rest were intact fragments of bloom,ripped from the tree by the gale, scattered now like summer fallen blossoms onthe Scaffold's leeward side. Theprentice's entire soul leaped for the joy of it, but quickly squeezed to frightagain as the noise of watchmen stirring in one of the many structures on theMead's edge reached him. With terror'sthrill, Rossamund dashed the barrow over to the fodicar. Voices were becoming more distinct, sounding nearer,coming from the coach yard around the corner. He grabbed at all the bloom he could reach, dumping it rapidly in thebarrow. The crunch of a footfall ongravel was all too clear. The prenticesnatched up the fallen lantern-crook, took grip of the barrow's handles andhurried off across the Mead, dark excitement broiling in his innards. At any moment he expected to be halted. He forced himself not to run. With every step nearer the Axial, he dared tohope he might escape unseen, and hope and dread seesawed desperately till -- atlast! -- he was trundling down the ramp descending to the Low Gutter. Only when he was back by the gap between thePrincipal Stair and the lantern store did Rossamund finally begin again tobreathe. 
	Not waiting to discover if he had been seen or followed, the prenticefumbled off his smock, tipped all the bloom from the barrow onto it, put thebarrow back behind the rain barrel, and the fodicar with it.Rolling up the smock and hefting this bundleover his shoulder, he scampered back through the comparative calm of the LowGutter, up the Postern Stair and into his own cell just as mains was ending. 
	Never had he prized the privacy of his cell as much as then.In the quiet of the tiny room, with the doorshut, Rossamund spread the smock out, and heart a-thump with hope, sortedthrough all the scraps of bloom. He wasquickly and bitterly dismayed to find much of the stuff terribly yellowed. Yet among all the dying bloom-shreds he foundsix still-healthy tendrils, limp but not beyond restoring. He could have whooped for joy. 
	His messmates began moving and stomping about outside, shifting about thecell row as they readied for bed.Rossamund got into his ownnightclothes and, with a quick check out the cell door, made three rapidforays. Some of the other prentices gavehim odd looks but none stopped him. Barefeet slapping on the cold slate, he carried water from the cistern, via hisbiggin, to pour into the chamber pot. Thus the aquatic environment the bloom required was in some wayrestored. Rossamund took his timetenderly arranging the survivors so that each was properly submerged. 
	His nerves were so tightly strung, a soft bang at the door spooked himmightily.
	"It's douse-lanterns, Bookchild," came a hard, warning voice.
	Intent on tending his haul, Rossamund had missed the day's-end cry.All clatter and flurry, the prentice tried tohurry the last two precious sprigs into the chamber pot. 
	The cell door opened and in thrust the lamplighter-sergeant's head."Did ye not hear the--" he began,then saw the bloom. Grindrod's eyes wentwide, but sharp anger was quickly replaced with understanding. "Where did ye get those, prentice?" 
	"I-- ah-- from the-- the--" Rossamund floundered:it was theft either way -- a flogging offense,twelve of the best under the lictor's hand. 
	"From the Scaffold?"
	"Aye, Lamplighter-Sergeant."
	"Good man, Master Lately.Asye were." The merest hint of anuntypical smile showed on Grindrod's face. "Douse yer lantern, the day's deeds are done, lad... and keep those well out of sight. What our new Marshal doesn't fathom won'tturn into trouble." 
	Confused, relieved, Rossamund pushed the chamber pot under his cot,tumbled all the dead bloom together with his smock, stuffed it into the bedchest and turned his bright-limn.In thefading light he readied for sleep. Hisheart still pattered fast and he lay awake for a long time, astounded at hisown audacity and wondering why Grindrod had just abetted him in his crime. 
	
	** * * * 
	
	Immediately after the sunup call "Alamp!A lamp to light your path!" rang through the cell row, Rossamund was outof his cot and pulling the chamber pot with its leafy guests out from under hisbunk. He had continued to use the potfor its intended purpose during the night, having learned from Numps that one'snight waters were good for the bloom. Seltzerman 1 st Class Humbert had reluctantly said the samewhen, amid much snickering and guffawing from his fellows, Rossamund had soughtto confirm the fact during readings. Nevertheless, one of the bloom sprigs had not survived the night, and hewas down to five. 
	While the other lads washed, Rossamund hid the pot between his bed chestand the wall under his valise and salumanticum to foil the questingchambermaids on their morning rounds.
	Food gobbled (farrats, raisins and small beer) and barely more than anawkward "good morning" exchanged with Threnody, Rossamund was rushing back tohis cell, an idea illuminating in his mind like a thermistor's bolt.He fished out the chamber pot from its hide,took out his lark-lamp, prized off the lugs and opened the top of thebell. Into the glass-bound cavity hemanaged to fit all five fronds, stuffing the sixth in with all the dead bloomwrapped in his smock and hiding it again in the bed chest. He filled the lark-lamp with water from thecistern and by breakfast-end had the bell-top secured back in place and thelamp safely back in his bed chest. 
	All through the rest of the day, he was in anxious expectation ofdiscovery.At morning parade, he waitedfor the Master-of-Clerks to arrive and announce the wicked theft ofbloom-rubbish from beneath the Scaffold. Through morning evolutions Rossamund kept looking guiltily over at thegaunt tree, convinced a mercer would run up and announce that "someunknown miscreant had meddled with the rightfully exposed colluciaplants!" 
	None of this happened.
	By middens, Rossamund was eager to restore the rescued glimbloom toNumps.
	The glimner was still in bed, sitting up, sipping at some fine-smellingbroth -- probably a kindness of Doctor Crispus -- and looking utterly spent fromall his grieving.Gratified that the manwas cared for, nevertheless Rossamund felt his heart ache to see Numps sowoebegone. 
	"Mister Numps," Rossamund ventured, "I--I tried to saveyour bloom yesternight, but... but this was all I could get.The rest was too high off theground." He proffered thebloom-packed lark-lamp and the glimner's eyes went so round Rossamund fearedthey might pop right from their sockets. For a terrible beat or three of his anxious heart, the prentice thoughthe had woefully miscalculated, and simply added to the glimner's distress. 
	"You rescued poor Numps' poor friends," the man managedbrokenly.He took the small lamp in hisshaking hands and gradually his hauntedness gave way to profound delight as joyblossomed into ecstasy. "Oh, myfriends!" Numps cried, in both shouts and tears. "Oh, my friends!" The unscarred side of his face became wetwith weeping, yet the riven side stayed dry, his ruined eye tearless. 

	19
	Billeting Day
	
	fetchmanalso fetcher,bag-and-bones man, ashcarter or thew-thief ("strength-stealer").Someone who carries the bodies of the fallenfrom the field of battle, taking them to the manouvra -- or field hospital. Despite their necessary and extremely helpfullabors, fetchmen are often resented by pediteers as somehow responsible for thedeaths of the wounded comrades they take who often die later of theirinjuries. Indeed, they are regarded asharbingers of death, sapping their own side of strength, and as such are keptout of sight till they are needed. 
	
	Despitethe dramatic events, many of the lantern-sticks were largely unperturbed by theMarshal's departure. Grindrod andBenedict did their utmost to preserve the routine. The next day the prentices had just completedthe usual afternoon reading on Our Mandate and Matter with Seltzerman Humbertwhen Benedict hustled into the lectury declaring in amazement, "They'reholding Billeting Day early!" 
	Almost the moment these words were out, the grandiose figure of theMaster-of-Clerks, the Marshal-Subrogat himself, appeared at the lectury door,gracing them all with his presence.Heheld his chin at a dignified tilt. Asalways, the man was served by his ubiquitous retinue: Laudibus Pile, Witherscrawl, and now Fleughthe under-clerk; the master-surveyor with diagrams of the manse permanentlygripped under his arm; and two troubardier foot-guards. With them also came a lanky,frightening-looking fellow dressed all in a sash of sturdy proofed silk, neckthickly wrapped in a long wooden scarf yet -- most oddly -- his chest andshoulders and arms were bare, despite the aching chill, showing too-paleagainst all the black. His head wasbald, and a thin dark arrow pointed up his face from chin to absent hairline,its tines splaying out over each brow. He was a wit. More disconcertingstill was that his eyes were completely black -- white orbs, just glisteningdark. This was some strange trick ofchemistry Rossamund had not heard of. The combination of this blank, pitch-dark stare with Pile's snide,parti-hued gaze stilled the whole room as they moved within. 
	With a thump of determined footfalls Grindrod appeared behind them all,muttering to himself, his face screwed up in silent invective."Sit" was all he said. 
	The prentices obeyed with meek alacrity.When all shuffling and snuffling ceased, the Master-of-Clerks pacedbefore them, hands behind his back, puckering his lips and squinting at theplatoon as if shrewdly appraising them all. 
	"Brave prentices," he declaimed, "you have worked at yourpracticing with admirable zeal and laudable facility.Fully confident in your fitness, I amconvinced you are ready for full, glorious service as Emperor's lighters, andhave decided it timely for you to be granted your billets and to be sentpromptly to them." 
	That had most of the prentices scratching their heads, pained frowns oflugubrious thought creasing several brows.Does that mean it's Billeting Dayor what?
	How would he know what the state ofour fitness for service is?was thespin of Rossamund's own thinking. He has naught to do with us!
	With a harsh, self-conscious throat-clearing, Grindrod stood forward,clearly struggling to contain his temper."Sounds an admirable conclusion, sir, but the lantern-sticks bain'tready for the work. Ye let ahalf-trained lad out on the road by himself and ye might as well toss 'imstraight to the fetchman!" 
	"Pshaw!I'll not have yourwomanish obstructions, Lamplighter-Sergeant-of-Prentices." The Master-of-Clerks enunciated Grindrod'sfull title in the manner of a put-down. "They are required out on that road to make up for the appallinglosses incurred under my predecessor." 
	The Lamplighter-Sergeant went purple with indignant rage, but theMaster-of-Clerks carried 

	
	on, notallowing the man an opportunity to press any further dissent.
	"Staffing at the cothouses must be restocked.We have twenty-one -- no, twenty-two" --he corrected himself with an enigmatic look to Threnody, sitting straightbackedat the front of the room -- "hale souls trained in the lampsman's labors,and as ready as anyone can be, surely, to wind a simple glowing weed in and outits chamber. It is a terrible waste of aresource and one I have decided can be better employed filling these gaps onthe road than lolling about here being taught the same thing over andover. It is not difficult work,Sergeant. If they have not come to gripswith the task by now, I fail to see how another month will make it so." 
	"Another month is all the difference, sir!" Grindrodglowered."They're bare-breechedbantlings who set to whimperin' at the slightest speak of bogles! Ye should be hiring those blightedsell-swords bivoucked outside the Nook, or get them lardy magnates in thePlacidine itself to spare a platoon or two of their blighted domesticars! Either way, sir, trained, professionalmen-at-arms used to the rigors of war. Ye might not know, sir, hidin' behind yer ledgers and quill pots, thatit's war out upon the road, sir, and it's we lowly lighters who are in thevan!" 
	The Master-of-Clerks bridled for a moment and then, with admirableequanimity, said soothingly, "I'm sure you're a fellow who knows hisbusiness well enough when teaching a poor lad his first clues, but it now fallsto me to choose their best uses.That isto be the end of it Lamplighter-Sergeant -- I do not want to be put in theposition of having to take you in firmer hand. Indexer Witherscrawl," he said, dismissing Grindrod with a turn ofhis gorgeously bewigged head, "read the tally if you please." 
	The sour indexer stepped forward, glared at the prentices -- at everysingle one -- and especially at Threnody."Harkee, ye little scrubs! Here is the Roll of Billets, of who will go where and when they willleave. Listen well -- I shall tell thisonly the once!" 
	What!The prentices could not quite believethis: they were to be denied the fullhonors of a beautiful and especial ceremony. There were supposed to be martial musics; the whole manse was meant toturn out in respect at the boys' success in prenticing and their coming intofull rank as lampsmen. A sussurus ofdeep displeasure stirred about the boys. 
	Grindrod did nothing to quell them, simply folding his arms.In fact, he showed open pride in theprentices' muttering rebellion. 
	"I said quiet!"Witherscrawl shouted, and a foot-guard rapped the floor with the shaft end ofhis poleax, its cracking report startling the whole room to dumbness. 
	With a foul sneer, the indexer raised a tall, thin ledger close to hisface and from it began to read out names in letter-fall order:Arabis to go to Cothallow, Childebert toSparrowstall, Egadis to Tumblesloe Cot just beyond the Roughmarch, and so on. 
	Attention focused.
	"Mole to Ashenstall..."
	Onion Mole went white with dismay.The other prentices winced, Rossamund with them. A long way east, Ashenstall was one of theharder billets on the road, isolated and with few vigil-day rests. 
	Apprehension grew.They could notassume only the kinder billets would be given. 
	"Wheede to Mirthalt..." droned the indexer, "Wrangle to...Bitterbolt..."
	With a chill, Rossamund knew his name was next, languishing at the end ofthe lists along with Threnody's...
	"Bookchild to Wormstool..."
	... and this chill became a frigid blank.
	Some of the other prentices gasped.
	Wormstool!
	This was the last -- the very last -- cothouse on the Wormway, well east ofAshenstall, with only the grim Imperial bastion of Haltmire between it and theIchormeer.Built at the "ignoble end ofthe road," Wormstool was no place for newly promoted prentice-lampsmen. Situated too near the sodden fringe of thedread swamp, it was held as one of the toughest billets of all. Only those who volunteered ever went there,yet here he was, a mere prentice, being sent. The Ichormeer had once been just a frightfulfable to him. Now Rossamund was going tolive and work as a neighbor to its very borders, where all the bogles and thevilest hugger-muggers that ever dragged themselves from putrid mud haunted andharried. Absorbed in his shockedthoughts at this revelation, he did not hear where Threnody had been sent. 
	Witherscrawl finished his recitation.
	The Master-of-Clerks presented himself again."I will be wanting you all to yourbillets as soon as can be done. Withtime to travel in consideration, those farther out will leave sooner. Therefore those prentices stationed farthestaway will be leaving on the first post of tomorrow morn. Well done to you all, my fine fellows -- youare now all full lampsmen!" 
	Confused and silent, the prentices were dismissed and that was that:Billeting Day -- such as it had been -- wasover, an insulting sham. 
	The Master-of-Clerks left without any further acknowledgment, taking his"tail" with him.Grindrod followed, andan angry muttered conference could be heard out in the hallway, terminatingsuddenly with the Master-of-Clerks' high clear voice saying, "Cease your querulousbickerings, Sergeant-lighter! It will beas I have decided it. They have beensent where needed. If you are soconcerned for the children, then get back to them and make certain they areready for their great adventure. Goodday!" 
	At first Rossamund's fellows were bemused.As the day progressed most were reconciledwith their early promotions and many proved pleased with their billets, howeveruntimely and however tawdrily they had been portioned. At lale -- held indoors owing to inclement weather-- they buzzed and boasted excitedly to each other about the various merits oftheir new posts, those billeted at the same cothouse gathering together inexcited twos or threes. Every ladcongratulated the others for their good fortune and the 7q extra they would allreceive each month now that they were lampsmen 3 rd class. For Onion Mole and even more so Rossamundthere was baffled commiseration: he wasthe only prentice to be billeted at the ignoble end of the road. 
	"Why are they sending you so far, Rosey boy?" asked Arabis,still smiling about his prime posting at Cothallow, one of the smartestcothouses on the road.
	Hands raised, Rossamund shrugged.
	"I reckon you'll be going tomorrow morning, then?" Pillowwondered aloud.
	"It's a handy thing ye've had practice with yer potives."Smellgrove patted him on the back. 
	"Aye."Wheedegrinned. "The baskets will have towatch they don't get a pud full of bothersalts." 
	Rossamund ducked his head, grateful for their fumbling encouragements.
	Threnody had guzzled her saloop and was rising to leave.
	"Where are you going?" he asked her quickly.
	"Out from here," she answered flatly.
	"Where are you billeted?"
	"Didn't you hear?" she asked tartly."I'm going to Dovecote Bolt. That Odious Podious thinks he is such a funnyfellow -- told me my mother would appreciate me being so close." 
	"We'll be billet-mates!" cried Plod happily.
	"Oh, hazzah," Threnody replied with a wry twist of her mouth,and departed.
	
	** * * * 
	
	For the rest of the day, as Benedict strove, in Grindrod's absence, tokeep the animated prentices in line, Rossamund's mind was a hasty turning ofhalf thoughts and unhappy conclusions.He was leaving -- packed off posthaste to the worst billet in the land. Most likely he was leaving for good, to dieat the hands of some ravenous nicker fresh plucked from the ooze. He had to tell Numps -- just as MisterSebastipole had done -- that he might see the glimner for a long time. Once again, mains became the prentice'schance to venture out. When the mealcame around he took only a hard loaf of pong to chew "on the foot" and hastenedto the lantern store. 
	As he went to leave the mess hall, he passed Threnody, back from makingher treacle in the kitchens.Shesnatched at his arm. "I must talkwith you," she hissed. 
	Rossamund wrenched free."Notnow, Threnody. I must visit Numps totell him I'm going," he insisted in return. 
	She glowered at him."What doyou have to do that is more important than me? I have things to tell you -- a surprise." 
	"Truly, Threnody, it must wait," he declared, pulling his armfree of her and dashing off, leaving her stunned and scowling.
	In the early night he ran down to the Low Gutter.The sweet smell of rain-washed air -- thepromise of showers -- was blowing up from the southeast. Passing through Door 143 just as water beganto fall, Rossamund emerged from the shelves as his ready, if somewhat forced,smile of friendliness became a puzzled grimace. Numps was not in his usual seat by the glow of the postless great-lampand the never diminishing pile of panes. Nor was he down the next aisle of shelves getting mineral fluids orother such things for cleaning stubborn crust. 
	"Mister Numps?" he called.
	The rain a-hammered on the roof.
	Ringing ears.
	Nothing.
	"Mister Numps?"Heturned slowly by the glimner's empty seat, hoping the fellow might just shuffleout from behind a barrel or stack of lantern-windows. Horrid thoughts of some frightful crisisbegan to intrude into Rossamund's imagination, yet there was no evidence oftrouble. Rossamund searched down everyaisle and behind any pile he could see: no Numps. Destroying his bloom is one thing, but surely he is too important to behurt or carried off?Rossamund'smind cogged. No one could be bothered, even if they did remember him.He thought ofthe undercroft and the old bloom baths. Surely not there?It's been boarded up and blocked ... Thiswas the only alternative he knew. 
	Careful not to attract attention with any untoward huff or hustle, theprentice slipped through the mazelike interstices between the work buildings,trying to find the path Numps had taken him that one wet day.Twice he thought he had got himselfirrevocably lost, yet, though seen only once, the particular features of thetwisting route were quickly familiar again and Rossamund was soon dashing downthe tunnel-like alley. He skidded intothe discarded square and its gurgling drains, startling a sparrow that had beenbobbing by the sunken grate. Theentrance to the undercroft had indeed been sealed with boards, but these hadbeen pulled away and collected in a tidy stack by the grate. Next to this stack sat an equally orderlycollection of the bolts used to pin the boards in place, partly piled on top ofa soiled official ordinance bill stringently demanding everyone to go away inpainfully formal terms. Kneeling in thewet, the prentice leaned over the grate and tried to reach under as he hadobserved Numps do, to feel about for some kind of catch or spring or other lever. 
	"Mister Numps!" he called, hoarse and wary, down the hole whilehe searched."MisterNumps!" Nothing even vaguely catchor latchlike presented itself to his questing fingers. 
	"Oh hallo, Mister Rossamund."The soft voice of the glimner echoed strangely from below, givingRossamund a fright. "I reckoned youwere a guardsman fellow come to take my bloom again." 
	"Mister Numps!"With rushing relief, Rossamund thought hecould just spot the pale oval of Numps' upturned face in the dark of thesubterranean stair. "Are you safe? Are you hurt again?" 
	"Oh dear... I don't want to be found by Master-Clerker..." theglimner quavered."I didn't want tobe found without Mister 'Pole here." 
	Rossamund smiled sadly.How hewished he could provide the glimner with a greater sense of safety. Instead he had things to tell that he knewwould be hard for the poor man. 
	"I have to go too, Mister Numps," he began."They're sending me away..." 
	"Oh... oh dear..."Numpssighed, sounding bewildered. He musthave climbed higher in his distress, for his pallid face became closer. "Numps' friends all going..." 
	"The Master-of-Clerks called Billeting Day today," Rossamundconfirmed, "and I am leaving to my cothouse -- and there's nothing I can doabout it."
	"Tell Mister 'Pole -- he won't let you be sent away.Even poor limpling-head Numps knows it's toosoon for prentices to go a-working. Write Mister 'Pole, he won't let you go -- I have his address,see..." Numps rummaged about in pockets. 
	"I will... I will write him a letter," said Rossamund."Maybe he can help us, even from theConsidine. Things are so bad with hisand the Marshal's leaving. You shouldstay hiding if you can, Mister Numps -- the fortress is downside up. Will you be able to eat and all?" 
	"Ah, Mister Rossamund."Numps tapped his brow. "There are many things Numps knows that people don't think heknows. There is food a-plenty if you goto the right places." The glimnerwas oddly calm. "Besides,Cinnamon's friends are watching over Numps-a-hiding so you can reckon me assafe." 
	Rossamund thought of the sparrow he had startled, peckingat the grate, and smiled. He did not know what help these little agentsof the Duke of Sparrows might be -- if that was indeed what they were. What did that kind of attention mean? He wanted to believe that goodly urchin-lordsexisted, that Numps was well looked out for, but the old common suspicionspersisted. 
	A distant rataplan of the drums meant that mains was at an end andconfinations about to begin.
	"I must go, Mister Numps.Wewill both write to Mister Sebastipole, yes?" 
	"Yes."
	"And you'll stay safe and secret, yes?"
	"Yes."
	Rossamund wanted to hug the glimner, but shyness and the grate preventedhim.Instead he just stared into Numps'melancholy eyes, and the man stared back. 
	"Good-bye!"The prenticereluctantly turned to leave. 
	"Good-bye, Mister Rossamund," he heard the glimner call behindhim."Numps won't forget his newold friend -- don't you forget him..." 
	"Never, Mister Numps!"
	Heavy with fear for the glimner's fate, Rossamund ran back to the manse.For the rest of confinations he packed,stowed all he had ever possessed and prepared himself for leaving at firstlight. In the last few moments beforedouse-lanterns he lay on his cot and with his stylus hastily scratched out aletter on a blank page torn from the back of the peregrinate. 
	
	To Mister Sebastipole
	Lamplighter's Agent & Falseman to the Lamplighter-Marshal ofWinstermill
	Epistra Scuthae
	The Considine
	The Patricine
	2nd Heimio HIR 1601 
	
	Dear Mister Sebastipole,
	I have no certainly this will make its way to you, but I try anyway.
	I write to you, Mister Sebastipole, on the last night of my prenticingin Winstermill, for since you left with the Marshal, the Master-of-Clerks hastake all in hand and declared Billeting Day early.Tomorrow I travel to the cothouse ofWormstool. But it is not this thattroubles me. It is rather Mister Numpsthat I am worried for. TheMaster-of-Clerks (he calls himself the Marshal-Subrogat now) destroyed MisterNumps' bloom (the stuff he was growing down in the deserted undercroft) thevery day you departed, and Mister Numps (as I am sure you can well imagine) wassorely troubled. I managed to save alittle part of it, but the baths are shattered and most of the bloom is dead. I fear for Mister Numps, that he isn't safewith only the good Doctor Crispus to watch out for him. Would there be any way you can help him, oreven get him away from the manse? 
	
	He thought of adding:
	
	The last I saw of him he still hid where his bloom was once grown.
	
	...but realized the letter might be intercepted and read by unfriendlyeyes and so left it out.Instead hequickly completed the letter. 
	
	I hope you and the Lamplighter-Marshal fare well, and that all unjustthings are righted soon.
	
	Rmnd
	
	Rossamund Bookchild,
	Lampsman 3rd Class 
	HIHF Winstermill
	Conduit Vermis
	Sulk End

	

	

	

	

	

	
	
	20
	On Leaving Winstermill
	
	Idlewild, the ~officiallyknown as the Placida Solitus, a gathering of client-cities (colonies) along theImperial Highroad of the Conduit Vermis.Each town, village or fortress is sponsored by a different state of theEmpire -- Brandenbrass, Hergoatenbosch, Quimperpund, Maubergonne, Termagaunt,even Catalain. Established in the late15 th century HIR, it is the latest great project of what is grandlytermed cicuration -- taming by farming; purgation -- taming by force; andbessesation -- taming by landscaping, originally proposed by Clementineitself. The Inner Idlewild or Placidine,from Tumblesloe Cot to the Wight, was declared "refio scutis" -- a fenceland --over a decade ago. This heralded abrilliant success of the great labor of pushing back the monsters and thethrewd. The marches from the Wight toHaltmire -- otherwise known a the Paucitine (also the Frugelle) -- are stillconsidered ditchland. 
	
	Inthe clear, bright and oppressively cold morning Rossamund watched Winstermillrecede as the post-lentum took him away. Threnody sat opposite him in the cabin, snuggled in a nest of furs. The first he knew of her joining him was herappearance on the Grand Mead that morning, baggage and all, as he waited forthe lentum. Originally billeted atDovecote Bolt, the girl was not supposed to be here in the carriage, the firstto take freshly promoted prentices out to their new home. Somehow late the day before, she had succeededin having her posting changed and was now with him on the road toWormstool. Perhaps this was what she hadbeen so intent on telling him the evening before. "It's too dangerous just for one"was all she had said in explanation as they had waited on the cold Mead earlierthat morning. "I'll keep watch onyour flanks, and you'll keep watch on mine." 
	Rossamund wondered briefly how the besotted Plod would feel about herchange of destination.She was surelythe most gorgeously accoutred lamplighter along the whole of the Wormway in herscarlet and gold harness and mass of midnight ringlets. Under one arm she clutched a day-bag, while alinen package and a mysterious round box sat on the seat beside. One hand waskept warm in a fuzzy white snuftkin, the other clutched a duodecimo novel,which she was reading with pointed concentration. Despite her infuriating twists of manners andmood, Rossamund was at first glad she had come along. But beyond the initial word she had beenignoring him, for reasons he could not quite comprehend, spoiling the sweetnessof her original gallant gesture. 
	Has she come with me just to havesomeone to still pick on?
	Rossamund had reading matter of his own.Before the lentum-and-four had departed, he had ventured to the PacketFile to deliver his letter for Sebastipole and had been given another missivein return. He still clutched it in hishand, forgotten in the haste of his embarkation. With him in the cabin he had also brought hisrestocked salumanticum, his old traveling satchel with its knife-in-sheathattached holding his peregrinate, and a parcel of wayfood. On the seat next to him was his preciousvalise crammed with smalls and other necessaries for five days' travel. Anything over that and he would just have to makedo. The rest of what he owned -- most ofit issued by the lamplighters when he first joined -- had been stowed in an oxtrunk and fixed to the roof of the lentum along with Threnody's sizablecollection of luggage, their fodicars and fusils. 
	In his pocket his buff-leather wallet was bulging full with travelingpapers, reissued after the ruin his old ones had become on his way toWinstermill.There was also a workdocket already bearing its first remarks: the period of his service as a prentice and the tasks undertaken, bywhich was a "CS" for "Completed to Satisfaction"; under"Conduct" was the comment "Late for prenticing period" andtwo small "i's" for his impositions -- pots-and-pans with the now-vanishedMother Snooks. It was all signed off bythe Master-of-Clerks himself, now the Marshal-Subrogat. 
	With these papers was a fair wad of folding notes and coin -- his threemonths' wages as a prentice and a large portion of the money Europe had givento him in High Vesting.As for a hat,there had been no time to replace it, and so here he was venturing out withlittle more than the bandage about his head. 

	The east wind whistled low on the Harrowmath, the usual odor of the longgrass rank with the rot of sodden vegetation.Mixing with the flat nonodor of his newly applied Exstinker, it becamean unpleasant half stink in Rossamund's nostrils. He rubbed his nose with the back of his handand sighed his melancholy. An untimelydeparture, an uncertain way ahead, and Numps left in the rough care of the lighters,yet Rossamund was glad to be out of Winstermill and on the road once more. He even entertained the hope he might see Europe on the way through. 
	He looked down at the letter and opened it, his hands slightly trembling.
	It was dated the nineteenth of Pulvis, Solemnday -- almost a week ago.
	
	Rossamu nd,
	Ihave to tell ye of the profound and sorrowful news that on the night of the 5thof this month, the marine society was burnt down and that Madam Opera didperish in the fire along with, to myever-living grief and shame, many children and Master Pinsum took, withvaluables and papers burnt or maybe stolen. 
	Verlineand we other masters all survived.Perhaps we should not have lived with so many young kilt. But survive we have and are seeking now to findberths for all the poor younkers made wastrel once more. 
	Thatwretched utterworst Gosling set the spark, or so it appears.Barthom ae us and I chased at rumors of hima'watching the building many times afore the fire, but obviously turned upnaught.The splints say he has fled thecity. He always was a yellow-gutteddastard and I should have ended him long ago but for the restraint ofconscience -- and Verline, bless her.

	Withall that has got to be done for the tots it appears that Craumpalin and I shallbe arriving to ye later than expected, but can't be knowing when.Expect us maybe in two months. 
	Withgreat respect and sorrow etc.
	f.
	Frans,Mstr, Ex-Gnr
	Iam sorry about being so long in scratching this down and sending it on to ye,but our labors have not let me do so sooner.Thanks to ye for yer own letter dated 13 th of Pulchris, itsurvived the fire and we esteem it like treasure. Hold yer course, my boy, hold yer course -- I knowit is hard.Remember I said once thatpaths need never stay fixed. 
	AlsoCraumpalin sends greeting:he says thathe is most proud and very happy with the usefulness of his bothersalts andtells ye (as do I) to keep wearing his Exstinker, if ye do not already. 
	MissVerline is safe with her sister and her new niece and would send ye her best -- as yewell know -- if she knew of this letter.
	Well-fare-ye!
	
	Rossamund could not believe what was written.He read again. "...the night of the 5 th ofthis month..." That was the verynight the horn-ed knickers had attacked Threnody and her sisters in theircarriage. Yet it was not until his thirdtime through, slowly and painfully, that the full impact of his old dormitorymaster's terrible news struck home. Heturned his face away from Threnody, hiding the collar of his pallmain, and weptas he had not wept in the longest time, letting all the bleakness sob out. He wept for the dear dead children, forMaster Pinsum, and even for Madam Opera, who may not have been the kindest, butwas by no means the worst; for the grief caused to his beloved carers; for furyat Gosling's malice. The fury passed butthe grief remained, and Rossamund lost himself in sad, wordless reveries, onlyvaguely heedful of the progress of the carriage as it followed the Pettiwigginalong the Harrowmath. 
	They were passing through the Briarywood when he roused at last withthoughts of Fransitart's arrival -- and dear Craumpalin coming too.I mustwrite to let them know I will not be at Winstermill.
	"What's wrong with you, lamp boy?" Threnody said, her voiceraised only a little over the dull rumble of the lentum."Why do you cry?" She looked at Fransitart's letter. "Who is the correspondence from?" 
	Rossamund became suddenly very aware of the girl:aware of her proximity; of his unwantedtears. He wiped at them quickly,sniffing impatiently. "My olddormitory master back in Boschenberg..." he answered reluctantly. "He... he sends sad news." 
	"Sad news?" Threnody folded the duodecimo in her lap.
	"My old home was burned down by an old foe," Rossamundmanaged."Madam Opera died in thefire. She was the owner... and a... amother, I suppose -- in a strange way. She named me -- marked it in the book..." 
	"You're a better soul than me, Rossamund."
	"How?"
	"You weep over the death of some wastrel proprietress, yet I canonly wish my very own mother might perish in a fire."
	With a frown, Rossamund returned to the window and broodily observed thepassing scene.He knew she was justtrying to be kind. It did not help thatshe was not very good at it. 
	The post-lentum clopped between the twin keeps of Wellnigh House withouthesitation, under the Omphalon, and on through to the Roughmarch.With a feeling very much like going throughthe Axles of Boschenberg, Rossamund realized with equal parts dread andexpectancy that he had never been farther east than this point, that he washurtling into what were, for him, unknown lands. 
	A great-lamp at every bend, the RoughmarchRoad twisted serpentlike through a valley clottedwith thorny plants of many kinds -- sloe, briar, boxthorn and blackberry, itsspiny runners thickly stickling the verge. As with the wild grasses of the Harrowmath, fatigue parties wereregularly sent out from Wellnigh House and Tumblesloe Cot to pull and prunethese plants, to resist the threwd and deny monsters a hide from which toambush. Yet either side of the way wasonly partially hacked and cleared, and Rossamund could still feel the hauntingwatchfulness here, strong but strangely restrained. He stared at the high bald hills, dark andsilent, and pulled up the door sash to keep the threat outside, glad he did nothave to work the lamps on this stretch. 
	If Threnody noticed the threwd, she did not show it.Indeed, she started to hum as she read herbook and paid Rossamund and the rest of the world little heed. 
	They drove down out of the hills where a creek bubbled alongside theWormway, spilling over lichen-covered rocks, beneath twisted roots of writhen,leafless trees and south under the road to make a bog at the foot of a shortcliff.In as much time as it took towalk to Wellnigh House from Winstermill, they were passing the walls ofTumblesloe Cot, not pausing there either. The cothouse was built away from the highroad, right up against thecliffs that marched upon the eastern flanks of the hills. Nothing could be seen of it but the stoneworkcurtain walls and the tops of a handful of chimneys. They were in foreign lands now -- the greatdivide between the Idlewild and the rest of the Empire had been crossed. 
	"Welcome to the Placidine," said Threnody."Dovecote Bolt is next, at the junctionwith another road; if you left the highroad and took this other pathway northit would lead you to my old home, Herbroulesse." 
	Rossamund looked at his peregrinate maps and saw the path she was talkingof and her home too, both important enough to be mentioned.He did not want to be, but he was actuallyimpressed. While it had stood, MadamOpera's marine society had never featured on any map he knew. "What will your mother think of whatyou're doing," he asked, "going off to dangerous cothouses?" 
	"She would lecture at me and I would disagree and we would startscreaming and I would be sent away somewhere with Dolours till Mother couldbear to see me again."
	"But what about the Emperor's Billion?" Rossamund pressed.
	"What about it?" Threnody snapped."My mother has a larger mandate thatthat! Our clave's Imperial Prerogativetakes precedence over simple tokens." 
	"Imperial Prerogative?"
	She gave him the by-now-familiar are-you-really-that-stupid?Look and said after a sigh, "It allows us to do and be without the statestroubling us. It is granted by theEmperor himself, and not every clavehas one." She finished with a proudsniff. 
	Before them the Conduit Vermis descended into a broad, shallow valley ofscruffy pastures hemmed to the north by a spur of bald hills and to the southby the rolling, pastured fells of the Sparrow Downs.It was an unremarkable land. Rossamund stared at the distant downs,wondering if an urchin-lord truly was there watching and sending out its littlesparrow-agents from its leafy courts. 
	As the day grew longer, traffic began to pass going the other way.There were other post-lentums with returningdispatches; barouques and landaulets, perhaps taking the well-to-do to HighVesting or Brandenbrass; dyphrs dashing on errands; crofters commuting incurricles between land and town. Theyalso began to overtake slow-moving higglers with their trays of fripperies,stooklings with their enormous bundles of sticks, laborers with their barrows,vendors with their donkey carts; and always, whether in their direction oragainst, the ox drays and mule carts of the merchants. 
	Another lamppost flicked past.
	It was going to be along stretch to Wormstool.
	"Ah," Threnody exclaimed, of a sudden, stirring Rossamund fromhis sorrows, "I am sharp-set -- it must be time for middens."
	The prentice craned a look out the window at the gunmetal sky.The sun hid behind the even cover ofclouds. He could not tell what hour itwas -- surely well past midday, yet his stomach told the time more truly with anoisy poppling gurgle. 
	Threnody gave out a peculiar laughing bark."Your gizzards think so too, itappears!" She extracted a ditty bagfrom among her cushions and wraps, and shared her pong with dried-and-saltedpork and a handful of millet, all washed down with a brown bottle of smallbeer. 
	Sick of the little varying diet of the Emperor's Service, Rossamund tooksome food and ate perfunctorily.Dullgrief would not let him eat. However,once started, he found his appetite returned and he supped heartily enough. 
	At the meal's end, Threnody took out a vial of sticky red Friscan's wead.
	Rossamund stared fixedly out of the window as she drank, not wanting toinvite some petulant overreaction.
	With shadows growing long as the bulk of Tumblesloe Heap brought an earlysunset,and their rumps sore from toomuch sitting, they passed the lantern-watch of Dovecote Bolt wending west,fodicars on shoulder, winding out the lonely lamps. The lampsmen hailed the lenterman, but paidno heed to the passengers. 
	Gloaming finally gave up to darkness as they followed the glitteringchain of new-lit lamps and arrived at the cothouse itself.Dovecote Bolt was a high-house: whitewashed walls upon stone foundations,with a fortified stairway to the only door at the very top of the structure, ahigh wall extending behind it and a crowd of glowing lanterns at itsfront. It was built close by a sludgyford over the beginnings of a little stream known as the Mirthlbrook. Just before the ford the post-lentum turned,went through a heavy gate and halted in the modest coach yard at the rear ofthe cothouse. 
	The splasher boy opened the door, unfolded the step and said with aparched croak, "First stop.And anovernight stay till tomorrow's post." 
	"As luggage was retrieved, lampsmen appeared from within bearingbright-limns to light their way and dour expressions to greet them.The seven-strong garrison of this modestcothouse seemed very tight, veterans with a long record of servicetogether. However, they had little cheerfor new-promoted lampsmen, looking especially hard at Threnody as she mountedthe stair and entered the guardroom. Itoccupied the entirety of that floor, and with benches and trestles, doubled asa common room for meals. The two younglamplighters were directed to the cramped office of Dovecote Bolt'shouse-major, found in an attic-space loft of the steep roof. 
	Introducing himself as Major-of-House Wombwell, he spoke to them in astiff yet welcoming manner.
	"Good evening to you, young... er-- prentices!" he said, eyeingThrenody with a confounded expression.His eyes became wider as he saw the small spoor upon her face. "Why have you come to us from ourglorious manse? Wellnigh is the usualrange of your watch, is it not?" 
	"Ah," said Rossamund, "we are on the way to our billet,sir."
	"To your billet?"Thehouse-major bridled. "Preposterous! Billeting Dayis not for another month." 
	"It has been called early by our dear new Marshal-Subrogat,"Threnody explained with affected amusement.
	"Marshal-Subrogat?" the man quizzed her.
	"Aye, sir," Rossamund answered, getting a word in beforeThrenody for fear of some rash statement from her."The Master-of-Clerks has filled theplace of the Lamplighter-Marshal." 
	"So it is true, then:theLamplighter-Marshal is called away and that old fox Podious is top of theheap. They even let lasses serve aslighters now, I see -- troublesome times are here..." 
	The house-major asked them some further questions on minor details ofWinstermill's running and then they were dismissed.Threnody, much to the bemusement of thelighters, was granted access to the kitchens to make her plaudamentum. 
	"Blighted Cathar's baskets as lighters -- by my knotted bowels, who'dreckon it?" Rossamund could hear the house-major mutter as they left him.
	"Would you need help with your treacle, Threnody?" Rossamundoffered as they were shown down to their cots by the cot-warden:a surly, scabby-faced lighter --one of thepermanent house-watch, too old now to walk the highroad. 
	The girl paused, contriving to look bemused, amazed and annoyed all atonce."No thank you, I will boil myown," she huffed, and left him to find the kitchen. 
	When she returned, they were served mains by the same surly cot-wardennow acting as kitchen hand.Incongruously the meal of boiled beef, onions and rice from the tinykitchen tasted better than anything made by Winstermill's vast cookery. 
	Left well alone on their cots by the lampsmen, Threnody read as Rossamundcontended with a bout of the blackest sorrow.
	When the lamp-watch arrived from Sallowstall, their thumping and callingreverberating through the boards above, Threnody made trouble by asking for aprivacy screen.Churlishly, the oldcot-warden and two of the lighters answered her demand, setting a dusty oldscreen for her with much ungracious puffing and banging and stomping. Finished, the cot-warden left them, mutteringgrumpily, "Anything else yer highness wants doing..." Behind the screen, by golden lantern-light,Threnody did those mysterious things girls did before going abed. When she was done, she pushed the screen awayand got into her rough cot. She was in avoluminous white nightdress, her hair gathered and hidden beneath a sacklike,ribbon-tied crinickle. Rossamund hadnever seen her in this way. She had beencareful never to show herself after douse-lanterns back at Winstermill. The nightclothes and hat made her lookcuriously vulnerable. He prepared forsleep more publicly, his wounded head throbbing as it had not done for somedays. 
	Sleep was hard-won that night.Rossamund wrestled with his troubles as he lay in the cold listening toThrenody's easy breathing. 
	
	** * * * 
	
	Fed a hasty breakfast the next morning, they were allowed barely enoughtime for brewing Threnody's treacle.Aslap of reins and a shout, and the lentum went on, the weird song of unseenbirds echoing across the foggy valley their only farewell. Feeling empty and exhausted, Rossamund bidthe Bolt a silent good-bye. Threnodyslid over to Rossamund's side of the carriage and, pulling back the drape,stared at the low northward hills where Herbroulesse was hidden, still darkdespite the morning glow. "Tillanon, Mother," she murmured, and kept her vigil till they were well pastthe cothouse and the lesser road too. 
	The day's journey took them past dousing lampsmen returning toSallowstall and on to that place itself, the quality of the road improving fromhard-packed clay and soil to flagstones.With a blare of the horn, the post-lentum stopped at Sallowstall, awell-tended cot-rent with broad grounds and thick walls. 
	The mail was passed over and horses changed.Over the ford, scattering half-tame ducks,and out of the thicket of trees, the lentum resumed the journey. 
	As the afternoon wore on, the pastures on either side of the Wormwaybecame neater, their boundaries clearer, their furrows straighter, lessweedy.Much of the land was a dark,fertile brown. This was a very differentland from the grayer soils of the crofts Rossamund had known about Boschenberg. Nearing Cothallow they saw peoneers leveringat the road with iron-crows while a grim-looking guard of haubardiers stoodwatch. 
	"Thrice-blighted baskets have taken to tearing up thehighroad," Rossamund heard someone call to their driver as the post-lentumcautiously passed along.Flagstones hadbeen torn up and thrown aside, and a great-lamp bent over like a wind-brokensapling, its glass smashed, the precious bloom torn into shreds and yellowing. 
	Nestled in a wooded valley, Cothallow was long and low, its thick granitefacade perforated with solid arches from the midst of which slit windowsstared, closely barred and ready to be employed as loopholes.Their stay was not much more than a shouted"Hallo!," an exchange of mail and a hurried change of horses. The lenterman was clearly keen, with theadvance of day, to be at the next destination. 
	A sparrow alighted suddenly on the lowered door sash and, ruffling itwings, inspected first Threnody then Rossamund with keen deliberation.Threnody peered at the impertinent littlebird over the top of her duodecimo. Ittrilled at Rossamund once and loudly, and then shot off with a hum of speedywings as the post-lentum jerked forward to resume its travels. 
	"I've never known such birds to be so persistent," Threnodyexclaimed."He looks just the sameas that one watching while we talked in the greens-garden by the manse." 
	Rossamund leaned forward."Perhaps the Duke of Sparrows is watching us? " he whispered. 
	"I can't think of why he would watch after us particularly,"the girl answered him with a frown.
	"Maybe he's making sure you don't go witting the wrong bogle,"Rossamund muttered with a weak grin, feeling anything by funny.
	"Is there such a thing?" Threnody said seriously, looking athim sharply.
	Rossamund very much wanted to say "yes" but held his tongue.
	The crowns of the hills about were thick with trees, but their flankswere broad with deep green pastures, thin breaks of lithly myrtles.Here cattle lowed and chewed and drank fromthe runnels that wore creases down the hillsides. Crows cawed to each other across the valley. 
	Their day's-end destination was the community of Makepeace, built amidsparse, elegant, evergreen myrtles, right on the banks of the Mirthlbrook. Itwas the first significant settlement upon the Conduit Vermis, a villagesequestered behind a massive, foreboding wall.Rossamund could see the top bristling with sharp iron studs and shardsof broken crockery, which seemed to make a lie of the Makepeace's friendlyname. Crowds of chimneys stretched wellabove the beetling fortifications, each one drizzling steamy smoke into thestill, damp air, showing a promise of a warm hearth and even warmer food. Rossamund imagined every home filled withhumble families -- father, mother, son, daughter -- living quietly useful lives. 
	Upon either side of the gate were two doughty bastion-towers, bothshowing the muzzle of a great-gun through enlarged loopholes.Situated immediately by the northern tower,the cothouse of Makepeace Stile merged its foundations with those of thewall. A high fastness much like DovecoteBolt yet greatly enlarged -- maybe five or six stories -- the Stile was near astall as the chimney stacks of Makepeace and must have dominated the view of thewest from within the village. 
	The post-lentum eased into a siding between the cot-house and thehighroad, its arrival coincident with the departure of the lamp-watch.
	Alighting from the carriage, Rossamund heard a cry sound from down thegloomy road."The hedgeman comes!Be a-readyto make your orders, the hedgeman comes!" It was uttered by a portly figure pulling histest-barrow and strolling toward the town from the same direction the lentumhad just come, as if there was no threat from monsters. 
	A hedgeman!Rossamund's attention pricked. These were wandering folk, part skold,dispensurist and ossatomist who cured chills and set bones (for a fee) whereother habilists would not venture. Hehad not noticed them passing the fellow earlier, though they must have. 
	"The hedgeman is here!Comea-make your orders, the hedgeman is here!" came the cry again, and thistime Rossamund recognized the crier. 
	Mister Critchitichiello!Mister Critchitichiello, who made his livinghawking his skills to all and any along the Wormway. When he had firstarrived at Winstermill, Rossamund found it much easier to ask the kindlyhedgeman to make Craumpalin's Exstinker than go to Messrs. Volitus or Obbolute,the manse's own script-grinders. Now,with the current batch near its end, and more required to last him at his newbilleting, Rossamund hurried over to the man through traffic and the rain. 
	In the manse the hedgeman was a popular fellow.Rossamund had to wait his turn while thesmall crowd of brother-lighters ordered eagerly. Mostly they came for love-pomades made tosecure the affections of Jane Public and the other dolly-mops -- the maids andprofessional girls living in the towns about -- or find a cure for the variousaches and grumbles your average lampsman seemed always to possess. Out here, however, two days east ofWinstermill, Rossamund was the only customer. 
	"Well 'ello there, young a-fellow."Critchitichiello greeted Rossamund in hisstrange Sevillian accent, grinning at him from beneath the wide brim of hisround hat. "I a-remember you fromthe fortress. Yes? Back then you wore a hat and not abandage." 
	The prentice nodded cheerily.
	"Hallo, Mister Critchitichiello.Triple the quantity of my Exstinker, please. I have the list for it if you need toremember its parts." 
	Critchitichiello smiled."No-- no, I remember. Old Critchitichiellonever forgets such clever mixings." He tapped his pock-scarred brow knowingly. "I'll have it ready for you in a puff,Rossamundo. You see! I even remember your name though we meet butonce." 
	Rossamund followed the hedgeman as he set his test-barrow down under theeave of a small stall built against the eastern wall.A remarkable little black-iron chimney pokedout and up from the back, puffing clean little puffs of smoke. Critchitichiello unlatched and unfolded hisbarrow, the lid swinging up to provide a roof from the rain. 
	Master Craumpalin would want to seethis!Rossamund thought sadly of thecharcoal ruin that Master Craumpalin's own marvelous test had become. He gripped the list of parts made by thedispensurist's own hand as if it were a precious jewel. He had read the recipe many times and knew itwell: mabrigond, wine-of-Sellry,nihillis, dust-of-carum, benthamyn. Ashe observed the testing -- as making a script is called -- Rossamund habituallyran through the steps in his mind. Start with five parts -- no!Fifteen parts wine-of-Sellry in a porcelainbeaker over gentle heat. 
	A familiar savory smell wafted, like fine vegetable soup, as the liquidbegan to simmer.
	Add one -- ah, three parts nihillisand... 
	Pumping at an ingenious little foot bellows connected to the test-barrow,the hedgeman 

	
	looked upfrom his work, and with a frown of friendly concern said, "You know,Rossamundo, I have a-made many nullodors along these many roads, but with thisa-one here I cannot figure how it might a-do its job."Critchitichiello shrugged, thick-gloved handsraised palms-to-the-sky. 
	Rossamund blinked.The hedgemanwas such a kindly fellow he did not want to gainsay him. Yet he knew Master Craumpalin would nevergive him something that was crank. Toquestion his old dispensurist's scripts was unthinkable. 
	"It has done what I suppose it was meant to do," he offeredguardedly."I have nocomplaint." Add the benthamyn.
	"And good that is!"Critchitichiellokept smiling. "Yet I tell you. Up till a-now its parts are all just as theyought -- a simple base for a nullodor, but put a-this in" -- and in went thetiny benthamyn pellets, six parts, just in time -- "and suddenly it's likea-no nullodor I've ever heard made. Itmight foil some noses, but not a nicker's sniffing." 
	Rossamund nodded patiently.He hadno answer for the hedgeman. Instead hewatched in silence as the mabrigond and dust-of-carum were added in right andtimely proportion. 
	"Don't a-mind me, Rossamundo, my fine a-fellow," the hedgemansaid perceptively."Just a curiousold noddy am I... I'm a-sure this no-stinker answers for what you are a-wantingit for." 
	Rossamund certainly hoped it was so.
	Critchitichiello poured the deep blue liquid into a fine new bottle andRossamund reached for his wallet.
	Taking payment, the hedgeman looked beyond him with twinkling eye."That sweet lass has been a-watching youfor a little while," he said mildly. "Is she your sweetheart?" 
	Sweetheart?Rossamund lookedaround and saw Threnody standing beneath a lantern already lit against the dimafternoon. She was leaning against itand looking his way very, very intently. "Oh, that -- er... She isn'tmy sweetheart, Mister Critchitichiello," he said emphatically. 
	"Ah.Too a-bad for thee. Though..." Critchitichiello said with aflourish of a bow, a conspiratorial whisper and a glance at Threnody,"...if you's a-needing an amorpoti -- a lover's brew -- just remember youra-friend, Critchitichiello." 
	With a blush and a garbled farewell Rossamund quit the awkward scene.
	Threnody pulled a cryptic face as he approached."What have you had that ledgermainmaking?" 
	"Mister Critchitichiello is no ledgermain," Rossamund cameback, still tetchy."He's thegenuine article, a true dispenser." 
	"Ledgermains.Imperialfumomath. However you like it, lampboy," she insisted. "That doesnot answer my question, does it? Whatdid the man make you?" 
	"It's a... a nullodor.For mysalumanticum." 
	Threnody stoked at her lips."A nullodor! A waste of goodparts. What do you need a nullodorfor?" 
	What has everyone got againstthem?First Critchitichiello, nowThrenody . Rossamund did not care toquibble. Craumpalin had given it to himand told him to wear it, and that was good enough. 
	In silence they entered Makepeace Stile together.
	As douse-lanterns approached and while Threnody polished her teeth withexpensive dentifrices, Rossamund decided it was time to write his own letterback to Fransitart.
	
	Dormitory Master Fransitart
	By the care of Lady Praeline
	Versierdholte
	Halt-by-Wall
	BoschenbergCity
	Hergoatenbosch
	4th of Heimio, HIR 1601 
	
	Dearest Master Fransitart,
	I have got your letter and read its most terrible and sad news.I wept for you all, especially the little onesand Master P and the poor Madam, but am so glad to know that you and MissVerline and Master Craumpalin (his poor dispensary!) still live. Though you might feel that you should nothave survived the fire, it is too sweet a consolation for me that you survivedto share your regret. And though youhave all taught me to return evil with good, I cannot help but wish foul endsfor that dastard Gosling. I can hear youscolding me in my head even as I write this. What is to become of you all now? 
	The other reason I write to you is to tell you that I have been sentearly to my first billet, a place called Wormstool, far east along His MostSerene Highness' Highroad, the Conduit Vermis -- almost the last place beforethe blighted Ichormeer.Can you believeit that I shall be so close to such a terrible place? Though it is a long way out from Winstermill,I shall probably be already established there by the time you get this. When you do travel, please come to me there --I am sorry it is so far away. 
	I am delighted that Master Craumpalin might be with you when you seeme, though I most solemnly wish it was under better reasons.
	Please give my most loving regards to all I care for.Tell Miss Verline I am safe. Tell Master Craumpalin I still wear hisExstinker. A hedgeman made me some moretoday, and he was baffled as to how it worked. He seemed good at his trade but perhaps not as good as our owndispensurist. 
	It is wonderful to hear that your health has improved with MasterCraumpalin's help -- may you stay in fine fettle always, from your old charge,and with love,
	Rmnd
	Rossamund Bookchild
	Lampsman 3rd Class 
	Makepeace Stile
	Makepeace
	The Idlewild
	
	I do not wish to alarm you, but some nights ago I fought with arever-man in the cellars of Winstermill Manse.This is the second I have ever met and they are broken and disgustingthings that only need to be destroyed. Iworry for a friend I left behind. Hisname is Mister Numps, a retired seltzerman. Please look in on him if you pass through the manse. 
	Tell Miss Verline that I love her and her new niece very much.
	Of Discipline and Limb!

	21
	The Brisking Cat
	
	knaveryoffices where a person can go to hire ateratologist or three or as many as are needed.Such establishments gain their from the term "knave," that is, anyperson who sells services to any paying client, as opposed to a spurn, whoserves a retaining lord or master. Whenentering a region for the first time, a teratologist may register at the localknavery to make it known that he or she is about and going on the roll offeringservices. In doing this monster-huntersare agreeing not to shop their skills through other neighboring knaveries ortheir own advertisement, thus denying the knavery its commission. The knaving-clerk will take a request from acustomer and offer a selection of monster-hunters to solve the dilemma. Once the teratologist has been selected, heor she is approached with an Offer of Work, which may be accepted or rejected. Work is more steady for teratologists who usethe knaving system, though they usually make less money for service rendered. 
	
	The next day, thick with rain, was an early startagain. Leaving his letter with thePost-Master at Makepeace Stile, Rossamund followed Threnody as she dashed tothe post-lentum waiting in the foreyard of the cothouse. Back and shoulders becoming rapidly sopped,the young lighter did his best to shield his bandaged crown with his satchel. 
	Traveling certificates and nativity patents approved by the officiousgatemen, they passed through Makepeace to continue.Rossamund saw little of the town though theobscuring downpour, only narrow buildings with glowing, narrow windows, waterspouting from the edge of every horizontal surface on to even narrowerstreets. A soot-grubby child no more thanten scurried from eave to eave past the slow-going lentum -- a char-boy, perhapsfrom Gathercoal, come to serve an errand in this cleaner town. Wondering what hard labors were this smalllad's lot, Rossamund caught his eye and they traded mournful glances. 
	Out the other side of Makepeace the road broadened and they discoveredthe lamps ahead had been left to shine on in the storm-dark morning.This was most certainly not good travelingweather, and the lenterman kept the pace slow for fear of skidding off theroad. 
	The scene continued cozily pastoral:fortified farmsteads glimpsed at the end of private, tree-lined drivesnestled among thickets of domesticated trees and were surrounded withfastidiously tended fields and drystone walls. 
	Every six lamps or so were low concrete-and-stone strongworks, squatboxes with loopholes and steps that went into the earth down tothree-quarter-buried iron-bound doors.Rossamund had never seen the like, and no one at Winstermill had evertalked of such things. 
	The sun was one quarter along its meridian when they met a convoy oflarge covered drays trundling the opposite way in a long line, every one underthe guard of a skold or scourge.Drawnby great trains of flanchardt-covered oxen, each bore hundredweights of finest-gradecharcoal from Gathercoal, likely intended for Winstermill, High Vesting and thesettlements of the southwest. It tookthe long end of fifteen minutes to pass the last dray. 
	They ate middens with stores granted from Makepeace Stile's pantry (a rindof hard, river-caught fish) and Threnody went back to reading.Taking pointed notice of the book, Rossamundread the small white letters printed on its burgundy cover -- The High and Illustrious Ladies of the MagnaSuthes. 
	"What is that book about?" he asked absently.
	The girl made as if to continue reading but, after a pause, she markedher place, closed her book, laid it primly on her lap, cleared her throat andlooked up."It is about theadventures of city women and their flash swells." 
	"Flash swells?"
	She looked owlishly at his for a moment."The rich young men who live such fun and easy lives in thecities." 
	"Oh, you mean dandidawdlers."Rossamund thought of the frilly, fussy fellows he had observed making anuisance on the streets of Boschenberg. "Is it interesting?" 
	"Ithink so, yes, though Mother doesn't likebooks such as these." 
	"Why not?"
	"She says they're full ofvile gossip and innuendo and she saysthey grossly exaggerate the successes of the protagonists without making enoughof the consequences of their foolishness." 
	"You sound like you've had this said to you often."Rossamund gave a mild grin. 
	"I could recite to you all of Mother's words better than the In Columba Alat," she returnedwryly. 
	"The In Columna what-tat?"
	"In Columba Alat,"Threnody explained, with uncharacteristic patience. "'The Wings of The Dove' -- it's ourcantus, the rule we live -- I mean the Right -- lives by." 
	"How does it go?"
	"I don't know."Threnodygrinned. "I've forgotten it." 
	"But I thought you just said you knew it well," Rossamundreturned a little dumbly.
	Threnody sighed long-sufferingly."I do." She picked upthe duodecimo and opened it again. "I was just making a jest," she said, and went back toreading. 
	"Oh."Rossamundfrowned. "Sorry." 
	Soon after, the horses were watered at the cothouse of Sparrowstall.Blackened spikes ran in rows along everyridge-cap and gable, set there to prevent weary birds or adventurous nickersfrom taking roost. 
	A little over two hours further and they arrived at Hinkerseigh, muchlarger than Makepeace, with thicker walls and higher, more numerous bastionsall filled with well-tended great-guns.It was a growing town -- nearly a city, its people squeezed for room;some of the less well-heeled had been forced to build beyond the safety of thetown's stony curtain. The Mirthlstramflowed right into the place under the wall to drive many waterwheels ofindustry within as it passed through. Asit was a client-city belonging to the Imperial state of Maubergonne,Hinkerseigh's taciturn gatemen were dressed in harness of orot and gules --orange and deep red. They scrutinizedRossamund and Threnody's documents cursorily and waved the lentum through. 
	The carriage crawled down the narrow main street, moving little faster inthe midst of the cram of traffic than a town-and-country gent out on a lazyDomesday ramble.At a coach-host, theDraint Fyfer, the lentermen stopped to change teams. The broad, covered yard was thronged withpublic coaches and private carriages; horns hooting, sergeant-yardsmen bawling,under-yardsmen obeying, porters and box-boys and mercers scurrying. Exiting the lentum first, Threnody dashed offinto the rain with little more than an "I'll be back!" and was gonebefore Rossamund could call after or follow. With a shrug he took a midday meal and waited alone. 
	The warm commons of the coach-host was as impossibly crowded as the yardwithout, a-press with merchants' wives and farmstead ladies, nannies and theirbantling charges screeching for attention; slightly damp higglers and shystersen route to more spendthrifty places; and off-duty pediteers; all waiting for abreak in the weather.It was only twentyminutes or so before Rossamund was called for by the hollering splasher boy toboard the po'lent, yet it took Threnody more than an hour to return. She appeared suddenly by the carriage door,grinning broadly and quickly handing an oblong oilskin-covered something to thesplasher boy. 
	"We'll still be in a tight bit o' hurry to make it to the next cotin time!" the driver said, louring down at her from his high seat as sheclimbed aboard."So I recommend yehang on ter something." He provedgood to his promise, for no sooner had Threnody settled into her nest of fursthan the lentum surged to motion. 
	"What were you doing? Rossamund shouted above the noise oftransit."We've been waiting for awhile..." 
	Threnody looked at him unrepentantly."I always like to try a little shopping when I can." 
	Rain began falling so hard its rattling drum on the carriage roof madeconversation 

	impossible.Threnody raised the sash on her side to keepits splashings out, yet Rossamund left his down to see what passed andtolerated the wet. As Hinkerseighdisappeared in the fog of the deluge, the highroad narrowed. The lenterman whipped up the new horse-team'srate and kept the poor beasts at a dangerous, transom-shattering speed forseveral miles, slowing only occasionally to rest them. The post-lentum dashed right past Howlbolt,not even slowing down for courtesy, noisily scattering a coven of ravens thathad settled before the cothouse. 
	The valley became deeper, the Mirthlbrook drawing close by the Wormwayagain, broader now, its banks choked with willow, swamp oak and hawthorn, itswaters rushing over and through sharp rocks and keeping pace with thelentum.The stream's opposite bank wassteep, almost clifflike, tangled with dark young woods. 
	"That's the Owlgrave," Threnody shouted above the roar of therain and the road."It's said thatmonsters like to go there to die when they are mortal-hurt or sick of theworld." 
	Rossamund stared at the choked rise imagining he could see somelanguishing nicker up among the rocks and trees.He had always thought monsters lived on andon till someone slew them, and the idea of them pining away was odd,disturbing. So that is where they end, he pondered, but where do they begin?His reading had informed him ofmany theories. Some scholars saidmonsters grew on trees, others that they grew "buds" on themselves, whichdropped to the ground and grew into other monsters. The worst way was congress between everymanand unterman, which was said to spawn some wicked half-human abomination, theultimate excess of outramour. Implicitin the accusation of sedorner was the suspicion of such a union. Most habilists said such a thing wasimpossible, but common folks still believed it, and that was enough. 
	Out the other side of the lentum Rossamund saw the flicker of a lightedlamp, then another.Regardless ofpelting rain and threatening lands, the lantern-watch of Bitterbolt, the nextcothouse, had faithfully would out the lamps. 
	The Wormway went down and over a large stone-arch bridge with litlanterns upon either abutment that passed over the broad stream of theBittermere.Before this bridge was aforeboding collection of buildings, each four or five stories of dressed stone,baked bricks, mortar and lead shingles. It was a mighty rectangular accretion, its roofs thorny with high chimneys. There was no encircling walls; the lowest floorswere absent of any openings -- not even a single door, and the few second-storywindows were heavily barred. Even theundersides of the sills of higher windows and the gutters were garlanded withthorny wire. The footings of the entirepile were assiduously smeared with a slippery-looking black substance, arepellent no doubt. This was a placethat never intended a monster to ever gain a foothold. The winds and the rain had blown themselvesout. In the stillness, the comfort ofsweet wood-smoke and the savory promise of that evening's prandial preparationswafted down to them from the place. 
	"The wayhouse of the Brisking Cat, good folks," the sidearmsmancalled helpfully from his perch.
	Upon the other side of the highroad was a low brick building with nosidelights or transoms or even a casement.Its strong doors were half buried into the chalky ground and a sidinglane with sturdy walls upon either side branched off and went down to them. At the top of the lane stood a filigreelantern-post. Fixed to this was a badlystained signboard upon which was painted a lion, its claws reaching. 
	The lentum descended the lane and went through ironwood gates opened forit at the end.Through the gates andwithin the low building was a great stablery for horse and carriage, much of ittunneling back into the hillock itself. The reek of hay and hoof-trodden pats made the air foul. 
	Grinning, ear to ear, the splasher boy opened the door for them with atouch to the brim of his tall stovepipe hat."We've done all right to get you here afore the daisy hay wasdone," he said excitedly. 

	
	"Excuse me?" Threnody scowled."The what was done?" 
	The splasher boy looked at her as if she were Jack Simple."The daisy hay..." He grinned at Rossamund as if he knew, but Rossamundhad not heard the term either. "It's the right time of day for travel! Only lighters and fools go out after sundown-- oh..." The splasher boy wentbright red as he realized who he was talking to and quickly found other thingsto do. 
	"I see," said Threnody.
	As Rossamund and Threnody alighted, another person was arriving on foot,let in by the small sally port fixed in the heavy ironwood gate.The last gasp of a gust blew through thedoor, bringing with it a sweetly salty and familiar scent. 
	"Did you get your hob-gnasher, Madam Rose? One of the gaters asked.
	"That I did, Master File," the newly arrived wayfared declaredbriskly, and lifted a large leather satchel bulging with something lumpy andvaguely head-shaped."And a mightof trouble it gave me too." 
	It was Europe! 
	The Branden Rose was wearing her usual deep red fighting garb, and wasmuffled against the cold with the spangled-fur pollern.Three heavy-harnessed gaters attending bowedin quiet deference. 
	Threnody made to follow a porter and continue on through to the wayhouse,but stopped when she realized Rossamund was just lingering and staring.
	Eventually Europe turned, with narrowedeyes that went wide -- just for a moment -- then knowing. She swaggered over, an eyebrow cocked. "Well hello again, little man," thefulgar said softly as she approached. "Have they finally let you out of Winstermill?" 
	"Hello, Miss Europe," Rossamund greeted cheerfully."We're on our way to our newbillet." Smiling at her, he sawthat the fulgar's eyes were badly bloodshot, an almost complete and ghastlyred. 
	"Where is that?" Europe smiledtightly in return. 
	"Wormstool -- what's happened to your eyes, miss?They're all red like a falseman's." 
	The woman's brow furrowed."It comes from a long day arcing. And what have you done to your head, little man? All bandage and no hat!" 
	"I lost it in a fight."
	The fulgar raised an amused eyebrow."In a fight, was it? I cannot leave you for a moment. Well, at least you did not lose mygift," she said, looking at his fine scarf. She turned a cool gaze to Threnody. "I see you have brought the august'sdaughter with you." 
	"I..." was yet forming in Rossamund's mouth when Threnodyinterjected.
	"You're the Branden Rose, aren't you?" she asked, with a lookof profound, barely contained excitement.Rossamund had never seen her look quite so enthusiastic -- it was odd. 
	"My name precedes me, I see," said Europe,a subtle smirk fluttering at the corner of lip and eye. 
	"And you really do know him?" Threnody glanced at Rossamund. 
	"Aye--" he began.
	"Indeed!" Europe repliedcivilly. "We are old wayfaringchums, are we not, little man? WE havebeen on many an adventure already." 
	"I am Lady Herbroulesse," the girl lighter began, barelywaiting for an answer, "daughter of the Lady Vey, August of the Right ofthe Pacific Dove," finishing with affected gravity as she tried not tobetray her eagerness.
	A hint of disdain fluttered across Europe'sface. "I heard rumor that theMarchioness Vey had issue by some clandestine means, and here breathes theproof. Might I say you are dressedpeculiar for a calendar?" 
	Threnody looked down at her gorgeous, if slightly travel-ruffledclothes."Oh, I'm not a calendaranymore. I'm a full lamplighternow." 
	Europe's smile was patient, polite. "Good for you, my dear. So now I know something of you and youalready know something of me and we are all met. How lovely." Europe didnot look as if she thought it lovely at all, but rather boring. "Come! Time for easy chairs and warm meals." 
	They were let through a heavy door by a broad-set gater with thickmustachios wearing a black-felt liripipium, its long peak almost trailing inthe straw-rubbish.As Europeand her two guests approached, he opened the way and took the along an arched,brick-lined tunnel that must have been burrowed right under the Wormway. At the other side their guide hammered uponanother door, crying, "Adapertum!The Branden Rose and twocompanions," to thosebeyond. They were admitted through ablock-room and climbed slate steps to a broad wood-paneled vestibule of thewayhouse proper. 
	Footmen in plush asked for their names, took baggage and stowed weaponsin an armory-stand to be retrieved on call.This was a very fine establishment indeed. Europehanded over the satchel. "Put it inthe cold room for me: I will berequiring it tomorrow to claim my prize." 
	A horse-faced woman clad in a style of dress that Rossamund had neverseen before, made of heavy velvet with broad hanging sleeves and a pretty whitepalisade cap, rustled over to greet them.She paid studied respect to Europe andpolitely introduced herself to the two young lamplighters as the enricad'ama. "'Allo, youngtravelers," she said in a sweet voice and a delicate southern accent,"I am Madam Oubliette, the proud owner of this fine 'ouse. If you are seeking any service you must callon me or my man Parleferte." Sheindicated a gaunt, harassed-looking steward. "Any time of sunup or moon-down. Now please, 'ave your ease in the Saloon." 
	A footman announced them over the moderate hubbub of otherconversation."Her Grace, theBranden Rose, Europa of Fortrevault, Duchess-in-waiting of Naimes; the LadyThrenody of Herbroulesse and a guest!" was the ringing cry, to which fewof their fellow patrons paid any attention. 
	"Yes, yes," Europehuffed. "Get on and show us ourplace, man!" 
	"How do you feel, guest, on being just a guest?" Threnody gibedat Rossamund quietly."Shall I callyou guest from now onward?" 
	Rossamund did not acknowledge her.
	Before him was a great hexagonal space with balconies, boxes andclaustral-booths rising on every side for three whole floors-- the privatrium, each reached by a confusionof stairs and walks. The radiating beamsof the lofty ceiling were carved with forms of intertwined cats in variousattitudes of hunt or play. Every beammet in the middle and from this zenith hung a collection of great-lampsgathered together like some bizarred chandelier. Beneath this, in the middle of the spacesurrounded by the privatrium, was a raised oval stage hemmed in by asemicircular tapery-counter at one end where drinks were being pulled orpoured. About the tapery were tables andchairs and people sitting at them in a variety of attitudes: animated, upright, slouched, slumped, evenleaning dangerously. Rossamund was soamazed by it all he stumbled on his own feet more than once before the threewere settled in a second-story claustra-- a somewhat private stall of leather high-backed benches around a squaretable. 
	"The Brisking Cat," Europe declaredgrandly as they sat. "Wayhouse,knavery and my current abode." 
	The Saloon was wall to wall with pugnators and their hangers-on, coming,going and ordering about the staff with high-handed carelessness.Rossamund watched the gallimaufry of teratologistsin wide-eyed wonder. Indiscriminate monster-killers written about in publicprint or gossiped about in civic rumor, a fabulous collection like the pages ofa pamphlet come to life. Seeing hisfascination, Europe began to name some ofthem. 
	"There are the Boanerges -- the 'Sons of Thunder,'" sheexplained, watching three grim-looking fellows huddled together in grimconversation, periodically glancing suspiciously over their shoulders."A competent band, each one a fellowastapecrith, though none too bright." 
	"And that is the Knave of Diamonds," said Threnody, keen toshow her worldliness.Rossamund lookedand saw a large man pass below. He worea "crown" of tall spiked reeds upon his head, upon his body a heavy-gauldedsmock of lambrequin of dirty white with its single, large red diamond on thefront; and upon his fierce face a large deep blue diamond spoor. 
	A solitary calendar from a different clave than Threnody's walked acrossthe Saloon floor and took a booth across the other side.She was wearing a bossick of prus and sablechecks and her face was striped like that of a grazing animal from far beyondthe Marrow. She wore a dandicomb oflong, elegant horns that her claustra was fortunately high enough to contain. 
	Threnody watched her closely."She need not have come," the girl huffed with the strains ofterritorial jealousy. "The Righthas these troubles in hand." 
	"Who is she?" Rossamund said so softly he barely spoke at all.
	"She's a caladine," Europeanswered. 
	"Entering our diet without a by-your-leave," the girl lighteradded icily."I doubt she haspresented herself to Mother. Saphine isher name. She is from the Maids ofMalady." 
	"Truly?" said Europe. "Your surgeon had perhaps best watchhimself." 
	"Miss Europe?"
	"I have the understanding that these Maids of Malady have alliedthemselves with the Soratche.Maybe theylend their help to the Soratche, and Saphine is coming to investigate thatSwill fellow. Wheels inside wheels, andall that." 
	Rossamund hoped this was true.Hestared at the calendar until she felt the scrutiny and turned to look athim. Flushing,the young lighter looked away quickly and found a teratologist he knew by sight. He had seen etchings of her in the moresensational pamphlets. Epitome Bile washer name, a woman written of as a myth: lupine and pitiliess and astoundingly daring. Yet here she was, a woman as real as his ownhand, all in glossy black soe, white-faced with staring, black-rimmed eyes andoddly cropped black hair. 
	Europe showed clear distaste. "Cruel and heartless," shewarned. "Stay well clear ofher." 
	Aye, Rossamund wondered, but has she ever sparked a child in thehead?
	Epitome Bilelooked up, caught Europe's cold eye andreturned it, giving a slow, taunting curtsy. A wicked smile flitted across the strange woman's mien. The two teratological women kept each otherfixed with stares of mutual loathing, until Epitome Bile walked out of thecommon room, sly, malevolent amusement never leaving her face. 
	Rossamund felta shiver of dismay.He hoped never tocross her path more closely. 
	Europe clucked her tongue quietly and lookedelsewhere. "There you have theThree Brave Brothers," she said, pointing with her chin to a group of menbelow them (just returned perhaps from the course), turning her guest'sattention to other things. "Theyactually number four, are not related to each other... and are not particularlybrave, either." Rossamund, who hadread of these Brave Brothers, was stunned to see walking before him theirinfamous scourge, Sourdoor, in his swathes of black lour -- proofed velvet. 
	"And somy kind gather, looking for violence."Europe sighed. "Collecting together like crows about acorpse." 
	All the greatfolk, and the lesser known too, strutted the common room and the privatrium, eyeingone another, ego against ego, and generally getting in the way of thewayhouse's even routine.
	"The MaidConstant."The fulgar indicated awith an arrow-spoor pointing up form each brow and brilliant hued bluehair. "She too must needs wear awig, as you do, my dear, but her hair was green last week and blue forthis." 
	Threnody wentbeetroot blush and sat up."No wigfor me, madam," she said quickly, glowering nervously at Europe. 
	"Not yet,anyway," Rossamund put in, trying to be helpful.
	She glared athim.
	"By-the-by,"said Europe, unconcerned. 
	The fulgarrattled off many more names, of so many teratologists that Rossamund could notkeep track, and he simply listened to the smooth sound of her voice.His wonder became a little numbed, and he sata little easier in the comfortable booth. The young lampsman felt the strains of the road ease out into the softseating, and he became quickly acquainted with just how tired he was. Food was ordered -- from the Best Cuts, ofcourse, Rossamund trying "Starlings in Viand-Royal Sauce" -- and anawkwardness persisted while they waited for it to arrive, wetting their thirstwith the sourest rich-red wine Rossamund had ever been served. With the wine came a tankard of steamingCathar's Treacle for Europe. 
	"It's tessellatedin bulk in the kitchens, by a tandem of skolds of faultless reputation,"she explained, "at a hefty charge, of course.You may want some yourself, mydear." She nodded gravely atThrenody. 
	"No thankyou, Duchess," Threnody returned, still sitting stiff-backed, handsclasped on the table before her."Ihave always been taught that one does best to make one's ownplaudamentum." 
	The fulgarbecame suddenly expressionless.
	"Indeed,"she said, after a long, discomfiting moment, "one would prefer to have itmade perpetually be the same trusted hands at a day's two ends, but what onewants and what one gets are rarely the same.The one I once had confidence in is... no longer available -- and anotherunwilling." She peered atRossamund. 
	He tapped purposefullyat the tabletop, not meeting either gaze.He had vowed to serve the lamplighters and the Emperor, yet as thetroubles of the lamplighters increased, so did the appeal of being the BrandenRose's factotum. If only she was more careful about which bogles to kill.
	Providentially,mains arrived and all talk ceased for a time as, in the rust glow of red-,orange- and yellow-glassed lanterns, they ate in hungry silence.
	Music swelledfrom the oval stage below them:sweet chambersounds of fiddle, violoncello and sourdine, and adding mellifluously to it asoaring female voice. Rossamund felt hehad heard this singing somewhere before and, looking down to the stage, saw aquartet of scratch-bobbed, liveried musicians and, in a halo of light, Hero,the chanteuse of Clunes. Dressed in asmoke-green chiffon dress with broad, gathered skirts, black rumples at theelbows, her hair piled and rolled and festooned with flowers of similar colorto the chiffon, she was the very same songstress he had watched in raptures atthe Harefoot Dig. Yet here she was now,projecting sonorous verse all about the great room, arms reaching outimploringly. Rossamund forgot his foodand listened, heedless of time's passing, arm on balustrade, cheek resting onarm, his eyes just a little doelike. 
	Threnodyaffected to be unimpressed."It isadequate, I suppose," she said in the applause between songs, "if youlike those Lentine styles." 
	Rossamunddecided he liked the Lentine style very well and could not understandThrenody's remark.
	Her own mealfinished, Europe lounged on the comfortablebench and picked at a sludgy, creamy-colored delicacy known simply ascheesecake, soaked in syrup of peach-blossoms. With it came sillabub -- a curdled concoction of milk and vinegar. She let Rossamund try a little, and he cameaway from the taste smacking his lips in disgust. She did not, however, offer any to Threnody,who had become more and more sullen and sour-faced as the night deepened anddid not show any care. 
	Washing outthe vile aftertaste with the bitter small wine, Rossamund asked solemnly,"Miss Europe, wheat do you know of Wormstool?"
	"It isremote and dangerous and no place for new-weaned lamplighting lads andlasses."Europescowled. "What can your masters bethinking, sending you out there?" 
	"Oh, Iwas not sent," Threnody said piously."I asked to go. Those with greater capacities have to wait onthose who do not. It's how Ihave been taught and..." Shelooked at her fellow traveler. "Rossamund will need the help -- as you yourself probably wellknow." 
	"Oh?"Europeturned a piercing gaze on the girl. "And who will look out for you, my dear?" 
	"Rossamund,"the girl returned simply."Welighters stick together, just like calendars." 
	The fulgarlaughed unexpectedly."Aren't youan adorable little upstart?" she purred. 
	Chin liftingthen dropping, Threnody clearly did not know whether to be offended orpleased.She looked out into the Saloonat nothing in particular. 
	"Now tellme, young Rossamund," Europe demanded,"what were you fighting that cost you yet another hat?" 
	"It was arever-man, miss," the young lighter said simply.
	Europe went wide-eyed. There was a pause, incredulity hovering at its fringes. "Truly?" she said eventually. "How did you manage to get tangled upwith one of those?More to the point, how did you surviveit?" 
	"I foundit deep in the cellars of Winstermill the very next night after you left."
	"Ah!You're playing a leg-pull on me, littleman." The fulgar started smilingknowingly. "Your old home is fartoo tough to crack for some rotten-headed thing like a rever-man. That old Marshal of your must be sadlyslipping if he let one of those wretches in." 
	Rossamund galltwisted at this."I don't think heis slipping, Miss Europe, but still, sure as I sit here, it was a gudgeon Iwrestled right down in the bottom of the fortress." He went on to tell the whole tale,elaborating especially on the moment when he jammed the loomblaze into therever-man's gnashing maw. That momentwas powerfully satisfying to recall. "It was somewhere in that fight I lost my hat," he concluded. 
	"Aren'tyou the one for getting yourself into fixes not of your own making?"Europe'sknowing gaze had not slipped for the length of his tale. "You are still the strangest, bravest,little man. Throwing a gudgeon about andblasting it to char is beyond even some of my ilk. You're not as helpless as youseem." She looked at Threnody. 
	"Maybe."Rossamund tried not to look too pleased. "It was gangling and poorly made, withtoo-long arms and hairy, piggy ears, just like those" -- he pointed to asizzling porker's head that was being carried past at that very moment by astruggling maid. -- "and no great feat to best." 
	"TheLamplighter-Marshal said it was a mighty deed," Threnody stated proudly ina strange change of tack.
	"I shouldthink he would," the fulgar said, taking a sip of wine."You did him a great service,Rossamund." 
	"Yet itstill did not stop the man receiving a sis edisserum from the Considine,"the young lampsman said sadly.
	"Truly?"Europe murmured. "You don't hear of that happening everydiem. Your Marshal must certainly have gone awry then." 
	Rossamund didnot hear her.His thoughts had pouncedon his own words, hairy, piggy ears. The gudgeon had large, furry, leaf-shapedears, pig's ears, like those on themeal just gone by; pig's ears very much like those on the swine's head he hadcarried up to Swill... 
	And Europe had told him of the dark hints that surrounded thesurgeon; and it held that if Swill know of the kitchen furtigrade when DoctorCrispus did not, he might be well aware of other secret ways, even down to themoldering cellars. Why, truly, would heneed his deliveries of body parts if not to make a rever-man? ... And there was the flayed skin. 
	Swill is a black habilist.A massacar! 
	The horrid,impossible ideas rolled about his mind's view, an image of the surgeonclandestinely making gudgeons in his attic apartment:wobbling, raving creatures cobbled togetherfrom kitchen offcuts and dug-up corpse bits, then held and hidden in thefortress's depths. The young lightercould little fathom how such a capital evil as monster-making -- or"fabercadavery," as the peregrinate called it -- could go on undiscovered withinWinstermill's precincts. How was it possiblethat amid such a crowd of zealous invidists monsters were actually made? 
	With low andstuttering urgency, Rossamund explained his deductions as best he could.He talked mostly to Europe,who listened without interruption, her arms folded and her brow deeply creasedwith a scowl. 
	"Therever-man had pig's ears," he repeated excitedly."I carried a pig's head up to Swill fromthe kitchens. That's why he reads fromthose banned books -- they are full of all manner of ash-dabblings." 
	"Well,one hardly needs to be auto-savant to have spotted Swill as a nefariouscad!" Threnody argued.
	A great roarof applause erupted about all levels of the Saloon:Hero had come to the end of her recital and was now bowing deeply to heradoring audience with great, cheek-busting smiles. Threnody looked down at it all and curled herlip. "Yes, well, I suppose she waspassable," she sneered as she clapped politely. 
	Rossamundbarely heard her of the cheers.Swill is a massacar!Sebastipole said he had not found how the rever-mancould have got in: the fortress really was impregnable. It would not have to be if the abominationwas already being kept inside Winstermill -- indeed if it had been made there inthe deep parts. Was it mere coincidencethat Rossamund had found his way out only through the Master-of-Clerks'rooms? Swill was most certainly his man,brought in especially. It all fitted toohorribly. 
	"My, whata hive of troubles you have kicked," the fulgar said."The Soratche were right to suspect him,it seems, though one thinks they might have pressed their suspicions a littlefurther." 
	Threnody madea face as if to say she did not think much of the Soratche.
	"But whydo such a terrible thing?" Rossamund could to fathom it.
	"Whyelse, little man, but for the oldest reason of all?"The fulgar paused. "Money, of course. There is much to be made for the making andtrafficking of rever-men and other made-monsters -- as you have seenfirsthandedly, with that filthy little Poundinginches or whatever his namemight have been." 
	Rossamundnodded.What precious relief it had beenwhen Europe had rescued him from that vilerivermaster and set him to the harbor-bottom with one arc to his beefy chest. 
	"Allmanner of people manage to require the service of the dark trades," thefulgar continued."I have alreadycaught the whispers of at least two rousing pits within reach of here, and theyare genuinely lucrative for those at the right end of the wagers. These must be supplied, and it seems Swill isthe man to do so." 
	The younglighter shivered at the implication of her words.
	"If youknow of such horrid places, why do you to do something about them?"Threnody interjected."Or tellsomeone who will?" 
	Europe's expression became owlish. "Because, my dear, if I have heard rumors,then others certainly will have too. Theexcisemen and obstaculars and your once-sisters are better fitted to thechore." 
	"Butrousing-pits have monsters in them," Threnody continued querulously."Surely that should move you!" 
	Europe fixed her with that dangerously glassy stare. 
	"Child, Iam not some mindless invidist. I rid the world of teratologica for money'shand, not sport." 
	Threnodylocked eyes with her.
	Rossamundducked his head at the fizzing tension between these two lahzarines.He wanted to intervene, yet did not daretangle with the friction between them, as inscrutable as the movements of theplanets. In the end the standoff provedunbearable and he spoke. "What ofthe Master-of-Clerks?" he tried. "Swill is his man. Doctor Crispus said so." 
	"Everymad habilist needs a patron."Europe sounded almost flippant, though her grimexpression told otherwise. 
	"Why didyou not speak of this before, lamp boy?" Threnody growled.
	"BecauseI did not think of it till now, Threnody," Rossamund sighed.
	"I mustwrite of all this to Mother!"
	"For thelittle she might do," said Europe,"with the clerk-master sitting in control behind those unapproachablewalls and little proof to go on but one small bookchild lampsman'sconjectures." 
	"She is agreat woman," Threnody bridled, "and will do more that soe to rid theEmpire of a traitor."
	"But whatif I'm wrong?"
	"If youare then rumors are exploded, suspicions disabused and everyone goes on toother troubles," Europe saidbluntly. "Yet for now we have the suggestionof serious, dastardly things little man," she said. "Gudgeons loose in Winstermill,marshal-peers summoned to the subcapital and prentice sent too far east: something is truly, deeply amiss in yourreach of the world. Keep your eyes wide,Rossamund. You are in a dangerous tangleif all this turns out true. It may bethat your assignment to Wormstool is not a simple lapse in wisdom." She reached over to put a hand on hisshoulder. "You should have becomemy factotum after all," she said wryly. 
	Rossamundcould not help but agree.He could notnow think of anywhere safer than by Europe'sside. He noticed Threnody was looking athim with an envious scowl. 
	Europe summoned a footman and made provision for theirbunking. There was no room elsewhere inthe wayhouse. "You can join me inmy quarters if you wish, Rossamund There is a bed for one other there," the fulgar explained. "Or you may join your friend in thedog-dens." 
	The"dog-dens" were the billet-boxes, tight cupboards -- barely comfortablebut inexpensive accommodation that all wayhouses possessed.Rossamund felt such a strange and unwelcometearing of loyalties he did not know how to act. In the end he chose to stay with Threnody,figuring that she had joined him voluntarily and stuck by him, and so he shoulddo the same and sleep in the squash of the billet-boxes. The girl lighter was clearly gratified by hisdecision, looking as if she had just won some great moral victory. 
	With anenigmatic sniff, Europe paid the reckoning andbid them good sleeping. "I mustretire. A girl needs her sleep to keepher beauty." At that she left,reemerging surprisingly on the farther side of the Saloon to speak quietly withthe horn-wearing caladine. 
	Seeing this,Threnody demanded, "Why does she talk to her? " 
	"Probablyto let her know of our suspicions about Swill."Rossamund's hopes lifted. Distracted by Threnody, he did to see Europeleave, but when he looked again he had disappeared to some other part of thewayhouse to do whatever occult things that fulgars did in the night hours. 
	With herdeparture Threnody leaned across the claustra."Well, she is adisappointment--" she said, "dull and ordinary and not at allheroic. And I thought I wanted to belike her." 
	Utterlybaffled and not wanting a fight, Rossamund ignored her and stared out a thatthe emptying Saloon.
	"Youdon't really want to be her factotum, do you?" Threnody persisted, a hintof that envious look returning."Being with her is like sucking on a lime dusted inbothersalts." 
	No, Threnody, that's what it's like beingwith you!The bitter thought roseunbidden, but Rossamund said, "I've made oaths to serve the Emperor,Threnody. I've accepted hisBillion. I'm not free to be anyone'sfactotum -- Miss Europe's, yours or even Atopian Dido's, were she stillalive!" 
	Apparentlysatisfied, Threnody too took her leave and went off to find a place to make herplaudamentum.
	Rossamund wasleft to be shown to his billet-box alone.

	22
	The Ignoble End of The Road
	
	rimplea curious-looking hairy-leather pursemade from the entire skin of a small rodent, shaved, with a drawstring at theneck hole, and the skin of one limb sewn back on itself as a loof to fix onto abelt.Actually looking like some bloatedrat, a rimple is all the fashion as a coin-bag among the wayfaring classes. 
	
	The new day and Europe, teeth still blackened from her morning dose ofplaudamentum, met the two frowsty young lighters as they were arrangingthemselves in the stabulary to leave with the first post. 
	"How wasyour night in the dog-dens?" she asked a little tartly.
	"Likesleeping inside a sideboard drawer."Rossamund yawned. "I do notfathom how older folk can manage a single blink." 
	Europe simply nodded. That was the sum of her sympathy. "I will be answering a plea for aid from some sorely put andwell-heeled people for Bleak Lynche," she explained to the sleep-deprivedpair. "They need help with agudgeon, wouldn't you know. It wouldappear we are going on a concomitant path, little man." Europelooked at Rossamund pointedly. "Soyou shall wait for me as I complete my dealings with the knavery-underwriterand we shall travel together." 
	Rossamundagreed readily.
	Threnody didnot even acknowledge that the fulgar had spoken, speaking only when Europe had left them. "So we are to do everything shesays, are we?" 
	"Hmm"was all Rossamund replied as he stretched, arms in the air, to rid himself ofthe kinks and knots gained through his insalubrious night's sleep.Their arrival at Wormstool was not expected;the delay of an hour or two would change nothing. 
	They waited inthe knavery.There, as Threnody penned aletter to her mother, Rossamund wrote two of his own, one to Sebastipole andthe other to Doctor Crispus. He toldthem in guarded terms of this suspicions regarding Swill and the rever-manbeneath Winstermill. It was worthrunning the risk of prying eyes if someone who might be able to do somethingwere to know. 
	During thedelay Threnody decided to liberally apply some flowery-sweet perfume, splashingenough to challenge the salty-sweetness of bosmath, Europe'ssignature scent. Where she had procuredthe essence from Rossamund did not know, but the funk of it filled the knaverywaiting room. 
	The morningwas well advanced by the time Europe'snegotiations with theknavery-underwriter were completed. 
	With the proofof the head she carried in the sack, her prize was paid and her forearm etchedby the punctographist on hand, with another small cruciform of monsterblood.One less monster to trouble thelives of man. Consequently the threeleft with the third post of the day. 
	"It's apost-and-six," Threnody declared optimistically."We should make good time." 
	Leaving themissives with the knavery-clerks, to whom they paid 4g a letter to have themproperly sealed, they ventured out under a flat gray sky to the cheerful,unseasonal warbling of a magpie.Thecarriage was badly sprung and very noisy, rendering conversation below aconstant shout impossible. For Rossamundthis was a small mercy, filling the frosty, aromatic silence between fulgar andwit with welcome clamor. 
	Across theSourspan and over the Bittermere the lentum-and-six jerked and shuddereduncomfortably.No longer following awatercourse, the Wormway traversed hill and dale, the apex of most rises givingRossamund a grand view of the land about. The green upon the downs was grayer, the trees sprouting from themsparse and gnarled, growing in the shadows of enormous granite boulderslichen-blotched and anciently weathered. Indeed, the entire quality of the land declined markedly only a fewleagues east of the Bittermere. Therewas rumor of loneliness here, Rossamundgrowing more certain of it the farther the lentum carried them -- an absence ofpeople, yet an absence of monsters too. In the struggle to possess it, the land had become useless to both. 
	They passedBitterbolt and watered horses at the sturdy sprawling fortalice ofMirthalt.There the lighters wore doggedexpressions and barely reacted to the premature advent of the young lighters. 
	They arrivedat Compostor in the mist of day's end.Bigger than Hinkerseigh, it was built on a broad hill, its curtain wallsdescending into foggy vales on all sides. There was a genuine air of money in this small city of long, broadavenues of stately sycamores and multistoried manors, of wide parks as greenand tame as the land without was gray and wild. 
	"Tonightwe shall stay somewhere out of the way," Europepronounced as they were granted entry to the city by the heavy-harnessedwatch. She directed the lentermen to ahostelry called the Wayward Chair. Fromthe outside it was a modest establishment, but the room proved a high standardat odds with the humble facade. Regardless,Threnody oozed dissatisfaction. Throughout the leg from the Brisking Cat to here, she had sat gingerly,leaning forward to spare herself the bumping of the carriage seat. Now she looked terribly wayworn andirritated, lagging behind as they were shown to their rooms by a pucker-facedbower maid. 
	They weresuccessfully installed in the apartment:luggage deposited, beds turned, the fire stoked, food brought and Europe's treacle brewing in the kitchens. Without a word, Threnody exited the room, hermakings in hand, slamming the door as she left. 
	"I don'tknow what ails her."Rossamund felthe needed to apologize. 
	"It isjust night-pains, little man."
	"Night-pains?"
	"Indeed."Europe satin a glossy leather recliner before the hearth. "All lahzars must endure them and wits more so than fulgars. It is the cost of having these unusual organsinside -- the price of power, if you like. A little bit of justice, I do not doubt some might think." 
	After about asmuch time as it took to brew plaudamentum the girl returned, still in foulspirits.She stomped right past the two,glaring at them both, and disappeared into the adjoining room where a bowermaid was turning down the beds. Therewas a shout and the maid hurried out, looking even more puckered and neartears. 
	"Thatwill be all, my dear," Europe said,handing the quickly brightening maid a whole sou. "You may go." 
	Listening tothe thump and bluster of the girl in the bedroom, Rossamund asked, "MissEurope?How can we stop Swill and theMaster-of-Clerks?" 
	"I havewarned that Saphine lass you may remember from that Cat, and you have writtenyour letters."Europepeered at him, her hazel eyes intent, thoughtful. "Beyond that there is not much else, andeven what we have is unsubstantial. Ithink you will find it very hard to lay a solid accusation against Swill or hisclerk-master. If they have been able tocarry on as black habilists right under the lighter's feet, then you may becertain, Rossamund, they will have all traces of their dabblings well in handand can easily obliterate any trails that might lead to them." 
	"But I foughtwith their rever-man!" Rossamund persisted."I saw the flayed skin! There -- there was even that butcher's truckthat smelled of swine's lard, just like Poundinch used to hide in his cargo,that's why the Trought attacked!" 
	"At thisinstant it would be what you say against what they would say," Europe countered calmly. 
	"But wehave Sebastipole!No one doubts afalseman!" 
	The fulgartook a deep breath."And I am surethey would have a falseman of their own. Use one falseman to cancel the other out -- typical Imperialpolitics." 
	"Who canstop them, then?"Rossamunddespaired, an image of Laudibus Pile's sneering face looming in hisimagination. 
	"Well, itcertainly won't be you, little man,will it -- sent out her at their very behest?" 
	"No."Rossamund hung his head. 
	"And withWhympre the current lord of Winstermill," Europecontinued, pressing the point, "I cannot see how they will be stopped in ahurry." 
	"Youcould, Miss Europe."
	Europe laughed a strange, sardonic laugh. "Oh, little man!" she sighed. "Rescuing empires from their owncorruption is not my game. You'll justhave to trust that all wicked things bring themselves to an end in theend." 
	"But whosays what is wicked?" Rossamund blurted.
	"Enoughnow," the fulgar said with sudden impatience."You wax too philosophical for wearytravelers." 
	The younglighter ducked his head in apology.
	"Do notspeak of these things to another, do you understand me?" Europesaid sharply. "They will notbelieve you, and word of any loose talk or unguarded accusation might find itsway to the wrong ears." 
	"Aye,Miss Europe."The young lighterretreated to his comfortable bed. Heslept eventually. His last sight throughthe door ajar was the motionless fulgar lost in her unfathomable recollectionsbefore the dying embers in the hearth. 
	
	** * * * 
	
	The new morningworld was sunk in fog.The lenterman wascautious and they left Compostor at a measured crawl. Threnody's wind had improved little sinceyesternight and she dozed and stared out the opposite window and said naught. 
	There waslittle to see from the window but fathomless gray until the lentum slowlycrested a hill and drew clear of the obscuring shroud.Rossamund was graced with a view that untilnow he never knew possible: all aboutwas a puffy lake of cloud, glowing a russet golden-white in the climbing light,lapping at the contours of spur and gully as an ocean touches the sandyshore. Other hilltops poked through andmade dark islands in the stark fog sea. On one pinnacle about a mile distant, Rossamund thought for a moment hespied movement. He looked closer and sawa large, long-limbed something gamboling in the drear, cold dawn looking forall the world to be hooting at the glaring day-orb. It must have very tall indeed to be visiblefor so far, but as he went to call his fellow traveler's attention to it, thecarriage descended into the murk and the unsettling sight was obliterated. 
	"Suchthings are common here," Europe said inanswer to his hurried, hollered description. "This remains true ditchland, whatever maps might say. Here monsters have free rein and are stoppedonly by walls and vigilance -- and me," she finished, a twinkle in her eye. 
	The brumepersisted for much of the first half of the day, lifting only slightly to hangabove drizzling blanket.In the hazeloomed the Wight, raised where two trunk roads met with the highway. The fortress-city had grown rich on tollsextracted from grain trains coming down from Sulk and luxury trading caravansgoing north. Negotiating its streets,Rossamund saw that the military very much intruded on the public: watchtowers in municipal squares, barracksfronting a common park with its soldiers monopolizing the green for theirevolutions. Nevertheless, women intentlike dresses promenaded with parasols and met with men in finestsilks. Together these would take theirspiced and scented infusions in public places of high fashion and then becarried home in gilt, leather-covered mule-litters. 
	Insisting on achange of carriage as well as team, Europetook them to a tiny corner shop known as a small-market or kettle. It was a cluttered affair, full of such adisparity of goods that it took Rossamund some time to even orient himselfbefore being able to decide on purchases. With much of his money -- almost a full year's worth -- still encumberinghis wallet, Rossamund first bought a fine black thrice-high with satin-rimmededges. It squatted rebelliously on hisbandage, refusing to sit right, and became so annoying he removed the dressingso that the hat might fit as it should. 
	"I don'tknow the nature of the wound you had," declared Threnody, peering at hisscalp, "but there is no evidence of it now."
	Rossamund alsopurchased a quarter of a rind of his old favorite -- fortified sack cheese; asmall jar of preserved apricots; dried fruits; half a cured pork sausage; andboschenbread.This last was just likefrom home: golden-dark and doughy, witha scrumptious hint of ginger. Verlinehad made boschenbread every Bookday, enough for every foundling. He carried two pounds of the stuff away in abig brown bag and shared it liberally with a quietly bemused Europe, withThrenody -- who declared she did not like it and left her piece barely nibbled --and even the bemused lentermen. 
	A new lentumtook them out of Wightfastseigh.Thereplacement carriage was a public coach rather than the post, better sprung,with windows covered in iron grille work, and carrying an extra backstepper, aquartertopman who held a salinumbus and rode alongside the splasher boy. It was a vehicle intended for travel inthreatened places. It was also quieteron the road. 
	On this sideof the fortress-city they began to pass wayfaring metal-mending tinkers,script-selling pollcarries and brocanders shopping their secondhand proofing; thosewho dared the dangerous way in hope that isolation might make people willing tobuy their inferior goods.The lifeexpectancy of such as these would not have been long and only desperation couldsurely drive someone to such work; Rossamund had a sudden glimpse of hisprivileges, when measured against the lot of these ragged gyrovagues. 
	As Ashenstalldrew near, its window-lights and lanterns glowing merrily against the dourevenfall, the post-lentum eased its pace, its driver clearly intending on makingthat cothouse their night-stop.
	"I haveno desire to spend a night in the insalubrious squish of one of yourcot-rents," Europe declared testily. She pulled down the grille and rattled herpurse ostentatiously at the lenterman, shouting, "Drive on! Take us to the Prideful Poll. It will be well worth the anxiety if youpersevere!" 
	There was ahasty discussion between the carriage-men and a quick conclusion.
	The lentumpressed on, going faster now.
	Rossamundcould hear the horses' frequent whickering, even over the clangor of thecarriage's hasty progress.They wellknew the unfriendliness of the dark and -- shabraqued or not -- the tasty treatthey presented to night-prowling nickers. 
	The sun was anhour set and the waning moon well up on its course when Europepointed through the grille of the window at a square, keeplike structure with arounded roof built into the cutting on the northern side of the highroad rightopposite a great-lamp. Its own gatelanterns made a well-lit spot upon the road before the thick encirclingwall. Suspended between them was acircular sign with the silhouette of a proud-looking head and large whiteletters beneath that read Prideful Poll. 
	Anotherwayhouse.
	They drew intothe slender coach yard and a warm welcome as strong gates closed out thenighttime fears.
	
	** * * * 
	
	The nextmorning, though their rimples were decidedly fatter after Europe'sfinancial incentives, the public-coach lentermen were unwilling to take her andher two young passengers down onto the Frugelle. The nighttime dash to the Prideful Poll wasone thing, but a trot along that threatened place was "quite another tanof leather!" s the side-armsman put it. "No amount of counters will get us to shift down onto that theredour place." 
	Not at allinclined to argue, Europe dismissed them,declaring, "No matter, we shall take the next post east." 
	Post lentermenwere more game than public coachers.
	As theywaited, the woman and the girl sipped the Prideful Poll's best claret, whileRossamund stared from an east-facing window at the bleak view.Below was a gray arid plain strewn withcountless tufts of dark vegetation. HisImperial Highness' Highroad, the Conduit Vermis, ran out like an anchor cabledown on the flat, going steadily east, curving slightly south as it did. This stretch before him showed on the maps asthe Pendant Wig. More than a league awayRossamund could see a tiny structure by the road -- a cothouse: Patrishalt. The thrum of loneliness was a constant pang here -- subtle threwdexquisitely balanced between threat and welcome. He could feel it through the glass,fluttering within him uncomfortably. 
	They did notwait long.The day's first post pulledinto the cramped coach yard with a trumpet blast, bearing no passengers andkeen to take some on board. Out in theyard the monotonous wind wailed its melancholy up from the eastern lowlands,bring a faint stink of rot on its breath. With a quick inspection that all their luggage was intact, Rossamundentered the coach and they were away. Speed was a traveler's best defense out here. 
	The Wormwaywound down the flanks of the hills, following a shaft cleft eroded by aseasonal brook.The post-lentum gatheredmomentum as it descended the face of the hills. It crossed the Lornstone, an old brick bridge that spanned a gully thickwith sighing swamp oaks and stunted pines. On seven great arches the Wormway crossed the bridge and continued alongon a stone dike that reached out for a mile into the Frugelle. The great flat was a continuous low thatch ofthorny, stramineous stubble. Treescollected in dell or hollow, writhen, dwarfish things, their gray trunks roughand fissured. The unsettled threwdnagged persistently, not foe but certainly not friend. 
	The travelers'breath steamed inside the lentum cabin.Threnody shivered, glared at the glimpse of frosty sky showing throughthe grill of the lentum windows and wrapped her furs closer about. 
	Europe proved unperturbed by it all, rugged in a long, thickly furred guque, hair down in along plait; she watched everything through her pink quartz-lensed spectacleswith regal equanimity. Nothing reachedher, and for this Rossamund was deeply grateful. For no matter how the lugubrious threwdpressed in or the chill gripped, the young lighter felt that all things mightbe compassed with the Branden Rose at the lead. 
	"My, thisis a dreary land," she said, looking around at her two companions."Yes?" 
	Rossamundnodded.
	From her denof furs Threnody raised an eyebrow and barely shrugged.
	"Anddreary company too..."Europe arched her spoored brow. 
	Along his sideof the road Rossamund discovered the low, half-buried strongworks he had firstspied between Makepeace and Hinkerseigh.This time they were positioned at every third lamp, looking very muchlike sunken fortifications. But to what purpose? Rossamund wondered. 
	Built on theconnection with the northeast running Louth-HurryRoad, Patrishalt was much like every othercothouse they had passed. With nothingto recommend it as a rest-stop, the lentum delivered a small amount of mail andcarried on. 
	The countryvaried little, and by the time they achieved Cripplebolt two hours later, allthree passengers were dozing.When thelentum was back on its way east with a fresh, new-shabraqued team, Rossamundtucked into the provender bought at Wightfastseigh. Threnody grimaced from over her duodecimowith open disgust as he chewed on the pork sausage in one bite and took a spoonof preserved apricots, plopping about in their earthen jar, in another. 
	Hiss-CRACK!A musket shot just above shattered thedelight of his light repast. It wasfollowed by a short series of thumps joining the din of travel, a pause andthen Hiss-CRACK!
	"What ishappening?" cried Rossamund, ducking at the smack of the seconddischarge.A puff of gun-smoke burstabove, on his side of the lentum, to be whipped away by wind of the vehicle'spassage. 
	"I thinkyou'll find they are warning off a passing nicker," Europesaid calmly. 
	Threnodyclambered over to the same side and joined him in a search of the passing landwithout, frustrated that her view was blocked by the window-grille."I cannot see what they shoot at,"she complained, leaning over Rossamund. "They'dbetter hit it, the cheeky bugaboo!" she hissed. 
	"For thenicker's sake let's hope they do."Europe peered briefly through the window-grille. "It would be a kinder death to have amusket ball in your meat than come to hand strokes with me." 
	There were nofurther shots and no beast assailed them.The lentum made good time on this flat straight road, and in thepaleness of the eastern quarter of the evening sky they spied the rectangulartowers of a settlement a-sparkle with lights easily seen from the straightnessof the plain. The township of Bleak Lynche. 
	As the lentumdrew closer, Rossamund could see that every structure was three or four storiestall, raised close together and with no gate nor surrounding wall to protectthem.How is that possible!It wasonly as they entered the town and crept between these towers that he realizednone of the buildings had ground-level doors opening out to the dangerousworld. The higher stories were accessedfrom the ground only via retractable iron ladders, and an arrangement ofcovered walks -- the lynches -- stretched the short gaps between structures,their weight carried on sturdy arches. 
	Thehard-packed dirt of the Wormway went right through the middle of the town,leading them to a small wayhouse called the Fend & Fodicar, its sign afodicar and a spittende crossed.Uponthe other hand was a large oblong fort of four levels and, like every otherbuilding here, a flattened gable roof of red tiles. This was Bleakhall, the lamplighters' bastionand the only structure to be surrounded by a wall, which protected a coach yardand steep stairs to a third-story door. With the yell of it s horn the post-lentum was let through gates asthick and tall as the bronze portals of Winstermill and rattled slowly into thetight area within, brightly lit by slow-burning flared lifted up on lampposts. A quarto of heavy-harnessed haubardiers metthe carriage and humbly did the tasks of yardsmen: helping the lentermen take the horse-team inhand, organizing the setting down of the luggage. The postilion opened the doors of the lentumand lowered the folding step, handing the women out of the cabin. The haubardiers were puzzled by a calendar inlighter's vestments and they were downright astounded by the dangerous gracesof the fulgarine peeress. Europe played the part with practiced ease, feigningignorance at their awe with a studied grandness. Threnody met them with her typicalsuperciliously lifted chin. Rossamundjust helped to carry the bags. 
	The three wereshown up the steps through a door of solid black iron, the postilion followingafter with a mailbag.Beyond was anantechamber slit with murder holes in roof and wall. A cheerful "halloo" from their haubardierguide, and a second black door at the farther end was winched open. Europe,Rossamund and Threnody were admitted to a watch room furnished sparely with aclerical desk, a large clock and other doors to left and right. 
	They were metby a young man in a powdered scratch-bob, standing behind the desk.He was wearing the unmistakable whiteoversleeves of an altern-lighter and the same surprised expression as all theother officers of previous cothouses at the sight of newly made, newly arrivedlighters. Stuttering a little at Europe's steady scrutiny, he greeted them allstiffly. As he sorted through the fewitems in the mailbag, informed them that their Major-of-House andLamplighter-Captain were away at Haltmire for an urgent conference with theWarden-General. "How-be-it, younglampsmen. You have come to reinforceus?" 
	"No, sir,we're meant for Wormstool," Rossamund explained.
	"Wormstool,is it?"The altern looked a littleput out. "Well, they need it more,I suppose, though we are all sorely put. You can journey there with the lantern-watch tomorrow morn. I'll have the costerman take your donnageacross later in the day." 
	"I'll setowt termorrer," the costerman drawled with a thick Sulk End accent,entering at the altern-lighter's summons.Squarmis was the man's name. Hewas a withered, greasy fellow in many heavy layers of cheap proofing and ashort-tailed liripipium. There wassomething indefinably odd about the man, something vague and unsettling. For a dread instant, Rossamund swore hecaught a hit of swine's lard on the fellow. When he thought no one was paying him any mind he sniffed more deeply,but only got a nose full of the man's natural unwashed odors and the waft ofstrong drink. 
	Squarmislooked at them shrewdly. "A jink for yer goods in the cart will cost yeone an' six."
	Even Rossamundcould tell one sequin, six guise was thievery for such a short ride.It was more than the young lighter was paidfor a month of prenticing. 
	"You mustbe jesting," said Threnody, incredulous."How can you practice such domestic brigandry?" 
	"We allhave owr burthens, miss," Squarmis said with an unctuous smile and fingersgreedily gripping for the fare."Does ye wants yer parcels delivered safe across this nasty worldor does ye not?" The avariciousfellow was so brazen he was not daunted by the presence of Europe. 
	"This isyour best service, Lieutenant?" the fulgar queried the young altern-lighter,talking as if the costerman were not there.
	Blushingslightly, he bowed a little."Myapologies, ma'am, th-this scoundrel is all there is to offer. He has been g-given sole commission to workhere by the Master-of-Clerks office, so we have little choice." 
	"Verywell."
	Before thecosterman slunk away the altern passed him a red-leather wrapped dispatch, anofficial document normally sent only by the marshal -- in this case theMarshal-Subrogat, Podious Whympre."This has arrived for you," the young officer said. 
	What doesPodious want with him so far out here?
	Squarmis tookthe dispatch between smudgy fingers."Thems will be my orders from yersurpeereeors." He leered knowinglyand wandered back through the side door from which he had come. 
	Blushing, thealtern-lighter apologized once again then asked of Rossamund and Threnody,"How would you like to meet your new comrades?"
	"I thinka time of rest for us all at your wayhouse would do better," Europe cut in quickly. "Camaraderie can come later." 
	"Ah --right you are madam."With an openpalm, he gestured them to follow. Hetook them through a door and down a passage over the high lynche that connectedcot-house to wayhouse. Though it wascovered with its own tiled roof, the sides were open to the winds, and an eerieinhuman ululation carried faintly from the flatlands. Somewhere inside the bastion the muffledyammering of the cothouse dogs and the answering shouts of their tractors couldbe heard. The altern seemed hardly tonotice as he guided them. 
	The Fend &Fodicar's enrica d'ama, Goodwife Inchabald, greeted them all familiarly."Oh, "ello, my darlings! Come for a taste of me hasty pie, 'aveyou?" 
	"Her fareis as poor as her welcome is warm," Threnody murmured into her plate whentheir meals were served.
	"MissEurope, what of this rever-man you have to dispatch?" Rossamund asked.
	The fulgartook a sip of beer and betrayed only the slightest distaste."There are people who dare to actuallylive out there on the flat," she said, "and out there is where I amto go. Some puzzled eeker-folk with moresequins than sense, it seems, have a rever-man in residence in theircellar. My intermediary is a fellow hereby the name of Dimbleby: I am to findhim tomorrow. More than that I do notknow." 

	"What isit doing out here?"
	"Therever-man?Who can say?" Europesighed wearily. "It might haveescaped from a strong room in the mines up north." 
	"Maybe itis one of Swill's," Threnody added.
	"It couldhave come from a rousing-pit," Rossamund put in."There is probably one out heretoo." 
	"It mighthave."The fulgar was starting tosound a little exasperated. "Out inthis rustic remoteness anything might be." 
	"Will yoube taking help?"Joining her on thehunt for a gudgeon was factotum work Rossamund would be happy to do. 
	Europe let out a puff of air and reviewed the room andits few hard-bitten patrons. "Inthe morning I will attempt to find myself a lurksman among these frowstyfolk. If it weren't for your oaths ofservice I would take you too." 
	"Why areyou so insistent on Rossamund as your factotum?" Threnody demanded.
	The fulgarlooked at Threnody as if seeing her for the very first time."Child, do not mistake my tolerance ofyou for acceptance." 
	Threnody'smouth opened then shut, but no sound came out.She looked to Rossamund, dropped her eyes and looked mortified for amerest twinkling. With admirable spirit,she recovered, and, chin jutting proudly, ate the rest of her tasteless meal. 
	There was along, unpleasant silence.
	Europe ate little more, and soon left the two younglighters, to inquire of a bed for the night and board for an indeterminateduration. Threnody took out a duodecimoand read as if Rossamund was not there. To pass time, he sorted through his salumanticum, resettling vials andjars, salperts and castes, all in their padded boxes or cushion pockets, makingthe most necessary scripts easy to extract. 
	Europe returned, her arrangements made. "I'm glad to see you're in a habilisticturn of mind," she said. "Howwould you take to trying your hand once more at making my treacle, little man?-- to keep your practice up?" 
	"I mightas well make you some too, Threnody, if I'm already at it."
	"No!"she said frostily."Stop askingme." 
	Stung,Rossamund took up Europe's lacquered treacle-box-- remembering only too well how uneasy it had made him feel -- and allowedhimself to be led to the small kitchen. There, while Europe left to arrange herluggage and Goodwife Inchabald hovered nervously to make sure he did not spoilher clean stoves, Rossamund brewed. Hediscovered the steps of making were vivid in his mind and Sugar of Nnun stillfilled him with sickly dreads. Thedisturbing half smell of the finished treacle filled the closed space. 
	"Welldone, little man," Europe said quietly,reappearing as if drawn by the reek. With a toss of her head and those unladylike gulps she drained thebowl. "Well, good night,Rossamund," she continued -- Rossamund trying not to stare at her stainedmouth -- "Tomorrow I knave myself in earnest, and you will be on your wayto your lonely billet. I shall be aboutif you have need of me. Remember well mywarning at Compostor." Her voicedropped to a whisper. "Keep whatyou know to yourself. It will profit noone just babbled about -- and don't' go getting yourself maimed orslaughtered." She looked at himuntil the young lighter felt like a squirming worm on a hook. 
	"Good-bye,Miss Europe," Rossamund whispered.He felt like he was ever saying this to her. 
	Withoutanother word the fulgar gathered her treacle-box and departed, leaving theyoung lighter to make his way back across the lynche to Bleakhall, passingThrenody without acknowledgment.
	Halfway acrossthe bridge she caught up with him."What, no Brambly Rose? However will you get on without her?" she said sardonically. "How you can stomach her hoit-a-toit Ido not know." Threnody sniffedsourly. "I can see well now whyMother does not like her." 
	"I wouldhave thought your mother's dislike of her would have recommended Europe to you," he countered. 
	She fixed himwith a withering eye."Well, I goto make my own treacle, as any goodlahzar should. You should come and seehow it is really done." 
	Rossamunddeclined.
	"I shallleave you to your moon dreams of the Lady Europe, then!"
	Baffled andtired, Rossamund did not offer a response.
	Across inBleakhall the kindly altern showed him to a long, open hall with benches formeals at one end and a double row of cots at the other, all beneath a loftyceiling a-crowd with exposed beams.Thedistinct, dank smell of seldom-washed men mixed with wood-smoke andlock-oil: the telltale odor of acothouse and something a little more acrid and unpleasant. After three days in the funk of a lentum cabshared with tow perfumed women, Rossamund had lost his dullness to the smell oftoo many men together. He tried not tobreathe too deeply. 
	It was thefull of night now, and the lantern-watch from Wormstool had already arrived,their lighting done.They were sittingwith their Bleakhall brothers about the common table drinking bottles down tothe mud, swapping bawdy jokes and playing at checkers. They seemed hard and rough, like the Hogshead bargemen, but altogether muchneater and thoroughly clean. For alltheir coarse language and rough manners, they seemed careful with how theylooked, cursing at each other if ever a splash or splatter threatened to soiltheir harness. Each wore a baldric ofImperial red: they were citizens of theEmpire, claiming no particular stately heritage. 
	Rossamund feltvery dull and frowzy.He noticedThrenody, who had soon returned -- teeth slightly stained with plaudamentum --self-consciously pull and play at her hems and fringes whenever she thought thelampsmen were not looking. 
	She barelyacknowledged him, however.
	The"Stoolers," those lighters -- Rossamund quickly learned -- fromWormstool, and the "Bleakers" were fascinated by the two youngarrivals, but especially Threnody.Shemade much of being superior to their attentions, yet from Rossamund's vantageshe relished every rough jest or idle tease. 
	"How comethey're sending them out to ye?" a Bleakhall lighter asked."We need replacements just asmuch..." 
	"More'sthe point:what's the Marshal doin'billetin' such pink l'il morsels out to us?" one extraordinarily hairyStooler -- one Under-Sergeant Poesides -- added. 
	"Aye!"Rossamund heard one lighter whisper theatrically to a brother-in-arms."What do they take us for, wetnurses?" 
	"Doesn'the know we eat 'em alive out here?" Poesides added, raising sinisterchuckles from his amused colleagues.
	Rossamundgrinned sheepishly.
	Threnodysniffed superciliously as she said sourly, "You might find us a littlehard to chew!" inciting a general "ooooh" and loud laughter.
	"I cansee thy arrow-spoor, Miss Muddle!"A rather thick-set sergeant sporting raven-hued mustachios and a bulbousnose grinned and pointed to Threnody's brow. Isambard Mulch was his name. "Going to fish our heads from inside our tummies after we've eatenye, are ye?" 
	Some smalllighter, old enough to surely have earned retirement, aped exaggerated actionsof eating then keeled over, clutching dramatically at his head andstomach.The laughter became a roar,Rossamund joining them. Even Threnodybroke a smile. 
	"Ahhhthere, lads," Sergeant Mulch cried, pointing to the girl's reluctant grin,"she's human-hearted after all!"
	Her smilevanished and the guffaws roared louder still.
	Perhapsservice at the ignoble end of the road might not be so wretched after all.

	23 
	Wormstool
	
	gourmand's corkalso known asa throttle or a gorge; the projecting "knuckle" of cartilage in aperson's throat, in which is situated the vocal cords; what we would call theAdam's apple.It is called thegourmand's cork (a gourmand being one who is a gluttonous or greedy eater)because of the tight sensation you can get there when feeling nauseated, whichvulgar folk hold is the voice box trying to prevent or "cork" anyfurther eating. 
	
	Rossamund was turned outinto the small yard at the foot of Bleakhall the next morning to discover thickfog smothering the land, deadening sound, diminishing light, dampeningspirits. There was no wind, not even agentle breeze; just the clammy touch of tiny, infrequent eddies. In the unsettling quiet the half-quarto oflampsmen who were to be his billet-mates, perhaps forever more, said verylittle above common greetings and introductions. One old fellow, who presented himself asFurius Lightbody, Lampsman 1 st Class, checked the two newlamplighters' harness and their equipage. He paused when he spotted Rossamund's salumanticum. 
	"Goodlad," he said.Lightbody tugged onits strap to test the repair, then patted a satchel of his own, showing a handmissing the third and fourth fingers. "Wise. We've all gotone." 
	Rossamundnodded."Why are there five of you?he asked in a hush. 
	"Themcity-scholars say it takes three fit fellows to best a single hob-possum"was the gruff return."That's allwell and good for them and their books, but out here we reckon five of usstands a better chance. In truth thereshould be more..." 
	LampsmanLightbody attached a bright-limn to the head of each of their fodicars, fixingthe bottom of the small lamps -- known as crook-lights -- to the shaft to preventthem for swinging about noisily.
	"Why dowe not take a leer with us?" Rossamund wondered aloud, looking worriedlyat the thick airs.
	"'Causewe don't got one to take," came the simple answer."The Hall's fellow is with his ownlamp-watch, and Crescens Hugh -- he being our own one-and-only lurksman -- isoff-watch. Even he needs hissleep." 
	Anotherlighter named Aubergene stood before them.He was a much younger fellow with black hair, angular features similarto Sebastipole's and a protruding gourmand's cork that bobbed disconcertinglyas he addressed them with suppressed, whispered enthusiasm. "Don't you fuss too much about thissoup, young fellows, it's just Old Lacy," he explained kindly. "It's the fleermare. Comes in off the Swash and leaves everythingdripping, but without it there'd be no water for us or the plants -- it rainsdead seldom about here. Take these...it's phlegein," he said to Threnody's blank look at the small tubes theman held out to them, "or falsedawn if you like. In case you lose us. Just pull the hem." He indicated a small silk protrusion on thebottle. "Strike the raised end onthe ground and hold it high, well away from your face." 
	Threnody wentto refuse, tapping the fine-drawn arrow on her brow, as if it were an answer toeverything.
	Aubergenelooked at the spoor with a slight hesitation.He puffed his cheeks out and in and said, "That'll help you findus, lass, but not us you. Take it andlet us get on." 
	Sergeant Mulchled off, and as Rossamund then Threnody followed the five bobbing lights outthe heavy gates of Bleakhall, Rossamund looked back a the barely visible massof the Fend & Fodicar.He tried toguess which window Europe slept behind. 
	Leaving BleakLynche, it was impossible to reckon distances between lanterns.In the opaque fumes the becloudednumbus-light of a great-lamp could be seen only when the watch drew verynear. The assiduous lampsmen worked,stoutly feeling their way one great-lamp to the next, each lighter nothing morethan the suggestion of a shadow and a bobbing globular glow, communicating onlyrarely in terse whispers. Rossamund hadnever been anywhere so completely blank: anything could leap out and snatch them away. Ears were a-ring with anxious straining, eyesbugging to keep sight of the will-o'-the-wisp gleam of the leadingcrook-lights. His throat was in a constantconstriction of dread; he did not know how the lamplighters of the Frugelleever managed to do their work without blubbering into an overwrought mass. No amount of practice on the Pettiwiggincould have prepared him for this. It wasa relief to learn that neither he nor Threnody was expected to wind any of thelamps on this blind morning. Nevertheless, he waited impatiently for each lamp to be wound, one -- two three -- up, down-tw-three, one --two -- three -- up, down-two-three, cringing at the ringing clatter of thecogs and chains. Though the mechanicalsounds were muffled by the turgid airs, Rossamund found them a clashing ofcymbals in the tomblike silence, sure to attract some nasty lurker. 
	Theall-too-sluggish encroachment of the new day's growing light served only toilluminate the fog itself, making it pale and almost phosphorescent; a yawningwhiteness where the only tangible thing was the hard-packed road grinding underhis boot-soles.This luminous nothingnessobliterated any sight of the crook-lights, and forced the lantern-watch tomarch closer than the regulation spacing. 
	Suddenly thecolumn stopped.
	Rossamundcould sense the lampsmen becoming very still.
	The fellowimmediately before him -- Rossamund thought it was Aubergene -- crouched andindicated the young lighter to do the same.Rossamund obeyed and repeated the motion for the benefit of Threnodybehind. 
	I am the very soul of stillness. He repeated Fouracres' old formula. I amthe very soul of stillness... 
	Motionless andlistening, he understood almost instantly.Something was snuffling in the veiling murk off to the left, itsshuffling movement faint yet obvious in the dry crackle of the stunted Frugellegrasses. Staring out into that awfulblank, Rossamund had a prodigious sense of the malign intent of this sniffling,searching something. He carefully,haltingly, squeezed a hand into his salt-bag, thankful for restoring itscontents. He felt for the especiallywrapped john-tallow -- one of the unused gifts bestowed upon him by MasterCraumpalin when Rossamund was still a foundling starting out. He withdrew it with a fastidious care lestthe oiled paper make a give-away rustling of it own. Working it free of the bag, he put the parcelon to the toad and gingerly grasped two corners of the complex folds of thewrapping, careful not to touch the actual wax. All this he did by feel alone, his eyes busy looking into theimpenetrable fog, darting left and right at each new noise. 
	Before his hecould hear Aubergene ever-so-gently cocking some kind of firelock.
	The snufflerwas getting closer.
	On the otherside, Threnody was a hardly discernible shadow -- was that her arm he saw reachfor her temple?
	With a suddenflick of wrist and fingers, Rossamund pulled the wrapper apart, letting out thesweaty, unwashed smell, and, quick as fulgar's lightning, flung thejohn-tallow, packaging and all, out into the cloudy soup.He could almost feel the attention of themalignant stalker catch the smell and follow the invisible arc of the flyingrepugnant. Sure enough, the sounds ofscuffling moved away. 
	Oh, glory on Craumpalin's chemistry!Rossamund's heart sang. 
	Aubergene didnot appear to notice the young lighter's action and the lighters stayed as theywere for longer yet -- Rossamund's senses frayed, his haunches aching -- till asa man, they decided it was safe enough to push on.Not one mention was made of his deed; nonehad noticed. The young lighter had noway of knowing if it was thejohn-tallow that drew the sniffling thing away, and therefore he kept anyboasts to himself. 
	Unexpectedly,only two lamps later, the vertical bulk of Wormstool materialized -- they werearrived at last.The cothouse -- if it could be called a "house" --was a tall octagonal tower topped with a flattened roof of red tiles a-bristlewith chimneys. Entry was gained by theubiquitous narrow flight of stone-and-mortar steps that bent about three facesof the tower as it climbed to a second-story door. 
	Rossamund heldhis breath and squinted against the noxious fumes drizzling from the molderingcenser at the foot of the steps.
	At the top,the thick cast-iron door opened onto a watch room.Entering, Rossamund found an eight-sidedhall, the walls slitted with loopholes, where watchmen periodically wanderedfrom one to the next and mutely observed the land beyond. Not even the entry of the lantern-watchdistracted them from their lookout. 
	In the verymiddle of the hall was a squat lectern, and behind this sat anuhrsprechman.Wet-eyed, limp-haired, theman looked all too ready for sleep, shuffling and settling papers clumsily atthe close of his night-vigil. He watchedthe arrivals hawkishly, screwing up his face as he tilted his head back andpeered over his glasses. 
	"'Allo,Whelpmoon," the stocky, hairy under-sergeant named Poseides said to thefellow as they passed."Ye look amite piqued, me old mate. Just be gladyou've not had to be out there thismornin'" pea soup so thick that alaggard couldn't scry through it -- and a stalking lurker thrown into thebargain." 
	Whelpmoonnodded briefly, said nothing, and kept at his staring.
	Looking behindhim, Rossamund saw a great kennel occupying three whole walls which kept a packof dogs:spangled whelp-hounds -- giant,sleek-looking creatures that eyed Rossamund suspiciously and let forth warninggrowls from their heavy-barred cage. 
	"Themdaggies never takes to strangers," Lampsman Lightbody chuckled.
	From this roomthe lampsmen gained access to higher floors by a wooden stair at the left ofthe entrance.From it dangled asophisticated tangle of cords and blocks, much as could be found on avessel. Rossamund asked what these werefor. 
	"Ah,"answered Lampsman Lightbody eagerly, "these stairs are the genius of themajor and Splinteazle our seltzerman -- naval men, both of them, with cunningnaval minds."He noddedapprovingly. 
	Rossamund'sears pricked at this mention of the Senior Service.
	"It'sdead-on impressive," Aubergene added."You see there -- that cord, how it leads up through that collet inthe ceiling? If ever a nicker or someother flinching hob makes it in here and we need to retreat, we can pull leversup on the next floor connected to that cord and cause this whole constructionto topple, leaving the foe stuck down here while we ply fire from onhigh." 
	It was indeed"impressive" -- as an idea at least.No sooner had Rossamund ascended a few steps than the whole flightwobbled alarmingly, beams groaning, the rope tackle shaking. The lighters did not seem to notice, andclimbed happily up to the floor above, while Threnody and he followed onecareful step at a time, knuckles whitening on the worn-smooth banister. 
	Gratefullyachieving the top, Rossamund heard Aubergene declaring, "Ourreinforcements all the way from Winstermill, sir -- ain't it nice to know we'renot forgotten?"
	Rather thandwelling safely on the very top floor of the tower, as many officer-typesmight, Wormstool's Major-of-House held office in the very next level; workingwith his day-clerk on one side and cot-warden on the other, all seated behind thesame wide desk of thick, hard wood.Itlooked solid enough to serve as barricade and fire-position should needarise. Rossamund could well imaginemusketeers firing from behind it with their firelocks, shooting at someintruder who had managed to win its way up the rickety stairway. 
	Thehouse-major was even better turned out than his subordinates -- creaselessplatoon-coat of brilliant Imperial scarlet and a black quabard so lustrous,with its thread-of-gold owl, it almost gleamed.The man was most certainly of a naval bent, for there were severalscantlings of main- 

	
	rams andcruisers pinned to the angled walls about him and a great covering ofblack-and-white checkered canvas on the floor, such as Rossamund would expectto find in the day-cabin of a ram.Thehouse-major stood with a fluent, perfectly military motion. 
	"MissThrenody of Herbroulesse and Rossamund Bookchild, Lamplighters 3rdClass, come from Winstermill Manse, sir," Rossamund said firmly as hestepped before the immaculate officer. 
	Thehouse-major fixed them with mildly skeptical amusement."Well, aren't you a pair oftrubb-tailed, lubberly blunderers?" he exclaimed in a trim and educatedaccent that gave no hint as to his origins. "We've not received a brace of lantern-sticks in a prodigious longtime, and neither have we received word to be expecting any! The dead of winter means infrequent mail andis an off time to be sending anyone so far -- how long have you been prenticingfor? I thought lantern-sticks weren'tdeemed fully cooked till chill's end." 
	Rossamund andThrenody looked to each other.
	Threnody spokeup."We were told that BilletingDay was done early because the road was in need of new lighters." 
	"Is thatrightly so?"Taking his seat, thehouse-major stared at her and, more particularly, her spoor. "It is not common to have one of yourspecies make lighter, especially not one that is a tempestine too -- are you nota little too new from the crib to be cathared?" 
	Threnodybristled by controlled her tongue."Perhaps." 
	Thehouse-major held her with his steady gaze."As it stands, we are thankful the Ladies of Columbris have thenumbers to spare us one here." 
	Bemused,Threnody gave half a curtsy.
	"As towhat you have been told regarding us," the officer continued, "aye, newlighters we do need:a large quarto ofdoughty, veteran lampsmen to cover our losses, not a brace of new-burped lumpssuch as yourselves. Is that not so,Sergeant-Master?" he barked to the big, silver-haired cot-warden. 
	"Aye,sir."The cot-warden smirked. "Though a company of the same would bebetter." 
	"I'veheard it said that the marshal-lighter is ailing," continued thehouse-major."Can he have decreasedin his powers so much as to send you here?" 
	"Oh, itwasn't the Lamplighter-Marshal, sir" -- Rossamund wrestled with the desireto cryo out in the Marshal's defense -- "it was the Master-of-Clerks whosent us."
	In one breaththe officer's eyes widened, in another they narrowed."Did he..." he said slowly. "Since when has that lickspittle been sending lighters or directing policy." 
	"Sincethe Lamplighter-Marshal was shipped off to the Considine with a sis edisserumin his hand and 'that lickspittle' -- who now calls himself the Marshal-Subrogat-- took the run of the manse," Threnody stated tartly.
	"Is thatso, Lamplighter?"The house-majorlooked arch. "And I'd rather youaddressed me as 'sir' or 'house-major.'" 
	"Sir,"she added after only the briefest hesitation.
	The day-clerk,who had been fossicking about in the newly arrived post-bag, passed a telltalered-leather dispatch over to the house-major.
	"So thepoor old war-dog has been called to account, has he?" the house-majorcontinued, "The bee's buzz has been that he was losing his grip of thewhole 'Way.In a fight he's your man,but give him pens and paper and he's all a-sea... Well, it's of little use, byeither hand," he concluded, picking up the dispatch and opening it almostabsently. "Most folk tend todeclare this place hic sunt beluae-- here be monsters -- and forget usaltogether." He began to read. 
	Rossamundshuffled his feet carelessly in the pregnant pause.How could they think the great man "poor" or"old"? However, like it or no, he wasnot about to set his commanding officer straight on the actual score of things. 
	"And hereour glorious new Marshal-Subrogat confirms your report," the house-majorsuddenly said, holding up the dispatch, "though I still challenge hiswisdom for sending you lantern-sticks out early.This is where only the best and hardiest getbilleted. I'd say it's been an awfullylong consult-a-ledger period of time since shining-new lampsmen 3 rdclass were ever billeted tous fresh out of the manse." He rattled the letter. "But here you both are, out to proudly jointhe hardiest and most soldierly of all the lighters on the 'Way." He fixed both newcomers with appraisingscrutiny. "And that means we reckonthey must have sent you to us because you're the hardiest and most soldierly ofall the lighters too." 
	Swallowingpointedly, Rossamund hoped he would be."Aye, sir!" he said. 
	"Yes...sir," said Threnody.
	"Now Iknow you and your situation" -- the house-major stood again -- "I amMajor-of-House Thyssius Grystle," he said, bowing slightly toThrenody."Also allow me to nameCot-Warden Hermogenes, or 'Sergeant-Master' to you." The cot-warden was slightly advanced in yearswith gorgeous silver hair held back in a whipstock and an impressive scaracross his forehead. "And LinusSemple, our day-clerk" -- a typically short and slender fellow in clericalblack, a deep green fronstectum jutting over his brow. 
	Both men stoodand bowed to Threnody with civil niceness.
	"Ourwatches are septenary, changing every Newich, and none of this slovenlytwo-watch business either!There arethree lantern-watches here, done in lots of two so there's enough men on theroad -- and even then it's a stretch. So! Wet as your backs might be,two more is still two more. Even thoughyou arrived with the dimmers I'll have you stay with the sluggards till youlearn our idiosynchrasies--" 
	"Excuseme," Rossamund piped, "the 'sluggards,' sir?"
	"Aye,young lighter, the sluggards -- the day-watch, as opposed to the dimmers, whoare the lantern-watch.You watch while they sleep! What have theybeen teaching you back thereward -- playing at skittles?" 
	"Ah, no,sir -- sorry, sir."Rossamund couldalmost feel Threnody rolling her eyes beside him. 
	House-MajorGrystle's expression relaxed."Youmay take your ease now, Lampsmen 3 rd Class, then get to light dutiesafter middens. The cart from Mill toStool is a long time traveling and I see no benefit from putting tired lightersneedlessly to work. Sergeant-Master Hermogenesshall direct you to your final billet. Iimagine that oily grub goose Squarmis is bringing your ox trunks and otherdunnage?" he concluded with a knowing look. 
	"Aye,sir," said Rossamund.
	"Carryon.Share your first breakfast with usand get your wind back today, for tomorrow -- whatever old Grind-yer-bones mighthave had you doing -- your life for the Emperor truly begins. Leave your Work Dockets with me,Lampsmen. Show 'em to their billets,Mister Harlock." 
	Thesilver-haired Sergeant-Master took them higher into the tower, up another steepstair, this one of sturdy, immobile stone instead, gradually winding around theentire structure as it rose.From thisproximity Rossamund could well see the handsome scar -- a cicatrice any warriorwould wish to have on display, a visible proof of valor -- and moreparticularly, the man's unusually pale gray eyes, nearly silver -- like hishair. "You might -- like just now --hear some call me Harlock," he said with a faintly Sedian accent, whilethey climbed, "on account of my hair. That's a privilege you earn. Foryou two peepersqueeks it'll just be Sergeant-Master, am I clear?" 
	"Aye,Sergeant-Master!"
	Thecommon-mess where mains was served was found upon this next floor, two levelshigher than the front door, the region designated "the kitchens"sharing the octagonal space.The ceilinghigh above was choke-full with beams and struts and supports of dark, polishedwood; as gorgeously complex an array as Rossamund had seen before only atBleakhall. In here, they were told, everyone ate together, whetherlampsman 3 rd class or Major-of-House. Other cot-fellows were already beginning togather, and a muscular, rotund man worked the pots and ovens on the far"kitchen" side. The thirdfloor above the entrance, holding heavy tools and small machines, was forspecific labors: tinkering,weapon-smithing, harness-mending, lantern repairs and the like. There was also a coop of chickens -- for eggs-- with a cock whose dawning crow Rossamund soon learned was far more effectivefor rousing out the day-watch than any amount of drumming. There were stores kept here high up from thereach of rats and it was obvious now why the ceiling of the common-mess -- beingalso the floor of this level -- was so oversupplied with supporting woodwork. 
	On the topfloor they were shown the bunk-rooms, set high and safe from the ground.This level was divided into equal quarters bywooden 'bulkheads' -- moveable walls of about eight feet in height that stoppedwell short of the beams of the roof above. In the quarter farthest from the stair was where Rossamund and Threnodywould be sleeping; sharing the quarter, so the sergeant-master said, with theother younger lighters -- both in their early twenties: Aubergene Wellesley, whom of course they hadmet, and another fellow, Fadus Theudas, currently on house-watch. Rossamund looked at the room that was to behis 'home.' It as not as bare as thecells of Winstermill but gone was his privacy, his sleeping quarters to beshared again. Here the lampsmen wereallowed to decorate their own spot, tack etchings and pamphlet-cuttings ontobed heads; have more than the standard-issue of pillows or coverlets; and theirown collection of other bed-furniture -- stools, chests, side tables and thelike. He realized too that though therewere eight cots in here, only two were currently occupied. 
	"How manylighters are here at Wormstool, Sergeant-Master?" he asked.
	"Lessthan there ought to be, Lampsman Bookchild," the cot-warden replied."Put what dunnage ye have on yer billetsand come down to the mess with yer kids or yer pannikins." 
	"I shallneed privacy screens about my cot, then, if you please...Sergeant-Master," Threnody said.
	"I shallsee what we can arrange for ye, lass," he said, and left the two younglighters to settle.
	"No moretime to ourselves," Rossamund observed glumly."At least we are allowed to put picturesup." He could think of severalengravings from his pamphlets he might cut out and display, favorites byeminent pens like Pill or Berthezene. 
	"Hmm."Threnody looked about with milddistaste. "It will suffice, Isuppose." 
	Rossamundwondered if she was beginning to regret her willfully chosen profession and herhasty decision to throw in her lot with him.
	Beds selectedand bags dropped they returned down to the common-mess.Major-of-House Grystle called for generalattention and semiformally introduced them both to their new messmates. The general reaction from the Wormstoolerswas at first one of bemused disappointment. They were of the same opinion as the house-major, and it was manifest ontheir faces: Why billet lantern-stick novices with us?Send real lighters with long experience and asteady arm in a fight. 
	Nevertheless,the men proved friendly, and cheerfully ate a fine breakfast of spiced,lard-fried swampland mushrooms known as thrumcops and a strange kind of baconRossamund was told was made from rabbit-meat.It was all a remarkable enlargement on 'Imperial-issue provender,' andRossamund only regretted he could not stand the smell or taste of thesethrumcop mushrooms. Instead he filledhis eager belly with coney-rinds and griddle-fried toast. 
	"This isso much better than breakfast at the manse!" he declared, which drew theuniversal approval of his new comrades.
	"Aye,aye!" Lightbody nodded emphatically, looking very pleased withhimself."No short commons for weStoolers, lad. The world about provesbountiful for a keen eye, sharp nose and frank aim." 
	"Ye canthank our round-bellied poisoner fer the fine flavors too," said SergeantMulch."Sequecious is his name, atrue culinaire from up Sebastian way." He pointed to the enormously fat man in a red and beige striped apron,grinning and frying behind a large, flat hot plate that divided the 'kitchen'from the mess. "He's meant to besome kind of prisoner from them wars Clementine and Sebastian are always in. He was sent here a year ago as a slave of theEmperor, I suppose, but he wants to change his nativity and become a papernationalist of the Empire, strange fellow--" 
	"Cain'tspeak more than 'alf a sentence of Brandenard neither," interjectedPoseides."And we're meant to watchover 'im and make sure 'e don't scarper off. Though where 'e's going to go out 'ere I don't know!" 
	"At leasthe's fat," argued Lightbody."Never trust a gut-starver who bain't fat -- I've been told, 'causea thin one don't respect food enough to treat it right." 
	"What weactually lack is greens," Aubergene chattily added between chews.
	"Justso," said a trim-looking man, the cothouse's dispensurist, one MisterTynche, giving Rossamund a welcoming smile, "and all we lack at times aresome consistent, decent antiscorbutics.If it was not for the sovereign lime from Hurdling Migh and thenutrified wine sent ready mixed from Quinault and the Sulk, it'd be all blackgums and lethargy here." 
	"Which iswhy that wriggler Squarmis can ask so much for his goods and time,"Aubergene enlarged."Sir!" hesuddenly called across the trestle to the house-major. "Sir! Did ye hear of the nasty lurker we almost met this dousing?" 
	"Aye,Gene, I surely did," House-Major Grystle replied."It was a good thing it wandered awaylike it did, else I might be less five -- no, seven! -- brave lighters. You canspare the horses, but don't spare the lighters! " he cried, and allthe mess joined him, chuckling heartily, someone else calling huskily, "A confusion on the nickers!"
	As one theStoolers raised their mugs of three-water grog, took a swig and slammed theirtankards back on the trestle, making a hearty wooden clatter.Rossamund went through the motions and hopedno one noticed his lack of enthusiasm. 
	Threnody saidlittle for the whole meal, sitting straight and taut, her eyes never leavingher food, and anyone who attempted to speak with her soon gave up in the faceof her monosyllabic reluctance.
	"What dowe call you, girly?" one friendly young fellow of the day-watchtried."Lamp-lass 3 rdClass?" He chuckled in a cheerfulway, as did those about him. 
	Threnodylooked at the man sidelong, her fork hovering before her mouth."Probably anything but girly might be a good start," shesaid quietly. 
	"Watchout Theudas!" Sergeant Mulch guffawed."She's got the tongue of a whip, has our new lady lighter!"which everyone thought a great joke. 
	The youngfellow Theudas, red-faced, went back to his eating, while Threnody lookedrather pleased with herself.
	After themorning meal, dishes were collected and washed by the men of the day-watchthemselves.Rossamund tried thankingSequecious the Sebastian cook for a brilliant meal, to which the man, in athick accent simply repeated, "Tank yee! Tank yee!" with that unceasing grin. 
	Dishes done,Rossamund and Threnody were directed back to their bunks, joining thelantern-watch for their prescribed rest.Threnody's screens were brought and erected with much better grace thanat Tumblesloe Cot. They were put aboutthe farthest bed from the others and, once up, the girl-lighter disappearedbehind them, not to be seen again till much later. 
	Rossamundorganized himself, sorting satchels and bags.He pulled out a bag of boschenbread and offered a piece to Aubergene,who was sitting on his own cot, already in a long nightshirt. 
	"Why,thankee, Ros-ah-Rossamund, isn't it?" he said to Rossamund's offer.
	"Aye,"the young lighter replied, "Rossamund -- Rossamund Bookchild ofBoschenberg."
	"Ahh,hence the bread and your baldric, aye?" Aubergene made a little salutewith his tasty morsel, pointing at Rossamund's black and brown baldric, nowhanging from an iron bedpost."Sowhy did they billet you here, truthfully? Everyone is here because of something..." 
	Because theMaster-of-Clerks is a conniving, wicked blackguard! Went across Rossamund'sthoughts, but he said, "I'm not sure, it's just where they sentus."Taking Europe'swarning, he was not about to leap into some long-winded, barely believablestory of events real and suspected. "What about you?" he quickly added. 
	"Me?Oh, I've got a dead-frank aim, and -- uh -- Icalfed after the wrong girl" was all he said, leaving Rossamund with morequestions. Yet before he could ask themAubergene himself quickly added, with a slightly gormless smile, "Well,welcome to the Stool." 
	Rossamundgrinned in return.
	The cotsproved just as uncomfortable as Winstermill's -- some things in military servicealways stayed the same, it seemed.Windows were shuttered, blocking the diffuse, surprisingly bright lightcoming through the fog without. He peekedthrough a shutter. The fume was slowlydissolving, clearing the eastern view. The young lighter stared at the hazy horizon and could not quite believethat maybe only a day's lentum-ride farther began one of the most feared placesin all the Half-Continent, maybe even the whole world. "Have you seen the Ichormeer,Aubergene?" 
	"Aye,"the lampsman replied soberly."It'sall foul bottomless bogs and stinking pools of your heart's blood; half-deadthickets of red-leafed thornbushes and floating islands of red weed. Every path you take is treacherous and therot of it all stays in the back of your throat long after you've escaped theplace. I don't know how they managed tobuild the Wormway across it, must have cost a whole trunk of lives." Aubergene shook his head. "What the more, it's where the nickersare said to be born or somesuch -- however that happens. You don't want to be going there, Rossamund. I surely never want to return." 
	Rossamundlistened with rapt attention.Despite --or perhaps because of -- the lampsman's lurid description, he was more keen tosee the infamous place. Lying down tosleep, he found his imagination ran for the longest time with thoughts of acorrupted, bloodred swampland where loathsome things slithered and groveled inthe noisome muds. 
	
	** * * * 
	
	They werewoken after middens by the arrival of costerman Squarmis, surprisinglydelivering their heavy luggage intact and unmolested.Ox trunks properly stowed at the feet oftheir cots, Threnody's extra packages crammed underneath, the two new lighterswere set to task. It was with profoundand sinking horror that Rossamund discovered the very first duty set aside forthem: feed and muck the dogs. 
	Oh no!
	"Ye'vedone this before, aye?" said Lamplighter-Sergeant Mulch."And if ye haven't, well... I suggest yelearn quickly. It's an easy job and agood way to start, so hop to it now." Three was a familiarly gruff manner in this lamplighter-sergeant, verymuch like the one they had left behind at Winstermill and perhaps all thesergeants the Half-Continent over. 
	"Dogsdon't like me so much, Lamplighter-Sergeant," Rossamund tried forlornly.
	"They'llget used to ye," the man insisted, "especially if ye hold them out alittle bit o' food."
	"We willdo splendidly, Sergeant," Threnody said flatly, and taking Rossamund underhis arm, pulled him with her down to the kennels.
	But they didnot do splendidly.
	As at WellnighHouse, so it was here.No matter howtasty a morsel Rossamund held out to them, the dogs went wild. Threnody's solution of sending him down toclose off and muck out the other end of the cage failed miserably; the dogsbayed and yammered and made such a ruckus at him that all of Wormstool camerunning with cries of "Nicker on thedoorstep!"
	They soonrealized what was what.There was nonicker anywhere, not even after a full quarto of the Stoolers searched theperimeters of the cothouse with Crescens Hugh the lurksman at their lead. 
	"I dun'tknow, mates, it's all cry and no nickers," Hugh declared when the searchersreturned and the front door was secured once more.Everyone professed themselves mystified andthe incident was dismissed. 
	Lamplighter-SergeantMulch just shook his head when all was done and declared, "The dogs trulydon't like ye, do they, lad?"

	24
	A Lamplighter's Life
	
	combinadeshand arms thatare a clever combination of melee weapon and firelock.The firing mechanism on most combinades is animproved wheel lock, being more sturdy than a flintlock, and able to take thejars that come when the weapon is used to strike a foe. Added to this, the lock mechanism, triggerand hammer are usually protected by gathered bands of metal, a basket much likethose protecting the hilts of many foreign swords. When edges and bullets are treated withgringollsis, combinades become very effective therimoirs (monster-killingtools). 
	
	On the second dayRossamund's life as a lamplighter started in full. Now he was properly arrived in this wildplace, he was careful to replenish his bandage with the recent-made Exstinker,dawdling with his preparations until the other lighters had gone tobreakfast. Obeying instructions, heventured out fully harnessed, a necessary precaution this close to themonsters' realm. He quickly discoveredthe day-watch consisted of little more than rounds of chores, beginning --navylike -- with the scrubbing of all the floors, soap-stoning and swabbing andflogging every story of the tower as if they were the decks of a ram. 
	Nothing morewas said about the incident with the dogs, though the young lighter was notrequired to muck and feed them anymore.Instead he and Threnody helped in the kitchens or in the Works -- as thethird floor from the entrance was named, carrying and fetching for Onesimus Grumely,the house-tinker and sometime proofener, or tending the fortlet's bright-limnsand lanterns with Mister Splinteazel, Seltzerman 2 nd Class. Yet Rossamund soon discovered his favoritetask was to join sentries, watching through the loopholes in the walls or fromthe observation benches upon the roof. Dubbed the Fighting Top, it was a place he quickly decided was the bestin the whole cothouse. From there, highand safe, he could marvel at the whole flatland of the Frugelle with littleinterruption and still be considered working. 
	Threnody didnot share his enthusiasm for the view."This is an ugly place," she declaimed darkly as they watchedwith Theudas after middens. "All Ican see is a hundred nooks for bufaboos to flourish." 
	Even as shespoke there came a single flash of lightning far away north, leaping from theflat cover of cloud straight to the earth.A second distant bolt had Theudas ducking. 
	"What, bymy aching bowels, was that?" the lampsman exclaimed.
	The peal ofthunder took a long time to reach them, and by then it was only a sullengrumble.
	"Maybe Europe has found her rever-man!" Rossamund stared in the direction of thestrike, heart thumping with fright. 
	"Maybe,"replied Threnody, her tone saying, Whocares!
	Threnody'ssour misgivings and the regularity of lamp-lighting life soon dulled thenovelty of a new location.A day'sbeginning was marked by the usual rattle of drums and its end by the cry "A lamp,A lamp to light your path!" declaring the arrival of the Haltmire lighters -- stern, stiff fellows that theStoolers called "Limpers." Then, as at Winstermill, was a little time for each day-watchman to doas he pleased before douse-lanterns. However, Rossamund found the sameness of each day -- as at Winstermill --a real and surprising comfort; for all their overfamiliarity, the routines werepowerfully settling. 
	Different fromthe manse, were Domesdays.Out here theywere not free of labor; indeed the lantern-watch had no rest at all. It was a day of reduced work, but House-MajorGrystle was of the opinion that idle hands make waste, and the vigil wasmake-and-mend day where clothes were patched and proofing was mended. 
	Yet in betweenlight Domesday duties and any spare moment of an evening, the Stoolers enjoyedwhat Rossamund soon considered his favorite pastime:sitting in the mess to play at checkers andthe card games of lesquin and pirouette. They conducted themselves with far better grace and mirth than theprentices and, though the stakes were high, there was no bickering on theshuffle or squabbling over who could bet what or when. At pirouette -- where the winning hand had thelosing hand do a silly dance -- they went easy on Rossamund, letting him learn;but Threnody they needed to give no such grace. She quickly showed herself a match for all, even Mister Harlock, thesergeant-master, who proved shrewdly adept at outwitting most of hisbillet-mates. Young Theudas, however,was far too sharp and beat all with great whoops!of victory as he mercilessly had everyone -- even Rossamund -- hopping to onedance or another as they lost the round. 
	"KindlyLadies Watch the Happy Aurangs again!" he declared triumphantly, throwingdown both queens, both duchesses and both aurangs.
	Half thesuccess of the game was knowing precisely what made for a winning hand; therewas a long list of combinations, just like the Hundred Rules of Harundo, andRossamund was slow to remember them all.Once again his own hand was pathetically meager, the worst of the roundand now -- for the fifth time that night -- he was made to gambol about, curlinghis arms in and out calling, "I'm a monkey! I'm a monkey!" his face attaining thehue of the red side of his quabard. 
	"Go easyon the new babbies," Lamplighter-Sergeant Mulch chuckled while the otherStoolers guffawed at Rossamund's antics.Threnody looked on with an expression of almost felinesatisfaction. Mysteriously, Theudasnever seemed to trump her, and she had not yet been made to dance a singleturn. 
	Mulch'swell-intentioned interjection only made Theudas more gleefully determined towin, and Rossamund was made to turn a jig many more times before he won hisfirst hand.Of all his billet-mates,Aubergene or Lightbody were perhaps the most unfortunate at cards. 
	"Ye'dhave to be the most losingest two I ever clapped eyes on!"Under-Sergeant Poesides would laugh almostevery night as he watched either unfortunate lighter lope about foolishly asthe winning cards directed. He and allthe others -- whether Stooler, Bleaker or Limper -- would refuse to play them atthe more serious hands of lesquin. Herethe spoils of victory were grog rations and favors; the lowest-valued favor wasto stand in for kitchen duties or firelock cleaning, the value quicklyescalating to the ultimate prize: havinganother take your place to muck the jakes. Out here sewer-workings were not nearly as sophisticated as atWinstermill, and the water closets needed frequent flushing with buckets of olddishwater and cleaning with broad, blunt shovels on long handles -- an odiousjob, the most unpleasant task for the day-watch. 
	Thehouse-major would play no game of chance against his men -- especially notlesquin -- declaring solemnly that "an officer should never take from thoseunder his command nor be seen to be overborne by them either."
	
	** * * * 
	
	Near the endof their first week new stores arrived on the back of a long dray that hadlumbered the dangerous Wettin Lowroad up from Hurdling Migh.Rossamund knew only vaguely of thiscity: an isolated settlement -- so hisperegrinate told him -- semi-independent in its remoteness and filled with astern yet hospitable people. The driverof the dray and his grim-looking side-armsman were both pale-lookingfellows. They had apparently made thenorthward journey often, but the threatening rumor of bogle and nicker hadforced them to hire a scourge for protection. 
	This hirelingwas called the Scarlet Tarquin.He - she- it - sat stiffly now at the front of the truck swathed entirely in redfascins, bandaged crown to toe in protective cloth with only two round lensesprotruding at the eyes. Laden withsalumanticums, stoups, powder-costers and all the appurtenances of scolding,the scourge simply watched but did not offer help. Passing the red-wrapped teratologist as heand Threnody tumbled down the steps to help unload, the young lighter wasaffronted by a faint, yet powerfully unpleasant whiff of potent chemistry. He stayed well clear of this scarlet scourgeas he worked. 
	On the draywere piled crates of musket balls, wayfoods and script parts; butts of rum,wine and black powder; sacks of flour, cornmeal and dried pease; even threebolts of undyed drill for making-and-mending day.While two lighters stood at guard on theroad, every item was hauled up by a limber-run sheer on the fourth floor, itswinch arm swung out from broad double doors -- the store-port high inWormstool's wall. Climbing into thedray, Rossamund helped Theudas and Poesides shift and tie each load to thesheer cord. 
	Standing belowby the flat truck, the tired and humorless driver was arguing vociferously withSemple the day-clerk about the excessive charge for service this time.
	"Thywants they goods timely and whole, do thee not?" the driver wassaying."Safe passage for cargodern't come cheap nowadays." Heglared at the Scarlet Tarquin for emphasis. 
	Rossamund didnot hear the reply, for Poesides moved away with sudden violence, giving agreat shout:"Watch it lad!The knot'scome loose! Load's goin' to fall!" The under-sergeant tied to grab at him butdid not get a grip as he stumbled away. 
	"Clear out below!" came asharp cry from the storeport above. 
	Rossamundlooked up and there hurtling down to crush him was a butt, set free by a poorlytied knot -- a knot he had wound himself.The young lighter hesitated in his fright, stupidly heedless of his owndanger and more concerned with the possible harm to the stores. 
	"Rossamund!" Threnody yelped. 
	Yet he stoodtransfixed as the heavy barrel dropped on him; instead of leaping aside hecaught the entire weight in his arms with little more than a slight huff! -- just as you might catch aninflated ball. The weight of the loaddrove him to the truck-top, pinning him on his back. He held the butt on his chest for severalastounded beats before lifting it and setting it carefully back on the tray,keenly aware of the equally astounded faces all turned to him, even peering inamazement from the fourth floor. 
	"Did yesee that?" he heard drift down from above."Fifty pound of musket shot and he catched it without atrouble!" 
	"How'dyou do that?" Theudas exclaimed."That was a full butt of balls! It would have smashed even Sequecious flat!" 
	Threnodyrushed to the side of the dray-truck and looked up at him."Rossamund! Are you whole?" 
	"I-Ibelieve so..." was all the young lighter could get out.He tugged at the white solitaire about histhroat, seeking better breath. 
	"That'senough heavy loading for ye, lad," Poesides declared."Ye can't depend on freakish catches allthe time in this job. Take a spellinside. Have Mister Tynche orSplinteazle take a look at ye if ye reckon it necessary. I'll leave ye in the hands of the lass." 
	Rossamundobeyed, Threnody helping him up each stairway.
	"Youshould have been pounded to pea-mash by that bullet-barrel," she insisted.
	"My chestdoes hurt, if that's more satisfying," Rossamund answered wryly.
	"Oh,ha-ha."Threnody did not lookamused. "You should hardly make ajest of such a horrid thing. I thoughtyou were done in! Poesides has itright: most certainly a freakishcatch." 
	Talk of hisfeat buzzed about the cothouse in an instant, and other Stoolers popped theirheads out from nooks to send funny looks his way.
	Safelydeposited on his bunk, Rossamund took off his proofed-silk sash and his quabardto relieve the bruised tenderness in his ribs.
	"What isthat about your chest?" Threnody asked, crouching by him and looking atthe loose collar of his shirt.
	Rossamund'sinnards almost burst open with fright. "h no, my Exstinker bandage!"It's- it's- it's... it's for putting onnullodor," he tried. 
	"What,the one that Critchety-crotchety ledgermain fellow made you?" the girllighter questioned.
	Frowning,Rossamund nodded.
	"Youdon't use it, do you?" Threnody snorted.
	His frowndeepening, he nodded once more.
	"When?Even out unloading carts?" 
	"Aye!"Rossamund hissed in exasperation."All the time! It was acommand of my old masters back at the foundlingery." 
	"Aren'tyou the obedient little munkler, then?" Threnody looked narrowly athim.She turned and left him to recoveralone. 
	
	** * * * 
	
	Later in theday, when goods were safely stowed and the dray left, returning to Bleakhalland then home, presumably to Hurdling Migh, Rossamund was called to House-MajorGrystle's desk.
	"What isthis that I hear of:you snatchingfalling loads as if they were light parcels?" the house-major queried. 
	"Icouldn't well have let it fall to crash, sir."Rossamund was a little baffled by the fussmade of his fortunate grab. 
	Grystle gave abaffled blink of his own."No, Isuppose you couldn't have at that." He dusted a fleck off his pristine sleeve. "A powerful fine catch either way,Lampsman. I did not know they raised youso strong in Boschenberg -- the lords at the Mill would be well advised toprentice more of your countrymen." 
	"Aye,sir."
	"Maybe weshould make you our fellow to challenge those stuffy Limpers to awrench-of-arms?"The house-majorgave a kindly smile. 
	Rossamund didnot really know what his superior was talking about."Maybe, sir" was all he could thinkto say. 
	After a clumsypause that grew into an uncomfortable silence, Rossamund was dismissed.
	Quizzical eyeswere on him all that night at mains, the story growing some in its retelling.Aubergene asked him how he was feeling after catching half the load of thedray.
	"It wasreally just one butt, nothing more," Rossamund explained.
	"Aye, butI heard it was a very full one."
	Rossamundshrugged.
	Fortunatelythe incident quickly receded into the routine.Not more than two days later he was able to enter a room without therebeing that strange, deliberate silence. It was not completely forgotten, however, for it earned Rossamund a newname: "The Great Harold" they began itcall him, or "Master Haroldus," after the hero of the Battle of the Gates. Not even in the face of the awe of theprentices when he killed the gudgeon had Rossamund ever felt socomplimented. He had been given a newname -- a proper military nickname -- and the quiet, hidden joy of it had himsmiling himself to sleep for the rest of the week. 
	"Ithought Harold was a skold," was all Threnody said in quibble onebreakfast.
	"Aye, hewas," Aubergene answered her, from across the bench, "but he was adead-mighty one."
	Thankfully,she did not say any more to spoil Rossamund's delight, nor did she ventureanother word about the barrel or his Exstinker bandage.
	
	** * * * 
	
	Proving tohave suffered no permanent discomfort from his catching feat, Rossamund wassoon employed in his very first excursion away from the cothouse.On the opening day of the second week he wassent with Poesides, Aubergene and Lightbody to carry stores to a poor oldeeker-woman -- an exile who had fled across the Ichormeer from somewhereeast. Rossamund was astounded thatlighters would seek to aid one of the under class, a reject of her own societyand unwanted in the Empire as well. 
	"Ah!Master Haroldus has come to lend us hismighty hands!" Poesides said in kindly jest as hey readied to leave. 
	The otherlighters smiled warmly in response as Rossamund ducked his head to hide hisdelight.
	The necessarystores -- foodstuffs, clothing, repellents, a small quantity of black powder andballs -- were lifted onto their backs and they departed, Whelpmoon observingthem blearily as they filed out the heavy front door and down the narrowsteps.Cold was the morning, its softbreath stinging cheeks, the eastern horizon orange-pink with the sun's rising. 
	"Whereare we going to? Rossamund asked Aubergene quietly as they crossed the road andstood on its northern verge.
	The lighteradjusted his grip on the long-rifle he bore."There's a small seigh out north near the banks of the Frugal wherean old dame lives. Mama Lieger is hername. The bee's buzz is hat she likes totalk to the bogles and that's why she lives far out here -- fled from Worms toescape accusing tongues. 
	"Aye, andnow we're the sorry sods who 'ave to do 'er deliveries," interjectedLightbody."I've 'eard it she wassome wild strig-woman when she was younger, coming from one of them irritabletroupes of wild folk from the Geikelund out back of Worms." 
	"Didn'tthe folks where she's from try to hang her?" Rossamund had a vision of theuneasy destructress with flashing blades and flying hair having monsters aroundfor supper.
	"I reckonshe must have got away afore they could."Aubergene smiled. 
	Rossamundshifted the uncomfortable load and stared a little suspiciously at the uneasythrewd that brooded out beyond the road-edge."Why doesn't she have Squarmis the costerman do thedelivering?" 
	"'Causethat filthy salt-horse won't take things to the likes of her," answeredPoesides, "and she could ne'er afford him to if ever he did.No, lad, it is our honor to take thesesupplies to her. She bain't the onlyeeker to get our help: it's thelighters' way out here, to succor all kinds in need withoutfault-findin'." He gave an acerbicsideways look at Lightbody. 
	"Butisn't she a sedorner?" Rossamund pressed, feeling a glimmer of hope."I thought lighters would have said all sedorners were bad folk and donethem in somehow." 
	"A lamp'sworth is proved by its color, lad."The under-sergeant gave him a curious look. "Mama Lieger has done good for us, so wedo for her benefit as she has done for ours... and maybe -- if she does holdconversationals with the local hobs -- she might put in a good word for us with them. But just have yer intellectuals about ye,else she'll have ye believing that some monsters are not so bad afterall." 
	"Aye..."Aubergene muttered, "though some might agree with her on that one."
	Almoststumbling down the side of the highroad, Rossamund looked in surprise at thelampsman, a dawning of respect rising in his bosom.
	"Stopperthat talk, Lampsman!" Poesides barked."Her saying such things is one bend of a crook, but ye spratting onso is a whole other. I don't want tohave to leave ye with the old gel when we get to her house." 
	Aubergeneducked his head."Aye,Under-Sergeant," he murmured. 
	Poesides fixedRossamund with a commanding eye. "We're all about quiet when walking offthe road, so silence them questions for now."
	The youngestlighter obeyed and said naught as the under-sergeant traveled an unmarked paththrough the thick lanes and thickets of thistle and cold-stunted olive and teatrees.In single file the three followedafter, walking as carefully as they could without going too slow. The shaley soil clinked softly as their bootsbroke the damp, fog-dampened surface, to reveal the earth beneath still dry anddusty. This was indeed a parched place,yet life still flourished, making the most of what little moisture it gleanedfrom the damp southern airs. 
	Alwayssearching left and right, all four kept eyes and ears sharp for signs ofmonsters.Tiny birds chased on eitherside of them, flitting rapidly through the thick twine of thorny, twiggybranches, rarely showing themselves but for a flash of bright sky blue orfiery, black-speckled red. Rossamundwanted to stop, to be still for a time and breathe in the woody smells andquietly observe the nervous flutterers, but on they marched, pausing only for abrief breather and a suck of small beer. 
	Two miles outfrom the Wormway the difficult country opened out a little and began to gentlydecline, a broad view of the Frugal vale before them, gray, thorny, patchedwith dark spinneys of squat, parched trees.Aubergene and Lightbody moved to walk on either side of Poesides. Keen to prove himself a worthy, savvy lighterRossamund did the same, stepping straight into a spider's web strung betweentwo man-high thistles and still glistening with dew in the advancing morning. 
	"Ack!"he spluttered and scrabbled at the stickiness on his face, terrified somelittle crawler might be about to sink fangs into his nose or crawl and nest inhis hair.
	"Holdyour crook in front of your face," Aubergene offered in a hush, claspinghis long-rifle vertically in front of him in example."Catches the webs and keeps your dialsafe of them." 
	There was nota glimpse or hint of a single monster the whole way, yet the land still heededthem and knew they walked where men seldom did our should.Choughs scooted away with a flash of theirwhite tail feathers at the lighters' advance through the cold land, looping lowthrough the stunted swamp oaks, letting out their clear calls: a single note bright yet mournful, ringingacross the flats. As the day-orb reachedthe height of its meridian Rossamund spied a high-house -- a seigh -- very muchas those eeker-houses he saw from the Gainway down to High Vesting. This one looked older, though -- very much asif it belonged here, grown somehow rather than built by human action; a saggingpile hidden behind a patch of crooked, fragrant swamp oaks. Its too-tall chimneys looked near ready totopple; its roof was entirely submerged in yellow lichens; weedy straw grewfrom every crevice in the lower footings. In this place the threwd was different somehow, so gentle and insinuatingthat Rossamund hardly perceived it; the watchfulness was not so hostile --indeed, it was almost welcoming. Rossamund might have liked to stay here. He looked pensively up at the high-house. 
	There was nostair to the gray-weathered door nearly twenty feet above.
	Poesides tookRossamund's fodicar from him."Wereally must get ye a right lengthened crook," he muttered. Hefting it up, the under-sergeant deftlyhooked a cloth-covered chain hanging well above their heads from the wall bythe door. He gave it a series ofdeliberate tugs and waited. 
	Aubergene andLightbody kept watch at their backs.
	There was onlya brief wait before the lofty door opened with a clunk and a small head peepedwithout.
	"Ah-hah,das gut aufheitermen!" Rossamund seemed to hear, a soft woman's voicespeaking incomprehensibly in what he could only presume -- from his prenticingwith Lampsman Puttinger -- was Gott."Guten Tag, happy fellows!" the voice called a little louderin Brandenard. 
	"MotherLieger!" Poesides gave a hoarse cry, trying to be heard without makingnoise."We have yer stores." 
	"Gut,gut," and the head disappeared.What had appeared like a small, moldering eave over the door shudderedand, with a click, began to drop smoothly to the ground, lowered on thick cord. 
	It was anelevator.They were rare in Boschenbergand, no matter how simple this device was, out in the wilds was the last placeRossamund expected to find one. 
	Each lighterwas raised up on this small, worn platform.Poesides went first, and as the smallest Rossamund was sent up next,finding the elevator more stable than it first appeared. He had no notion how Mama Lieger mightoperate this device if ever she left the house, but this pondering did notoccupy his mind long. At the top hefound a tiny front room -- the obverse -- with loopholes in the back wall andanother solid door too, which was currently open. The woman was not there, though domesticbustle was coming from some rearward room. Rossamund waited as the under-sergeant worked the mechanism that raisedthe platform. All present, Poesides ledthem through the second door to carefully deposit their burdens in a smallcloset at the end of a short, white hall. 
	"Ahh,"came that soft female voice, getting louder as the speaker appeared from a sidedoor."I must be thanking you onceagain for keeping a poor old einsiedlerin's pantry full." 
	Bearing a trayof opaque white glasses, Mama Lieger turned out to be a neat, rather dumpy oldlady, silvery tresses arranged in a precise bun, neither too tight nor toorelaxed.Her homely clothes of shawl,stomacher-dress and apron were sensibly simple as was the interior of herhumble dwelling. Run-down as it was, theparlor into which the men were invited was clean and tidy, any drafty holesplugged with unused flour bags neatly rolled and wedged into the gaps. Yet for all this orderly homeliness thereremained in her puddingy features evidence of the sharp, hawklike face shewould have once possessed and a disquieting keen and untamed twinkle in her penetratinggaze -- something deeply aware and utterly irrepressible. Serving them the piping, sharply spicedsaloop the old eeker-woman looked Rossamund over hat-brim to boot-toe. "Who is this new one, then?" shesmiled, her expression most definitely hawkish. "Do they make lighters in half sizes now, yes? To take up less room in your festung -- yourfortress -- yes?" 
	Poesides andthe lampsmen gave a hearty chuckle.
	"I--"Rossamund fumbled for a proper response.
	As she passeda drink to him, the young lighter noticed the hint of a dark brown swirl insinuatingout from under the eeker-woman's long sleeve, its style and color looking sovery like a monster-blood tattoo.Rossamund nearly missed his grip on the cup of saloop. 
	Mama Liegernoticed him noticing her marks and peered at him closely."What a one you have brought me,Poesides." The neat old lady'swild, black eyes gleamed disconcertingly. "It is so very clear this one has seen his tale of ungerhaur; haveyou not, my little enkle, yes? Pooryoung fellow, I see the touch on him -- I see he bears the burden of seeing likeMama Lieger sees, of thinking like she thinks, yes?" 
	Is she calling me a sedorner too?Rossamund looked nervously from her to hisbillet-mates: he did not relish beingostracized so early in his posting. 
	"Aye,aye, Mama."The under-sergeant cameto his rescue. "Ye'd have everyonelost in the outramour if ye could," he said tightly. 
	"That Iwould and the better for the world if you all were.Not to matter, you stay out here for a longtime and the land will quietly speak to you -- mutter mutter -- the schrecken --the threwd -- changing your mind: is thatnot right, my little enkle?" Shepeered at Rossamund once more. 
	"I-ah--"How can she talk suchdangerous words so freely? He wonderedat the mild expressions of his fellow lampsmen, sipping tentatively at theirpiquant saloop and trying not to show how unpleasant they found it. Whydoesn't Poesides damn her as a vile traitor and have her hanged from thenearest tree?These fellows weren'tmindless invidists -- monster-haters -- not at all. Rossamund did not know what to think of them. 
	Apparentlyheedless, Mama Lieger sat in a soft highbacked chair and engaged the olderfellows in a simple chatter for a time, yet here shrewd attention constantlyflickered over to Rossamund.
	Uncomfortable,Rossamund looked at the mantel above the cheerily crackling fire.There he spied a strange-looking doll, agrinning little mannish-shaped thing with a big head and small body madeentirely of bark and tufts of old grass. Even as he looked at it the smile seemed to expand more cheekily and,for a sinking beat, Rossamund was sure he saw an eye open -- a deep yellow eyethat reminded him ever so much of Freckle. 

	The eye gavehim a wink.
	Rossamund jerkedin fright, spilling a little of his saloop.
	All other eyesturned on him.
	"Ye gotthe horrors, Lampsman?" Poesides asked in his most authoritative voice, ahint of disapproval in his eyes, as if Rossamund's behavior was a shame to thelighters.
	"I--"was all Rossamund could say for a moment.He gripped his startled thoughts and chose better words. "I have not, Under-Sergeant, I-I wasstartled by that ugly little doll," he finished weakly. 
	"An uglydoll."Poesides looked less thanpleased. 
	Mama Liegerstood spryly."He is neverugly!" she insisted, rising to stand by the wizened little thing. "My little holly-hop man. He is just sleeping his littlesleeping-head." She patted therugged thing with a motherly "coo," and turned a knowing look onRossamund. 
	He could notbelieve she was being so bold, nor that his fellows did not seem overlyperturbed.Rossamund looked fixedly intohis glass of saloop and did not look up again till they were shuffling out ofthe room to leave. It was a relief to begoing, despite the friendly threwd. Thefour made a hasty journey in the needling cold, Rossamund as eager as the otherto be home, back to the familiarity of the cothouse, their path easier for thelightening of their backs. He was gladtoo for the enforced silence to stopper his questioning mouth and for thedistraction of the threwd growing less friendly again to occupy histhoughts. With Wormstool clearly insight, a dark, stumpy stone finger protruding high upon the flatland, Aubergenedared a quiet question. 
	"Whatwere you getting all spooked at with that unlighterly display in front of theMama, Rossamund?"
	Rossamundflushed with shame."That -- thatholly-hop doll moved, Aubergene," he hissed. "It winked and grinned at me!" headded at the other lighter's incredulous look. 
	"You're adead-strange one, Lampsman Bookchild."Aubergene gave a grin of his own. "Maybe Mama Lieger is right and you can see like she sees?" He scratched his cheek with an openpalm. "I've sure seen thedead-strangest occurrences since being out here; changes the way you think, itdoes. Perhaps you can put in a good wordto the monsters for us too, 'ey?" 
	Rossamund'sguts griped.Was the man beingserious? Yet Aubergene's grin was wryand teasing and Rossamund grinned foolishly in return. 
	"Hush itthe brace of ye!" Poesides growled."Ye knows better..." 
	Of one thingRossamund was becoming more certain:hewas quickly growing to like these proud, hardworking, simple-livinglighters. He could begin to imagine a lamplighter'slife out here with them. 
	
	** * * * 
	
	During theirthird week and an endless round of chores, Europestopped by Wormstool, accompanied by a lampsman from Bleakhall as her hiredlurksman. She had managed to persuadehis superiors to release him to aid in her vital task of keeping the Paucitinesafe -- that was how she told it at least. Thoroughly impressed to be meeting the Branden Rose, the Stoolers jokedwith their Bleaker chum, declaring him the most fortunate naught-goodbox-sniffer in all the Idlewild. 
	"Bye, andI'm earnin' more a day than ye all do in a month," he bragged.

	Europe ignored them as she spoke briefly with Rossamund. 
	"Did youcatch the rever-man?" was almost the first thing he said to her."Was that your lightning we saw lastweek?" 
	"It mightwell have been.The basket was well knitand required a little more -- push, shall we say. I never found out where it came from,though. Tell me," she said,changing the subject, "are you happily established in this totteringfortlet?" 
	"Aye,happily enough," Rossamund answered.He wondered how he might fare trying to persuade Europeto hunt only rever-men. Probably not well, he concluded, and asked conversationally,"Have you been to the Ichormeer yet?" 
	"No."Europefrowned quizzically. "There is nocall to go picking fights one does not need." 
	Threnody hadcome down to the mess but caught one glimpse of the fulgar, and with a politegrimace and a forced "How-do-you-do" went straight back up towherever she had come from.
	"How isour new-carved miss finding the full-fledged lighting life?" Europe asked amusedly. 
	Rossamundwatched Threnody's petulant retreat."I think she might be sorry for leaving Herbroulesse." 
	Europe clucked her tongue. "The appeal of an adventurous lifeseldom lasts in the bosom of a peer's pampered daughter." 
	Rossamund wasnot sure if the fulgar was talking about Threnody or herself.
	"Tell me,Rossamund, have you received any replies to your letters?"
	It took a beator two for the young lighter to realize she was talking of his controversialmissives to Sebastipole and the good doctor.All the worry for Winstermill and Numps returned in a flood. "No," he answered simply. What else to say? 
	Europe's eyes narrowed. "Hmm." 
	"What canit mean?"Rossamund was suddenlyafraid that he had done the wrong thing in sending them. 
	"Nothing,"Europe offered, her voice distant. "Everything. It probably simply indicates that yourcorrespondents are too busy with their own affairs and, more so, that there islittle they can do and little to be said as a result." 
	"Oh."His soul sank then lifted angrily. "There are times in the small hours Iwant to board a po'lent and hurry back to face Swill myself. I beat his rever-man and I can beat him too! 
	"I amsure you can, little man," Europe chuckled, "should you get thatclose...Keep at your work here,Rossamund. Let the rope run out -- theywill eventually choke on deeds of their own invention. Such are the bitter turnings of Imperialpolitics: you have to endure much illbefore you prevail. Pugnating the nickeris a much simpler life... and you live longer too," she finished with asmirk. 
	After anexchange of respectful greetings with House-Major Grystle, Europewas soon on her way again, hired lamplighter lurksman in tow. 
	"I go toHaltmire now, to solve problems for the Warden-General," she declared infarewell, adding quietly to Rossamund, "It should prove to be anintriguing venture -- I hear some distant grief has quite soured the Warden'sintellectuals.So wish me well." 
	"Dowell," Rossamund answered anxiously.
	Her departureleft a hint of bismuth and something for the lighters to talk about on theboring watches long after.
	
	** * * * 
	
	As forThrenody, the lamplighters of Wormstool themselves had scant clue how to livewith a female in their number.Regardless they proved proud of her all the same. 'Our little wit-girl' they called her, andwould 'ma'am' her wherever she went in the cothouse. They would grow shy when she descended to thewell in the cellars to do her toilet, and some even doted a little, going tosome lengths to make sure she had ample supply of parts for her plaudamentumand other treacles. At every change ofwatch, when the Haltmire lighters would arrive, the Stoolers would boast thatthey were better than their Limper chums, "'cause we have awit!" That there were no othersamazed Rossamund. He had assumed lahzarswould be standard issue on this leg of the Wormway, yet there were only twoskolds at Haltmire and nothing better than a dispensurist at the four cothouses. 
	Clearlyenjoying it, Threnody quickly grew comfortable with the attention.She took to wearing a pair of fine-looking doglocksin equally fine holsters at her hips, bearing them everywhere and playing thepart of pistoleer at last. 
	"Wheredid you get those? " Rossamundinquired one middens. 
	"Beautifulpieces, aren't they?" the girl beamed.
	He had toagree:they were indeed attractive, madeof black wood and silver, every metal part engraved with the most delicatefloral filigree, elegant weapons despite their heavy bore. 
	"Do youremember the prolonged stop we made at Hinkerseigh?"
	"Aye."He recalled most of all that she had madethem wait. 
	"Thesewere why I was gone.I purchased themfrom Messrs. Lard & Wratch of ChortleLane, finest gunsmiths in thePlacidine." Her beam widened. "I have longed for them for so long,looking in on them any time we made an excursion to that town." 
	"How muchdid they cost?" he whispered."How did you afford them?" 
	Threnody'ssmile vanished."Don't you knowthat you never ask a woman how muchanything costs!" she declaimed. 
	Rossamund wassure that any regrets she might have had for coming to Wormstool were cured.
	
	** * * * 
	
	A commonpractice of a dousing lantern-watch was to leave the first two great-lamps ontheir route still undoused.Thesemorning lights were left glowing to provide a little light to the surrounds ofthe cothouse while the sun still tarried on the lip of the world. Part of this practice involved members of theday- or house-watch then going out and dousing them when the day-shine wasbrighter. 
	OnGallowsnight Eve, with every vertical protrusion in Wormstool hung with toynooses of string and slight rope and neckerchiefs to herald this ghoulishfestivity, Rossamund and Threnody were sent to douse the morning-lights.They did this under the eagerly watching eyeof Theudas -- eagerly watching, that is, of Threnody. He was only slightly less recently joined toWormstool than they and could not be happier for it, now that this dark-hairedpeerlet had arrived. At the base of EastWorm 1 West Halt 52 Threnody and Theudas swapped a little chatter while theylet Rossamund struggle to douse the lamp. 
	"So howis old Grind-yer-bones?" Theudas inquired."Still grinding away on all the poor prentices?" 
	"I can tellyou," answered Threnody, "that he was none too happy about us beingsent out so soon.Went into apoplexiesarguing with the Master-of-Clerks." 
	"Ahh,dear old Grind-yer-bones, he's an awkward basket."Theudas shook his head. "The kind ye want on yer side in afight. We always reckoned he ate spentmusket balls for his breakfast as the only things that might satisfy hisstomach of a morning." 
	Clang!Rossamund took another swing at the ratchet and missed. The other two seemed more than content to simplywatch as he failed. 
	"Here,let me help you, Rossamund," Threnody piped, going over to him."He has never been much good at crookwork," she said motheringly over her shoulder. "I've had to help him with the windingbefore." 
	"Is thatthe truth, Master Haroldus?" asked Theudas with an incredulous laugh.
	"Just theonce," Rossamund muttered angrily.
	"Littlewonder then ol' Grind-yer-bones was so reluctant to ever let you out,"marveled Theudas."Whoever heard ofa lighter who couldn't light?" 
	Threnody gavea short braying laugh but saw Rossamund's face and became serious."He can throw a good potivethough," she offered. 
	"All Ineed is a proper length crook!" Rossamund growled as he tried again.With a belated clink he got the crank-hook home in the ratchet slot and with angryjerks began to wind in the bloom. 

	25
	Thickets And Thrumcops
	
	thrumcopalso called abog-button and related to a larger, tasty and oddly threwdish fungus known asausterpill, thrumcops are a funguslike mushroom with a deep brown pileusspotted with swollen off-white circular patches.The essence of thrumcops can be used inrudimentary repellents, giving rise to the idea that eating them on their ownwill cause this essence to seep through your pores and make you less appetizingto a monster. 
	
	The restless airs of theFrugelle were rarely still, winds ever blowing from the lower cardinals. If they came from the west they smelled ofparched rock and hinted too of fennel and loam; if from the south they broughtwith them a tang of the ocean deeps; but from the east the winds' coldbreathing carried the sick stink of rot and fire-damp -- the portentous,threwdish reek of the Ichormeer. It wason one of these putrid easterly days, with the sky lowering and threateninggales, that Rossamund and Threnody were set the task of joining Sequecious theSebastian cook to find more thrumcops to store for more breakfasts. House-Major Grystle showed great concern fortheir safety, handing over a portable timepiece to Rossamund. "Take this hack-watch, Lampsman,"the man added, "and be gone no more than three quarters of one hour. Just a brief search and back here again. Someone will be watching from the roof, andif you are in distress, send up a flare." 
	"Aye,sir."Rossamund cradled the remarkabledevice for an awed moment then hid it as safely as he could on his person. He was given charge too of a tubelikeflammagon -- a flintlock flare-thrower, which he hung from his shoulder alongwith his salumanticum. 
	Still in hiskitchen apron and wearing a broad-brimmed catillium to cover his bald pate fromthe pale glare of the clouds, Sequecious the cook carried with him a largecauldron.This pot was of such girththat another man might have struggled to carry it in both arms, yet the fellowdangled it in the crook of one powerful, flabby arm. In the other, Sequecious bore a boltarde withpistol-length wheel locks extending from the pole on either side of the axlikeblades. The blade edges were patternedwith a distinctive spatter of congealed black; the telltale spackle of a weaponsmeared with aspis, one of the more effective venificants or distinct monsterpoisons. 
	Like so manyof the firelocks and hand arms of the Wormstool lighters, it was not prescribedissue.These fellows may have behaved inan exemplary manner and kept their harness to a higher-than-drill-book standard,yet their personal weapons were as diverse as the personalities who wieldedthem. Perhaps Rossamund's favorite wasan ax-carabine belonging to Aubergene, with its wooden butt thinned to a handle-- the stock and barrel not much longer than that of a pistol -- and the muzzlefixed with a thin, silver-crescent ax-head counterbalanced by a war-hammerfluke. It was an elegant piece, and LampsmanAubergene was clearly proud of it. 
	With manygrins and some wordless gestures Sequecious got the two young lighters tofollow him; Threnody regarding every request with scorn but obedientnevertheless.
	Standing onthe edge of the highroad facing north, the cook pointed to a thick stand of regalswamp oaks away to the northeast, about two hundred yards into theflatland."Thrumcops are being bestfound in there, tank yee," he said with a happy nod. The tallest and largest of the few copses andthickets that dotted the otherwise unrelieved flatness of the land, it was asclose to the Frugelle came to a forest. Despite all the warnings and suspicions of threwd, Rossamund was eagerto explore the somber wood. 
	In a spray ofdust and stones, they slid down the short, steep side of the road, the cookalmost upending himself in his career.He laughed the near-miss away and led them off into the weird world ofthe Paucitine flats. Semidried stands ofmustard weed and thistles thrice Rossamund's 

	
	height madelanes through the small, tough grasses.These lanes would run for seven or eight yards before another lane wouldcross it and block the way, making a weedy maze that was hard tocontradict. Sequecious waddled confidentlyalong a stubbly, stony route that would have had Rossamund disoriented but forthe glimpses he caught of Wormstool. Thefortalice was a conspicuous landmark in this vast, remote cosmos. The Imperial Spandarion flicked and crackedon high from the rooftop, as the lampsmen's washing strung out beneath whippedin unison. 
	There must have been water about, despite the arid soil and thirstyplants, for as they walked the young lighter could hear frogs croaking,creaking and ponging at every hand, it might have been a friendly chorus, butthe uneasy feeling of threwd, amplified by the fetid eastern breeze, turned theamphibious music sinister.Sometimesthey would stop, leaving an eerie hush that set Rossamund anxiously searchingfor a lurker. 
	Untroubled, Sequecious pushed effortlessly through a thicket and theyoung lighters followed in the wake the great man's girth made, unhindered bystem or twig.They were in the stand ofswamp oaks at last, a dim grove that soughed uneasily in the wind. 
	Clearly pooped by the effort of the short walk, the cook puffed,"Yee find out yonder, boyo," pointing to the farthest end of themodest wood."An' yee, girly, gobetween." He indicated the middleground to an unhappy-looking Threnody. "I am being right hereabouts. Look in between th' roots an' under the leaves an' be putting thrumcopsin these an' I bring them back to pot when full, tank yee," he concluded,giving the two an old post-bag each. 
	Barely comprehending the cook's odd talk but following his intention,Rossamund went to his designated end of the trees, his footfalls gritty on thedry, spongy mat of needles that kept the thicket floor clear of weeds and otherchoking grasses.Threnody walked alittle ahead of him. He could hear hermuttering, "I've been in the hands of the best sectifactors in the landand they have me out here looking for toadstools." Without another word she turned aside at anarbitrary place and began looking about the ground with little conviction,toeing here and there among roots. 
	Rossamund moved deeper into the grove.
	Wings whirring, a sparrow alighted suddenly on an overarchingbranch.With a sharp turn in hisinnards, Rossamund had the odd, almost threwdish sense that this was the samebird that had flown up to the doorsill of the carriage when the post-lentum waswaiting at Cothallow. He stopped, handson hips, and stared at the remarkable, persistent bird, which swiveled itshead, observing him cannily in return. 
	"Hallo," Rossamund said softly, "has the Sparrowling sentyou?"
	The sparrow chirruped loudly.
	Was that a reply?
	The tiny bird chirped again and shot away, Rossamund losing sight of itin the thick foliage.Cautiously hefollowed its path until he came to a small dell whose entire opposite flank wasoverrun by a large boxthorn crowding the roots of several tall swamp oaks. A loud chattering sparrow song sang fromwithin. 
	Rossamund froze, looking left, looking right, but nothing untowardappeared.He glanced behind and couldjust make out the massive white bulk of Sequecious clambering about the fartherend of the woods. Threnody was not visible,though Rossamund thought he could hear her foraging a short way off. Keeping an eye out, he crouched on hishaunches and began to carefully poke and rake among the needles and dry soilalong the lip of the dell, prospecting for the round fungus with distinct whitespots. Somewhere in the treetops, dovessoftly cooed... cuh-coo-hoo-oo,cuh-coo-hoo-oo... in the hissing quiet. Becoming engrossed in the search, Rossamund worked his way from tree totree, half filling his bag in quick time. It was only very gradually that he became alert to creeping movementsnearby, a sound different from the constant sussurus of the needle-leaves, asly stepping on needly ground. He firstthought it was Threnody, but the subtle sounds were from the entirely opposite direction. Without putting down his sack, the younglighter eased his free hand into his salumanticum. 
	A dark shape sneaked into view, creeping around the side of the boxthorn,a small figure, mottled and unexpectedly familiar... Was it?Surely not! It couldn't be... Yet it was!Shuffling on the opposite side of the small dell was Freckle. There before him was the glamgorn who hadcomforted him in the hold of the Hogshead,one hundred and fifty miles and over two months away. For a shocked breath they simply looked ateach other. 
	"Freckle?" Rossamund hissed, remembering himself and lookingquickly about, too startled to fuss with greetings."You can't be here! There's half a platoon of lighters in thatcothouse back there." He pointedover his shoulder at the shadowy tower. "Many of them, watching us!" 
	"No, no, no, little once-weepy Rossamund, it is youthat cannot stay, andstay you can't," the little fellow said musically, hopping from one footto the other, deep yellow eyes catching the meager, dappled lightbrilliantly. These eyes were limpid andanxious-wide, and Freckle's cheeky, once-happy face was now drawn with worryand fatigue. "Not here. Not with these people who don't know yet whatthey ought never to know. I have comeand you must get away with me." 
	"What do...?Buthow..."" Rossamund wanted todash over and hug Freckle, but this would be the action of an outramorine -- theworst kind of sedorner. Indeed, Frecklehimself proved keen to keep a little space between them. 
	"I kept a good long look and I saw you and I followed you and Iwaited," the little barky-skinned bogle said quick and low, "andsometimes Cinnamon would do the following and the waiting for this one while Iwent on other ways."
	Cinnamon has been watching too?Rossamund could not quite fathom what he washearing. 
	"I have watched you learning all the dividing, conquering ways withyour friends who would not be friends if they knew.Come along now, now come along," Frecklesaid, waving his hand. "You savedme so I save you. The Sparrowling willhave you and keep you, just as he ought. You belong nowhere, but it is safer for you to be with him. He--" 
	"Rossamund?" came a soft, too-familiar voice."Wh-- what are you doing with that -- thatthing?" 
	Threnody!"Ah -- I --" He looked back. There she was, picking through theunderbrush, looking deeply anxious. Shewas staring with stark intensity at Freckle, and even as she came, the girlpout her hand to her forehead. 
	"Threnody, NO!" Rossamund cried and was instantly overwhelmedwith her ill-practiced scathing, which drove him to his hands and knees."Threnody... no..." Gritting teeth, Rossamund forced himself toclarity, growling under his breath as he struggle to sit and reach into hissalumanticum for something to -- to stopThrenody from hurting Freckle! -- but it did not matter, for the cleverlittle glamgorn was already clean away. Threnody sprang after it, sending again, running wildly past theboxthorn and into the net of low branches through which Freckle had firstcome. Her hat was sent flying as shecrashed through the growth, falling at Rossamund's feet. He heard her flailing about fruitlessly,feeling the frequent edges of her scantly managed witting. 
	Rossamund had seen Freckle avoid a fulgar, and now the glamgorn hadeluded a wit -- albeit an unskilled one.
	Forcing himself back through the thickly interleaved branches Threnodyreturned, the clinging stems tangling with her hair.With a prolonged and angry grunt she pushedclear, yet something remained behind: her lustrous black curls. They were now a knotted mass weighing downseveral snaring twigs. For an awfulbreath Rossamund thought the wicked undergrowth had wrenched her hair from hervery scalp. With another shock herealized it was actually a wig. She had lost her hair from witting after all. 
	The girl stood in the clearing, blinking and pale, caught in a confustionof shame and fear and doggedness, her now bald head part hidden beneath whitebindings.
	"Haven't you ever seen a wit without her hair before?" she saiddarkly as she snatched her wig back from the twiggy snare, bringing most of itwith her.
	Utterly astonished and perplexed, Rossamund said nothing.
	Sequecious came rolling over, rubicund face dribbling sweat.
	"What is being yee problems?" he huffed, then puffed, "Noyelling or crying, tank yee!Come! We must be to going back at castle,"which was his term for Wormstool. "Yee noises make for th' unerhaur to come!" 
	For the short walk back to the cothouse Threnody remained tight-lipped,fidgeting with her wig, unable to set it right without a looking glass."If mother had let me be apistoleer..." Rossamund heard her mutter, "and not made me into astupid hair-losing neuroticrith!" 
	The achieved the safety of the cothouse unharmed.Hands on head, Threnody fled to her cot. Down in the cellar, Rossamund washed himself,expecting some angry observer to hurry down and haul him before the house-majoras a monster-loving outramorine. Required in the common-mess, he went as quietly as he might. Despite his fears there was not one comment;no one grabbed him and cried "Sedorner!"as he shuffled past the observers on the entry floor. Shamefaced and with his head down, hereturned the hack-watch to the house-major. Grystle said naught, while Semple the day-clerk simply gave Rossamund afirm, gentlemanly nod -- a greeting and nothing more. No onesaw me with Freckle!They do not know? Rossamund could not decide which was thestronger emotion: his guilt or hisrelief. 
	In the common-mess he and Threnody came back together and were set tocleaning the thrumcops:sitting at thetrestle, lopping the stubby stalks just above the ring, rubbing dirt from thespotty caps. 
	Vanity restored, Threnody refused to look at Rossamund.
	"The' good in these here," Sequecious chuckled, holding up athrumcop, "is these are being making us uneatable to the ungerhaur.Gets in tha sweats and so we tastes toobad. Very very good, tank yee." 
	Rossamund nodded, scarcely following the cook's monologue, wrinkling hisnose at the off-smelling fungus.I don't blame them.
	Sequecious rolled out of earshot.
	"What were you doing with that blighted bugaboo today?"Threnody whispered in a passion."You had your salt-bag -- you could have fought it. Instead I find you talking to it?" 
	"I--I was..."Rossamundhad been caught and there was nothing to do but admit it. 
	"Tell me, what in the Sundergird were you doing with it?"Threnody pressed."Swapping potiverecipes? Bogles are for slaying ordriving away, not chitter-chatter! I didnot get it, and now the little blightling will be off to murder someone'schickens -- or worse!" 
	"Not every bogle is a ravening gnasher, Threnody, deserving nothingbut a hasty death -- and certainly not Freckle! He helped me--"
	"That's the talk of a sedorner, Rossamund!Watch your words," Threnody seethedunder her breath, looking to Sequecious obliviously chopping at something inthe kitchen proper. "I cannotbelieve you actually know the wretched thing's name." 
	"I'm not a sedorner just because I can see that not all monsters arebad," Rossamund countered quietly but hotly."Else you could accuse me a murdererjust for saying that not all folks are good!" 
	"Ugh, lamp boy!"Thegirl rolled her eyes. "You soundmore like Dolours every time we talk! You should have been an eeker, not a lamplighter. You're most fortunate the cook did not spywhat was what, or someone else on sentries for that matter. If you meet the thing again, get rid of it! " 
	"I will not!"
	Threnody looked at him with slit-eyed scorn."To be hung on a Catherine wheel is abad way to end," she warned. 
	"How is it a good end to murder a friend?"
	"You just don't understand, do you, lamp boy?Well at least you can trust me to keep thisbetween you, me and the rising moon." 
	Rossamund did not answer.He washappy he did not understand and if understanding meant slaughtering every boglein sight, he never wanted to either. 
	They worked on in angry silence.
	
	** * * * 
	
	Between the guilt over the accidental tryst with Freckle and the regretfor his falling-out with Threnody, Rossamund kept to himself that night.Instead of joining his fellows in the gapbetween the Limpers' arrival and douse-lanterns for games of checkers andlesquin and tots of grog, he sat on his cot and wrote a letter to Fransitart. Dating it the fifth of Herse, he describedhis safe arrival, gave his new address and sent his deepest affections to allwho had them. It was a brief message. He did not mention the incident with thefriendly glamgorn, though it sat heavily in his thoughts: such things should never be committed topaper. Rossamund had never mentionedFreckle in any of his previous communications home. Asking the house-major if he might use hiswafer, Rossamund sealed the missive in a second blot of paper. 
	The next morning he went to Aubergene, intending to ask him to pass hisletter onto the Post-Master of Bleakhall at the end of the next night'slighting-leg.The lampsmen had justreturned from dousing, and were down in the cellars washing. Aubergene stood by a well bucket with hat onyet shirt off, showing bare back and shoulders crawling with scars andcruorpunxis: gruesome faces that glaredand sneered from shoulder, back or chest, mute witness of a lamplighter'sviolent life. 
	Rossamund almost slipped the last few steps in shock.
	Of course he had seen cruorpunxis before, but not so many on oneperson.This fellow seemed too young topossess such evidence of experience and slaughter. What great and terrible things had Aubergenedone to earn such markings? How many ofthose snarling faces had actually deserved to end so ignobly as pictures toadorn a man's trunk? 
	Shaking, the young lighter turned and hurried back up and away.Ithought Aubergene was only against the worst monsters -- how many of the worstones can there be?He would asksomeone some other time for the letter to be delivered. 
	
	** * * * 
	
	Later thatweek an unexpected thing occurred.Aletter came for Rossamund. 
	
	Rossamu ndBookchild
	Lampsman3rd Class 
	WormstoolCothouse
	ThePendant Wig
	TheIdlewild
	16thHeimio HIR 1601 
	
	Rossamu nd,
	I thankyou for your communication of the 2nd of Heimio and the 6 thof the same. I shall start withcongratulations on your promotion. Itsgaining might be early but it is still well deserved: you shall make a fine lighter. 
	Thematter of Numption and his bloom baths was so distressing I nearly took thefast advice-boat in harbor back to the manse.Whatever I can do from here I will and shall. 
	As youhave no doubt deduced from the address line, the Marshal and I remain in thesubcapital.The whole process of interviewsand reviews goes interminably slow. Oneday we might get a brief meeting to simply make a time for another brief meeting that might occur another week later. After all the rush and bluster of the firstsummons, the bureaucrats here are in no great hurry to give us a hearing. 
	All ofthis is more troublesome by the unsettling buzz that the Marshal might actuallybe relieved of his post, and the longer we are delayed our proper review, themore likely this wretched injustice becomes.There is certainly something most insalubrious and cunning in thecoincidence of events. What you havewritten to me in your second communiqu e is unfortunately of no smallsurprise, but with so many good folk all so unfortuitously removed from themanse there is currently little that can be immediately done.What is more we need harder proofs than wecurrently have. 
	I wish Icould write you happier tidings, but now is not that season.Nevertheless it is wise to remember that themost important battle to win is the last. 
	
	OfDiscipline and Limb,
	
	Sebastipole
	
	Lamplighter'sAgent
	Falsemanto the Earl of the Baton Imperial of Fayelillian,
	Lamplighter-Marshalof Winstermill
	EpistraScuthae
	TheConsidine
	ThePatricine
	
	Do notwrite to me upon these matters any further -- some seals have been tampered;information is going where it should not.

	Once he hadread it, Rossamund simply looked at the missive numbly.He wished too that Sebastipole could havewritten happier things. Eventuallynumbness turned into an anxious, angry gripping up under his ribs as herealized just how helpless he was to aid the Lamplighter-Marshal or Sebastipoleor even Numps. So much good inRossamund's small sphere was being brought to dust by the skillful machinationsof a self-serving few. He showed theletter to Threnody, who snorted cynically when she was done reading it. 
	"TheMarshal and the Agent flummoxed too:what are we to do now?" she said, apparently more interested incleaning and admiring her pristine pistolas. "The honorable suffer and the crafty prevail." 
	Rossamundthought to show it to the house-major, yet what would it matter to him really,besides which he was sure Sebastipole would rather his private messages werenot shown about.So Rossamund continuedto heed Europe's warning and keep his thoughtsto himself. Yet no matter how manynights he lay half sleeping, fretting over a solution, it never came. All he could see before him were limitlessdays of duty at Wormstool -- small, remote, irrelevant. 
	Surelysomething good will come from all this wretchedness?
	
	** * * * 
	
	One crisp,clear and early evening where the air itself felt as if it could snap with thechill, Rossamund was at sentry on the roof with Under-Sergeant Poesides and Lampsman2nd Class Theudas. 
	The FightingTop was a spectacular perch when no fog was about to hide the scene, awhole-compass view of the Frugelle, flat as flat could possibly be in anydirection he cared to look.There wereno hills, few very shallow valleys -- mere depressions in the earth, and endlesswithered shrubs and drought-blasted trees. Indeed, from up on the roof, the only notable feature -- apart from atiny wood of swamp oaks to the northeast -- was the Wormway itself. The Pendant Wig went west on the left hand,and kinked to east-northeast on the right: the final length of road before all habitation ceased completely andonly wide, empty wilds were left. On thehorizon, drawn as a deep reddish-purple line, was the western border of thefabled Ichormeer, the Gluepot, the Blood-Marsh, a brooding mark on the edge ofvision. He could almost feel threwdradiate from it, reaching even here, like the heat of a bonfire. 
	Yet tonight,sitting quietly, Rossamund observed the lantern-watch at the lighting instead,already four lamps down the way.How heloved the beauty of the gradual increase in the light of a newly woundgreat-lamp, the colors shifting from grassy-green through straw-yellow and, ifthe water was new, to wine-vinegar clear. 
	As he watched,a fifth lantern began to glow green.
	High off theground, on watch with brave men, he felt his troubles markedly diminishedhere.A long and distant caw of a crowdrifted in on the cold, fennel-perfumed breeze while restless wrens twitteredand dashed about in the thistles. Rossamund relished the lightening of his soul. Threnody and he were talking once more,though they were yet to fully heal, and the passing of only a little time lefthim feeling less troubled about Freckle. He gave an almost contented sigh. 
	Poesides, whohad been staring out to the south with a perspective glass, suddenly scuttledacross the narrow walk between the tiles and the wall, crouched behind arain-butt and waved the two others to do the same."Stay out o' sight," he hissedexcitedly. "There's some li'l boglethingy creeping down by the runnel there, not much more than one part of a mileyonder. If it don't spot us we might geta chance to take a few shots at the pot and spare ourselves a nasty end whenwe're out lighting." 
	Grinninggrimly, Theudas peeked over the battlement."I see it! The movement bythem dwarfish willow-myrtles, aye?" 
	"Aye!"On his haunches, Poesides edged forward,easing up his firelock, creeping his muzzle onto the rim of the fortification. 
	Straining hisneck, Rossamund could not see what they saw among the low twine of drylong-grass and tangled thickets of parched trees all across broadmoorlands.Then he did: something small and furtive not more than twohundred yards away, making quick scutters from root clump to root clump alongthe shallow bed of a barely running creek, one of the many that curled eastthen north past the cothouse, to eventually drain into the sluggish riverFrugal. In one horrid breath Rossamundrealized he was looking at Freckle. Themidget glamgorn obviously thought it was being rather cunning, coming at thefortlet from behind, and seemed unaware that it was observed. 
	Does he still wasn't to take me away?
	"Come on,Master Haroldus, get yer firelock up," Poesides chided."Ye cain't hit naught with it slack atyer side." 
	"But whatwould Mama Lieger say?" Rossamund cried.
	Theunder-sergeant hesitated for a mere beat.He gave the young lighter a look as if to say, "Who has a care forwhat Mama Lieger might say!" and lifted the butt of his own long-rifle,leveled it and, nice-and-easy, squeezed the trigger. 
	Hiss-CRACK!
	The shotcracked out across the flats.Water hensburst from some covet away to the right and quit the scene in fright; tealshurried away, their wings whistling loudly; little wrens scattered to allpoints, their angry chirrups and the hurry of their flight filling the air. 
	Miss -- miss -- miss... Rossamundpanicked, on the verge of a scream. 
	Poesidescursed under his breath as he realized he had missed his mark.
	Rossamundcould have burst with relief.
	"Cunninglittle skink," the under-sergeant growled."I reckon he ducked that!" 
	"Let mehave a pull," said Theudas."Where is it?" 
	"Leftmostof the three thickets, down by that huge thistle-bush," answered Poesides,sitting back down on the angle of the roof, rapidly reloading his long-rifle.
	"Ah, Isee it..." the younger man muttered, "I think."
	Making a showof presenting his fusil, a cold sweat of guilty horror clinging in the small ofhis back, Rossamund had gratefully lost sight of the glamgorn again.For the first time he was glad for his lackof skill with a fusil. The chance of himactually scoring a hit was remote at best at this range. "Shouldn't we just send someone out tograb it or fright it off?" he asked in a hoarse croak, wanting to buy thelittle fellow some time to escape. 
	"What!"Poesides exclaimed huskily."Andchance some bigger basket springing at us from some nell? I have seen little blighters cooperatin' withsome great gnasher, lure ye along thinking ye're in for an easy marking to addto yer skin and boo!Out of no place: something thrice as big, and ye're the mugbeing chased right back the way ye came." He primed the pan. "Our li'lmite out there is probably in cahoots with that nasty skulker we almost met outin the fog the other morn," the under-sergeant added as he rammed thewadding home. 
	"No!I heard that handsome Branden Rose dig gotthat one," Theudas corrected. 
	"Well,either way, ye can't let a bogle go free -- it just ain't moral."
	Rossamund justwished Freckle would get away and save himself.He winced as Theudas too aim. 
	Hissss-FSSST!
	A misfire!
	Theudas hadtaken a shot, yet all he got was a flash in the pan, no burst from the breech,nor ball hurtling from the muzzle."Not again!" he cried. "I don't care what Shuddercrank says, there is something a-foul with the touchhole!" Amid a flurry of uncouth words Theudaswrestled with his weapon to find the fault. 
	"It'sfossicking about in the thicket over yonder... Do you think it suspects it'sbeen found out?" Poesides chuckled, and humming "Stand While YouCan" to himself, paused between the third and fourth stanza to let goanother shot."Ah, blight it! It's surely a crafty li'l bugaboo!" 
	The musketfire brought the other lampsmen, poking their heads through the trap in theroof or out of the unshuttered windows a floor below, to catch sight of thespectacle.Aubergene arrived on theFighting Top bearing his own long-rifle, but he and the onlookers were to bedisappointed. 
	The glamgornwas gone.
	Rossamund satblank-faced, frazzled nerves tingling in strange and anxious relief.
	"Well,either we hit it, or it found some way to scurry off," the under-sergeantsaid, chewing his bottom lip, "'cause there ain't been a movement down inthe creek for a little while now."Poesides searched through his perspective glass till it was too dark tosee, and prevailed on Crescens Hugh the lurksman to aid him. Yet, to Rossamund's secret delight, not atrace of the diminutive creature could be discovered. 
	He lay hishead to sleep that night with the barred, misty light of the waxing moonshining on his face through a high window, feeling keenly the huge differencebetween him and his fellow lighters.After their visit with Mama Lieger, Rossamund had nurtured the notionthat these men were of a more subtle cast. Yet after that afternoon's shooting, they had confirmed themselves tohim as unthinking monster-haters. Whatthey called moral, he called mindlessness; what he would call right knowing,they would call treachery most foul. Helay and watched the moon a long time, understanding full well Phoebe's coldisolation. 

	26
	A Show of Strength
	
	Scale of Might, the ~originally ananecdotal reckoning of the number of everymen it takes to best an unterman, ithas since been extensively codified by Imperial Statisticians, but simply putit is deemed possible for three ordinary men armed in the ordinary manner tosee off one garden-variety bogle, and about five to handle your more commonnicker. Add potives or teratologists tothe group and this number fluctuates significantly -- depending on the qualityof potive or skill and type of monster-slayer. 
	
	Though they had served atWormstool for well over a month, House-Major Grystle still did not sendRossamund or Threnody out on lantern-watch, but left them on permanentday-watch. This arrangement allowed twoother better experienced lampsmen to go out lantern-lighting who mightotherwise be held back. At fullstrength, the lamp-watch of Wormstool and her sister cots along the Pendant Wighad once been nine or even ten strong for every outing. This number was reckoned sufficient to see ofmost threats, and if not, there were always the half-buried fortificationsRossamund had been so curious about along the roadside. 
	Calledbasements or stone-harbors, these cramped fortlets were just big enough to fita quarto of lighters and there accoutrements, preserved foods and a firkin ortwo of stale water.Every other lampsmanhad a key to their stout doors and the lantern-watch could seek refuge in themfor well over a week: more than longenough, it was thought, for the monsters to lose interest and move on, or for arescue to liberate the trapped. 
	To give themtime to better accommodate to a lampsmen's life the house-major decided to putThrenody and Rossamund under the charge of Splinteazle, Seltzerman 2ndClass. They would accompany him on manytasks, replacing bloom, refitting lantern-lights, cleaning panes -- a task thatalways made Rossamund glum as he brooded on the plight of poor Numps. Whenever they went out a run-down flat cartwent with them, its sag with the necessary stocks of tools and parts. This cart was kept in a solid stoneoutbuilding attached to the back of the cothouse and was drawn by a he-donkeywith incredibly large ears, which earned the poor creature the name Cuniculus --or "Rabbit." This stolid bestwas kept in the cellar and brought carefully down the cothouse steps wheneverhe was needed. Rossamund greatly enjoyedthe work, but Threnody did not and would stand by restlessly while theylabored. 
	One cold,misty morning Splinteazle and his two aides set out to restock the basementfound at the bottom of the lamp at East Bleak 36 West Stool 10.Haggard and blotched from a life spent atsea, his skull wrapped in a tight black kerchief -- vinegaroon fashion -- underhis cocked thrice-high -- Splinteazle whistled to the rising sun. Today he was in particularly goo spirits, fortoday was Dirgetide, the last day of winter, which, apart from a great slap-upmeal for mains, meant a season of fewer theroscades. 
	The delicatemist softened the arid land with its opalescent sheen, filling dells andhollows and runnel-beds with cloudy film.Gray birds with black hoods dipped and rose from perch to perch amongthe stunted swamp oaks, calling on the wing, giving their maudlin, churringsongs to the hazy morning. 
	"Ahh,"muttered Splinteazle, staring at them, "the sthtorm-birdsth are out:it'll be rain today, and our butts'th filledagain with fresh water." Missinghis two front teeth, the seltzerman had a naval burr that was marred with alisp. 
	For all thecondensation, it was still a thirsty walk.Wearing his new hat and pallmain and wrapped in Europe'swarm scarf, Rossamund had come laden with fodicar, his knife in its scabbardattached to his baldric, salumanticum and his own satchel holding a day'sration. He took a drink from a waterskin. 
	"Here'stha mite o' wisthdom for ye," Splinteazle said, stooping to theroadside."I've stheen yee bothtake a sthecond and even a third gulp of ye water. At that rate ye'll have drunk it out and bewanting. A better way isth to avasthtyer drinking and pick a pebble like I've got here and plop it into yer mouth tosthuck." He did as he explained,putting a small, pale stone between his thin lips. "Keepsth yer mouth watering and thirsthtat bay." 
	Obeying,Rossamund was amazed to find the advice was sound.On the verge as they walked, he noticedscattered many smooth pebbles, and wondered if they were made this way in themouths of so many vanished generations of thirsty lighters working interminablyup and down the road. With faintrepulsion, he thought of how many maws the very rock he sucked on might havepreviously inhabited, and mastered the urge to spit it out. 
	They crossedthe path of Squarmis plodding east on some cryptic errand.The costerman paid the young lighters no mindbut engaged in insults with the seltzerman as they passed. 
	"Slubberdymouth!"Squarmis drawled in abusive greeting.
	"Fartgullet!"Splinteazle returned without hesitation.
	Only Rabbitwas pleased to see the costerman, or rather the fellow's old she-ass, whonipped at Rossamund walking by.Brayingand bellowing, the seltzerman's donkey tried to turn and follow the retreatingobject of its passion. Splinteazlefought to keep the brute beast's head pointed in the correct direction and stopRabbit running off after his sweetheart. 
	"Lamplassth!"the seltzerman grunted as he wrestled his donkey."Help me hold the Rabbit. Nothing will turn him now, daftbasthket! Bookchild! Go down to that schwamp oak yonder and get mea branch. It'sth the only thing to movehim." 
	Rossamundspotted the appropriate tree not more than a dozen yards north of thehighroad.With a dash he descended theside of the road and ran a lane through the thistles to the small swampoak. He grasped a branch and tore it offwith ease and saw yellow eyes watching from a gorse patch not more than fiveyards away. Pebble or not, Rossamund'smouth went dry. 
	"Freckle?"he called softly.The little fellow hadsurvived. What is more, he was stillwatching out for him. 
	"Hurrythere, lad!" came Splinteazle's urgent call.
	The eyesdisappeared with a rustle, and feeling both disappointment and elation, theyoung lighter hustled back to the road.
	The seltzermanhad spoken true:Rabbit adored the tasteof swamp-oak needles more than eve the she-mule. With Rossamund going ahead using the branchas a lure, the creature was induced to walk on. 
	"Poor oldRabbit," Splinteazle chuckled tenderly, once the donkey was walking freelyagain."He'sth hopelessthlysthmitten on Assthanina -- that'sth that filthy Sthquarmis fellow'sth lady mule,don't ye know -- Rabbit goesth braying after her every time we're in town. Poor deluded fool of a donkey don't realizthethat Assthanina is not in the amorousth way." 
	ForRossamund's part he wanted to keep looking out to the north into the scrub tospy Freckle.Yet he feared giving thepersistent glamgorn away and forced his eyes to stay to his front. 
	When theyarrived at the basement, the seltzerman took out a large cast-brass key anddescended to unlock the heavy, narrow entrance to the stone-harbor.The lock and hinges whinged rustily andproved of little use. The inside of thebasement was stuffy, cavelike and typically cramped. Though he could stand tall, Rossamund sawthat Splinteazle was force to move about in a ducking hunch. The young lighter examined the view from thetight slit of a loophole. The mist wascoming in thicker, and he could not see more than a small arc of the road andflatland to the north. 
	They slowlyunloaded the flat cart, which creaked in a kind of inanimate gratitude for therelief of the burden on its aged timbers and axles.
	"Ye'resthtrong and quick for a were lighter, lad, and that'sth the truth.Young Master Haroldus'th indeed!" To Threnody's sluggish unwillingness theseltzerman warned, "Take up the sthlack, young hearty, and clap on sthomesthpeed; that'sth no way to stherve yer Emperor!" 
	"I mightwear your colors, sir," she hissed, snatching some small box, "but Ido not serve your besotted, bedazzledEmperor." 
	"Besthotted,eh?Bedizzthled?" he said as sheturned. "Isth that what they taughtthee in thy sthequethtury? What doesth yethink taking theEmperor'sth Billion meansth?" 
	The storeswere kept under a trapdoor in a rough-cut pit in the back corner of theoutwork.For each new puncheon or caskor crate they carried in, an old one had to be removed and taken up and put onthe cart. Even with Threnody reluctantto do the task, restocking was completed quickly and the three were soonstrolling home. Along the return, a shrillcry, brief and birdlike, pierced the gauzy stillness four times, tangible alarmin its echoes. 
	The threeworkers became very still.
	Rossamundstared about, trying to see everywhere at once.
	"It'sth awater hen," Splinteazle stated in ominous whisper."They only cry when the worstht ofblight'sth basthketsth are about. Sthomething wicked-foul musth surely be out there. We mustht hurry!" 
	Not muchfarther on, they found that East Bleak 41 West Stool 5 had been smashed:bent over like nothing more than a brokengrass-blade, the lamp's still dizzing seltzer already soaking into the hardsurface of the road. 
	The smell ofmonsters -- the telltale stink of pungent musk and almost animal filth foundthem, floating on the quickening breeze.
	"Hi,"Splinteazle exclaimed in the barest of whispers, "catch a nosthe full o'that reek!They're sthurelysthome of thewortht bugerboosth ye're everlikely to hide from." 
	The next lampthey discovered missing altogether, ripped footing and lal from the verge.
	"Desthtroyingme lovely lampsth!" cried Splinteazle."Killin' me bloom!" 
	Rossamundbecame aware of a threwdishly unpleasant, impelling sensation buzzing behindhis eyes.It grew with each step,spreading to the base of his head, to the core of his innards; an external,ambient yet powerful compulsion to act, to do something or else sufferdispleasure. From who?Is Mama Lieger doing this? What am I supposed to do? Rossamund had no notion, but the dread ofthis sensation waxed terribly. Oddly,Threnody and Splinteazle did not appear to heed it. 
	And the closerthey drew to Wormstool the stronger the bestial smell became.
	Though thecothouse was a mile away and part hidden by the mists, Rossamund could make outswamp harriers gliding the clearer air above in hungry expectation.The mad baying of the dogs came faintly. Even from this distance they could make outsomething large, perhaps an ettin pounding against the cothouse. Rossamund instinctively checked hissalumanticum. There was nothing in itthat would affect something so enormous. 
	"Thecothouse is attacked!" Splinteazle wailed and set off down the road at arun, pulling the contrary Rabbit with him, the young lamplighters following hislead.A lantern-span closer, they sawmore than just an ettin attacking their home. On the road before the tower and in the scrub about its foundations acrowd of monsters prowled, an entire menagerie of them, numbering a score ormore of myriad kinds and sizes. Theyseemed to work in concert, hooting and hissing and yowling up at the besiegedlighters within, drawing and dodging shots fired from loophole and roof. This was a theroscade of a kind that Rossamundhad only read. The three rushed on inthoughtless, unspoken agreement, marching into this overwhelming dangerregardless. 
	The powerfulettin, much heftier than the Misbegotten Schrewd, flourished a lantern in itsmassive hands and with it smashed at the door of Wormstool.An old cart looking very much like Squarmis'old bone-shaker was lashed to its head with rope and harness leather, providingsome protection from musket fire above, the thills thrust out over its backlike horns and the wheels looking like weird ears. Pops of smoke were puffing from the slits ofevery floor of the tower, and from the crenellations of the Fighting Top aswell. Much of the fire was concentratedon the ettin, the beast swatting at the balls as a man might at flies. Many of the shots must have been true anddeadly, for Rossamund and his companions were not much farther up the road whenthe giant nicker tottered, righted itself and threw the lamp at the walls. The post hit the cothouse with a clarionring, ricocheted and spun off madly to crash on the road. Stumbling, the ettin staggered away northinto the flatlands, clutching at its bloodied head and shoulders. With a dull crunch of splintering wood, theettin ripped the cart away and hurled this heedlessly too as it fled. 
	"Look atthat belugig run!Come now,fellowsth!" Splinteazle cried to Rossamund and Threnody. "We musthtjoin the fight!" 
	Once moreRossamund felt the malignantly compelling threwd; felt it throb and saw theremaining monsters at the cothouse's feet respond obediently.Smaller nickers and larger bogles began toscamper up the stairs: things withhunched bodies and long legs, bounding a dozen steps in one leap; gaunt, stilt-leggedbugaboos that took each step with the mincing grace of a dancer; bloatedbogle-beasties that lumbered after. 
	"The dooris breached!" wailed the seltzerman, abandoning Rabbit to run to the aidof the assaulted tower.
	Amid a whirlof useless garble, Rossamund followed and Threnody with him, chicking thepriming of her two doglock pistols.Theyoung lighter could scarce believe that he was willingly throwing himself intothe fray. He reached into hissalumanticum for a caste of loomblaze. 
	The tower of Wormstool was close now, no more than ahundred yards away, the clamor of the desperate struggle within audible evendown on the road. Not more than ahundred yards from the cothouse near the base of the first lantern, Rossamundcried, "HI! HI! OVER HERE!" carried away by his desireto help. A pack of monsters still at thefoot of the steps and circling about Wormstool's foundations turned toRossamund's shout. With hoots and howls,they swarmed at the three, loping and leaping down the road with appallingspeed. 
	Splinteazlewas ahead of the two younger lighters, brandishing his fodicar in one hand anda salinumbus in the other.The monstersclosed and he fired, sending one flailing, spurting to the road-dust. At the shot Rossamund threw his vial ofloomblaze high and wide, wanting to avoid the seltzerman, and it erupted overthe heads of two stragglers, their shrieks clear in the general din. Threnody fired too, pistolas thrust forwardin classic pistoleer pose, but the power of the doglocks must have thrown offher aim, and they had little effect on the beasts. The seltzerman swung his lantern-crook withall his might, hitting the foremost bogle hard but doing little harm. Was Splinteazle that old and infirm? Hestruck it again with all his force, and Rossamund watched with a numb kind ofhorror as once more the blow hardly troubled the gnasher. Cackling and barely hurt, the beast tackledSplinteazle to the ground and, finding all the weak parts of his proofing,rapidly clawed the hollering seltzerman to shreds before Rossamund knew toact. With a shriek of her own, Threnodyflung her fine pistols down and scathed powerfully, stunning Rossamund butdriving the bogles back amazed. Yet itwas too late for the old seltzerman. 
	Numbnessturned to terror and Rossamund hesitated.The will-filled threwd resisted him, undermined his resolve. If the seltzerman could perish so easily,what hope had he? 
	Undismayed,the gaggle of nickers pounced again, some outflanking them as the rest rushedheadlong.The monsters were on them, thestink of the beasts surrounding the two young lighters. Threnody sent forth her frission, which thistime left Rossamund untouched but gave the pack of gnashers a sharp jolt. They howled at her in rage. But she could not keep such a barrier up forlong, and too soon something sleek and full of claws leaped at her. Shouting wordlessly, Rossamund leapted tomeet the beast. Dancing aside from itsswiping talons, he brought the butt-end of his fodicar down with as much strengthas he could muster. To his utterastonishment the monster's back buckled and bet the wrong way under the blowand it fell, naked surprise on its bestial face. But he did not have time to wonder over itsend, for Threnody's fishing faltered and the other nickers sprang, sneeringhungrily and more intent on the girl-wit. In the frightening, gnashing whirl of a fight where he was one of theplayers and life and death stood on his own deeds, Rossamund did not fuss aboutwhere his feet were, what his hands were doing. He just hit. One with a greatlump of warts and lard tha pronked on two legs like a rabbit's tried to leapabout and get behind them. Threnodyscathed again, a little weaker. Rossamund stabbed at Rabbit-legs as it jumped. The pike-end of the fodicar went straightthrough its belly, the astounded beast expiring in midspring, collapsing on theroad and skidding away. The HundredRules that had baffled Rossamund so continually at Madam Opera's were suddenlymaking sense. The young lighter swunghis lantern-crook again with ease, giving another bloated monster secondthoughts as he caught its lunge with crank-hook and pike-end then shoved thebogle clear away. It glared at him withan odd expression. 
	At his back,Threnody's sometimes clumsy, sometimes competent striving continued.For all her inexperience, she was actuallygaining him space and protecting them both from being overwhelmed. 
	The monsterspulled away, dismayed at the ferocity of such tasty little morsels, rethinkingtheir foe.Rossamund and Threnody stoodback to back and watched in turn. Of theeight or so bogles that had sought their lives, perhaps half had perished: one shot by Splinteazle, two struck down byRossamund, one or possibly two hurt bythe loomblaze and another drooling and broken and sitting harmlessly by thehighroad, a victim of Threnody's successful witting. 
	"Do youfeel it?" she gasped.
	"Feelwhat?"
	"Thethrewd!" Threnody opened her eyes."Working entirely on the destruction of this place. It snatches at me every time I wit!" 
	Rossamundnodded."Aye, I feel it." 
	Indeed, themalign feeling waxed strongly even as they spoke, and the monsters prowledcloser.
	BOOOOM!An almightly crash reverberated about the Frugelle, startling flocks ofcomplaining birds to wing. Down the roadsmoke began to issue from Wormstool, belching from a fourth-storyloophole. A tongue of flame licked outand up the outside wall. A lighterstumbled out of the high door of the cothouse and started down the steps. A large nicker with great, snapping jawsemerged and pounced on the retreating lampsman, crushing him down onto thestairway, jumping on him over and over till his screams ceased and red flowed. 
	Threnodystared in dumb shock.
	Taking shrewdadvantage of the distraction, the four remaining monsters rushed the two younglighters.Shrieking fiendishly, theycharged in, then skittered away again when Threnody rallied and finallystrove. They were testing her. She began to growl in frustration as time andagain they fooled her into scathing pointlessly, wearing her down. Rossamund threw another charge of loomblazeat the largest bogle, the one with peglike teeth in its spadelike jaw, butmissed. The fiery chemistry burst brightbut uselessly in a thicket of bushes beyond the road, and the dry brancheseagerly took to flame. 
	Observing thecommotion, the slayer of the lighter on the steps descended and pranced up thecounduit, joining its fellows on the road.The largest of them, this new beast strutted on its thin legs andslavered through its long snout at the two young lighters. It regarded them beadily then called acrossto them in a weird, slobbering voice, "What are you, pink lipsss?" 
	"I hateit when they talk!" Threnody seethed.
	"What areyou, pink lipsss!" it slobbered again."Why do you ssside with themmm?" 
	"I thinkit's talking to you, lamp boy," Threnody muttered."Maybe it's been chatting with yourFreckle friend." 
	Rossamundswallowed hard but did not answer.Pink lips?This was the meaning of Rossamund's name --rose-mouth, pink lips. How did it knowhis name? Perhaps it had indeed been talkingto Freckle? He looked to the tatters ofSplinteazle's corpse beyond the monsters. His resolve hardened. He held outhis fodicar, presenting arms as at a parade, inviting a challenge. 
	With a vicioussnarl the slobbering nicker lunged at them, the other monsters rushing with it,whooping and yammering.Threnody witted,laboring to keep her frission under control. For a moment she checked the charge, Rossamund standing with fodicar andloomblaze ready, by her side. Themonsters writhed and backed away. Suddenly the girl gasped, and without warning her frissionfaltered. The samund beasts were at themagain, the slobberer foremost, and Rossamund sprang too. He hurled the potive with wicked aim, missingthe slobberer and hitting a stocky bogle running just behind it. The wretched thing's head was splashed andengulfed with the cruel false-fire and it fell screeching. As he met the slobberer, fodicar swinging, soThrenody's frission returned and the small gnashers reeled. He swatted at the slobberer with the samethoughtless, clearheaded fluidity, hitting it smartingly on its shoulder. The thing shrieked and flailed its arms,swatting Rossamund in the chest and throwing him back-first to the road. Threnody's witting caught him and his visiondimmed, threatened blackness; but this was not time for stopping, for lyingtamely down just because of a hurt. Witha yelping kind of growl, Rossamund shook himself and rolled onto his side, hisvision clearing. What had seemed to himlike a dangerous pause had been just an instant. The slobberer bore down on him. Rossamund whipped his lantern-crook around,smacking the nicker's ankles. Its longlegs were tripped out from under it and the thing toppled, a puff of dusterupting from its fall. On his feet in abeat, Rossamund took his advantage and struck the fallen monster wildly, notcaring where, just hitting, hitting, as Threnody's frission lashed out again. 
	It was toomuch now -- the bogles had had enough.They were quitting the fight, running back up the Wormway and off intothe wilderness. Not satisfied, Threnodytrod determinedly toward the cothouse, striving at the monsters inside. Still flailing in fury at the slobberer as itstruggled to rise, Rossamund was vaguely aware that lumpy bogles were fleeingthe tower; one even leaped from the roof, landing with a mighty crash in somebushes and, yipping girlishly, disappeared into the scrub. With their escape, the malice of the threwdflared strong for a moment then subsided, leaving only confused watchfulness. 
	Rossamund kepthitting, and only when he had smote the utter ruin of the stomping, slobberingnicker did he cease.He stared down atthe shattered, mangled creature at his feet: somehow it still lived, glaring up at him, still defiant, still baleful,still hungry. Yet now Rossamund couldnot hate the fiendly thing, no matter what it had done to the doughty, friendlylighters of Wormstool. Now he just felttired and sorry: sorry for the death ofhis comrades; sorry for the harm he had done the monster before him, to all themonsters; sorry that he had becomethe murderer, the hypocrite. 
	"I amsorry to have slain thee," he whispered, little knowing from where thewords came."But we were at oddsand I could not let you hurt my friends." 
	The creature'seyes glazed, a sadness -- an ancient longing -- seeming to dwell in them for amoment, and it ceased.
	Gory fodicarstill in hand, Rossamund dropped to his knees and wept.
	"Surelyyou don't weep over the monsters!" he heard Threnody croak as she pickedup her doglocks, still lying where she had discarded them.She sat exhausted on the road and thirstilydowned a milky blue liquid. 
	Rossamunddoubled over, keening agony in his very depths.He felt a subtle touch on his lantern-crook. Looking up, he saw that same familiar sparrowperched on the bunting-hook. It gave asingle firm chirp as if it were chiding him, and whirred away. 
	"Oh, goaway!" Threnody shied the empty alembant bottle at the departingbird."A fat lot of good you didfor us just now! Go back to your masterand tell him the happy news!" 
	"Threnody!"Rossamund cried as the flask missed well wide and disappeared into the thistlesbelow.
	In her suddenfury the girl turned on him, and for a moment he thought she might throwsomething at him too.But she did not. 
	Rossamundstood, leaning on his fodicar as if it were a geriatric's cane.
	Though smokewas billowing from the upper stories and carrion crows were already perchingupon the chimney pots, Rossamund and Threnody still walked to it and climbed tothe front door, 

	
	
	stepping withheavy grief over the body on the steps.It was Theudas. In the watch roomthe doors to the cellars had been torn from hinges and cast aside. The collapsible stair, now nothing more thana wreckage of timbers, had worked perfectly; yet this had not been enough tostop the murderous nickers from gaining the higher floors. It was, however, more than adequate in preventingthe two survivors from getting above. They called out, screamed and screeched till they were hoarse, hoping tohear the answering plaints of a survivor from the upper levels. But no such answers came, only the hiss andcrack of fire unchecked. 
	Together thetwo hastily scrounged whatever they could from the litter -- food parcels andwater skins found in the cellars and with them a flammagon.Among the ruination they discovered the inertwhite mass of Sequecious, bloodied and cold, collapsed across an equally fat,blilious-looking bogle with great blood-red fangs. It too was dead, the boltarde that slew itstill clutched by Sequecious, the aspis-smeared blade thrust full through itsribs, scorch marks showing hat it had received the blast of a firelock. Man and monster had died together. Whelpmoon lay faceup by his squat lectern,his glasses missing, his dead eyes staring. By the kennels the dogs had managedto destroy a brace of scaly, big-nosed bogles, perishing themselves as theydid. 
	Men and dogsand monsters, everything was dead.Rossamund could only imagine the gore and carnage on the floorsabove. Too much... too much... His extremities began tingling, and just ashis anguish became overwhelming it was quickly obscured by a weird, emptyflatness. 
	A terriblesmashing report thundered from the floors above and shook the fortalice.
	"We mustgo," Threnody insisted, standing at the top of the cellar steps.
	Back down theroad, the two survivors tried to bring Rabbit with them, but the loyal, stupidbeast would not leave his friend and master.Flat cart still hitched, it had slowly followed them and now stoodforlornly by Splinteazle's remains and would not move. Not even a sprig of swamp oak could induce itto come away. The two young lighterswould have had to drag it every single step to get the beast to Bleak Lynche,and they might have done but were desperate to be gone. So they unhitched the cart and left thefaithful donkey standing at the base of the tower, ears down, head down, nosingthe seltzerman's cooling corpse. 
	"What awaste," Threnody spat, venting her angry grief as they fled."It's idiotic. Even out here, with hardly anyone to benefit,they still go on risking lives to light the lamps each evening and douse themeach dawning. No one in the cities cares-- not even in the towns around about are people mindful or grateful. Whoever uses this part of the road? The Bleaksmen stay put. That place is nothing more than a cothousewith a fistful of desperadoes setting up shot about it -- what's thepoint?" Imperial waste!" She gagged back a sob. 
	"But ifthey did not make a stand here everyone west would suffer!"Rossamund's contradiction was reflexive, yetin truth he actually agreed with her. 
	"Do youreally think the flimsy string they call the Wormway, with its few totteringtowers so close to the Gluepot and the tired quartos that habit them, is amatch for the gathered might of the monsters?Look how easy it was for a small band of brodchin to annihilate onecothouse. It's the work of my sistersthat keeps your precious western folk safe!" 
	Rossamund hadno answer for this -- he just wanted to get to somewhere secure.He found himself hoping Mama Lieger mightshuffle from the scrub and lend them aid. How can she have let thishappen?Did she cause all this? Was the threwd of the land itself theculprit? Is that what I felt? 
	An almightyshattering boom roared behind them, scaring them so much they both let out ayelp.They looked back to see theshingle roof of the cothouse collapsing inward with a seething eruption ofsmoke, sparks jetting from the shell of the tower. Rossamund spied a hasty little shadowscuttling after them. 
	Freckle?
	Walking on,Rossamund ached to speak with the glamgorn, to ask question after question, butmost of all -- why?Why were theyattacked? Why did the glamgorn not help? Why was he still following him? However, with Threnody by Rossamund's side,Freckle would never come near. Strangely, irrationally, the young prentice felt safer with Freckle attheir backs. 
	The day grewdarker still and, as poor dead Splinteazle had predicted, it began torain.Monsterlike shapes seemed to lurkand lunge in the gloom, phantasms made by the rapid fall of water. Atleast I have my hat, Rossamund thought bitterly. 
	A far-off cry-- a shriek and a gabber -- came from somewhere out on the flatland.It was an inhuman call, a monster'svoice. Rossamund cringed at the noiseand almost tripped, expecting any moment to be waylaid again. Though they were exhausted, desperation andblank terror set the two lighters running, a weary stumbling lurch, eachhelping the other if ever one flagged. 
	When theglimmer of the lights of Bleak Lynche hove in sight, Rossamund eagerly took upthe flammagon and shot its spluttering pink fire into the air.The flare drew a high, lazy arc, the fallingdamps carrying it northward. It winkedout as if fell on the downside of its curve. They had little hope of it attracting attention, yet it did: a ten-strong foray of the Bleakhallday-watch. 
	The band oflighters that found them could little believe what they were told:a whole cothouse slaughtered? Surely not! Several lampsmen gave shouts of lament. Scrutineers were sent to Wormstool, the sneakiest of the band, whileRossamund and Threnody were hustled back to Bleakhall. There the astounded Fortunatus thehouse-major conducted a hasty inquiry. He kept asking the same questions: "What happened? Where arethe other lampsmen? How is it just youtwo survived?" 
	Rossamund didnot know how to answer except with the truth.
	Fortunatuscould not accept their shocking tale until the piquet of scrutineers returned,dragging Rabbit, braying mournfully, with them.These doughty fellows confirmed the blackest truth: a whole cothouse slaughtered; friends torn andall dead, the ransacked fortlet open to the elements. They brought with them body parts and severalbruicles of cruor as proof, as offered one of these to the two survivors. "So ye might mark yeselfs proudly!"they said. 
	Rossamundrefused.The handing out of awards atsuch a time seemed so wrong to him -- ill-timed and disrespectful. It did not occur to him that his feats wouldwarrant a marking, maybe even four according to the grisly count that revolvedceaselessy in his mind. 
	"Not wanta mark?" was the general, incredulous reaction."That ain't natural!" But they did not press him. 
	Threnody,however, gladly received the blood, and this was a great satisfaction to theother lighters."My firstcruorpunxis," she murmured, scrutinizing the bruicle closely. Either way, all agreed that Grindrod musthave improved greatly in his teaching of prentices to raise such doughty younglighters. 

	27
	A Light To Your Path
	
	obsequywhat we would call a funeral, also knownas a funery or inurment.These ritestypically include a declaration of the person's merit and then some traditionalfarewell given by the mourners. In theHaacobin Empire it is most commonly thought that when people die they simplystop: a life begins, a life ends. In the cultures about them and in their ownpast there have been various beliefs about afterlife and some all-creatingelemental personage, but such notions are considered oppressive andoutmoded. They would rather leave thoseideas to the eekers, pistins (believers in a God) and other odd fringe-dwellers. 
	
	Given his own room in theFend & Fodicar and saloop spiked with a healthy dose of bellpomash,Rossamund slept two days through after the attack, while outside the rainbecame a fierce storming downpour. Hedid not know till he had woken again that a dispatch had been sent toWinstermill informing them of the terrible things done at Wormstool and of thetwo young survivors. Neither was heaware that the loss of that cothouse had occasioned the temporary suspension oflamp-lighting along the entire twenty-five mile stretch of highroad betweenBleak Lynche and Haltmire. Nor did heknow that Europe had returned from a coursewhile he slept and after a brief inquiry into his health, left again, quick onthe trail of the surviving nickers. Howthe young lighter wished she had been with them at Wormstool; what lives mighthave been spared with the Branden Rose at the task. 
	As he slowlyawoke, eyes heavy and senses murky, Rossamund was gradually cognizant of afigure looming at his side.In frighthis senses became sharp and he sat up swiftly, pivoting on his hands ready tojump, to run, to shout red-screaming murder. With clarity came truth and with truth came the profoundestdelight. It was Aubergene -- his oldbillet-mate -- sitting by Rossamund's recovery-bed on an old high-backed chair,dozing now as if he had been waiting at the bedside a goodly while. Even as Aubergene's presence fully dawned onRossamund, the older lighter snorted awake. 
	"Aubergene!"Rossamund exclaimed."Aubergene!" 
	"Ah,little Haroldus."The older lightergrinned, though sadness lurked at the nervous edges of his gaze. "Dead-happy news to find you and thepretty lass hale! I've heard from thehouse-major here how you won through. Amighty feat for young lighters." 
	Rossamundswallowed a sob of relief."Ithought y-you were killed with the rest!" 
	Aubergenenodded leadenly in turn."Aye, Isuppose you would -- but me and the under-sergeant and Crescens Hugh were sentout with the deliveries for the Mama not so long after you went off withSplint." He hesitated. "Poor Splint, poor Rabbit..." He put his chin in his hand. "We weren't anywhere nigh the Stool whenthose wicked unmentionable baskets did their worst there. We were still set on, though. We'd only just begun the return. Mama Lieger warned us not to venture outagain, but we figured she was just feeling for some comp'ny. Yet we weren't more than half a mile gonewhen Hugh put his box on and, certain enough, kenned something odd in the airand had us hurrying back to the Mama's seigh with a whole handful of theblightenedest hob-boggers in chase." 
	Rossamundlistened with amazed relief, glad to hear that Mama Lieger was not to blame,glad to know that some had won through that day.Yet these three fellows had survived in thatsmall high-house where the might of Wormstool had failed. "How -- how did you live throughit?" 
	"We triedour aim from the Mama's windows and hacked at 'em by the door if they tried toshimmy up, Mama Lieger laughing and shrieking like a soul gone mad, poking atthe baskets with this great long prod of hers."A strange, troubled thought suddenly hauntedAubergene's brow. He looked to his rightand hunched as if he was about to enter into a conspiracy. "Rossamund," he said low andhalting, "we -- we was defended by other -- by other bogles too." 
	A chillshivered down Rossamund's scalp.Hishearing whined. "You were defendedby monsters?" 
	Aubergenelooked at him hard, almost aggressively, yet there was something pleading inhis brittle gaze; he seemed more troubled by what he had just said than by thedestruction of his billet-mates."It's not sedorner talk, Rossamund! I'm no bogger-loving basket -- it's just what I saw with the same eyesthat look on you now..." 
	"You'llnever hear me call you a sedorner, Aubergene," Rossamund answered, animage of Freckle flickering in his mind."I know there are kindly monsters..." 
	The olderlighter's dogged expression loosened."Poesides warned Hugh and me about speaking on it," he said ina grateful hurry, "but I reckon the Mama might be right about you, Rossamund,that you do see things more in her way; I reckoned you'd not begrudge me whatwe witnessed," he finished, almost imploring Rossamund to say it was so. 
	The younglighter gave a bemused, shrugging kind of nod.Rossamund would never cast a stone at the unusual revelations ofanother. 
	"I reckonthem hob-possums fought for the Mama's sake," Aubergene continued."Remember that little doll you saidwinked at you?" 
	"Aye,"Rossamund barely dared a wheeze.
	"Well,you were right!It was a beastie -- someween-some bogle-thing made of sticks and bits that's been just there on themantel all the while, and up it jumped, leaped out the Mama's door without apause and wrestled baskets dead-near ten times its bulk. Something else joined it -- we could scarcecatch a sight of the fellow, but something heavy and all bristling beard came,and with great crashings and flashes like some fulgarine. This new nicker set our enemies on arun. I've never seen such a thing, neverknew it was really so -- just eeker talk, naught but bewilderment andnonsense. When all was quiet, the Mamacalled out in her old tongue -- whether it was to her weeny bogle friend orbristle-beard or the birds themselves I could not reckon. Either way, magpies began to sing as if inanswer, getting loud, sounding for all the lands like speaking -- dead eerie andunhuman. The Mama became satisfied thenand we were left in peace." Aubergene looked out the window. 
	It wasbeginning to rain again, a pelting rat-a-tat on the mullions.Rossamund found he had almost forgotten sucha merry sound after two months without. 
	"Ifnickers weren't enough" -- the troubled man nodded toward the wet --"this storm set itself against us and Poe daren't let us out till Hugh wassure we were clear.The Mama said she'dhave her 'friends' watch over us, but Poe refused her. The old dame shrugged at us all contrarinessand secrets, but Crescens never caught sight or smell of any escort." 
	"Iam" -- Rossamund could not think of how to put his sad relief -- "gladsome of us have survived, Aubergene..." he tried, feeling a little daft.
	"Aye,though I sorely wish I were at the Stool to defend her, though your deadlyfeats near won the day."The manlooked to him with evident pride. "you earned your name aptly, I reckon, Master Harold, smashingevery nicker that crossed you -- though I'm sure you were dead-glad to haveLampsman Vey with you." 
	Rossamundnodded."She saved us both,"he said softly. "But it was notenough to help the -- the others." 
	"No."Aubergene dropped his gaze. "No, I s'pose it weren't." 
	
	** * * * 
	
	Two dayslater, the remains of their comrades were recovered, brought back to Bleakhalland buried.Even the nonlighter folk ofBleak Lynche attended. Rossamund hadnever attended an 

	
	
	obsequybefore; any foundling who died was buried privately, just for Madam Opera andthe masters to see.Here, in the deepestcellars of Bleakhall, with the lighters gathered about, their heads and his owncovered over with black mourncloths, he was privy to the whole somber process. 
	With every burial came the ritual intonation:"A light to your path. A way in the dark." 
	Rossamund was surprised, even in his sorrow, by the smallness of thetombs and the thoroughness with which they were sealed with plugs of clay oncethe corpse was interred.There wassomething bitterly oppressive about this hurried, repetitious rite, the livesof the passing grieved as a waste, their honor grimly asserted by House-MajorFortunatus and attested to by silent, angry nods from the lighters,"Lampsman 2 nd Class Fadus Theudas," the senior officersaid, "true of heart and quick of shot, who sought to serve, so young andso well." 
	"A light to your path.A wayin the dark." 
	Blinking back tears, Rossamund looked furtively to Threnody, standingacross from him at the memorial, and marveled that she and he had survived atheroscade together.The girl lookedhaunted as they slid the remains into small tombs deep below, glancingreluctantly at him with dark, imploring eyes. 
	"A light to your path..."
	She was to be puncted that night.He had no desire to see her marked, for to do that would be to relivethe horror and violence -- and he simply could not. Providentially, -- when the time came thatevening -- he was not made to attend. 
	
	** * * * 
	
	After theburial day the young survivors were given light duties about Bleakhall, smalltasks to keep them from dangerous brooding.
	Any unoccupiedtime Rossamund and Threnody had they spent sitting together and talking in theroom given to him in the wayhouse.
	"Rossamund"-- the girl lighter looked at him with sad earnestness, fingering the bandagethat covered her still-forming puncting -- "how did you slay thosemonsters?"
	"You werethere, Threnody!I just did -- I hit themand they died. Isn't that the way it ismeant to happen?" 
	"Yes...but Sp-Splinteazle was not able to even bruise one and he is -- was thrice yoursize."
	"Sequeciousskewered at least one," Rossamund tried."Probably more!" 
	"A hugeman using a blade coated in aspis.Didyour crook have a venificant on it?" 
	"No."He had no other answer for this but the onehe had already given the house-major. 
	Threnodysquinted at him."You catch heavybarrels and slay monsters with one blow." 
	Rossamund hadnothing to say to this.
	A welcomesilence stretched out.
	"Will yougo back to Herbroulesse now?" he asked eventually.
	"And letMother win?" Threnody scowled." Never. I am a lighter now, like you, and we shallserve on just as we ought. Once alighter, always a lighter -- isn't that what they say?" 
	"Aye...Maybe."Rossamund could notconceive of what his future might be now. What little enthusiasm for lighting he had managed to find had beenslaughtered out at Wormstool. Betweenthe violent malice of monsters and the ruthless ambition of men, where was heto go? 
	
	** * * * 
	
	A week afterthe attack they were talking quietly about unimportant things when Europe entered Rossamund's room, unannounced and withouta knock. She had only now returned, andlooked haggard beneath her fine clothes and manners. 
	There was anuncomfortable hesitation.
	With aresigned sigh, Threnody stood, bowed stiffly to the fulgar and left the room.
	The lighterand the fulgar peered at each other, Europe'sexpression impenetrable. 
	Strangefeelings boiled within Rossamund's bosom, but most of all, with her there hefelt truly safe.Without thinking, heleaped from the bed where he had been sitting and flung his arms about thefulgar. 
	Startled, sherelented for a moment, hands placed lightly on his shoulders, but Rossamundcould feel her gathering discomfort and, shamefaced and awkward, he let her go.
	"I-I amglad you are safe," he stammered, feeling small and stupid.He sat back on the cot. 
	Europe nodded. "I know how funny you can get about a monster's dying," shecontinued circumspectly, "so you may or may not be glad to hear that Ihave found and slain every hob-thrush, botcher or gnasher I could." 
	She wasright:Rossamund did not feel any betterfor the news. 
	"That oldeeker woman, Mother Lieger, even helped me -- if you can credit that."Europepulled a wry face. "I must givepart of my success to her guidance: she knew very well where the baskets mightbe hiding at -- and a girl will never refuse aid however it might come. Here is me all along believing these foolisheeker-folk were in love with the nickers. Indeed, she even asked me to send you her greetings, and tell you thatshe declares it a 'terrible wicked thing to have happened.'" She sighed a deep, heartfelt sigh. "Now the folk of Bleak Lynche want tofete me, and the house-major wants to cite my deeds for some kind of Imperialcommendation... I refused them both, of course." 
	Rossamundnodded sadly."They wanted to giveme a mark, but I refused them too." 
	Europe let out a small laugh. "Of course you did." She sat on the edge of the bed. "By the way, I saw your glamgornfriend. It was loitering out there nearthe edges of the town and keeping downwind of the dogs." 
	"Youdidn't do anything to him, did you?" Rossamund sat up sharply.
	"I cannotquite believe I am saying this but, no, I let the wretched thing be.I had little choice, actually." She folded her hands in her lap. "Once it knew I was about, it leftrather smartly." 
	Rossamund layback."I feel so tired, MissEurope. I don't know why, but I cannotseem to raise much eagerness for anything." 
	"I cantell you why, Rossamund."Europe looked at him appraisingly. "You have stood victorious in adesperate stouche. Dark moods alwaysfollow. Your potential as a factotumincreases almost every time I see you. Dear Licurius, in all his might, may well have struggled where you havewon." 
	"But allI did was survive!"
	"I don'tthink you comprehend what you have done."Europe leaned toward him. "A wit, even a clumsy, new-cut one,should be able to win through a pack of monsters, else what would be the pointof all the pain and inconvenience? Butyou, an ordinary little man, have not just won through, but -- from what I hear-- beaten to death three knickers, full-formed and ancient." 
	Rossamund hunghis head."I was notcounting." 
	"No,"the fulgar said, fixing him with serious eyes, "but others are."
	
	** * * * 
	
	The reply fromthe Marshal-Subrogat arrived two weeks after that horrid Dirgetide day.It declared tersely that the circumstances ofthe sacking of Wormstool were too unusual for the limited jurisdiction of theignoble end of the road. It demanded that Rossamund and Threnody leaveimmediately on the return post, strangely omitting to summon Under-SergeantPoesides or Aubergene or Crescens Hugh the lurksman. They had not been witnesses to the fall ofthe cothouse and were to stay and serve at Bleakhall until further directedfrom Winstermill. Having stated this inthe firmest terms, the dispatch went on to deny any immediate relief to thebeleaguered lighters of Bleakhall. TheMaster-of-Clerks did not see the wisdom in rushing men into the fray when heknew so little of the current situation. 
	Under theescort of one of the scrutineers who had seen the aftermath, the two younglighters were to be on their way, messengers of the tragedy and bearers of asecond urgent request for reinforcement.
	ThoughRossamund knew Europe had gone again, huntingsomewhere out on the flat with her hired lurksman, he nevertheless looked outfor her in hope, even up to the moment of departure. Before boarding the return post, the younglighter left a desperate scrawl for her with Goodwife Inchabald, a plea for thefulgar to follow after him to Winstermill. It was a lot to ask, but he was about to return to the den of that blackhabilist Swill, and the Branden Rose was the only one who he felt could protecthim anymore. 
	In sombersilence, the post-lentum left for the Idlewild proper, farewelled by onlyAubergene, sadly waving, and a silent Poesides.Not sparing of the horses, it hurtled west. What little was left of their belongingsRossamund and Threnody now carried with them in the cabin. All the rest was charred to smithereens inthe burning and collapse of his old billet -- including, to Rossamund great woe,his peregrinate and the remarkable valise given him by Madam Opera. 
	Out ofexhaustion and an unbearable gloominess at his enforced retreat to the manse,Rossamund slept much of the journey.Thereturn became a bizarre blur of unhappy, cataclysmic dreams; hurrying landscapeglimpsed from the thin slot allowed between sash and door frame; strange,anxious faces at whatever stop they made; and tasteless meals he had noappetite to stomach. Threnody too sat insilent grieving, seeming diminished without her fine furs and traveling bags. 
	Rossamund lostthe reckoning of time.All seemed darkto him, whether day or night; he could have well done with House-MajorGrystle's hack-watch now. Consequentlyhe was unable to share in the wonder of their escort, who stated that they hadachieved Winstermill in a record four days -- rather than six -- and "thatdone at the end of the bad traveling season and all!" Four days, six days, ten days, twelve -- thiswas no relief to the young lighter. Hehad once gloried that he had escaped the oppressive, now-corrupted place, yethere he was, returning to the manse after only two and a half short, violentlyterminated months. 
	Now he fearedhe might never be allowed to leave this den of massacars again.
	Their arrivalat Winstermill went unheralded, and from the coach yard they were met byUnder-Clerk Fleugh and hurried directly through the manse to wait with theirescort in the Marshal-Subrogat's anteroom.
	"No happywelcomes for us, I see," Threnody muttered as they were let through to theAd Lineam, the hall-like gallery of tall, many-mullioned windows that took themto the Master-of-Clerks' file, their feet slapping thump thump thump as they were hastened along. 
	As if therewas some kind of criminal inconsistency to be found in their accounts, PodiousWhympre saw fit to meet with each of them separately.The Bleakhall escort was interviewed first;this was a long meeting that gave thetwo young lighters time to catch a breath as they sat under the impassive gazeof a foot guard. 
	"What doyou think will happen?" Threnody wondered quietly.
	"I don'tknow."
	"Whatmore can Odious Podious want to know?" she persisted.
	"I don'tcare."
	"Hmph."Threnody folded her arms and leaned back asbest she might in the high-backed chair. 
	Their escortreemerged looking harassed and disappointed.
	Threnody wascalled next.
	"Dowell," Rossamund offered.Theencouragement sounded weak in his own ears. 
	"Andyou," she returned with a dazzling smile, and disappeared through theportentous door.
	Finally, asthe sun westered, shedding gold on the west-facing angles of the mess-hallwindow frames, Rossamund was shocked from his doze by a summons.His time with the clerk-master at last. As he was let through to Podious Whympre'sfile, he could hear the tail of the previous interview. 
	"In suchstartling and tragic circumstances," came the Master-of-Clerks' smoothvoice, "I have taken the liberty of sending for your mother."
	"I do notwant her here!" Threnodyobjected. 
	"But sheis here already," Whympre returned evenly."I shall have my man take you to her immediately. Ah, Master Bookchild, our littleteratologist! It would appear you havean unfortunate aptitude for being right in the thick of troubles." The Master-of-Clerks glowered at him almostas soon as Rossamund entered the narrow, unfriendly room. "Thank you, Lady Threnody. That will be all." 
	The girlpivoted on her heel, her nose in the air.They exchanged a quick look, Threnody rolling her eyes and exitingwithout another word. 
	Rossamundstepped into the Master-of-Clerks' file and stood at the far end of the greattable that ran most of the length of the room.The first thing he noticed was the enormous antler-trophy of theHerdebog Trought, thrusting out into the upper atmosphere of the room. The trophy was hanging from the wall as if ithad been Podious Whympre himself who had bagged the beast. Rossamund gave a brief scowl of disgust. The musk of the horns cloyed the air in here,joining the sweet fragrance of that old wood and the sharp bouquet of velvetand gold, with its too-high ceilings of dainty white moldings, too-tall windowslooking out to the treacherous fens north of the manse. Its morbid silence hummed with distracting,lurking echoes. In the far-end wall,underneath an enormous painting of some ancient Imperial victory, were threedoors. Remembrance made his gizzardstight as Rossamund wondered which it was he had burst through on the night heslew the rever-man. 
	TheMaster-of-Clerks sat tall and stiff, aloof in a great gilt chair at the fartherend of the ostentatiously carved table.Dressed in the brilliant scarlet of the Empire, he had removed his thickblack wig of long complex locks -- an inconvenience when shuffling sheaves ofpaper. It was also a subtle reminderthat neither Rossamund -- nor Threnody, nor their escort for that matter -- wereimportant enough to warrant the trouble of being fully dressed. 
	To the left ofthe clerk-master, seated on a markedly smaller stool of drab wicker, wasWitherscrawl, with stylus in hand and giant book on lap.The indexer scowled through his glasses atRossamund, who could feel those beady eyes and ignored them. Laudibus Pile was there too, of course,sitting just behind his master, leaning forward, ready to expose false speech. Rossamund refused to be daunted -- he had nothingto hide. 
	"Pleasesit, Lampsman 3rd Class Bookchild," the Master-of-Clerkspurred. 
	There was notmuch new about the interview itself.Thesame kinds of questions were asked as he had been asked by the house-major ofBleakhall: the why, the where, the how --and Rossamund's answers were the same. Whympre kept pressing for more detail on just how the young, prematurelypromoted lighter had fought and beaten his foes. Rossamund was troubled by the inkling thatthere was more to the queries than simple, official inquisitiveness. Nevertheless he answered every questiontruthfully. 
	"All thisloss of life is very alarming and vexing."The Master-of-Clerks stroked his face and looked anything but alarmed orvexed. Indeed, he seemed more troubled bythe destruction of property. The mostsignificant thing he had to tell was that there was to be a formal inquiry ofthe Officers of the Board into the affair, "to be held here, hence thebrevity of this evening's fact-finder. Adisaster of this magnitude requires proper bureaucratic process." The man smiled coldly. "Also, I wish to investigate some...irregularities. The people of theIdlewild, and the Sulk End too, need to see that their Marshal-Subrogat is nota slouch as the important end of the day -- adcaptandum vulgus and all that, you understand." 
	ActuallyRossamund did not understand.Whatirregularities? The events werestraightforward. 
	"I shallallow you a day or two to gather yourselves, after which we will begin, firstthing on the first day of the new week.Understood?" 
	"Aye,sir."
	Shortly after,with his attention waning and sleepiness waxing, Rossamund was dismissed.He was led to a small room on the first floorof the manse, away from Threnody or any other lighter. Missing mains, he lay on the foreign cot inthe cold foreign room and slept. 

	28
	Before The Inquiry
	
	heldin(s)mighty folk ofancient history who fought with the monsters, employing their infamoustherimoirs to keep the eoned realms of humankind safe.Known by many collective titles, includingbeauts (common), haggedolim (Phlegmish), herragdars (Skyldic), heterai (Attic),orgulars (Tutin), sehgbhans (Turkic), and what we would call 'heroes'. The tune of their supremacy, when they were reliedupon to stand in the gap between everymen and untermen, is known as theHeldinsage. Said to have begun with thePhlegms -- those most ancient forebears -- and ended with the Attics, theirheirs, it was the time of Idaho,the great queen of the Attics, and of Biarge the Beautiful, among many otherglorious and infamous folk and their usually tragic stories. Not all of the weapons of the heldins weredestroyed in the violent cataclysms that punctuated and finally concluded thattime: many are said to remain, and aremost highly prized by collectors and combatants. 
	
	The next morning, gray andmisty and eerily still, Rossamund was already harnessed when the ritual callcame -- "A lamp! A lamp to lightyour path!" Without stopping forbreakfast, Rossamund went straight down to the Low Gutter, through thelabyrinthine Skillions. Kneeling overthe deserted grate that led to Numps' desecrated bloom baths, the young lightercalled and called Numps' name till he was hoarse, but no pallid, welcoming,twisted face loomed on the darkened steps below. 
	Rossamundpulled on the grate and found it was locked.
	He gave onelast cry, and ran to the lantern store, looking dusty and seldom used, but theglimner was not there either.Rubbinghis face, Rossamund tried to marshal his increasingly anxious conjectures. 
	Doctor Crispus will know!To the infirmary he went, and found thephysician working as he always had, tending the few ill or wounded fellowsthere. 
	"Have youseen him?" Rossamund pressed intently."Is Mister Numps recovered from his grief?" 
	"Cuts andsutures!No, I have not had sight ofNumps, young Master Bookchild," the profoundly startled Crispusreplied. "And well betide you,young sir, all questions and no greetings!" he added. "I had no notion you would ever be backwith us!" 
	"Sorry,Doctor Crispus.Hallo, sir. I was just down in the Skillions looking forMister Numps." 
	The physicianlaughed, a tight nervous sound, and directed Rossamund into his study."All I can confirm," he man saidwhen the door was shut, "is that the astute fellow has take to living inthe damp cellars under our very feet. Iput out food in his lantern store at the start of every week, and each time Ihave returned to do it again, the previous parcels are gone. It seems a satisfactory arrangement, thoughit probably cannot last. Nevertheless, Ishall keep at it till events dictate otherwise. And for you, my boy, why are you here? I heard of the terrible things done at Wormstool. It does me great good to see you hale." 
	"Theclerk-master has called Threnody and me back," he said, sitting uprightand tense on the seat Crispus offered him."He says that the things that happened at Wormstool are tooterrible not to inquire after properly. He also says he wants to investigate 'irregularities.' 
	"I amsure he does," Crispus exclaimed."Guilty minds are suspicious minds." 
	"Youreceived my letter, Doctor?"
	"I did,my boy, I did."The physicianstared at his well-ordered desktop for a moment. 
	"I sentthe same to Mister Sebastipole," Rossamund added, fishing out the letter fromSebastipole and passing it over."This was his reply." 
	Crispus tookthe missive and "hmmed" a lot as he read."The gears of bureaucracy turn against us, Master Bookchild,"he said at last, waving the letter. "The most difficult thing in all of this topsy-turvy hubble-bubbleis proof." 
	"Have youdiscovered any, Doctor?"
	"Regrettably,no," Doctor Crispus said flatly."Our not-so-temporary Marshal has reversed my position, and againstall custom and decency that sawbones Swill is my superior: a surgeon over a physician! I am not certain that it is even legal. But that is the lay on things, andconsequently my movements about the manse are severely restricted. So you and Mister Sebastipole and I canwonder and surmise all we like, but like the leer says, it is all uselesswithout tangible proofs, and these noe of us in the position to obtain." 
	"MissEurope says the same."Rossamund'sshoulders sagged. Then a bright ideastruck. "could find proof. I got into the cellars before, I can do itagain." 
	"Lah!The boy is a heldin reborn!" Crispusexclaimed. "They cover theiractivity too well. If Mister Sebastipolecould not find evidence or even traces of the same, what hope have you withyour less cunning senses? No, no, no,Rossamund. You are in things deepenough, I think! Having said that, youshould destroy this letter -- their finding proof against us... against you...would be terribly counteractive." 
	"How isit that we are not able to stop such clear wrong-doing?" Rossamund said insuppressed indignation.
	"I amafraid, my boy, our foes are well ahead of us in the use and experience ofcunning and shrewdery," aid Crispus resignedly.
	"But itcan't be that they are allowed to go on making rever-men and ruininglives!"
	"No, itcannot," the physician concluded softly."No, it cannot," he repeated, and lapsed into introspectivesilence. 
	Flummoxed,Rossamund went silent too.Railing aboutthe wretched situation did naught to solve it. "The manse seems empty, Doctor," Rossamund eventuallyobserved. 
	"Jointsand gristle, my boy," Crispus exclaimed, "this place has gonestraight to blight after that sis edisserum caper.All the best folk are leaving as fast asschemes will let them. Whympre saidsomething about Grindrod being overburdened by the rigors of learning prenticestheir trade. The poor fellow has beensent on half pay to some other fort -- I never did catch where -- some remote anddifficult place. Benedict has taken hissweet little wife back to High Vesting." 
	Rossamundcould not believe his ears. Benedict gone?Grindrod disposed? Thelamplighter-sergeant had seemed as permanent as the rock of Winstresleweitself. "But who is drillingprentices, then?" 
	"Thereare no more prentices," returned Crispus."Master Whympre says that the road is in too great a disarray forprenticing to continue. He says thatafter he has brought things back in order and reformed the whole Wormway, thequestion of prentices will be addressed again." 
	"Who elsehas gone?" Rossamund asked, saucer-eyed.
	"Let mesee..."The physician begancounting off fingers. "As you know,that Mother Snooks woman evaporated without a glimpse some months ago; I haveheard some dreadful rumor that she was declared mentally unsound and exiled tosome terrible far-off place. Then thereis that amiable young register, Inkwill. He set off last week to some sinecure -- a sweet-and-easy station Ibelieve the common roughs call it -- in the bureaucracies of Brandenbrass, gotfor him through a cousin, or so he said. The lurksman-general is seeking a position elsewhere. Most of my epimelains have left; they saidthey would not work with that butcher at the lead -- bless their eyes. I have precious few like-minded fellows toconverse with now, and a sore trial it is too, I might say. If it were not for Numps, I might find a wayto a new posting myself. Now let me lookyou over." Crispus reached for aspecial monocle like Swill had worn when searching out the calendar Pandome'shurts. "It might be near on a monthsince you were in your fight, but I do not trust Mister Trippletree" -- bywhich he meant the dispenser at Bleakhall -- "to have been thoroughenough." 
	While he waslooked over, Rossamund explained the many events that had crowded his lifesince last he was in Winstermill, though he omitted any mention ofFreckle."...And all I hear,"he concluded after a long telling, "is what a remarkable thing it was tohave slain those nickers." 
	"Well, myboy, I cannot say that I blame them.Tocome out unscathed from one of the worst assaults on a cothouse in recenthistory would be a most remarkable thing even for a fully formed man. But fret not: the body is capable of remarkable deeds when the soul is under great pressure. Now, Rossamund, you look fit enough, though Ithink you need to eat more." 
	So, withmorning transformed to midday, Doctor Crispus invited Rossamund to sharemiddens.
	"Ahh."Crispus waxed cheerful as the food wasbrought in by silent maids. "Middens is a meal not to be missed! One can go without breakfast, and a missed mainswon't do you harm, but to skip middens" -- he clucked his tongue rapidly --"that is to risk a sluggish and interminable afternoon." 
	Rossamundbasked in the physician's dependable unflappability.
	There was atench pie, boiled leg o' veal, carrot collique peas with a great wedge ofbutter melting on them and sweet wine jelly for puddings -- like a Domesdayfeast, served right in the physician's study.In this prandial refuge they talked a little about lighter things, butmostly they ate in heavy, ruminative silence. 
	The mealapproached its end and Doctor Crispus pushed back his chair and, with a show ofsangfroid, said, "Don't fuss about Numps, my boy.Together we just might preserve the poorfellow from further harassments." He sucked down the last of his tepid syllabub with a clear yet dignifiedsnort and said, "Back to the coughs and croaks and running sores for me,my friend. Nights can be as long as daysfor one in my line of work: severalwounded lighters have been sent to me from beyond the Tumblesloes. They did not do as well as you against thebogles, but are not beyond repairing. Good day to you, Master Bookchild, until anon." 
	Standing tobow, Rossamund bid the physician good afternoon and left, spirits lifted,pleased to have such an estimable man of physics call him friend. 
	
	** * * * 
	
	Rossamundspent confinations alone in his tiny room.In the afternoon he had gone back to the Low Gutter to seek Numps, butstill to no avail. After this he made anattempt to meet with Threnody, but she was now closeted with her mother and wasrefusing all visitors. She had not beenhard to find: he simply askedUnder-Clerk Fleugh, who, though sneering and supercilious, told him withouthesitation. Even as he approached downthe dark, aromatic passage, he could hear the rumor of a terrible ruckus. It became a terrible female screech as thedoor of Threnody's apartment was opened to his knock. 
	"Youshall tell everything as you saw it, child," is what it sounded like,coming from some other room father within.
	Before him atthe door stood Dolours.She wore awimple to cover her bald pate and a dogged expression. "Hello, young lampsman. Threnody will not be taking any callerstoday." 
	"Ourclave has no liars!" thescreeching continued behind. "Howwould we look to others if it were known my daughter -- the Right's heiress --was a black-tongued deceiver?" 
	"Not evenme?" Rossamund had persevered.
	"Not evenyou, young lampsman," Dolours had answered with a sad and not unfriendlysmile."She is being prepared fortomorrow's inquiry. Be on your way,Rossamund Bookchild. We are grateful foryour aid to our senior sister's daughter, but bigger wheels are turninghere." 
	Lying on hislumpy, lonely bed, he worried over this odd display.Willshe tell of Freckle?The chillingthought froze his innards. Flickingdisconsolately through an old pamphlet to distract him from such inconvenientanxieties, he heard a call come for him. "Lampsman Bookchild, you are required by theMarshal-Subrogat!" 
	What now!Rossamund fretted as he was taken to theMaster-of-Clerks's file. Is the inquiry coming early?Is it canceled? Are they letting us go? All sanguine hopes, he was sure. Arriving, he closed his eyes and took a deepbreath and readied himself to face the foe. The doors swung back and he saw Whympre, sitting at his usual place atthe far end of the long table, within the light of the only lamp lit in theroom. He was apparently on his own forthe only time Rossamund could ever recall, until the young lampsman saw thatthere were shadowy figures in the gloom, standing about halfway down the clerkmaster's long table beneath the Trought's great antlers. Did he know these figures? 
	With a great,weird, leaping exultation he realized he was staring straight at Fransitart andCraumpalin, his old masters, the former stiff and steady, the latter fidgetyand trying not to be.They had come, asthey said, all the way from Boschenberg, even though it was the worst time fortraveling. It was so utterly strange tosee them there, his two worlds -- old and new -- overlapping. Rossamund was struck dumb. 
	On seeing him,Craumpalin made to hurry down to greet him, yet was halted by a subtle hand ofFransitart's.
	"Ah-ha,Lampsman Bookchild!" the Master-of-Clerks almost cried in disingenuouseagerness, clearly making a kindly show of it for Rossamund's old masters."You have visitors, see: your old wardens come to offer you succor inthese darkest of days." 
	Rossamundblinked at the man."Thank you,sir," he managed. 
	"Hullothere, lad," said Master Fransitart huskily, his hard face made soft bythe dampness in his soulful eyes.Rossamund realized he had near forgotten the once-so-familiar face. "We were about on our ways to Wormstoolbut heard ye'd returned unexpected. Weunderstand troubles are athwart yer hawse." 
	Nearlybursting into tears, Rossamund wrestled with the knot in his throat."H-Hallo, Master Fransitart. Hallo, Master Craumpalin." 
	"'Ello,my boy."The old dispensuristgrinned through his white beard. 
	"I haveallowed them to join with you in the prentice's mess hall for a light supperbefore douse-lanterns."TheMaster-of-Clerks did a brilliant simulation of the kindly host. 
	Mercy ofmercies, Podious Whympre let them eave promptly, and the promise of a late mealwas actually honored.Left alone in histiny accommodation, the reunited finally gave expression to truer feelings asRossamund threw himself into Fransitart's arms. He buried his face in the rough weave and old, unique scent of hisdormitory master's cheap proofing. Themildly startled ex-mariner cooed, "There, there, me hearty" severaltimes till the young lighter loosened his hold. 
	Craumpalinfussed and exclaimed, "Look at thee!All bones like a mouse in a miser's kitchen. What, don't they feed thee, lad?" 
	"Why areyou here so soon?" Rossamund voice wobbled."Your letter said you would to be heretill... till..." 
	"Tillnow, lad," Fransitart said gently."And we're actually late. Ittook some organizin', but finally there was naught else for us to stay for, nomarine society, no -- no children to look after with 'em all new safe at otherplaces..." 
	"And noMadam to employ us neither," Craumpalin added solemnly.
	Rossamund didnot know what to say about Madam Opera.There had been little warmth between them. Still, she had done more than many ever wouldin the aid of the 'undeserving,' even if her labors lacked motherly sentiments. 
	"A finewoman," the dispensurist murmured."Not the friendliest, but fine an' upstandin'!" He raised a mug in silent salute. 
	Fransitart didthe same, and they bumped mugs together.
	"And nowwe're loose-footed."Craumpalinchuckled stoutly. "Just like aforeall this settling down to care for were babbies. Roll on them old days!" He looked meaningfully to Fransitart, andRossamund became aware of a great weight of history between the two. Here, when he thought them so very familiar,they were revealing parts of themselves to which he was a stranger. 
	"Old daysindeed."Fransitart frowned. "And thankee to yer Marshal fellow forour ales!" 
	"Don't betricked by that trickster, Master Fransitart," Rossamund warned."He is the most cunning basket of themall." 
	His two oldmasters blinked at him in surprise.
	"I dobelieve the lad's filling out his baldric nicely, Frans."Craumpalin winked. "Don't be troublin' thyself, Rossamund,we know hay from straw; caught sight o' his colors right quick, di'n we,Frans?" 
	"That wedid, Pin -- a regular lamb-clad wolf is he."
	"Aye aye,enough to make they meat crawl," the old dispensurist agreed. He looked sourly at the food before them. "Blight and blast me, these wittles areuncommon bland!" 
	Rossamund didnot care how tasteless or unsatisfactory the food was, he was all a-joy to besafe with his masters.Yet while theyate together and the first enthusiasm receded a little, he became aware of anunfamiliar awkwardness. 
	Determined toenjoy their company, Rossamund launched into the most full and heartyrecounting of his life since leaving Madam Opera's.Describing the fight with the rever-man, hemade direct connection with Swill, expressing his suspicions as part of thetale. Sorrow of the ruination ofWormstool flooded out like relief. Heeven talked a little of Freckle too; of the Hogsheadand the wood near Wormstool; of the sparrows and Cinnamon, and especially of Europe and Numps. His masters listened to it all in utter silence, a sign of respect, tillhe was done. It felt so good to have outwith the whole tale, start to end and all the in betweens. When he had finished, a great weight hadlifted from his shoulders. 
	"ThisMiss Europe lassie sounds like an uncommon remarkable woman," Craumpalinenthused."I remember her mentionedin thy letters." 
	"I wasalarmed to hear ye conjecturin' about yer surgeon bein' a dastard, naught-goodmassacar!" said Fransitart.
	"Oh, aye,Master Fransitart!And that PodiousWhympre fellow is right in it with him!" 
	"What'sthis place comin' to?" Craumpalin growled."Why ain't he in hand with the authorities then?" 
	"DoctorCrispus knows, and Mister Sebastipole and I reckon the old Lamplighter-Marshaldoes too, but there is nothing any of them think they can do aboutit."Rossamund spoke quickly in hisfrustration. "About the only onewho could do something is Miss Europe, and she says let them choke on their ownrope." 
	"Alwaysthe way with them lahzars."Fransitart shook his head. "Crotchety and crosswards. Still, her notion has wisdom." 
	"Whathave we sent the lad into, Frans?" Craumpalin exclaimed."We've got to get thee away from 'ere,Rossamund!" 
	"And Iwould go with you, Master Pin, but that I made an oath to serve as a lighterand I've been paid the Billion."
	"Aye,right ye are, Rossamund."Fransitart smiled his approbation. "We raised ye 'onorable and that way ye should stay. It's a difficult task to stay faithful beyondendurance. We'll figure a loose for thisimpossible-seemin' knot yet." 
	"Ayeaye!" Craumpalin added."Mightbe possible to get thee an acquittance." 
	"Anacquittance, Master Craumpalin?"
	"Aye, anall-encompassing, all-official release from bound service.Prodigious handy." 
	Fransitartnodded.In a firm hush he said,"And did I hear ye right when ye spoke of that Freckle fellow that 'e's abogle?" 
	Rossamund felta guilty leap in his belly."Aye,he's... he's a -- glamgorn." 
	"Thee what?"Craumpalin exclaimed, spitting some ale.
	"Hehelped me--" he added quickly, "more than once."

	"Doothers know ye 'ave been talkin' with this were thing?" askedFransitart."To be talkin' civilwith a bogle is a sedorning offense, Rossamund. They can gibbet ye for that! Iknow we taught yer to use yer own intellectuals, but speakin' with a nastybain't quite where I thought ye'd take me advice." 
	"Sorry,Master Fransitart," Rossamund squeaked.
	"Oncesaid is done," the master said, sighing deeply."Whatever happens to ye from here on,lad, Master Pin and I'll be right by ye." 
	"Tooright!" agreed Craumpalin.
	They continuedtheir meal, Rossamund losing his appetite to worry.
	"MasterFransitart?Master Craumpalin?" 
	"Aye,lad," the two said together.
	"Frecklesaid some prodigious things to me."
	"Whatmanner o' things?"
	"That hecould tell what I am by my name.
	Fransitart andCraumpalin looked blank at this.
	"Thatpeople were my friends who would not be my friends if they knew... knewsomething," Rossamund pushed on."That I was safer with him. That he wanted to take me to the Duke of Sparrows." 
	The two oldsalts became glassy-eyed, the kind of expressionlessness that hid deeperworkings.
	"Such isone half of the trouble ye get from talkin' to bogles," Fransitartreflected soberly."They rarelymake sense." 
	"You'vespoken to bogles, Master Fransitart?"Rossamund peered at the man in astonishment. 
	"Aye,lad.And this is the first time I'vesaid on it." 
	"MissVerline once wrote me that you had something to tell me.Something not for letters but for earsalone." Rossamund tried, thinkingthis must have been that something. 
	The olddormitory master went a gray color Rossamund had never seen him go before.The two old salts swapped meaningful glancesand the awkwardness, instead of dissolving, got worse. 
	"Well,that I did," Fransitart said slowly through a mouthful of salt pork,"and... and bless 'er for lettin' ye know."
	"Are theythe same strange and shocking things you wanted to tell me before I left?"Rossamund pressed.
	"Aye,they just might be."Fransitartchose his words carefully. "Be thatas it might, though I have yer ears 'ere to hear." He leaned in. "Ye know we've always sought yer best, aye, lad?" 
	"Aye,Master Fransitart."
	"ThatMaster Pin and I have worked only for what we reckoned as right for ye,aye?"
	Craumpalinnodded in emphasis.
	"Aye,sir.Rossamund frowned, baffled. 
	"Well,trust us that when it's time for telling, then that'll be th' time we'll tellye.Aye?" 
	Rossamundnodded.He could not fathom what mannerof despicable revelation his old master knew that made him so reluctant. Either way he knew he would not get any moreon this from his old masters tonight. 
	The three ateand looked at each other uncomfortably for a time, but talk gradually returnedto happy things:to tales of the oldvinegaroons' long-gone adventures together at sea; to fond memories of marinesociety days -- whatever it required to lift them and bring them closeagain. Rossamund could have stayedforever in that cozy, happy womb of cheer and love. Anything to smother the growing dread. 

	29
	A False Falseman
	
	Imperial Secretaryhighest rankedof all the Haacobin Empire's bureaucrats; men and women of great influence andpower, not so much because of their own rank, but because of the status of theears and minds they have such ready access to -- the senior ministers of theEmperor, and even the great man himself.The favor of an Imperial Secretary can be the making of you: disfavor your ruin. Though often of common birth, they aretypically courted and feted by peers, especially the lowly ranked, and bygentry and magnates too, eager for some kind of advancement or boon. One does not strive to be an ImperialSecretary for dreams and hopes of reform, but for the sake of pure ambition andego. 
	
	Themorning of the inquiry after a brief wash and short breakfast, Rossamund wasled to the offices of the subrogate-marshal between two foot-guards, like aprisoner. Fransitart and Craumpalin wentwith him, heads high and dignified, vinegaroons of tested worth in support of aworthy mate. They were recognized asinterested parties on Rossamund's side and as such were allowed to sit with himduring the questioning. 
	WithinWhympre's file Rossamund was surprised to find more people gathered than he hadexpected.Dismayed, he scrutinized thelofty folk sitting at the far end of the table. It was a tribunal of men, ready and waiting, most ignoring the younglighter before them as inconsequential fluff. This tribunal comprised foremost the Master-of-Clerks, preeminent in thecentral position. Upon his right wasindexer Witherscrawl, a pen ready in each hand and two ledgers open before him,acting as his assistant and glaring at Rossamund for no good reason atall. Next to him was theGeneral-Master-of-Labors assisted by the Surveyor-of-the-Works -- two ofWhympre's chief cronies. In the shadowsof the far corner behind the young lighter. Most astounding and disconcerting of all, sitting impassively at theMaster-of-Clerks's left, was an Imperial Secretary, distinct in shaven head andcoattails of clerical black. His rolewas as an independent eye, yet this was probably the very same esteemedpersonage under whose support the Master-of-Clerks had blossomed. 
	To the right ofthese -- as Rossamund saw it -- on a chair to the side of the Board sat SurgeonGrotius Swill, the official adviser for any inquiries on physics, picking atlint on his breeches.Rossamund knewthis was rightly the task of Doctor Crispus, but he was not present. Halfway down the left side of the table satLaudibus Pile, designated the inquisitor, and assisted by Fleugh, theunder-clerk, already scribbling away in a ledger. Rossamund's innards gave a painful, sicktwist. Anyone without an intimate knowledgeof the workings and the personalities of Winstermill would think thiscollection of officers and bureaucrats before them a worthy and impressivebunch. But from Rossamund's view it wasa tribunal stacked against his favor. 
	As Fransitartand Craumpalin took their seats behind him at the back of the room, Rossamundcaught a flash of deep magenta silk in the corner behind.He turned. There was Europe, legs crossed, an easyexpression on her face; she was making a grand entrance into his life again,even while she simply sat, serene. 
	"Hello,little man," she said smoothly."We meet in some of the most peculiar circumstances, don't youthink?" 
	"Buthow--"
	"Quiet,please," came the Master-of-Clerks' tight call.
	Rossamund'sold masters looked from the fulgar to Rossamund and back, Craumpalin noddingtoward her as if to say, "Is that her?" 
	As Rossamundtook his place at the end of the table, there was a rustling andhustle as the Lady Vey proceeded into thehall, attended by Dolours, a gloomy-looking Threnody and Charllette in fullmottle-and-harness: all four women --even Threnody -- wore wings and high hats and bright-patterned bossocks, astartling display of their unity. Threnody was a lighter no longer. With some fussing, the Lady Vey and Charllette took their places on theright side of the table opposite Laudibus Pile. With Dolours joining Fransitart, Craumpalin and Europeat the back, Threnody sat at Rossamund's right hand. He tried to catch her eye, but she refused tolook at him. 
	Clearing histhroat loudly, Witherscrawl stood and called the room to order, introducingeach member of the tribunal to the other, calling it collectively a "Board ofOfficers."He paid particular honors tothe Imperial Secretary, naming him Secretary Imperial Scrupulus Sicus. The alert-looking official stood and gave agracious bow to the Master-of-Clerks, to the Lady Vey, Dolours, and then,almost as an afterthought, to Europe, far downthe other end of the room. 
	To Rossamundit very much appeared like boys playing at "Lords and Magnates," achild's game of grandiloquence and false civility.
	Introductionsdone, it was now Pile's turn."Secretary Imperial Sicus. Marshal-Subrogat Whympre," he began, standing and pacing into thebroad oblong gap between all the various tables. "We have done our preliminariesregarding the occurrence of the assault on His Serene Highness' ImperialCothouse of Wormstool not two weeks gone. The purpose of this inquiry is to lay out what we have found, MisterSecretary, and derive conclusions for the satisfaction of all." He took a pause. "First I shall begin with the LadyThrenody of the Columbines of Herbroulesse, who served briefly with us as alampsman 3 rd class, m'lady." Pile bowed to Threnody, all snide and obscure sarcasm, his tone hoveringexpertly on the divide between deference and offense. 
	Threnody sat alittle stiffer.
	Pilebegan."You were present atWormstool Cothouse during the attack on the twenty-third of Herse,correct?" 
	"Yes."Threnody frowned. "I arrived back there after restocking astone-harbor with Rossamund and Splinteazle." 
	"By whichyou mean Lampsman 3rd Class Bookchild -- present here, and Seltzerman2 nd Class Splinteazle -- who sadly died at the attack of which wespeak, yes?" 
	"Yes."
	"How didSeltzerman 2nd Class Splinteazle die?" Pile rocked on his heels with deliberategravity. 
	Threnodyhesitated."He was torn to death bya pack of brodchin and other nickers." 
	"And didyou and Lampsman 3rd Class Bookchild do all that you could to savehim?" 
	Rossamundshifted in his seat.Of course we tried to save him!
	"Yes,leer, we did," Threnody returned coldly."Rossamund--" 
	"You meanLampsman 3rd Class Bookchild," the Master-of-Clerksinterrupted. 
	The girl wentquiet for a moment, to prove her displeasure at the man's rudeness."Yes, who would be Rossamund." She waited to be corrected again. "He was in a better place to helpSplinteazle and fought most vigorously, while I had my own gnashers toconfront." 
	"And whydid Lampsman 3rd Class Bookchild fail to save the unfortunateseltzerman?" Pile asked softly. 
	Are they trying to blame poor Splinteazle'send on me?
	"Hedidn't fail at anything."Threnodyscowled. "The beasts were tooquick, and overpowered Splinteazle before Rossamund could help. He threw a blaste at the beasts to hinderthem, but it was not enough to stop them all." 
	"SoLampsman 3rd Class Bookchild did his utmost, but Seltzerman 2 ndClass Splinteazle was overwhelmed regardless, correct?" 
	"Correct."
	"So howis it that this undergrown child" -- the leer indicated Rossamund --"was able to best a nicker that a hardened veteran seltzerman couldnot?"
	Threnodyshrugged."He's stronger than helooks, I suppose." 

	
	"Stronger...?"Laudibus Pile looked genuinelyintrigued. "How do you knowthis?" 
	"I'veseen him catch a butt of musket balls that should have crushed him flat,"the girl returned easily, as if this was nothing."
	"And..."
	Threnody gavea small cough."Because I watchedhim kill a monster. But that event isplain enough," she added quickly. "You don't need me to tell you of it." 
	Pile's shrewdeyes narrowed."Indeed." Apparently careless, he picked at some spotor make upon his soutaine. "Yettell me... m'lady, do not these events strike you as unusual, almostimpossible?" The leer lookedpiercingly at her with his all-seeing eyes. 
	Threnody castan anxious glance toward her mother.
	The Lady Veywas sitting more stiffly than ever, looking not at her daughter but directingher brittle gaze at the wall between two windows.
	"Isuppose they do," the girl said in a small voice Rossamund had never heardher use before.
	"You suppose they do? Hmm... Is what she says true, Lampsman Bookchild?" Pile asked, looking tohis palm as if the question were a trifling thing. 
	The younglighter shied."Ah... Y-yes..." 
	Murmurs fromthe observers.
	Rossamund didnot know what else to say.What was theuse in dissembling? With thisfalse-hearted falseman his questioner, who would people believe? Such a fellow in command of a room could doanything with the truth; with no other telltale present, no one could crediblychallenge him. 
	"Of LadyThrenody's part in the battle, her success is clear:a wit, however young, fighting off a beastieis perfectly proper, and this young peer should be commended as the bravest andbest of her clave. Maybe it is only mewho is bemused by this, but elucidate for me -- if you are able, Lampsman 3 rdClass -- how a mere lad of your slight stature manages to defeat a man's shareof nickers! How does one so small winthrough unharmed, where a cothouse-full of the Emperor's own was bested andslain?" 
	Rossamund hadno answer.It was a fair question: he wondered it himself. 
	"I agreewith you, Master Leer," interposed the Master-of-Clerks, that this ishighly irregular."
	"Thankyou, sir."The leer spoke smoothly,in an even, convincing voice. "Giveme your answer, Lampsman." 
	Rossamundobeyed."I-I don't rightly know,sir." 
	Pile seemed tobe smirking."M'lady Threnody ofHerbroulesse, is there anything else about Lampsman Bookchild's manner youwould describe as irregular?" 
	Despite thefirm set of her jaw, Threnody went pale. 
	"There isnothing to be hidden here, m'lady," Laudibus Pile purred, hisdisconcerting eyes daring a contradiction to his honeyed voice."This is but an inquest into the whysand wherefores, for the sake of the record." 
	The calendarlooked to her mother again.
	The Lady Veyjust glowered meaningfully.
	Threnodylooked at Rossamund again, her expression confused and intention unclear.
	"And, m'lady?" Pile persisted,completely undaunted. 
	With a deepbreath she said, "He wears a bandage soaked in a kind of nullodor aroundhimself all the time."
	Pile pursedhis lips."Surely an odd andunnecessary habit?" 
	"He doesit only for the sake of his old foundling masters," Threnody insisted.
	"Isee."The leer set his cunningattention on Fransitart and Craumpalin. "How the count of oddities increases." 
	The two oldsalts stared back angrily.
	Swill shiftedin his seat stroking his mustachios thoughtfully, and regarded Rossamund and thetwo retired vinegaroons closely.
	"Is itnot also true -- as the report I have declares," Laudibus Pile continued,looking like a hungry dog, "that this young fellow refused to be punctedeven after such a great feat as done at the Imperial Cothouse of Wormstool?Would you not also call such a refusal -- sodishonoring the memories of the fallen -- odd, my dear?" 
	Threnody'smouth stayed shut.With a brief glare atthe leer, she fixed her attention stubbornly on the wall before her. 
	"I cansee that you know it to be very much the case."Pile tapped his cheek just below one of hisred-blue orbits. "So you might aswell just speak out those things you cannot hide... Or may I take it that by your silence" --Pile scratched his nose daintily to hid his subtle, goading expression --"you think it right for the courageous dead to be dishonored?" 
	The Lady Veybridled, her seat moving with a clatter of chair legs on hard, polishedfloor."I will not tolerate mydaughter's being accused of dishonor, sir!" 
	Pile turnedhis cold, unnerving eyes to the august."Maybe she might be free of such an accusation if she ceasedhedging for this fine fellow " --he pointed dismissively to Rossamund -- "and told this esteemed panel fullywhat I can clearly tell she knows!" 
	"Have acare, sir," the Lady Vey warned, soft and low."Now speak, my dear," she demandedof her daughter, "and let this ridiculous fiasco come to its end!" 
	Threnodydarted a look to her mother."Thereis nothing more to say, Mother," she said, a darkly victorious lookgrowing in her eye. "Rossamund isno more odd than any other in this ridiculousinquiry." 
	Laudibus Pilepuffed his chest and lifted his haughty head." I am a thrice-proventelltale in the Emperor's Service," he declaimed with quiet, frostyarrogance, "under charge of our Serene Highness' most humble minister, theMarshal-Subrogat. My eyes see true, andI say to you, young peerlet, that that is an utter and thorough-going lie! " 
	The Lady Veyrose, crying her disapproval."Howdare you, sir!" That is twice nowyou slander her; there shall not be three! I will not hesitate to use my privileges to make my displeasure felt onyou, leer. Blast your eyes to flinders! If my daughter says there is no more, then --by the foul depths -- that is the end of the matter!" 
	"If youwish your daughter free from slander, madam," Pile seethed, his facadefailing, "then you should have schooled her better in honesty!"
	"Please,Laudibus!" interjected the Master-of-Clerks.There was genuine alarm in his voice, yetthat predatory look never left his eye. "I am most positive this fine young peeress would not dream ofsoiling her clave's honor by obfuscating truths or uttering falsehoods in aproperly convened Imperial Inquest. Ourgood Lady Vey has indeed taught her too well." He smiled winningly at the august. "Is this not correct, MadamAugust?" 
	The Lady Veylooked at him proudly, her own chin in the air.She cleared her throat ever so softly -- a subtle, female threat. 
	"Myexulted madam," Pile said with wounded dignity, bowing most humbly,"I merely seek the truth, and if my zeal for it has offended your person Iapologize."
	ImperialSecretary Sicus raised a hand."Falseman Pile, I thank you," the vaunted clerk declaredregally. "You have sought yourtrail as far as it might take you, but I warn you now to let it go. We cannot have these gracious ladies harriedso." 
	Rossamundheard Threnody give a scornful sniff.
	"MostHonorable Secretary!"The leerfaced him and clasped his hands piously. "One might be tempted to disregard any of these on their own aseither minor offenses or just an idiosynchrasy, sir. Yet when so many irregularities findthemselves embodied in one soul, my intuitions and insights as a falseman startto tell a darker story." LaudibusPile pointed to Rossamund . "Therehe sits, Master Secretary, with his face so po, but is it possible hit solemnyoung toad hides a wicked treachery? Isit possible that this apparent servant of the Emperor is in league with theknickers, that he survived because of this league, and not through some act ofindividual prowess? That is why he wearsa nullodor al the time -- to mark himself out to his nickerly friends! He killed them only for a show, and this iswhy he refused a mark! I say to you,Master Secretary, surely this one is a wicked sedorner! Surely it is he who, with his monsterfriends, orchestrated the attack on Wormstool! Surely that is why he survived!" 
	Rossamundgritted his teeth against a sudden fury within.So this was their game -- to accuse him a sedorner and shuffle him off tothe gallows. He almost sprang to hisfeet. 
	"So Imust ask you, most honored Master Secretary," the leer said, bowing lowand long, "that I forthwith be allowed to examine Lampsman 3rdClass Bookchild, so getting to the root of this tragedy." 
	ImperialSecretary Sicus stood, hand still lifted in placation."This is a most serious charge. It ismost persuasively put, and I thank you, Mister Pile; yet I believe I shallcontinue the inquiry from here." 
	The leerbowed, his mien unreadable.
	TheMaster-of-Clerks did not look best pleased, and surreptitiously have an unhappylook to the leer.
	SecretarySicus turned his powerful attention to Rossamund. "What is your answer tothis charge, Lampsman 3rd Class? You have been accused a sedorner, lad. What say you?" 
	Before theyoung lighter could open his mouth, Grotius Swill, calm and calculating, stood,a hand raised."If I may interjecton proceedings, good sirs!" the surgeon inquired politely. "I have been listening now to these mosttroubling details, and I declare to you esteemed officers of the table that apossibility yet more disturbing has revealed itself to my thoughts. I ask your indulgence to pursue my owninquiries." He bowed low to thecollected personages seated at the long table. 
	TheMaster-of-Clerks nodded, all pomp and smugness, covering his surprise at theinterruption."Indeed, dearsurgeon, you are our eminent physical man here. Let us take a brief recess for breaths to catch and mids to clear." 
	The room was emptiedbut for Rossamund.Even Europe went, leaving him to worry alone on what terriblerevelations might follow. Pile hadalready claimed he was a sedorner -- a claim, in truth, he could not deny. What other crimes was Swill to lay upon him? 

	30
	Quo Gratia
	
	libermanepotive used toprevent the cruor of a monster from clotting too quickly as it is stored in abruicle.Useful as this is, it alsoaffects the quality of the blood, thinning it and making the cruorpunxis it isused for pale, less distinct. Thereforelibermane is used only when teratologists believe they are more than a coupleof days' journey from a punctographist. Another function of libermane is its application on swords, knives andother blades of war, to make a wound flow more than it ought, though by theAccord of Menschen this practice is deemed unacceptable in modern conflict. 
	
	HonoriusLudius Grotius Swill peered about at the many personages who had reconvened inthe clerk-master's file. "It may bethat when I first declare the notion that has occurred to me," he began,"you shall think it a mad genius-leap, so I ask you, gracious Officers ofthe Board, to please bear with me. Thefull play of my thoughts will clarifyif I am given the time." He clearedhis throat histrionically, giving Rossamund an odd look from the corner of hiseye. "Officers of the Board,paritous inquisitor, peers, ladies, gentlemen, I have listened this wholemorning to the witness of these two young Imperial servants -- listened long andkeen -- and what I have heard troubles me greatly. However, one question vexes me over allothers. What truly does all thisevidence point to, and how is it such a runty... lad might do such feats as he has done?" He pondered a moment, a fine act to focuspeople's attention upon him. "Inview of an answer, if I may I would like to address the whole room with thisquestion: how many of you have heard ofIngebiarge? Perhaps you know her asBiarge the Beautiful?" 
	TheMaster-of-Clerks and Scrupulus Sicus, the Imperial Secretary, nodded.
	The Lady Veymade a face as if to say, What does itmatter if I have or have not?
	No one elseindicated either way.
	Rossamund knewof Ingebiarge.Craumpalin had told himof her more than once. She was meant tobe a cannibalistic woman living in the remotest coasts of the Hagenlands who,by forgotten habilistics, had kept herself alive many thousands of years andmade prey of any who passed too near. Such an unnatural length of life had apparently twisted her: she was gray-skinned, with red and yelloweyes more terrible than any leer's. 
	"Some ofyou might dismiss this Ingebiarge as a fiction, but any vinegaroon who hassailed east beyond the Mare Periculum through the BeggarSea,or harbored in the roadstead off the Stander Lates near Dereland's westernshores, will tell you she is a very real and factual danger. If we could ask a mariner of one thousandyears gone of her, he too would give the same ghastly report." 
	The normallyindulgent Master-of-Clerks, most likely aware of Secretary Sicus sittingimmediately to his right, started to show impatience at this bizarredivagation.
	The surgeonlifted his hands appeasingly."Nowplease, sirs, attend to me, I do have a point. Ingebiarge, the great abomination, the shame of the Hagenards, known asan ever-living monstrous everyman -- or woman." He corrected himself with a peculiar look tothe calendars and Europe. "Yet she is not the only one. The obscurest corners of history will revealthe occurrence of other such abominations, though most, when discovered, weredestroyed before they could become the terrible canker Ingebiarge is tosouthern shipping to this day. For thisBiarge is not some clever skold, as some might reckon, but rather a manikin -- amonster in the shape and form of a person, and as such more assuredly anabomination." 
	Fransitart hadbecome a wan gray.
	Craumpalin hada haunted glimmer in his eye.
	"Pray,Surgeon Swill, you must bring us to your point of view, sir -- the morning runslong," purred the Master-of-Clerks, a hint of chill in his voice, thoughhe never let slip his patient facade.
	"Mostcertainly, Marshal-Subrogat."Thesurgeon bowed a third time to the Officers of the Board and went on as if hehad not been interrupted. "But howcan such a wicked abomination happen? Isee the question clear on your corporate faces: how can a monster be found in the form of an everyman? As you are all well familiar, we know solittle of the where and the why of the monsters, of how they perpetuatethemselves. What we do know is that mostteratologica survive so long they can be considered -- as the short generationsof men reckon it -- to live forever. Yetthe monsters do replace theirnumbers. We knowsome repeat themselves,budding like so many trees, dropping bits of themselves to grow into replicasof the original. This can be mostcommonly observed in the draulschwimmen of the mares or the vicious brodchin ofthe wildest lands such as the Ichormeer or Loquor." 
	Here Swillpaused, took a breath.
	An awful, sicksensation was blossoming in Rossamund's gut.
	Everyoneexpectant, the surgeon poured himself some wine from a sideboard, drank it alland continued.
	"But whatwe have never seen is the creation work of the ancient gravid slimes, thoseplaces said to have been the nurseries of the earliest monsters, the eurinines-- the first monster-lords -- and used by them in turn to bring forth the lessertypes of the theroid races."As hewent on, a quaver of fervent enthusiasm entered the surgeon's voice. "Some of you might even know the historythat was before history, the rumors of the beginnings; that these eurinineswere granted by the clockwork of the universe to be able to put forth theirthrewd and make the muds fertile. Heatedby the sun, worked on by the threwd, the very ground was made womblike andwould pop to bring forth from the foul cesspits of the cosmos many of the worstand most notorious of the monsters that still stalk this groaning worldtoday." 
	Rossamund didhave some small understanding of the things said, but he had never heard themost ancient of histories put so directly.If he had not been in such a great anxiety, he would have eagerlylistened to Swill wax learned like this for hours. 
	Wiping hismouth, Grotius Swill took up the cause once again."Now these gravid muds continued to beused by the monster-lords, even through the rise and fall of ages, whereby theytake the remains of some fallen nicker and bury them in the slimywomb-earth. After a time this spewsforth some vital regeneration of those parts, another full-fledged monster toterrorize the homes of men." Helooked about shrewdly. 
	Not one personmoved.Swill had intrigued them all. 
	"But hereis the rub, you see.The movements ofthe races of men and tribes of theroid, all those risings and fallings, haveleft many threwdishly fecund places untended by their monster-lords, desertedbut still oozing with foul potential. Yet unattended and unchecked by a curinine's will, these most threwdishof places we seldom if ever dare to navigate can still produce life, makingstrange beasties of whatever creatures might fetch up and die there. This abominable process we learned few callabinition, and this, lords, ladies, gentlemen" -- Swill raised a salientfinger into the air -- " this ishow Ingebiarge was made: a woman, somewoman, nobody knows who, three thousand years ago perhaps, dies in one of thesegravid places and falls, her remains swallowed by the hungry ooze. Sometime later out comes -- what?" The surgeon shrugged and stared at hisaudience expectantly. 
	Expressionswere blank, except Fransitart and Craumpalin:both were gray-faced, as ill-looking as Rossamund felt. Despairing, Rossamund looked to Europe. The fulgarwas not paying him any mind, her astute, raptorial gaze fixed on the surgeon. 
	"Is ithuman?Is it monster? This thing sprung from the muds. We do not know for certain," Swillpressed on, unaware of this calculating regard. "What we do know is that what is 'born' -- for the need of a betterterm -- is reformed from the debris of human matter, birthedfrom the 

	
	threwd, awicked repeat of some lost and departed person.This we call a manikin, and whatever it might be, this reconstitutedcreature is certainly not human. Icommend to you that if it is not human, then rationally it must be a monster,and even if it is not, a manikin is not something we want walking free amongus." He paused and looked about theroom with evident academic pleasure. "Inthe case we have before us today, things, I fear, go much deeper than simplesedonition. Rather, events must haveproceeded upon similar particulars as I have just related. In some blightedly threwdish dell in thehinterlands of Hergoatenbosch, some poor lost fellow dies and falls. His remains are sucked up by the mud andslowly, by action of heat and threwd, maybe over centuries, they are remade, anabomination simulacrum birthed from the loam; another manikin. And what becomes of it? This manikin is somehow found and taken to awastrel-house in the city to be raised as an everyman. Yet it is, in fact, not one of us at all." 
	There was abaffled pause, people's faces intent or dumbly wondering.
	"Now,ladies and gentlemen, we all know the name Rossamund -- a sweet and apt name forsome lovely, cherished girl... and, as it happens, the unfortunate andcompletely inapt name of this young lighter here" -- Swill looked aboutkeenly -- "but who of you has heard of a rossamunderling?"
	Vacant facesmet him.
	"None ofyou?"The surgeon's satisfactionwas evident. "I am not surprised;such a word has never appeared on any of the usual taxonomist's lists. I, with all my reading, had not encounteredsuch a word -- until recently, that is, a happy accident of my persistentstudy. How does that interest us? Just so: Ingebiarge is a rossamunderling. All manikins are. You see, after much esoteric study Idiscovered in the most obscure of texts a most fascinating word: Rossamunderling-- an unterman in the appearance of an everyman. Rossamund." The man nowpivoted on his heel, spitting in his passion, and pointed ferociously atRossamund. "For that is mypoint! That you -- YOU, young Rossamundwhatever-you-are -- you are that mud-born abomination! You are a manikin! You are a rossamunderling! A thrice-blighted wretchling in humanguise!" 
	There was agreat shout of disbelief, of horror, from almost every throat in the room.Threnody jerked away from him, staring at himin dismay. 
	Rossamundcould scarcely breathe.He did not knowwhether to laugh or cry or shout down the surgeon's foolishness. Mastering himself, he stood and looked to hisold masters, and something in their eyes struck him more than any preposterousaccusation of some strutting massacar. For the words of Grotius Swill, secret maker of gudgeons and clandestinetraitor to the Empire, might possibly be true. 
	Europe's gaze was narrow and inscrutable as she peered atRossamund. 
	What does she think?
	Laudibus Pilesneered, stroking his chin in wicked satisfaction.
	TheMaster-of-Clerks actually managed to look stunned, and the Imperial Secretarywith him.
	"Yet ifyou need proofs of my logic, I simply quote this fine young peeress,"Swill pursued, "the daughter of the august of our very own faithfullyserving calendars."
	The Lady Veysat erect, her face hard and supercilious with hidden distaste, not giving ahint whose side she was for.She turnedthis brittle gaze to her daughter, and Threnody dropped her head, eitherunwilling or unable to look at Rossamund. 
	"Thisfine girl speaks of his great destroying strength," Swill continued,"a bizarre aberration that immediately piqued my curiosity.Then she explains of his habit of alwayshiding his smell behind a nullodor. Why would one perpetually wear a nullodor,I asked myself, when one spends one'slife safe in the world of men?Andthe answer came: unless you were tryingto hide that you were not a man at all!" The surgeon said this last with a very pointed look at Rossamund. "And of course you did not want to be marked with the blood of your ownkind," he cried, "for not only would the idea be repugnant, you know that on your flesh a dolatramentis cannot show, for one monster's blood will surely not make a mark on another!" 
	The younglighter's thoughts reeled, and he blinked in dismay at the surgeon'saccusations.
	"Moreso," Swill pursued, "if what the august's daughter says is true, thenthis one's masters have conspired with it to hide its nature -- a foul anddeplorable act of outramour as has ever been documented!"
	Fransitart andCraumpalin looked hard at the surgeon and refused to be cowed.
	TheMaster-of-Clerks stared squarely at Rossamund, a conquering glimmer in thedepths of the man's studied gaze."What do you have to say for this, Lampsman 3 rdClass?" 
	Rossamund feltthe blood leave his face and sweat prickle on his brow and neck.He could not let these puzzle-headedfallacies pass unchallenged. But whatcould he say to such outlandish poppycockery? 
	"Tell me,surgeon," Sicus asked firmly, "how by the remotest here and vere doyou propose to substantiate such a bizarre accusation?This young lighter as a sedorner is a chargeI am prepared to hear out, but a monster who looks like a person! This is a verylong line you plumb, sir. How do youintend to substantiate this obscure conjecturing?" 
	Swill balked,momentarily stumped, but rallied, a solution clearly blossoming in histhoughts."If you would but indulgeme just a little further, we could but take a little of this -- this one'sblood; someone could be marked, and in a fortnight or so the proof would bethere. Only a monster's blood will makea mark on a person if pricked into the skin." 
	Threnodygasped.
	Sicus andWhympre and his staff were thunderstruck, and the Lady Vey too.
	"I'll notlet ye cut 'im!" Fransitart cried, half standing but held back byCraumpalin.
	Europe still did not move or comment, and the black-eyedwit kept his heavy-lidded scrutiny ever fixed on her. 
	To theuniversal surprise of the room, it was Rossamund who spoke in Swill'ssupport."Take my blood," hesaid firmly, not quite believing what was coming out of his own mouth. Yet he was resolute. "How else can I show that this... thatMister Swill is wrong?" 
	"How elseindeed?Bravely said, youngfellow!" Swill enthused. "Andto make it a truly impartial test, it would be best for one member each of theinterested parties to be marked. In thatway none can accuse the other of fabricating a result." 
	"This ismost irregular, surgeon," Secretary Sicus cautioned.
	"Aserious and far-fetched charge has been laid at this young lighter, sirs,"the Lady Vey interrupted."I saylet a little blood be taken from him and the poor boy's innocence and heritagebe established." 
	"As youwish it, m'lady."Sicus nodded andmade a dignified bow. 
	This sealedit.
	Swill chosehimself to represent the Empire and the lighters.Fransitart quickly offered himself onRossamund's behalf. 
	A small dish,a small bottle, a guillion and an orbis were called for.
	Grimacing,Rossamund held out a finger, profoundly aware of the trust he was suddenlyplacing in a man he considered the blackest of all black habilists.
	From the smallbottle, Swill dabbed the young lighter's fingertip with a thin, straw-yellowfluid, then dipped the guillion-tip in the same.
	"This islibermane," he explained to the room."To make the sanguine humours flow easy." 
	The surgeondeftly punctured Rossamund's fingertip with the guillion and more blood thanRossamund expected began to drip out.
	Feelingstupidly giddy, the young prentice let many drops of his blood splicker intothe dish to from a little puddlet there.
	"Thatwill be sufficient," Swill said when a coin-sized puddle of it hadcollected in the dish.With professionalregard, he automatically passed Rossamund a pledget to stanch the tiny wound. 
	"Hark ye,clever-cogs!I shall go first,"Fransitart insisted, looking very much as if he wanted to pound the surgeon tostuff. With a look of deep revulsion heremoved his wide-collared day-coat and, rolling up the sleeve of his shirt,presented the inside of his wrist. "Right there'll do fine, ye bookish blackguard," he growledmalignantly at Swill. 
	The surgeonswallowed nervously."As you wish,Jack tar," he answered and, taking up the orbis, dipped the guillion inRossamund's blood and began to tap away on the old dormitory master's blotchedskin. Gripping the pledget to hisfinger, Rossamund could not watch, and he looked up at the great antlers of theHerdebog Trought splayed above them. Even in these strange circumstances he still felt revulsion at thetap-tap-tapping of orbis on needle. 
	Swill seemedto have barely made a start when Europestirred. She stood and stepped directlyto Rossamund. 
	The black-eyedwit straightened, looking ready to fight.
	Distracted by Europe's action, the surgeon hesitated then stopped histapping. 
	Standing bythe young lighter's side, Europe looked withserene confidence at the powerful men gathered before her. "This has all been greatlydiverting," she said with a tone of mild amusement, "but I must nowsay, gentlemen and strigs, that it is time Rossamund and I were going. His tenure with the lighters has, I think itis safe to say, come to an end." She touched him lightly on the shoulder. "Come along, Rossamund." 
	"Staywhere you are, Lampsman!"TheMaster-of-Clerks stood in turn. 
	Rossamundhesitated out of martial habit.
	"Youcannot take him, madam," Whympre contradicted disdainfully."This is a court-martial of our MostJust Emperor, trying one of the Emperor's own servants, and we," he said, turning a haughtyglance to the Imperial Secretary sitting officiously by, "we shall dealwith him according to our own right rule." 
	"Don'tcome at me with that sneer in your nostrils, sir!" Europewarned. "You may have your dourHaacobin friend there" -- she nodded to the Imperial Secretary -- "buthe is still just a clerk -- whomever he might know, and you and he are together beneath me by more degrees than you havefingers or toes collected." 
	The ImperialSecretary began to rise, declaiming loudly, "You flagitious shrew!How dare you interrupt an Imperial proceedingwhile--" 
	"You, MasterSecretary, tread dangerous turfs!"Europe's eyes went wide in indignation. "You are addressing Europa,Duchess-in-waiting of Naimes, Peer of the Haacobin Empire, Marchess of Vewe,shareward of the Soutland states, descendant of Euodice -- speardame of theimmortal Idaho, and of Eutyche her granddaughter -- spurn to Dido, and theBranden Rose, terror to man and nicker alike, and I will dare, sir, and I do!" 
	The ImperialSecretary opened his mouth to remonstrate, but Europespoke him down. "If that will not silence you, impudentwretch, then I say simply QGU and now the matter is done!" 
	QGU?Rossamund stared. Quo gratia!Europe wasusing her ancient right as a peer to overrule any court. She was using it for him... 
	The Lady Veyglowered at the fulgar scornfully.
	The black-eyedwit took a step forward, but was stopped by a brusque wave of Secretary Sicus'hand.
	"Good dayto you, Master Secretary," she concluded."You are at perfect liberty to go tell of my wielding of thisvenerable privilege to your cunning masters and all your fellow glaucologs upin Clementine, babbling away and filling the world with words; it will do youlittle good. For if it is a trading ofstatus and influence you seek, I come ready prepared." 
	To this noteven the Imperial Secretary had a fit or contrary answer.
	"Come,Rossamund, we go."The fulgar tookhim by the hand. 
	Rossamundglanced quickly at the thunderstruck Board and fumbled the chair out from thetable, tripping on one of the legs in his haste.Without a word needing to be said, Fransitarttook a pledget form the table, rolled down his sleeve, put his day-coat backon, and he and Craumpalin followed after. The rest of the room were too stunned to act. Heading not too briskly down the passages ofthe manse -- far be it for Europe to hurry --Craumpalin handed Fransitart a handkerchief to wrap the puncting-wound upon hiswrist. 
	"We can'tthank ye enough, my lady!" the old dormitory master gruffed.
	"Don'twax too grateful, old salt," Europereturned tartly, more intent on exit than gratitude. "I had not intended on rescuing theboy's entire staff, but you may come if you wish!" 
	"We wishit, madam," Fransitart said quickly."We'll not leave our boy to the world's scarce mercies. Carry on -- we shall get Rossamund's dunnage,"the ex-dormitory master insisted. "We shall be returnin' presently!" Before any argument could be made he hurriedoff, no sign of any limp, Craumpalin close behind, both disappearing up thestairs to their temporary quarters. 
	Rossamundhesitate with his old masters' departure, feeling a strange conflict.The fulgar detained him with a touch to hissleeve. "Stay, little man. You are safest with me!" 
	They were outof the manse and walking the gravel drive to the coach yard when theMaster-of-Clerks and the rest of the Board finally followed, gathering on thesteps before the manse.ImperialSecretary Scrupulus Sicus gave a great cry, hollering for the day-watch to"descend and prevent these blighted rascals from escaping!" 
	Somehaubardiers from the wall responded and hurried down from the battlements tothe Mead to cautiously bar the way.Theywere clearly uneasy to be confronting a lahzar. Europe stopped before them and turnedto face her pursuers. 
	The black-eyedwit stepped forward, grim satisfaction clear.
	"Ceasewhere you are, Madam Fulgar," The Master-of-Clerks decried boldly."Whatever the surgeon's wildspeculations, there is still the question of this lad's alleged sedonition tobe answered for!" 
	"Tilly-fally,sir!" Europe returned with a sneer. "Bestir me not with yourlip-laboring. If talking with a nickermakes one a sedorner, then I would be guilty almost every other day! Stand your men aside! Do notforce me to use more physical arguments!" 
	The black-eyedwit hesitated.

	Laudibus Pilesnarled and glared.
	PodiousWhympre puffed himself up, spluttered and even cursed, but did not continue hisintervention.
	The day-watchhaubardiers happily stepped aside even before the order to do so was on theclerk-master's lips.
	Among themRossamund could see Swill a the clerk-master's back, wrapping his own arm witha bandage, staring with inordinate, slow-blinking fascination at him.
	Fransitart andCraumpalin returned bearing all their baggage.Somehow Doctor Crispus was with them, bearing some part of the load. 
	"Clearthe way, thank you!" the doctor demanded, pushing through to the younglighter and the fulgar.
	With somejostling and snarls, Fransitart, Craumpalin and the doctor were allowed to passand Europe led them and Rossamund away fromthe flabbergasted crowd. A lentum rolledup for them -- Europe own hired carriage. 
	The Lady Veyand her calendars now emerged from the manse and stepped about Whympre's partyand out onto the gravel drive.Withprofound calm Europe and the Lady Vey regardedeach other as they passed. Threnodystood alongside her mother, safe among her calendine sisters. She stared at Rossamund with inscrutableintensity, the tracks of tears on her cheeks. 
	Thisdifficult, abrasive witting girl had stayed true through it all, and Rossamundwanted to thank her, to embrace her.Yetdazed, and baffled by the sudden turn of his fortunes, he remained close by Europe. 
	"Greetings,Branden Rose," said the august.
	"And toyou, Syntyche," Europe returned icily. 
	There seemed aself-satisfied gleam in the Lady Vey's steady gaze."We had heard you lost that foul fellowLicurius in a theroscade. How sad youmust have been." 
	Europe's top lip twitched. Her iciness became a grim freeze. "Yes, I was," she said, ever soquietly -- and that was all. She letherself be handed on to their transport by the side-armsman. 
	Desperate toleave this miserable fortress, Rossamund mounted the carriage step."Good-bye, Rossamund," he heardThrenody call as she was borne away to the coach yard. He was about to cry a farewell of his ownwhen Doctor Crispus suddenly stepped before him, filling his view. 
	"Fare-you-well,young Bookchild."The goodphysician extended his hand for a manly shake. "It has been a pleasure to have one of your quality serve here. May you and your masters," he said,looking about the cabin, "find kinder stops along your road." 
	Rossamundswatted away tears."Good-bye,Doctor Crispus! Good-bye!" 
	"Comewith us, good doctor," Europe offered,standing on the top step as Fransitart and Craumpalin hastily loaded theirgoods. "Though I do not know you,the boy trusts you and that says much for me. A man of physics standing ready by is always an asset." 
	The physiciannodded a bow."I thank you, madam --your offer has its merits. But I wouldremain, for there are others here who need my care yet." 
	Rossamund knewCrispus was speaking of Numps.Poor,poor Numps hiding somewhere below them in the dank ancient cellars andpipes. Rossamund was suddenly sharplyaware he would probably never see the glimner again. 
	"I knowyou will keep care of him, Doctor," he said low and fast."Tell him good-bye from me if you seehim." 
	Luggagestowed, Fransitart and Craumpalin clambered aboard with admirable activity insuch aged fellows.
	"Leavenow."Crispus slammed the door ofthe coach shut. "Each moment maketensions thicker." He called to thedriver. "Drive hard, sir, andsafe! Get these good people to betterplaces!" 
	A crack ofwhip and shout of starting and the carriage shot forward.Rossamund held his breath, not quitebelieving he was actually winning free of this place. He caught one last confusing sight ofThrenody staring after the departing carriage before they were through thosemighty bronze gates. Only when thelentum clattered off the Serid Approach and onto the Gainway did Rossamundmanage to breathe evenly again. AsCraumpalin more properly bandaged Fransitart's puncted arm, Rossamund looked tohis old master. Fransitart turned hisgaze to him. Deep conflicts showedthere, old sorrows and new, a great agonized confusion. It was the nearest Rossamund had seen his olddormitory master come to tears, and it terrified him more than any anger could. 
	"MasterFransitart?"Rossamund reached outwith his hand. Don't cry... he wanted to say, but did not know how. A thousand thoughts collided. Who amI?Is what Swill says true? And as he looked again at his dormitorymaster, a small frightened voice, right down in his most inward place... Do you still love me?
	"Don't yefret, lad," the old salt said with a determined smile, taking Rossamund'shand, "we'll fathom ye out of all this."The dormitory master looked to Europe. 
	The fulgar satstraight and proud, staring out of the opposite window, taking small notice ofthe man.
	"Listento thy ol' Master Frans," Craumpalin encouraged as he finished hismending."He and I 'ave been inworse dilemmas. We'll see theeright." 
	Yet asRossamund smiled to reassure the old dispensurist it was only face-deep.The doubts persisted. Am Itruly some kind of half-done monster?AmI a manikin? A rossamunderling? It's like my stupid name ... And a worsethought: Have Fransitart and Craumpalin been lying to me all these years?His smile failed altogether. WHO AMI?his soul cried. In a small voice he dared to ask,"Master Fransitart, who am I?" 
	The confusionin the old vinegaroon's eyes deepened.His wrinkled lips pressed and squeezed together as, for the first timeRossamund had ever known, Fransitart was struck speechless. 
	In the achingmuteness Europe turned and looked at Rossamundwith a mild expression. "Why,little man," she said, "you're my factotum." 
	...And withthe sun just reaching its meridian, the carriage clattered down the Gainway,bearing him, his one-time foundlingery masters and the mercurial fulgar toSilvernook, then perhaps to High Vesting and unguessable ends.
	
	FINIS DUOLIBRIS
	(END BOOK TWO)

	

	

	

	

	

	

	

	

	

	

	

	

	

	
	
	EXPLICARIUM
	BEING A GLOSSARY OF TERMS
	& EXPLANATIONS INCLUDING
	APPENDICES
	GXH

	
	NOTES ON THEEXPLICARIUM
	
	A word set initalics indicates that you will findan explanation of that word also in the Explicarium; the only exceptions tothis are the names of rams and othervessels, and the titles of books, where it is simply a convention to put thesenames in italics. 

See (entry in) Book One" refers the reader to the Explicarium in Foundling, Monster Blood Tattoo, BookOne, by D.M. Cornish. 

	PRONUNCIATION
	ais said as the "ar" sound in " ask" or "c ar" 
	ae is said asthe "ay" sound in "hay" or " eight" 
	e is said asthe "ee" sound in "scream" or "b eep" 
	e is said asthe "eh" sound in "shed" or " everyone" 
	o is said asthe "er" sound in "learn" or "b urn" 
	u is said asthe "oo" sound in "wood" or "sh ould" 
	~ at the endof pronouns is said as the "een" sound in "bean" or "s een"; theexception to this is "Clementine," which is said as the "eyn" sound in "f ine" or "m ine." 
	Words endingin e, such as "Verline" or "Grintwoode":the e is not sounded. 
	
	SOURCES
	Inresearching this document the scholars are indebted to many sources.Of them all the following proved the mostconsistently sourced: 
	ThePseudopaedia
	MasterMatthius' Wandering Almanac:AWordialogue of Matter, Generalism & Habilistics 
	TheIncomplete Book of Bogles
	Weltchronic
	The Book ofSkolds
	&extracts from the Vade Chemica
	A
	
	abinitionspontaneousgeneration of life from muds and clays warmed by the sun in powerfully threwdishplaces.Such soils are called fecund orabinitive muds, or in the uncommon vernacular, life-loams. Some more extreme theories hold that theselife-loams, these dipherbioses (literally "seats of life") can exist even inthe heart of an urban park or rural lumber plantation, that where plantsflourish (even domesticated varieties) threwd can concentrate in boggy dellsand the ground become fecund. When knownbeyond the esoteric provinces of the teratological habilists this concept isgenerally rejected as being too terrible to contemplate. 
	
	Accord of Menschen, the ~what we wouldthink of as an "international" agreement upon the rules of conduct in warfare,standardizing procedures of victory, surrender, the treatment of the loser andof neutrals; a ratification of a much older document known as the Usages ofWar, a set of dogma governing behavior to foes, prisoners, noncombatants, and thewounded and infirm during war.Though itwas primarily drawn up in reference to land warfare, naval officers will alsocite it, thought they have their own accord -- the Articles of Conduct; however,this is not as comprehensive in its statutes. 
	
	"ad captandum vulgus"a Tutin political term literally meaning"toward courting the crowd" but used more in the sense of doing things toplease the people, to inspire confidence. 
	
	alembant(s)broadlyspeaking, scripts that alter thebiology of a person, such as the washes that make a leer's eyes. Specifically,the term can be used to refer to the potivestaken by lahzars to keep theirsurgically introduced organs from vaoriating (spasming). The best known of these is Cathar'sTreacle. See lahzar in Book One. 
	
	almonderassistant to adispensurist or a skold, who doesmuch of the fetching and carrying and reordering and other less glamorous work. 
	
	alternates, the ~catch-all namefor the secondary or subcapitals of the Haacobin Empire, being the Considine andthe Serenine in the Soutlands, and Campaline on the Verid Litus.
	
	amanuensisclerkwho takes minutes, makes duplicates andtriplicates of documents and writes notes on the details of officialconversations. 
	
	Approach, the ~steep"driveway" that leads up to Winstermillfrom the Harrowmath. It is actually split in two, one waycontinuing east down to the Pettiwigginand the other curving south to join the Gainway. 
	
	Arabis, Arimisson of a poor peltryman, Paddlin Arabis from Fayelillian way, who died of exposure ona desperate winter's foray along with his crew of trappers. Raised by his mother in deep squalor, Arabiswas first prenticed to another peltryman;when things turned foul he escaped, living by his wits and making his gradualand circuitous way to the capital. Therehe chanced upon a recruitment drive for the lamplightersof Winstermill, and took theEmperor's Billion there and then. 
	
	ash-dabbling(s)working withorgans and other parts of corpses.The"hobby" of massacars and other black habilists, taking this name from"ash" as a synonym for the remains of a person. 
	
	Ashenstalllast cothouse east before the Wormway descends out of the highlands ofthe Placidine down onto the Frugelle and the start of the "ignobleend of the road," taking its name from the gray land about it, and perhaps fromthe local stone of which it is mostly built. 
	
	ashmonger(s)part of thechain of supply in the dark trades. When stocks of body parts are low, the worstof these will stoop to abduction and murder to get he required items. If such items need to be of a certain"ripeness" to be useful, they weill achieve this artificially, withchemistry. Stolen bodies are sometimescalled anthropelf. See entry in BookOne. 
	
	aspisas stated, this is a venificant, a highly toxic contact poison that allows the oftenharmless blows of a person against a monsterto have rapid and deadly effect. Theonly problem with such potives isthat they are deadly to people too, one touch being enough to cause some greatdiscomfort in the very least. Aspis isone of the more preferred venificantsbecause it is a little slower to act, meaning that accidental touch will not domuch harm, although it is deadly once a good dose of it has entered a body'ssystem. 
	
	Assimussurly, sandy-haired, pinch-faced lampsman1st class serving at Winstermill. In semiretirement owing to the early onset of arthritis, this lighter has been granted the easieststretch of the Wormway on which to work and see out his days. Along with his old mate Bellicos, he has seenservice on most of the inner stretches of the highroad, even enduring a spellat the "ignoble end of the road." 
	
	astrapecriththe correcttechnical term for a fulgar. The equivalent for a wit is neuroticrith. 
	
	Atopian Didoreference tothe time when Dido, the great ancient queen and founder of the Empire, was without a home, wanderingthe region once known as Opera and the Witherlends, driven to flight throughthe attempt on her life by jealous ministers wanting power for themselves. For several years she wandered from kingdomto kingdom, staying where she might, till the monarch of Patris took her in andrallied in support of her as the last surviving shoot of Idaho's line. 
	
	Atticlanguage of the ancient people of thesame name, a mighty race of great learning and sophistication, the directinheritor of Phlegm's cultural, technological and sociopolitical legacy.Much of what they knew is now lost, theremnants still considered the acme of wisdom and habilistics. Idahois considered their greatest ruler, and Dido, her great-granddaughter, secondonly to her. The language itself is based on the real Attic (otherwise known asclassical Greek), and with this comes the author's usual apology for anyoffense his current usages might incur. 
	
	AubergeneLampsman 1st class  billeted at Wormstooland a native of Burgundis, he is renowned for his steady aim even in the mosttrying situations. Though little is said of it now, early last decade he earneddeep respect and not a few cruorpunxiswhen defending a search party in the Ichormeer. These foiled rescuers had been attempting tofind the lost family of the Warden-General of Haltmire, who disappeared in the terrible swamp. Few traces found could be followed, and thosethat could led only to disaster as the swamp swallowed men whole and itsdenizens preyed on them like cats in a mouse plague. As part of a rear guard, Aubergene's deadlyshots bought space for the retreating party, who found only one child -- themiddle daughter -- to take back to her agonized father. For his deeds the young lighter was awarded the Carpa Virtus (the Hand of Valor), thehighest honor available to a mere lighter. 
	
	aufheitermensaid "owf'high'ter'men"; the Gott word for lamplighters, meaning literally "thegloom lighteners" or "those who bring lightness to the gloom." 
	
	augustruler of a single calendar clave; typically a woman of some social stature, perhaps apeer, or noble, with a socialconscience. To have any chance ofaffecting their surrounds, calendarsneed money and political clout, and those with high standing socially possessthese attributes natively. A clave that does not have ranking gentryor nobility at its head and core, or at least as a sponsor, will most certainlybe marginalized. Augusts are seconded bythere laudes, who are theirmouthpieces and their long reach. With awell-organized and talented clavewith her, an august can be a daunting and influential figure in Imperialpolitics and society. Within her own clave the august is often referred to asthe senior-sister. 
	
	aurangin the Half-Continent's version of a carddeck the aurang is the fourth station (card value) in the house of brutes(animals), below the daw (3) and above the crocidole (5).An aurang is what we would call an orangutan,being found on the smaller islands of the northern Sinus Tintinabuline and found in the Half-Continent usually only inbooks, though wide-faring vinegaroons may well have seen one or two. The aurang lends its name to one of thewinning hands in the card game pirouette,"Kindly Ladies Watch the Happy Aurangs Again. 
	
	auto-savanta person who,by the exercise of extremely sensitive and attuned intuition, is supposed to beable to tell a person's thoughts and needs.Most of these are rejected as humorless fakers and fabulists by those of the more serious habilistic turn of mind. 
	
	auxiliary, auxiliariesin thiscircumstance the people in support of Winstermill and her lamplighters,including the house guards of musketeers, haubardiers and troubardiers; leersand lurksmen and other "creepers"; skolds and other thaumateers; and theartillerists tending the great-guns on the walls.
	
	ax-carabinealso calledaxe-carbine or fusiscuris, a combinade made of a fusil-like firelock with anax-blade attached to the muzzle.

	B
	
	baneteratologist who is both witand skold, either beginning as a skold then choosing the neuroticrith's path to increase his or her power, or beginning as awit and becoming adept at skolding. This second path is not uncommon: a withas to take many more concoctions than a fulgarto keep healthy -- and many of these are more complex to make than Cathar'sTreacle. Wits may well opt to make these themselves rather than be tied toother suppliers, which is said by some to be a risky business as far asconsistency of quality and efficacy are concerned. In the way of learning their own scripts, wits may well discover that itis within their abilities to make other potives, and branch out intoscolding. A bane is therefore consideredmore versatile and greater in power that a plain wit. 
	
	bastion-housestronglyfortified house or other such dwelling reinforced to withstand the rigors ofconflict.Cothouses are often a form ofbastion-house. 
	
	Baton Imperial of Fayelillian, the 8thEarl of the ~ the Lamplighter-Marshal's proper title, thehereditary rank granted to his Fayelillianfamily by Menages Scepticus Haacobin I, the usurper of the Sceptics and the original Emperor of thecurrent dynasty. Even so the Lamplighter-Marshal will not allowothers to address him by any other title than 'sir,' as befits his militaryrank. 
	
	bee's buzz, the buzzgossip andrumor, so called for the buzzing sound of folks engaged in hushed mutteringsabout another.
	
	BeggarSeathe body ofwater off the Stander Lates and the southern coasts of Hagenland, theStafkarlsstig or "wandering beggar" in Brandenard.In the Half-Continent it is known as thePontus Mendicus. 
	
	Bellicosone of thethree semiretired lampsmen who lookafter the prentices as they practiceat lighting along the Pettiwiggin. A little younger than his two compatriots,Bellicos is probably the surliest of the three, though he is generally forgiventhis for the feats of valor he performed during his full service out Ashenstall way. 
	
	bellpomashmild restorativewhich, though drunk, is said to help the clotting and healing of wounds byfortifying the body's functions from within.
	
	belugig(s)also belongs;large monsters, especially ettins or even the great beasts of the mares.
	
	Benedict, Under-Sergeant-of-Prentices ~red-hairedassistant to Lamplighter-SergeantGrindrod. Benedict's carrot-coloredhair is remarkable in northern Soutlands,showing his Wretcherman heritage. He andhis sweet little wife, Daisy, live down in the Nuptarium in the Target Row,on Target Street. 
	
	benthamynconstituent ofCraumpalin's Exstinker; adistillation of oils found only in the rock of certain regions of the Sinus Tintinabuline, Wretch and theGottskylds, with the best quality part coming from the Heilgolands. 
	
	Berthezeneartistsometimes going by the name of Berthezar, once a native of Turkeman, come tothe Sundergird in flight from thehusband of a mistress, and shopping his considerable skills as an imagineer (anillustrator) to any buyer, including pamphlet makers both reputable anddisreputable. His talent is lauded bysome as the most remarkable of the age, rivaling even the legendary Gouche,though that fellow's admirers disagree. 
	
	besomer(s)broom-makers.
	
	Biarge the Beautiful(said"bee-arr-gee" -- with astrong g as in "get"); common, easierto pronounce form of Ingebiarge (said" Ing'ga'bee'arr'gee"), the name ofthe cannibalistic monster-woman of Hagenland's southern shores, also known asBiarge the Salt-skold or, in Gott folklore, as Beogerthe the Cruel. Of the few manikins known to history, Biargeis perhaps the best documented, though few ordinary folk know her origin -- oreven know of her. Her origin is found intimes long gone, in the lands of the Skylds, during a period of particular andmorbid conflict there between human and monsterknown as the Volkammerung -- a time of decay after the Heldinsage when heroesprevailed and civilization flourished. Afaithful servant and yrrphethal (" earr'feh'tharl,"equivalent to a rhubezhal -- see skoldin Book One) to Ulfe Pytr 
	(said "Ull'ferPie'ter" -- the great Hagen king who drove theSkylds from their rightful land), Biarge was hailed for her cold beauty andtreacherous use of her great skill to aid the Hagenards against her own people. As time passed, and well after the Skylds had fled west across theGramlendenmeer ("The Sea of Heavy Sorrows") Biarge became noted most of all forthe longevity of her beauty, and it was soon rumored that she had brewed apotion of powerful virtue to prolong life and youth. Puzzled as to her own juvenescence, Biargeencouraged this rumor, yet it doubled back on her: Uthoede (said "yoo' tho'dee"), Ulfe Pytr's wife, pressed her husband mercilessly toinsist that their court's beauteous concocter make this tender brew for thequeen as well. Many times he cajoled,remonstrated with and railed against Ingebiarge,and each time he was refused, first with kind excuses then with outrightobduracy. On each occasion he had toreturn to a furious wife and a night spent banished from the conjugal bed. Goaded by her imperturbable obstinacy,Uthoede went herself to Biarge's test,taking with her a number of mighty men of the Volkammerung -- Skarphethinn (said" Skar'feh'thin") and Grettirpreeminent among them. They took Biargeinto custody, ransacked her home, turned up no vital potive and imprisoned the rhubezhal in the darkest depths ofSteindurom, the regal stronghold. There,under pain of torture, Biarge confessed that there was no potion ofyouthfulness, that she did not know why she was still young after so long. Vakr, the royal signifier ("watcher of stars") tested her for threwd. On finding itssubtle but definite presence, he renamed Biarge the Tvymadthrmaen -- thetwice-false maid -- and she was declared a samligr (something akin to a sedorner). Uthoede screamed for her doom and Ulfe Pytrsentenced Biarge to be executed at next moon's dark. Yet not all were against her. One Freyr, brother and equal of Grettir andnephew to Ulfe Pytr, was besotted with the long-lived beauty, and when time camefor her burning, contrived to set her free. In their flight Vakr was slain by the chemistry of the damned maiden andmany houseguards with him. The twolovers fled to the Illr and lost themselves in that haunted land; not evenSkarphethinn, Biarkemil, Syfyrd, Gudbrand or the wounded and anguished Grettirnor any other of the men of renown would follow after. So Biarge and One Freyr wandered in thewilds, aided by strange and inscrutable folk -- the haustayr or hausti, theautumn-folk that men were forbidden to converse with -- till they made theirhome across the Leith Fol, on the Stendrlaeti (see the Stander Lates), theshores of the Linen Finne. Here Biargesuffered the deep grief of watching her young love One Freyr age, anddecrepitude approach, while she stayed forever young. In bitterness and grief her thoughtsblackened, and she cursed the cosmos and plotted useless revenge -- for all butBiarkamil, the warrior-poet, had withered and died. She searched and brewed and scoured thelands, trying to find the secret of the vital brew she had once been somistakenly condemned for making. Sheterrorized communities and stole their parts and potives, slew young men out of spite or abducted them to test andrefine her concoctions. Many of thesepoor subjects did gain a kind of prolonged life, but each one was twisted andbroken by the experiments he endured. Nomatter what the increasingly crazed Biarge tried, she failed utterly to findthe perfect elixir to keep her lover and rescuer whole and by her side foralways. The common end for Freyr is thathe went the way of all people, yet awed stories remain that, among the walking,shuffling horrors that make the Stnedrlaeti an impossibly dangerous place, isthe moldering mindless hanuman of One Freyr, aching with longing he no longerunderstands. As for Biarge, she is saidto live still, her skin gone gray with time and her eyes red and yellow fromcenturies of skolding -- utterly madand insatiably ravenous, seeking to devour all men she can find, wanting intwisted love to take them unto herself, where they might continue on and notwither with age. She is said to havedevised many ways to lure vessels and their crews onto the risky shores of the Stander Lates, whereby she desires toconsume each one. The best source ofinformation on Biarge can be found in that ancient book of horrors, theDerereader. 
	
	billetwhere pediteers,lamplighters or other military personnel sleep and live when not on duty. 
	
	Billeting Dayday when prentice-lighters are granted status asfull lampsmen, having completed their training. In a solemn ceremony, prenticesreswear their vow of service to the Emperor and are assigned to a cothouse where they will serve out whatdays are left to tem lighting and dousing the lanterns on the appropriatestretches of road. 
	
	biologue(s)any device ormachine that uses actual living organs to provide its functions.See stheniconin Book One. 
	
	Bitterboltcothouse onthe Wormway situated just beyond theeastern bank of the Bittermere. 
	
	bitterbrightpowerful andrare potive, a delicate fulminant that, by the cunning artificeof its chemistry, produces light to hurt the gaze of any who look at it. Unless it is actively replenished,bitterbright burns for a limited duration, its effect lessening as it burnslow. Therefore you must be constantlyworking to keep it "burning" if you want its painful glow to remain. 
	
	Bittermere, the ~small riverrunning from high in the Owlgravethat swells greatly in size before joining the Migh on the northern edge ofNeedle Greening. Said to be threwdish,it derives its name from the sharp, foul taste of its tealike waters, sweetenedonly slightly by the joining of its flow with the swift-flowing Mirthlbrook. 
	
	black habilist(s)termmost commonly used to refer to massacars or transmogrifiers; those considered to be dabbling in the darkersides of learning; the great patrons of the darktrades, which would not exist without them. See habilists in Book One. 
	
	blasteany fulminating potive or script thaterupts or explodes, loomblaze beingan excellent example. 
	
	Bleakhallcothouse at Bleak Lynche, upon which its inhabitantsare greatly dependent for safety and the dispensing of justice. It is one of the more irregular duties of thehouse-major to preside over thesmaller civil disputes. Built before thetown, as a position of retreat for those dwelling at Haltmire, Bleakhall is one of the larger cothouses on the way and is meant to be billet to an overstrength of lamplightersand their auxiliaries. 
	
	Bleak Lynchelast civilsettlement in the eastern edges of the Idlewild,gaining its name from its remoteness and the poor prospects of the land aboutit, and from the bridges spanning between the high towerlike houses built there-- otherwise called "linches." Founded bythe state of Doggenbrass, the settlement's best source of corporate income istending to the needs of the lamplightersand postmen posted there, and as a trading post and "stopover" for those fewtravelers coming up on the Wettin Lowroad from Burgundis and HurdlingMigh. This is still thin pickings, andthe lords of Doggenbrass have found themselves paying frequently to prop up theailing colony, many of whose citizens have moved to the more prosperous miningsettlements in the region, the Louthe or Pot. One can find pathsmen here: private wayfarers who contract out their energies as guides and guardsto those foolish few who wish to travel the Wormwayinto and through the Ichormeer, ortake the Wettin Lowroad down to Hurdling Migh and beyond. 
	
	blightedof orpertaining to monsters or threwd, especially the worst kinds of threwd. Used as an emphatic curse -- with "twice" or "thrice" or some otherpreceding qualification for extra emphasis -- to declare a person or thing bador unworthy or worthless. 
	
	bloomshortened form of "glimbloom," also known as frons lumen or collucia, and sometimesreferred to as stuff (though this isa catch-all term); the aquatic, weedlike plant possessed -- in certaincircumstances -- of bioluminescence used to provide the source of illuminationfor bright-limns and the great-lamps of the highroads andcities. It is a wonderful, regeneratingsource of light, but there are those who hold that having it, and particularlygrowing it, is an enticement to monsters,who are said to like the taste of it. Others disagree, particularly lampsmenout on the roads working with bloom each day, who argue that the monsters tend to find them much moretoothsome. Some seltzermen, on the other hand, might complain of a disproportionateincidence of theroscades when theyare out replacing the worn-out bloom of a great-lamp. 
	
	blundereroffensive termfor a non-military person, used by pediteersand their like in the same way a vinegaroon might call a landsman alubber. Very rude when said to anothersoldier. 
	
	boltardea combinade or weapon made of acombination of two or more other tools of violence. Essentially a boltarde is the bringingtogether of a helmbarde (what we would call a halberd) with two wheel lock pistolsformed as part of the shaft, one short barrel on either side of theax-and-spike-head. The wheel locks arefired by means of triggers farther down, just above the rondel that protectsthat hand. Shallow grooves run down themiddle of the blade to allow the ball to fly unhindered. An invention of the Sebastians, it isunwieldy by highly effective in the right circumstances, although boltardeshave not gained much popularity in the HaacobinEmpire. 
	
	book(s)in the Half-Continent there is a wholelibrary of catalogs and matters on monsters,habilistics, necrology and more; among the more necessary (other than the Vade Chemica -- see Book One -- andrelated texts) are Ex Monsteria (byWytwornic) and Phantasmagoria. Also there is the Nomenclator Animanticum (unknown author), Historica Monstorum (a modern publication by Pellwick), De Dinpiscibus (on sea-nickers and kraulschwimmen by Aldrovand), Labyrinthion (an ancient text on teratology by Stabius andtranslated by Wunderhuber) and the strange and antiquated Historie of Fourfeeted Beastes by Topsell -- to name but a few. ClysmosurgicalPrimer is a learned and rare book on the actual techniques involved intransmogrification (surgery making a person into a lahzar) complete with diagrams. Its sources are the ancient and even rarer writings of the Phlegms andmost particularly the Cathars, now extinct races known for their skills andlearning in such things. This is not aproscribed book as such in the Empire,but owning one is a sign of dabbling in unusual, esoteric things. Because of what is deemed dangerous contentor encouraging outramour, it isillegal to sell many of these within the Empire,though not necessarily to own them. Thebanning of books is an inconsistent practice, with each state interpreting thelaws differently, and it tends to be the paleologues (the "ancient texts") thatsuffer the most restrictions. People ofyore often thought very differently of the race of monster than folk of the Half-Continent do now. 
	
	BookdayRossamund's birthday, as it is for everyward of Madam Opera's Estimable Society for Foundling Boys And Girls. See entryin Book One.
	
	bossetationmaking gardens(what we would call landscaping).Thoughthe making and planting of gardens might seem a worthy and peaceful pastime,its main purpose is to expunge the threwd,to keep the land tame. 
	
	bossockalso known as mayotte, the basicwell-fitting proofed-silk (soe)harness of the calendars and one oftheir most distinctive items of apparel. It is made close to allow free movement and, while it prevents moderatelacerations, thicker items of proofing must be worn over it to give betterprotection. 
	
	Brandenardlanguage ofthe Brandenards, the race who populate much of the northern Soutlands and have contributed much tothe exploration and expansion of the Empire'smercantile and geographical interests; the Half-Continent equivalent ofEnglish. In HIR 1311 the Imperialdeclaration on the languages of its subjects, "The Correct Sounds toInstruct the People," officially recognized Brandenard as the vulga lingua-- the common language among the peoples of differing states and even countries,the tongue of trade. Tutin, however, was declared -- and isstill regarded -- as the language of education and politics. 
	
	Brandenbrassmajor city ofthe Grume.See entry in Book One. 
	
	bravo(es)generally anyhired killer, but also used specifically to describe what we would callassassins; also known as pnictors or pnictardos ("stranglers").
	
	Briary, the ~; Briarywoodsmall thornywoodland that stubbornly grows about the eastern end of the Pettiwiggin. It has been allowed to remain, as a source offirewood and small timber for the needs of both Winstermill and WellnighHouse. 
	
	bright-limn(s)small portableseltzer lights. See Book One. 
	
	Brisking Cat, the ~wayhouse onthe highroad of the Conduit Vermis,and one of the longest established in the Idlewild. Situated near the confluence of the Mirthlbrook and the Bittermere, it was founded three generations ago by the father ofthe current enrica d'ama, Madam Oubliette. The family of Parleferte (said " Par'leh'fert"), her steward, has served there for as long as the "Cat" has beenopen. A popular billet for many teratologists. Ever prone to grumbling, local townsfolk willcomplain bitterly of the coxcombry and inconvenience of knaves when they are bunked in the townships. It's all very tedious. They want the work but not the persons who doit, so most pugnators prefer to stay in knaveries, cot-rents or wayhouses andavoid the nonsense. 
	
	brocander(s)sellers ofsecondhand clothing, particularly proofing.
	bruicletool of physics used for holding blood, made usually of glass orporcelain. Teratologists andpunctographists use them too for storing cruor. The arrangement of one bowl inside another within a bruicle insulatesthe stored blood, keeping it viable for longer and making it ideal for carryingcruor back to your friendlyneighborhood punctographist. See graille(s). 
	
	bully-diceywhat we would call a meat pie.
	
	burge(s)small flagsfor signaling, made in sets of distinct patterns for the representation ofletters, numbers, cardinal points, titles of rank or social elevation, evenwhole words.The color of a burge isfirst and foremost for distinction, though the meaning of the colors can beinferred if a small multistripe, multicolored flag -- known as a parti-jack -- isflown with them. Burges are used forboth civil and military purposes on land and the vinegar seas. 

	C
	
	caladinealso aleteins,solitarines or just solitaires; calendarswho travel long and far from their clavespreading the work of good-doing and protection for the undermonied. The most fanatical of their sisters,caladines are typically the most colorfully mottled and strangely clothed ofthe calendars, wearing elaborate dandicombs of horns or hevenhulls(inordinately tall thrice-highs) or henins and so on. They too will mark themselves with outlandishspoors, often imitating the patterns of the more unusual creatures that theirwide-faring ways may have brought onto their path. Clavestend to confine their actions to a defined jurisdiction known as a diet, and customarily seek permission toenter another clave's diet. However, caladines have a unilaterally agreedright to travel freely from one dietto the next, though it is considered polite and proper to visit with the august while you are there. Sometimes a caladine is called by the local laude to produce credentials beforegetting an affirming nod. 
	
	calanserie, calanserai, calanseryheadquartersand home of a calendar clave, andtherefore also called a cariary. Usuallysituated well away from urban buildup, out in more rural places where there isa greater need for the calendar'swork, though there are a few notable exceptions: the oldest clave-homes are found near cities and there are even calanseries inCatalaine, Millaine, Ives and Chastony. Calanseries are typically fortified against assault from both monster and man, especially given thatseveral are home to sequesturies aswell. 
	
	calendar(s)sometimescalled strigaturpis or just strig -- a general term for any combativewoman; the Gotts call them mynchen --after the do-gooding heldin-women of old. Calendars gather themselves into secretive societies called claves (its members known as claviards),constituted almost entirely of women, organized about ideals of social justiceand philanthropy, particularly providing teratological protection for the needyand the poor. They usually live insomewhat isolated strongholds -- manorburghs and basterseighs -- now as calanseries. Some claveshide people -- typically women -- in trouble, protecting them in secludedfortlets known as sequesturies. Other claves offer to teach young girls theirgraces and fitness of limb in places known as mulierbriums. Calendars, however, are probably best knownfor the odd and eccentric clothing they don to advertise themselves. Over the years a distinct nomenclature hasemerged for the various "trades" within a calendar clave, for example: 
	
	"fulgar= stillbine 
	"wit= pathotine 
	"dexter= cacistin 
	"skold= pharmacine 
	"scourge= cheimin 
	"bane= sceptine 
	"sagaar= purrichin 
	"pistoleer= spendonette
	"leer= astatine. 
	
	All kinds of teratologistsform secret societies, but calendars are one of the few who generally seek thewelfare of others. The calendar ranks indescending order are: 
	
	"carline -- rare, revered and retired,sought for wisdom and adjudication 
	"august -- the head of a clave
	"laude -- the second in charge and heraldof the august
	"cantin --assistant to the laude, lifeguard ofthe august
	"caladine -- equivalent in rank to a tome(but operating alone and errant) 
	"tome --leader of a number of chapters and pagins 
	"chaptin --fully approved and initiated sister 
	"pagin --initiate serving probationary period, entry-level 
	See Appendices 2 and 3
	
	calendineof orpertaining to calendars. 
	
	Callistia, Damsels of ~fabledbeauties from the Heldinsage, everliving beauties dwelling in the autumn-landsof the urchin-lords.Many tales of loveunrequited and rapacious appetites and much misery surround them. The salient lesson in the histories of notputting too much stock on physical beauty is lost, however, on modernfolk. For the idea of these mythicladies has given rise to parades known as Callistia or callic-shows, beautygalas with awards for the most poised, graceful, well-turned out and rationalgirl in the show. 
	
	cantebank(s)peregrinatingsongsters and prosodists who also sell their talent for words to pen panegyricsfor teratologists wishing to boast of their skills either to prospectiveemployers or to be read out in a common room or other public place.
	
	cantusproperly call the cantus-and-laude, thisis the creed by which a calendar clavelives and dies. Often it is rendered inabbreviated verse form so that it stays in the mind. Calendarsare continually indoctrinated with their cantus till obedience to it isreflexive. The In Columba Alat is an excellent example of a cantus, and each clavewill have its own variation of such a creed. See In Columba Alat.
	
	carum, dust-of- ~pronounced "kar'room," one of the parts that go into themaking of Craumpalin's Exstinker. It comes as a gray powder made from the driedand ground buds of a type of seaweed commonly found along the entire southerncoast of the Half-Continent. The dust isa common base for many powdered scripts. 
	
	castesmall, fragile flasks usually made ofglass or delicate porcelains designed to fracture when dashed against a hardsurface.These are used to hold liquid potives that burst and react violentlywhen released. Castes have to be storedand carried in padded receptacles; a salumanticum,for example, will have a reinforced pocket as part of the inner linings,divided into softly cushioned slots in which individual castes can be kept. Anothermethod of carrying them is in a digital, a small, sturdy, well-cushionedcontainer, usually of tin or pewter or wood, worn handy on a belt or in apocket, into which four or five castes can be kept for easy use. There are some different types of digital,and they are common accoutrements of awell-prepared hucilluctor. 
	
	castigation(s)(noun) severe punishments starting with time in the stocks and moving on toincreasing strokes of the lash. ( noun) period in the afternoon whendefaulters are named and their punishments determined. These will typically be impositions; onlyvery rarely will actual castigations be given, despite the grim name -- only forlarceny or brawling or some gross dereliction of duties. Prenticesare often threatened with castigations, but these are empty threats (not thatthe prentices are usually aware ofthis) to keep them well in line. 
	
	catharedto be madeinto a lahzar, to have undergonetransmogrification. 
	
	Cathar's Treaclealso called plaudamentum; draught imbibed by lahzars -- both wits and fulgars -- tokeep their introduced organs from rebelling inside their bodies. See entry in Book One. 
	
	catillium, catillium-hatround,broad-brimmed, squat-crowned hat, usually made of straw and lined with felt.
	
	catlinalso called a catling; a long-bladed,long-handled surgical knife, sharply pointed and double-edged.The preferred too in amputations and themaking of major incisions. 
	
	Childebertone ofRossamund's fellow prentices; afairly quiet but capable lad who paid Rossamund little mind as they sharedtheir lives in Winstermill. 
	
	Chilloften used as a synonym for winter, butmore specifically referring to the coldest months in the year -- Pulchrys,Brumis, Pulvis and Heimio, considered usually an ill-time for travelers.
	
	chymistariumor test-barrow; cupboard or portable barrowwhere skolds and their ilk can make their potives. Very compact, with ingenious drawers andfoldable sections, an entire miniature testcrammed into as small a space as possible. Skolds may port the cupboard variety on a cart or carriage to take aboutwith them or pull the barrow (or hire some sturdy rough to pull it for them) tomake what they need when they need it. Not to be confused with a testitself, which is a whole room and its tools given to this purpose. 
	
	cicurationsaid "kick-u-ray-shun"; determined process ofbringing the wilds under control by farming and cultivation, by digging andcutting and landscaping, and by colonization to bring the land fully under everyman control. It is a slow form of taming, but its effectsare deep and long lasting. Even so, someplaces refuse to be brought under heel -- such as the Harrowmath, large parts of the Mold, the Frugelle and so on. See alsothe Idlewild. 
	
	claustrasmall boothsused in the more fancy alehouses, coffeehouses, wayhouses, tomaculums and anyother such public place, made to seat no more than four comfortably.Designed to provide a modicum of privacy toguests, they were originally used in the less salubrious establishments toallow nefarious conversation to happen somewhat publicly without being toopublic. As is so often the case, thefashions of the wealthy romanticize and ape the daily realities of the less well-heeled,who in turn copy things they like from those of higher station -- and so it goesaround. 
	
	clave(s)group of calendars, particular and distinct, setto protect a defined area. A clave hasits own unique mottle and spoors that its phrantryare expected to wear at all times with pride. Calendars in general hold touniversal beliefs and rules, but a clave is free to emphasize or add bits asthey see fit. The augusts of all the claves in a region may meet every so often tocoordinate and bond. There is normallyno real animosity between claves, and caladinestend to be the glue that keeps it all one big happy family. 
	
	Clementinecapital cityof the whole Empire; some may use thename Clementine when referring to the Emperor and his ministers as acollective; a general term for all the powers that govern the Empire. See entry in Book One. 
	
	clerk(s)at Winstermillthese are essentially civilians with a military rank; few states haveprofessional military staff.Given this,the most preferred clerks are concometrists, the combat-clerical graduates ofathenaeums such as Inkwill, who are highly trained in both paper shuffling andthe stouche. 
	
	clerk-masteranotherrendering of the title Master-of-Clerks,slightly less formal and typically allowable in use only by those of a higherrank. 
	
	coach-hostharbor for post-lentums and other public carriagessituated at a convergence of routes, where a passenger can while away minutesand hours either eating and drinking in the refectory or sitting and waiting inthe parenthis. Coach-hosts are not wayhouses: they have no facilities to accommodatetravelers, though folk are allowed to sleep in the parenthis if they wish, at no charge, sitting on hard benches andlocked in at night with limited access to the jakes or refreshments and nobedding. Still, for those short of moneythis is a better option than a night exposed on the streets or in the wilds. 
	
	color-partysmall groupbearing the colors before a body of soldiers.A typical color-party holds the colors -- the flag that signifies thepride of its soldiers -- and the pensills -- the person pendants of the officersin charge of that unit. A marshal'scolor-party will also carry the spandarion. With the color-party will also go a drummer boy and a fyfesman beatingtime and encouraging their comrades with martial music. 
	
	Columbine(s)calendarsbelonging to the Right of the PacificDove. 
	
	Columbriscalanseryand sequestury of the Right of the Pacific Dove who otherwisecall themselves Columbines, from the Tutin for "dove." 
	
	combinade(s)hand arms thatare a clever combination of melee weapon and firelock.The firing mechanism on most combinades is animproved wheel lock, being more sturdy than a flintlock, and able to take thejars that come when the weapon is used to strike at a foe. Added to this, the lock mechanism, triggerand hammer are usually protected by gathered bands of metal, a basket much likethose protecting the hilts of many foreign swords. When edges and bullets are treated with gringollsis, combinades become veryeffective therimoirs ( monster-killing tools). 
	
	commerce mensmugglers andother such illegal traffickers working in concert with some kind of centralizedleadership or organizer, an unduly respectable title for a very unrespectablelot.It is applied, a tad sarcastically,to all such folk whether they belong to an actual commerce society or not. 
	
	compeerhow one peer may refer to another. 
	
	complimentwhat we wouldcall a toast, when glasses are filled and touched together as things aredeclared and wished for.
	
	Compter-of-Storeschiefaccountant of Winstermill, apparentlyof equal rank to the Master-of-Clerks,though in practice very much under the latter's sway. 
	
	Conduit Felix, the ~reputed to bethe longest highroad in the Empire,reaching from Clementine, the Imperial Capital far in the north, through thevery midst of the Grassmeer and on to Andoverin Hergoatenbosch. The Conduit Felix isused to mark the separation of the Grassmeer into the Ager Magnus on the eastern side and the Solum Magnusto the west. 
	
	Conduit Vermis, the ~proper name ofthe Wormway. See entry in Book One. 
	
	confectionerany seller of potives, whether skold, hedgeman or simple shopkeeper; alsosometimes call fartiros ("makers of potpourri"), an ancient Tutin name for skolds given them whenthe first rhubezhals arrived from across the eastern mares. 
	
	confusticationconfusion or fight, particularly a wild brawling fight or a fight thathas turned out badly.
	
	Considine, the ~one of the alternats or subcapitals situated atstrategic places within the HaacobinEmpire. Alternats were founded to allow the Empire to keep greater control over its subject states, most ofwhich lie beyond inveterately threwdish land, well past easy reach. Large armies and navies are kept at each alternat, ready to venture forth andchastise any overweening state or peer or defend the lands against the monsters. In the Soutlands,the Considine is the larger, older and therefore senior of two alternats, the other being the Serenine,farther south. 
	
	corser(s)grave robbersand traffickers in dead bodies for the service of high-paying massacars and all the rest. Probably their best-known tool-of-trade isthe corpse-fender, a long pointed pole driven into the mold to test thelocation of a possible grave. Apart fromthe dangers of monsters and theever-vigilant obstaculars and revenueofficers, you might also come intoconflict with other corsers over a prize tomb. Edgar Shallow, a somewhat well-known corser, wrote a book on the subject; part treatise, partsage advice, part fictional license -- TheAshmonger's Almanac. Other books on the subject include Codex Necropoli by Tichanus, an oldcatalog and guide to all the known cemeteries of the Old World (recentrevisions by Tidswell include references to Turkeman grave sites); and Fossae Magnum (or "The Book of Graves"),a treatise on the trade of the corser with a cursory guide to the maincemeteries in the larger cities. See corsers in Book One. 
	
	costermensmall-timetraders who travel about selling fruits and vegetables and any other foodstuffsthey might have.
	
	Cothallowbuilt between Makepeace and the Three Stile Junction,this is one of the best cothouses on the Wormway,with a reputation for smartness and punctuality and for the comforts of itscot-rent. The lighters serving there are a happy bunch (as lighters go),flourishing under an uninterrupted string of competent, good-natured house-majors. 
	
	cothouse(s)type of fortalice, the small, often houselikefortresses built along highroads to provide billetand protection to lamplighters andtheir auxiliaries. Cothouses are usually built no more than tento twelve miles apart, so that the lamplighterswill not be left lighting lamps andexposed to the unfriendly night for too long. Their size goes from a simple high-house with slit windows well off theground, through the standard structure of a main house with small attendantbuildings all surrounded by a wall, to the fortified bastion-houses like Haltmireon the Conduit Vermis or Tungoom onthe Conduit Felix. Sometimes called a little manse. 
	
	coty gautepronounced "co'tee gort," a delicate pastry from the Patricine stuffed with quailcooked so long the bones are edible. 
	
	course(verb) to hunt, particularly to hunt monsters. ( noun) the hunt itself, usually referred to as acoursing-party, or in such phrases as "to go on a course." A course is, obviously, a dangerousaffair. One undertaken lightly willalways result in the doom of some, if not all, of those involved. A prospective courser is always advised totake at least one skold and one leer-- or, if they are unavailable, a quartoof lurksmen, even a navigator orwayfarer, and a hefty weight of potivesand skold-shot. Not to be confused with "corse," meaning (ofcourse) a dead body, a corpse. 
	
	court-martiala court ortribunal made up of military or navy officers who try their own for any offensecommitted by pediteers or vinegaroonsagainst military -- and even sometimes Imperial -- law; a martial court ratherthan a civil court (court-civil), where everyday folk are tried. To be subject to a court-martial does notnecessarily mean being cashiered from one's chosen service; the tribunal ofofficers in a court-martial have to establish guilt or innocence, just as in acivil court. Therefore you can be triedin a court-martial and be found innocent and so return to service. 
	
	crankin habilistics this term is used to meansomething that is of dubious or unknown origin and/or effect, something madewith little skill and giving little real benefit; it is also used to refer tosomething that is broken or impaired in some way.
	
	crank-hook(s)another namefor fodicars, so given for the bluntspike sticking from one side that is used to wind the mechanism of a seltzer lamp to draw out the bloom intothe seltzer water. 
	
	Craumpalin's Exstinkernullodormade by Master Craumpalin for Rossamund, which Rossamund is meant to applyfrequently; he works hard to do so, keeping a careful eye on how much he hasused and how much he has left.
	
	crinicklebonnet ofmuslin or silk worn by women to bed at night to keep their hair in place duringthe night's sleep.
	
	Crippleboltcothousesituated on the Frugelle built atopthe ruins of an ancient Burgundian tollhouse; most famous for the horse-studkept within the old, still-intact cellars protected by three sets of strongdoors and the vigilant maintenance of powerful nullodors. The stocky nagsbred there are not the sleekest beasts, but they still pull a load as they aremeant to. 
	
	Critchitichiello, Misteritinerant ossatomist hailing originally from Seville who finds lifedown in the cooler climes of the Soutlandsmore to his liking because people are not so aware of his unusual past, andrumor so far has not managed to follow him across the Grassmeer. A ledgermainof natural gifts, he is talented at basic skoldingtoo, and has made a comfortable living in theless traveled habitations of the Empire'ssouthern conquests. 
	
	Crofton Wheedeprentice-lighter.See Wheede, Crofton. 
	
	cruormonster's blood once it has been taken from the beast.
	
	cruorpunxismonster-bloodtattoo. Though cruoris used to mark a monster-slayer,this is not because of any special properties in the blood of a dead monster over the blood from a live monster ( ichor). It is simply thatgetting a bruicle of blood from astill-living nicker might seem adifficult task: the author would defyanyone to attempt it and come away whole. See Book One 
	
	curriclelighttwo-wheeled cart or carriage usually pulled by a team of two horses or, in apinch, a pair of strong mules or donkeys -- though at a slower pace.
	
	cursor(s)mathematical clerks employed for their ability tocount and arithmecate (do all manner of sums) quickly and without the aid ofcounting devices. 

	D
	
	dancing calendar(s)more properly calendine sagaars. 
	
	dandicomb(s)large, gaudilydecorated "novelty" hats, designed to attract attention.Worn almost exclusively by teratologists, dandicombs declare verymuch that the wearer is serious about killing monsters. They come in avariety of forms with wings (ailettes), horns, multiple crowns, twistedcrowns,; whatever the imagination of the wearer, the depth of his or her purseand the skill of the milliner might conjure. 
	
	dandidawdler(s)rich, affectedmen who dress expensively in fussy, frilly threads; those of the modernfashionable set know as fluffs. See Appendix 4 
	
	dark tradesillegal tradeof body parts and monster bits. See entry in Book One. 
	
	day-clerk(s)in cothouses much of the clerical work --filing of indents, sorting of work cards, auditing of stores, concatenation ofpapers -- is in the hands of one person, the day-clerk, who may have anassistant, if he or she is fortunate. Day-clerks are also responsible for the transit of mail through theirstation and the dissemination of the same to and from postmen serving the area. 
	
	day-watchwatch in a cothouse responsible for guarding their billet and the sleeping lantern-watch and the immediate roadduring the day; for driving off monstersfrom their stretch of the way; for aiding in the chastising and apprehension oflurchers and other commerce men; for participating in fatigue parties either on ditch duty oras laborers themselves; and for whichever other duties might present themselvesfor the doing. At determined intervalsthat vary with the needs of each house, the day-watch and lantern-watch will swap duties, making it a long day for theprevious day-watch and a shortened vigil-day for the relieved lantern-watch. 
	
	Dead Patch, the ~the commongrave of the lamplighters and auxiliaries in Winstermill. Indeed thereare many graveyards throughout the Half-Continent and beyond with thisname. A noteworthy feature of the one inWinstermill is that the dead areburied feetfirst -- standing upright, as it were -- to conserve room, so that asmany as possible might be interred there. 
	
	degreeanother term for the situations of socialstatus and rank.The highest degree is aduke / duchess, then march / marches, followed by a count / countess, thenviscount (or reive) / viscountess (or revine), after which are baron /baroness, then companion / companionine, then armige (or esquire) / armigineand finally gentleman / gentlewoman. Each degree above companion may be referred to as "lord" or "lady," andthose below as "sir" or "dame." 
	
	Derelandthe vastsoutheastern continent beyond the Loquor and the Mare Periculum(Gramlendenmeer), a region which includes the Hagenlands, the eoned home of theGotts before they were driven out bythe Hagenards. 
	
	dietthe defined range of a calendar clave's -- and therefore its august's -- influence as stipulated bythe clave's Imperial Prerogative (acommission from the Emperor). Any calendar entering another clave's diet must seek permission eitherfrom the laude or the august herself, depending on circumstances. 
	
	dispensurist(s)in Winstermill, dispensurists occupy a rankbetween sergeant and under-sergeant, meaning they are onestep down from a leer and thereforesubordinate to the same. See entry inBook One for more on dispensurists in general. 
	
	distinct acid(s)acidic scripts made especially for a reactivecorrosion upon contact, properly known as mordants. 
	
	ditchland(s)also known asfossis, ditchlands are the last march of human habitation, being disputedterritory where men and monsters viefor control of the land. Essentially youcould think of a ditchland as the "front line" in the never-ending war between everymen and untermen. 
	
	doglockheavy firearm, somewhere between a pistoland a carbine in length, and often with a very large bore.Also known as a hauncets, they make excellent salinumbus. 
	
	dolly-mop(s)a fairlyrecent social innovation, these are working girls of a city or town, onesliving for fun and fashion, using their self-earned income in pursuit of thesame.
	
	Dolours, Lady ~pronounced"doll-loors," a powerful calendine baneand the laude of Syntyche, the Lady Veyand protectress of Threnody. Her origins are uncertain; she perhaps comesfrom the Patricine state of Vauquelin or Haquetaine. Only a handful of years younger than the Lady Vey, she arrived at Herbroulesse as a teen, already wellalong the path of skolding. There she was so well cared for by Syntyche's mother (the existing Lady Vey) and by all of the Right thatshe willingly transmogrified to become the personal protectress of the heiressof the clave -- a young Syntych eherself. Dolours is the oldestserving friend of her mistress, and though she does not agree with all Syntyche does or says, she remainsfiercely loyal to her, taking on the role of spurn to Threnody, the next heiress of Columbris, with pride (even though in some ways this is ademotion). There are rumors about, vaguehints that Dolours has been spied in conversation with monsters, suspected of discerning between monsters that must be slain and those that should be spared, ofbeing affected with outramour. All of this is conjecture, and the bane herself remains taciturn whenasked: what business is it ofothers? It is unknown if the title of"lady" is a courtesy or a declaration of rank, and Dolours has never sought toclarify this either way. 
	
	domesticar(s)pediteers inthe employ of a particular individual, serving as the personal guard and evenarmy of the same.
	
	Dovecote, the ~also known as Herbroulesse or Columbris; the home and headquarters of the Right of the Pacific Dove, gaining its name from the title of thecalendar clave living within. 
	
	Dovecote Boltcothousesituated nearest to the Dovecote andone of the smallest cothouses on the Wormway,known as the Bolt by its inhabitants; an unremarkable billet, and notable only for its proximity to the incidentsinvolving Numps and his fellow seltzermen. 
	
	Drukerderived from the Gott word for "crush,"the name of one of Winstermill'sfourteen tykehounds, and theircurregitor. See tykehound(s). 
	
	Duke of Sparrows, the ~also calledthe sparrow-king or sparrow-lengis; urchin (see entry in Book One), and one ofthose known as a nimuine, or monster-lord, who have sway over the behavior ofthe lesser monsters about them. Though most do not believe he exists, the commonmyth states that the sparrow king is a friend of the Duke of Crows. He is said to hold court in the woods of the Sparrow Downs, resisting the conqueringactions of those monsters set againstthe realm of everymen. Even so, reputedautumn-land or not, few dare to venture too far into the Downs. People of the Haacobin Empire have dismissed the ancient foolishness that thereare two kinds of monster-lord: thenimuines who are kinder, seeking to benefit everymen,and the cacophrins or tlephathines, who seek their own ends and the destructionof everymen. 
	
	dust-of-carumsee carum, dust-of- ~. 
	
	dyphrsaid "die'ferr,"from the Attic for "seat" or "chair";a light, two-seater, four-wheeled carriage with a high dashboard, open-toppedand open-sided before the driver and with the back wheels much greater indiameter than the front wheels. Builtfor speed and recreation, it is driven by the owner, with no lenterman's seatat the front. For inclement weather, afoldable top can be pulled over the occupants, and higher sides can be foldedup to help protect against a theroscade,though a hasty retreat is a dyphr's best protection. 

	E
	
	einsiedlerinthe Gott wordfor an eeker, those people living by choice or imposition on the fringes ofsociety.See eeker in Book One. 
	
	Emperor's Own Lightersthe formal andglorious title of a lamplighter inthe service of the Haacobin Emperor. Declared boastfully to the listener, it is used particularly by lighters when referring to themselves. 
	
	Empire, the ~meaning the Haacobin Empire of current rule or theSceptics whom they overthrew. See entryin Book One. 
	
	enkleGott for "grandson," a name kindly old Gott folk sometimesgive to any young person.
	
	epimelainpronounced"eh-pihm-eh-layn" or "eh- pihm-eh-line" and sometimes shortenedjust a little to pimelain; also known as an abergaile, a person we would call anurse, employed in infirmaries and sequesturiesto tend to the routine cares of the sick and recovering; regarded as a superiorclass of maid. 
	
	Eugus Smellgrovesee Smellgrove, Eugus
	
	eurinine(s)said"yoo'rah'neen"; the original monsterswho were granted the capacity to make lifecome from the earth. In some texts theyare written of as the Primmlings -- the first. All the nimuines, tlephathines and cacophrins were once of these kind --or so some antiquated sources say. 
	
	everymenpeople,humankind.
	
	Evolution Greenalso called Evolution Square;the oblong space south of the Grand Mead in Winstermilldesignated for marching and other drills of movement. 
	
	evolution(s)training inthe correct movements in marching and the right handling of weapons and otherequipment.Evolutions are taken veryseriously in military organs, especially in armies, where pediteers are drilled over and over in all the marches and skillsrequired until they become a habit. Failure to perform evolutions successfully is punished, sometimesseverely, and this is usually enough to scare people into excellence. Evolutions form part of a hierarchy ofmilitary motions and drill starting with manual exercises (individual drill),evolutions (quarto and platoon movements), great exercises (company and bastionmovement), and maneuvers (on concerto movements of regiments or forces ofgreater size). To evolve is to be putthrough drill maneuvers such as marching or handling weapons. 
	
	ExMonsteriaalso known as the LiberBeluafaunis or "Book of Monsters"; an exceedingly rare tome written by the eminent and assassinated scholarand Imperial teratologist Hubritas Whittwornicus of Worms or, more simply,Wittwornick. It is considered the mostlearned and thorough study of theroids,but is unofficially considered a banned book for the dubious conclusionsWittwornick comes to about the nature of the ancient foe. It is so hard to get, however, that few butthe most learned know of it, and fewer still have a copy to read. A thoroughly abridged form exists -- The Incomplete Book of Bogles -- but eventhis is regarded as containing sedonitiousinformation despite the truncation of its contents. 
	
	expungeant(s)anotherrendering of expunctants; those scriptsthat slay instantly. 
	
	Exstinkerthe nullodor made by Craumpalin forRossamund before he left Madam Opera's, given to him to keep our hero "...safefrom sniffing noses." See Craumpalin's Exstinker and nullodors in Book One. 

	F
	
	fabulist(s)one practicedin and gaining income from the arts of sleight of hand, juggling and otherfeats of prestidigitation.Also used torefer to artists and other image makers. 
	
	false-firepotives thatcause kinds of chemical burning and melting; the glowing, often firelikereactions of these same potives;chemical "flames" and burning. 
	
	falsemana leer whose eyes have been altered sothat she or he can detect when another is being truthful or not. See leersin Book One. 
	
	fascinssaid "fass'skins,"coming from infula fascia, the retardant-treated bandages or wrappings andcovers worn by scourges to protectthem from the workings of their own chemistries. 
	
	fatigue partygroup oflaborers, peoneers, and/or seltzermen set to manual labor. If a fatigue party ventures out beyond itsprotective bounds, it will be accompanied by a quarto or more of pediteers and maybe a lurksman or leer. Soldiers so engagedare said to be on ditch duty. 
	
	Fayelilliansmall northernSoutland state, north of Brandenbrass and directly west over theRiver Humour from Sulk End; one ofthe states that during the Dissolutia (see Gates,Battle of the ~ in Book One) did not venture out against the ImperialCapital. As a reward in HIR 1413 the newdynasty expanded Fayelillian's borders (much to the disgust of her neighbors),elevated her existing peers, granted patents to the most eminent non-peerfamilies and bestowed hereditary responsibilities, such as thepeerage-marshalsy given to the forbears of the Lamplighter-Marshal. Tocommon folk the people of Fayelillian have a reputation for gentle simplicityand hospitality greatly at odds with their conquered ancestors, the fierce andindomitable Piltdownmen, who well over a thousand years ago vied with theBrandenards, Burgundians and Wretchermen of aulde for control of the landsabout the Grume. 
	
	fencelandalso calledsokes or scutis, fencelands are a marcheor region of human habitation, where people have a firm hold of the land butstill come into frequent contact with monsters. See entry on marches in Book One. 
	
	fendany long pike or spear-like weapon withlong barbettes or other crossing-pieces protruding perpendicularly at the baseof its head or along the shaft, manufactured so to prevent a nicker from pushing itself down theshaft. 
	
	Fend & Fodicarwayhouse in Bleak Lynche lovingly known by thelocals as 'the Pointy Sticks' and run by a kindly widow, Goodwife Inchabald -- alarge, socially fearless and universally genial woman, as all good enricad'amas should be. As the only wayhousein the whole Frugelle, it actuallydoes a stiff trade despite its remoteness. 
	
	fetchmanalso fetcher,bag-and-bones man, ashcarter or thew-thief ("strength-stealer"); someone whocarries the bodies of the fallen from the field of battle, taking them to themanoeuvra -- or field hospital.Despitetheir necessary and extremely helpful labors, fetchmen are often resented by pediteers as somehow responsible for thedeaths of the wounded comrades they take who often later die of theirinjuries. Indeed, they are regarded asharbingers of death, sapping their own side of strength, and as such are keptout of sight till they are needed. Sucha thankless task. What we might call astretcher bearer or orderly. 
	
	fettlemental fitness and stability, generalsoundness of attitude and emotion.
	
	feuterer(s)thehundfassers, hound-hands or hundsmen who look after dogs in their kennels,feeding said animals and mucking out their dwellings.Feuterers are usually required only in thecare of tykehounds, which needspecial care and calming, raised as they are to be nervous (and so to givequick alarm to the presence of a monster)and cruel (so that they may not shy from attacking a monster). Nevertheless, even a half-decent feuterer andhis fellow hundsmen will train their charges to react only to monsters and not everymen. 
	
	filewhat we would think of as an office,where clerks labor and leaderscomplete all the necessary and burdensome paperwork their positions require. 
	
	firing by quartoa platoongiving fire by division of quartos,each quarto firing separately whilethe other two reload. 
	
	fish, fishingcommon, vulgarterm for the sending of a wit; a corruption of frission. 
	
	Fitchattachable collar of feathers, themselvesproofed or fixed into a gaulded cloth or buff lining and consequently a kind ofarmor.
	
	flammagonstubby,large-bore firelock used to fire flares high into the air.In a pinch it can double as a weapon, but itis best suited as a launcher of bright signals. 
	
	flam-toothed sawmedical toolused by surgeons to saw bones. 
	
	Flanchardtsimilar to shabraquesbut used on oxen, bullocks and other beastsof burden. It is made of lower qualityproofing but uses more layers to achieve comparable protection. 
	
	flash swell(s)idle richyoung men who carouse and duel and woo the wrong women and are more trouble tothe city folk than all the monsterscombined. See dandidawdlers. 
	
	fleermaremeaning "theweeping of the sea," an extraordinarily thick and drenching fog that comes inoff the sea, most commonly in more arid places, acting as the "waterer" of theland in the place of highly infrequent rains.A fleermare can be so thick that it leaves everything dripping as ifsodden by a good downpour. 
	
	Fleugh, Misterclerk of Winstermill, subordinate to Witherscrawl and very much in that man'ssway. 
	
	Flintfounded by acollective of Soutland states: a small but very wealthy non-Imperial statebelonging unwillingly to the Sigismundian hegemony of the Gotts and its allies. Thefirst stop on the way inland to Sinster,it has grown wealthy on gold and silver mining and on the trade of gretchens, which are most commonly foundin waters off their coasts, and has recently begun to expand its navy -- eachvessel having as its aft-lantern a beautiful gretchen pearl. Thismilitarism has people alarmed on all sides of the Pontus Canis, for abelligerent state could easily upset the fine balance of power that currentlyexists in the south of the Half-Continent. 
	
	fluff(s)wealthypeople, peers, especially those who dress showily.No one really knows for certain where theterm comes from; some suggest it is because of the continuing fashion for thewell-to-do to wear all the kinds of expensive furs and trim their hats and bootsand even parasols with the same. SeeAppendix 4. 
	
	fodicar(s)(noun) also lantern-crook, lamp- orlantern-switch, pokepole or just poke; the instrument of lamplighters, a longiron pole with a perpendicular crank-hookprotruding from one end used to activate the seltzer lamps that illuminate many of the Empire's important roads. The pike-head allows the fodicar to be employed as a weapon -- a kind ofhalberd -- to fend off man and monsteralike. The bunting-hook on the reverseside to the lantern-hook can also be employed as a sleeve-catcher, making thefodicar a useful tool to parry and tangle fellow people should the need arise. 
	
	fortaliceany small,usually freestanding building built or reinforced for use as a fortification,seldom used to garrison more than a platoon.
	
	frankto be an accurate or "true" shot with afirelock; to shoot accurately.
	
	Frazzard's powderone of apowerful set of repellents known as urticants, Frazzard's powder affects themucous membranes and eyes most, reacting sharply with the moisture to stingpainfully and even burn, scalding the eyes and rendering a foe permanentlyblind.Harsh stuff, by convention it isused only on monsters. 
	
	Friscan's weadone of themore common alembant treaclesrequired to be taken by a wit. Its main purpose is to stop those specificorgans inserted into the cranium from driving a wit mad and vaoriating (See spasm, spasming in Book One), wittinganyone unfortunate enough to be near. 
	
	frissionthe collectiveand general term for the invisible energetic "pulse" of a wit; see wit in Book One. 
	
	fronstecumwhat we wouldcall an eye-shade or visor, made of solid felt with a three-quarter-circle bandof cloth-covered bone that fixes about the head.
	
	Frugal, the ~starting inthe hills about the lead mines of the Louthe, this small river is noteworthy asthe largest water source running through the Frugelle. Many tinytributaries flow into it as it in turn flows into the Ichormeer, running right by the wall of Haltmire and serving as that fortress's source of water beforebending away to the northeast and on into a great swamp. 
	
	Frugelle, the ~great plainupon the western shores of the Ichormeerand the source of many small runnels and creeks that feed the wet of thatnotorious bog. It gains its name fromthe lack of arable soil and little rain there, moisture coming to the hardyplants and beasts by way of thick fleermares (fogs) off the Swash, the great bay to he south. 
	
	fugous cankersterrible andcontagious disease spread by sneezing and showing worst as excruciating,rupturing, suppurating ulcers all over the body.Can be fatal if left unchecked, with theworst sufferers having to be shipped to a pestilentarium or pestifery, isolatedhouses for the separation of the sick from the living. The best run pestiferies will even treat andheal the sick held there; the worst are no better than prisons. 
	
	fulgar(s)lahzars thatmake powerful electrical charges in their body and use them to fight monsters. See entry in Book One. 
	
	fulminant(s)potives thatcause explosions and flashes and bursts of fire.
	
	furtigradesecretstaircase hidden in the cavities of a wall.Such things were once built into almost every structure of more decentsize, though now they are included only by request of the architect andbuilder. 
	
	fusilalso known as a fuse or carabine orharquebus; a lighter musket with a shortened barrel that makes for simplerloading, is less cumbersome to swing about in thickets and woodland and savesconsiderable weight.Its shorter length alsomakes it handy as a club when the fight comes to hand strokes. This makes the fusil a preferred weapon ofambuscadiers and other skirmishing foot soldiers, and also comes a-handy forthe drilling of smaller folk in the handling and employment of arms. 

	G
	
	gthe symbol for guise, the lowest monetarydenomination in common currency of the Soutlands. See moneyin Book One. 
	
	Gall, Foistinnear relationto the Lictor of Winstermill, Foistin was not proving to have either much aptitudeor inclination for the lictoring trades (in which the Gall family has been aproud participant for thirteen generations) and, after a little "playing of strings" by his relation,was afforded a place in the lamplightersof Winstermill. 
	
	Gall, GrizzelardLictor of Winstermill, the continuer of a greatlyesteemed family trade, who delights in terrorizing the prentices with the power of this threat. 

	gallantmonster-hunter, amorevulgar term than teratologist. Sometimes used to refer to venators(non-surgically improved hunters of monsters)but is a general appellation too. 
	
	gargantany large nicker.
	
	gauderyodd and colorful garb that many teratologists wear; actually, a stageterm for the overdone costumes worn in plays and other performances. 
	
	geesevulgar term for the smallest denominationof Imperial coin, the guise piece, often used as a general reference to moneyof all kinds and amounts.
	
	Gethsemeneblue glowingplanet and one of the brighter heavenly bodies in the night.Not nearly as large as Maudlin or Faustus, it gains its prominence for being, after Phoebe(the moon), the closest object in the cosmic sky. 
	
	Giddian Pillowsee Pillow, Giddian. 
	
	glaucologsweet-talker;the less-than-polite name give to politicians, ministers, bureaucrats,lobbyists, factors and clerks -- anyone in an official position who needs topersuade or coerce with words.
	
	glimbloomsee bloom. 
	
	Gomroon porcelainone of thefinest kinds of porcelain, coming from the tiny kingdom of Gomroon far away onthe shores of the Sinus Tintinabuline. This place has grown rich and powerful almostsolely from the export of its much sought after tableware. 
	
	good-day gala-girlswomen ofill-repute.
	
	Gottsthe proud race of people living in thesoutheast of the Half-Continent, their ancestors -- the Skylds -- coming oncefrom far over the western waters, from the Hagenlands, driven out by cruelermen and settling first in Worms (see entry in Book One).From there they spread, mingled and mergedwith the local wildmen and eventually forged a small empire of their own toresist the rise of the Haacobins and the Sceptics before them. Gott, their language -- sometimes stillreferred to as Skyldic -- is somewhat akin to German in our own world. 
	
	gourmand's corkalso known asa throttle or gorge; the projecting 'knuckle' of cartilage in a person'sthroat, in which is situated the vocal cords; what we would call the Adam'sapple.It is called the gourmand's cork(a gourmand being one who is a gluttonous or greedy eater) because of the tightsensation you can get there when feeling nauseated, which vulgar folk hold isyour throat trying to prevent or 'cork' any further eating. 
	
	graille(s)tools of a punctographist. A marker needs four particular utensils tomake a cruorpunxis upon theskin. These are the: 
	
	"guillion --also called an acuse or zechnennadel -- the needle dipped in cruor and then pricked into the skin. 
	
	"orbis -- infull, orbis malleus, a disc-headed mallet with which the guillion is tapped topuncture the skin and leave a mark. 
	
	"sprither -- the device used to extractthe blood from a monster in the firstplace. 
	
	"bruicle -- the container in which cruor is kept till needed and into whichthe guillion is dipped every twenty taps or so to refresh the blood. 
	
	Other tools necessary to a punctographist are anotebook and stylus to take an observation of the fallen monster's face (eitherby description or by the presence of a corpse -- or the head at least).From this is then figured the design of the mark, usually in consultation with the'markee.' 
	
	great-lamp(s)also called a vialimn, the roadside seltzer lamps that illuminate theconduits and conductors of the world. They are larger, brighter and more robust than the street-lamps of thecities. In safer places, they are placedabout 400 yards apart, and in more wild lands from 200 to 300 yards apart,though this is not a hard rule. Theaction of winding out the lamp is sometimes known as a hoist or lift-and-drop,each lamp requiring a different number of hoists to wind out fully. A lamp that has not been fully wound does notreally pose any problems, but simply cuts down the amount of light thrown andis not good practice. 
	
	Greater Derehund(s)one of thelarger breeds of tykehound withbrindled hindquarters, a blunt, squarish snout and small, sharply pointed ears;originally from Dereland (hence theirname), where they have served for centuries as defenders of everymen. Among the biggest of the tykehounds, the largest specimens can attain the size of a donkeyand are a genuine terror t the lesser kinds of monster. 
	
	gretchen(s), gretchen-globe(s)also called liaphobesor Phoebe's daughters (after a most famous collection of them); giant,beautiful 'pearls' gagged up by kraulschwimmen. Formed in the bellies of the mighty sea-beasts in much the same way asthe small nacreous globes are made inside an oyster, their most remarkabletrait is that, from no cause the habilists can currently fathom, they glownaturally. The best, those consideredflawless, are perfectly round and glow with such intensity that they are hardto look at. By action of currents andthe occult movements of the sea- nickers,gretchens are found in greatest number along the Enne. Consequently the near-independent duchy of Flintand its lesser neighbors have a monopoly on the 'harvesting' and trade of thebeautiful globes. The smallest liaphobes can be no bigger than atypical oyster-made pearl, but the largest known -- the Great Gretchen, fromwhich all others take their name, which was found washed up on the shore of theFlintmeer after a mighty storm -- was the size of a cottage. The cause of much envy and, in the end, aterrible war, it was lost along with the Phoebe's Daughters and a vastcollection of the biggest liaphobesever discovered. All those since foundby the foolishly brave divers -- encouraged by the greatest wealth to be hadfrom their labors -- have never come close in size. 
	
	Griffstutzigthe name givento the best canignavor of Winstermill's tykehounds. Derived from the Gott for dim-witted. 
	
	Grindrod, Lamplighter-Sergeant ~said"Grind'rod"; senior non-commissioned officer in charge of the training of prentices at Winstermill. Covered withscars, he has, as he would put it, "survived more theroscades than ye've had puddings on Domesdays." He is a rough man but is genuinely concernedthat the young souls he trains are prepared well for the labors of a lamplighter, that they well understandthe terrors they face and are ready to cope with them. 
	
	gringollsispotives madeto paste on to blades or coat the lead bullets of firelocks, making thesebetter able to harm a monster. See skold-shot. 
	
	gromwellinexpensiveand barely effective restorative having the equivalent impact on the imbiber ofa shot of brandy, a warming jolt that does not last terribly long.Some who take it might also suffer the 'runs'and bouts of austeration (meaning farting, taken from auster = 'the southwind'). 
	
	Grystle, House-Major ~once a highlysuccessful captain of a ram.Anindiscretion in money and being outspoken about a clear tactical error of hiscommanding admiral on a blockade led to Grystle being broke (dismissed ofservice). Finding himself a bachelorwithout hearth or immediate prospects, he chose the next best military service(where folk are not fussy of your origins) and took the Emperor's Billion tobecome a lamplighter. Long years of habit mean he quite naturallyruns the small stone world of Wormstoollike the wooden ones he was used to on the vinegar seas. Indeed, he would tell you that there islittle difference, both ram and cothousebeing isolated in hostile regions and beyond the smarts and skills of itswatches. Grystle is tight-lipped abouthis origins and the navy in which he served, though certainly by his accent andturn of phrase he is a native of the Grumid states (those states whose shoreslie on the Grume). 
	
	gudgeon(s)sometimesrendered 'gudjins'; also called nandins (meaning 'simpleton,' 'idiot');man-made monsters built by massacars ( black habilists) from bits of people, animals, vat-grown organs,bits of machines and monsters. The most common are the corpselike rever-men or revenants. The majorobjection to the manufacture of gudgeons is that many body parts used oncebelonged to people, usually exhumed corpses. Massacars argue that this mustbe, especially with the brain, for without this the gudgeon will not be in anyway controllable or useful. Yet with therise of demand, kidnapping and murder have been employed to furnish theever-needy black habilists, to thegreat sorrow of many. Publicly theEmperor is set against black habilistics,though his 'backroom' opinion remains unknown. The more common uses people find for gudgeons are: 
	
	"for scouring-- also known as bog- or bogle-toiling or hob-baiting; he hunting and drivingout of monsterswhere the gudgeons are used both as the baitand the main tool of killing. There havebeen reports of teratologists knownas reveners who cart around packs of rever-men,keeping them obedient with special potivesand using them in this way. 
	
	"hob-rousing -- See that entry. 
	
	"as guardsfor vaults and other sensitive, confined places. 
	
	"forintellectual pursuits, where blackhabiliststinker with thepossibility of making a half-living thing. The ultimate goal of this is to make a tractable super-human teratologist, a kind of logicalprogression from a lahzar, that willfight on no matter how injured. The goalis to send such as these into the wilds to seek out the monsters where they dwell and turn back the tide. 
	
	"in thesearch for longer life, perpetual youth; gudgeons and particularly rever-men are made by some for thispurpose. 
	
	gyrovagueone whowanders; a hucilluctor, a wayfarer.

	H
	
	Haacobin Empire, the ~see Empire,the ~and the entry in Book One. 
	
	hackle(s)(noun) also called a fitch, a broadcollar or shoulder-cape made of proofed fur; ( noun) any fur or unshaven animal hide that has beenproofed. The gaulding process alsoaffects the hairs themselves, adding to the protection of the material. To gauld furs and keep the hairs, however,requires care and low apseric gaulds, of high quality, which of courseincreases the cost of the hackle, making it accessible only to the wealthy. 
	
	hack-watchpocket watchused by vinegaroons on a marine vessel as an aid to navigation and todetermining noon by the sun.
	
	Hagenards, Haganards, the ~people of theHagenland and much of the Derelandswho, long, long ago, drove the Skylds out of their homelands and across thewestern seas. The Hagenards tookpossession of Ald Skyld and the Skylds took possession of what is now known asthe Gottlands. 
	
	half-pay poker(s)older andworn-out lampsmen serving lighterduties either within a cothouse or onquieter stretches of the road. The name' poker ' is a somewhat derogatoryreference to putting a lantern-crook-- otherwise known as a poke -- into the ratchet workings of a great-lamp. 
	
	Hall of Pageantslarge meetinghall built in the southwestern corner of Winstermill'svast grounds. It is used for allceremonies, from the puncting of itsvictorious monster-slayers to thebestowing of commissions and other noteworthy promotions and awards, andusually the Billeting Day parade,held amid much pomp and splendor for each 'batch' of fully trained prentices. Situated by the Dead Patch, the hall has in its cellars and foundations the tombsand sepulchers of its seniormost officers, who served with distinction over thecentury of its existence. Indeed, thehall is said to be actually erected over the old grave site of the originalfortification of Winstreslewe. 
	
	Hallow Sillcommonly knownas the Hagwood, the forest surrounding Herbroulesse,which takes its less than friendly name from the very presence of the calendars, or hags, in that wood. 
	
	Haltmirevery lastfortress before the eastern borders of the Soutlands give over to the Ichormeer; built originally as abastion, dormitory and storehouse for the engineers and laborers attempting theenormous work of building a road through the dread swamp. Not as large as Winstermill or the Wight,yet it is mighty enough to provide a permanent foothold in the isolated andthreatened lands -- with a reputation similar to the manse's forimpregnability. Stationed there is theWarden-General, who has secondary command of the "ignoble end of the road," andis the highest-ranking officer of the lamplighterson the road itself, topped only by the Lamplighter-Marshal. Like every other cothouse on the Wormway,Haltmire is undermanned, its company of pediteerauxiliaries reduced to one full platoon and one at half-strength, its lighters down to a quarto, it thaumateerslimited to two skolds. There was once a fulgar employed there who was lost inthe Ichormeer protecting the wife ofthe Warden-General as she desperately searched for their young children gonemissing in that wretched place. The lighters of Wormstool and Bleakhalljoined a greater and near futile search for the wife and daughters in whichHaltmire's scourge was also lost andmany lighters and auxiliaries barely returned with theirlives. Managing to at least save theWarden-General's middle child, men of courage and a frank aim such as Aubergeneproved their worth that day, and many were awarded by the grief-struckfather. Situated so near to thesoutheastern city of Hurdling Migh,Haltmire gets most of its supplies from there and is a stockpile of resourcesfor the cothouses to the west. 
	
	hand strokesclose combatwhere blows with hand arms such as swords or cudgels are exchanged.The opposite is a "stand a pull," that is, totrade shots ('pulls') over a distance. 
	
	harlockmeans, quite simply, 'white hair.'See Hermogenes,Cot-Warden ~. 
	
	Harrowmath, the ~wide, boggyplain upon which Winstermill issituated, gaining its name from an ancient intention to drain the area andreplant it with crops. However, allattempts to run off water from it and mow it failed; the water just keptseeping back and the grass resprouted stubbornly no matter what was done. Now it is left alone, home to frogs andsalamanders and small water snakes, egrets, herons and screaming curlews,coties (small quail) and tiny hopping mice, and mown only occasionally toprevent it from becoming a perfect matted hiding place for monsters. 
	
	Harrowmath Pike, the ~another namefor the Pettiwiggin.It gained the name'pike' from the time when people were taxed a toll for its use, levied atWellnigh House when travelers went to pass through in either direction. 
	
	haubardier(s)essentially aheavily armored musketeer.See entry inBook One. 
	
	hauncet(s)very heavybarreled pistol that takes great skill and strong wrists to fire and delivers aheavy, crushing blow of shot.Loadedwith skold-shot they become deadlytools against the monsters. 
	
	hedge, hedgeman"part skold, dispensurist and ossatomist"; often not especially well versed in any of the threetrades, or particularly talented at one while offering the others out of needor sheer mercenary intent; one of the many types of gyrovague wandering the Half-Continent and indeed the entire worldoffering services to any paying person. 
	
	Heil glasswarehigh-qualityglassware coming predominantly from the city of Tungasil in the fabled southernmarches of Tungusia in Heilgoland, the huge continent and empire south of theGurgis Magna -- the great southern ocean.The glass is made from the extra-fine sands mined from beneath thepermafrost of the steplands on the borders of Magog. 
	
	heldin(s)mighty folk ofancient history who fought with the monsters,employing their infamous therimoirsto keep the eoned realms of humankind safe; known by many collective titles,including beauts (common), haggedolim (Phlegmish), herragdars ( Skyldic), heterai ( Attic), orgulars ( Tutin),sehgbhans (Turkic): what we would call'heroes.' The time of their supremacy,when they were relied on to stand in the gap between everymen and untermen, isknown as the Heldinsage. Said to havebegun with the Phlegms -- those most ancient of forebears -- and ended with the Attics, their heirs, it was the time ofIdaho, the great queen of the Attics,and Biarge the Beautiful, among many other glorious and infamous folkand their usually tragic stories. Notall of the weapons of the heldins were destroyed in the violent cataclysms thatpunctuated and finally concluded that time: many are said to remain, and are most highly prized by collectors andcombatants. 
	
	Herbroulessealso known asthe Dovecote or Columbris; the home of the calendarsof the Right of the Pacific Dove. The original name of the old, molderingfortress that the Right occupied whenthey first moved into the region at the Idlewild'sbeginnings. 
	
	Herewardwestward. In the Half-Continent,although he usual north, south, east and west are common terms, directions ofthe compass are often give more classical names: 
	
	"north =nere, said "near"; also nout, said "nowt" 
	"south =sere, said "seer"; also scut, said "scoot," or sout, said "sowt" 
	"east = vere,said "veer"; also est 
	"west = here,said "heer." 
	
	See "by the precious here and vere" in Book One.
	
	Hermogenes, Cot-Warden ~said "her-moj-anees"; once a native of Seville,far to the north, he has carried with him for a long time the name harlock, which means simply 'whitehair,' having been born with those unusually pallid locks. Cot-Wardens are the senior-most sergeants(sergeant-master) of a cothouse. 
	
	Hinkerseighsaid "Hink-ker-see"; a small city / large townin the Idlewild whose founding stateis the Sangmaund state of Maubergonne. It gets its name from its most prominent founding family, the Hinkers,and their grand fortified high-house (a seigh). Hinkerseigh is most noted for its manywater-driven mills and heavier industry, a small copy of the original city ofits founders -- one of the more industrialized of the Soutland states. 
	
	hirsuitepartiallycured animal leather with the hair left on, the hair usually being shaved ortrimmed short but not removed.See rimple. 
	
	hob-rousingalso known assheboggery, or pit-fights; a recent invention of the affluent bored and a majorcustomer of the dark trades. Hob-rousing is the practice of pitting a gudgeon and nicker against one another and betting on the outcome. Under the charge of a rouse-master, gents known as pit-bobs (or tractors) wrangle those beasts together into a pit (10-plus-footdeep x 12-plus-foot wide), initially separated by bars. The barrier is removed and the two allowed tostouche it out until one is leftalive (with gudgeons usually provingthe more aggressive but the less robust). Gudgeons that survive for manybouts can gain a kind of fame among the hob-rousing regulars (the gamers orcubes, who come to watch and wager, and the nullards or pigeons, who come onlyto watch), gaining names like "the Matschig Mauler," "Old Feisty" and suchlike, "Mary's Long-Dead Mother" being one of the more gruesome and ironicappellations. Indeed, even some monsters who have survived for manyfights have gained grudging admiration. The rousing-pits are typicallymaintained by either a peer or magnate or by a cartel of mercators ( dark trade bosses) -- someone with thewill and money to establish and maintain such a place. They will be found deep in the foundations ofa manor house (with tunnels and their entrances leading well away from thehost) or some abandoned hall or cave out in the country. Hob-rousing is a big money-spinner for theorganizers, with fights sometimes rigged in the rever-man's favor to give the spectator some much-need satisfactionagainst the monstrous foe. Of course, ifa rousing-pit is secreted out in thewilds, any gudgeon kept there willeventually attract nickers; this,although highly risky, usually suits the organizer / owners, who will try totrap any monsters lurking near anduse them in the next fight. 
	
	Hognells, the ~broad grayescarpment regarded as the natural division between the Idlewild proper and the poor lands of the Paucitine. They form part ofthe range of hills rich in mostly as yet untapped ores: lead, copper and, some say, even silver. Fossickers can often be seen ranging aboutthe surrounding lands, sent by the big states to find sources of these preciousmetals. 
	
	horrors, the ~(noun) common term for threwd. ( noun) lingering and malingering effects of pernicious threwd, the sufferersremaining in a fragile, frightened and broken state. Some folks hold that those touched by thehorrors have a greater sensitivity to threwdish things and are more aware ofthe monstrous in the world around them. More sensible people dismiss this as arrant rustic nonsense. The horrors are related to the blue ghasts,which is a more darkly depressive state. 
	
	house-majormore properlytitled Major-of-House, this is themost senior-officer of a cothousewith charge over all the doings therein and along the span of road put underhis responsibility. If something happensto or along that span, then it is his duty -- and the duty of those he commands-- to initiate a solution, whether it is road repairs, clearing the verge,rescuing stranded travelers, hunting lurchersor brigands or monsters. 
	
	house-watchpermanentstaff of a cothouse who do not go outon the lantern-watch. These can include the house-major, the day-clerk,uhrsprechman, the kitchen staff (ifpresent) and the various trades and laborers required for daily tasks such as tinkers, proofeners, seltzermen and thelike. Some cothouses were once manned well enough to possess a largehouse-watch of pediteers as well torelieve the day-watch at intervalsand provide them with extended rest. 
	
	hucilluctor(s)said "hyoo-sil-luck-tor"; a wayfarer. The word comes from the Tutin term meaning 'hither and thither.' 
	
	hugger-muggerone of themany synonyms for monster, referringto a common manner of attack among the untermenschen, which is to leap from anambush -- to 'hug' -- and grapple closely with their prey -- to 'mug.' 
	
	huquesaid "hyook"; a long cloak with splitsides to allow the wearer's arms free movement.

	I
	
	ichorwhen talking of cruorpunxis, a monster's blood when still inside it is known asichor, and when extracted by a spritherinto a bruicle it is called cruor. 
	
	Ichormeer, the ~great threwdishswamp to the east of Sulk and west of Worms said to be the origin of monsters, the place where they are'born' from to terrorize the Soutlands.. See entry in Book One. 
	
	Idesloecalendar purrichin of the Rightof the Pacific Dove, originally coming from Flint,and once speardame to Sophia Idaho II, its ruling Duchess. The eldest purrichin, she is the mentor ofthe other sagaars of the Right, going into a stouche bearing her ancient therimoir,a sword-of-wire called Glausope -- or 'Asp's Tongue,' a relic of the Heldinsage. 
	
	Idlewild, the ~officiallyknown as the Placidia Solitus, a gathering of client-cities (colonies) alongthe Imperial Highroad of the ConduitVermis. Each town, village orfortress is sponsored by a different state of the Empire -- Brandenbrass,Hergoatenbosch, Quimperpund, Maubergonne, Termagaunt, even Catalain. Established in the late fifteenth centuryHIR, it is the latest great project of what is grandly termed cicuration -- taming by farming; purgation -- taming by force; and bossetation -- taming by landscaping,originally proposed by Clementinehimself. The inner Idlewild or Placidine, from TumblesloeCot to the Wight, was declared 'regio scutis' -- a fenceland -- over a decade ago. This heralded a brilliant success of thegreat labor of pushing back the monstersand the threwd. The marches from the Wight to Haltmire --otherwise known as the Paucitine(also the Frugelle) -- are stillconsidered ditchland. These two divisions of Placidine and Paucitineare known as themes, or militarydistricts, the western governed by Winstermill,the eastern by Haltmire, with the Wight situated at their meeting andconcerned only with the taxation of trade from Sulk. 
	
	"ignoble end of the road"title given tothe remote and dangerous stretch of road that runs along the flat of the Frugelle, beginning at the Hognells and ceasing at Haltmire, and to the cothouses found thereon. 
	
	IMIRin Ministerium Imperia Regnum (or Rex),meaning either "In Service to the Empire"or "In Service to the Emperor"; the motto of any ministry or body working forthe Haacobin Empire. 
	
	Imperial fumomathscourge,skold or dispensurist in the directemploy of the Empire;the term can be used to refer to such skoldsand scourges that are employed at Winstermill and elsewhere, but moreproperly means those who serve in the Emperor's courts in Clementine, especially those tending to the Emperor himself. 
	
	Imperial Prerogativea mandate fromthe Most Serene Emperor granting limited yet often far-reaching rights tocertain individuals or groups (such as many calendarclaves) allowing them to operate outside the governances or interference ofstate or other local authorities. It caneven be pushed (some might say abused) to allow things contrary to the Imperialinterest to proceed unhindered, such as the breaking of an Oath of Service. 
	
	Imperial Secretaryhighest rankedof all the Haacobin Empire'sbureaucrats; men and women of great influence and power, not so much because oftheir own rank, but because of the status of the ears and minds they have suchready access to -- the senior ministers of the Emperor, and even the great manhimself. The favor of an ImperialSecretary can be the making of you, their disfavor your ruin. Though often of common birth, they aretypically courted and feted by peers, especially the lowly ranked, and bygentry and magnates too, eager for some kind of advancement or boon. One does not strive to be an ImperialSecretary for dreams and hopes of reform, but for the sake of pure ambition andego. 
	
	In Columbia Alatmeaning "adove's wing" or "the wings of a dove," and also known as the Columbinale; the cantus (or creed) of the calendar clave known as the Right of the Pacific Dove to which eachadherent must ascribe and swear: 
	
	Defendthe oppressed where e'er thee can,
	Defendthe woman e'er 'gainst man;
	Fromthy own chattels another soul aid,
	Clearthe writs that cannot be paid;
	Shelterthe shelterless through heat or snow;
	Setwings of Dove 'gainst cunning crow.
	
	Livethee rightly, ready to die,
	Upholdthe true, expose the lie;
	Gentleyet strong, humble yet bold,
	Guidancefor young and succor for old;
	Andwhere e'er thee walk and whither thy go,
	Setwings of the Dove 'gainst monstrous foe.
	
	Another version replaces 'chattels' in the third linefor 'labors' -- though the idea is held to be the same.Other claveswill have similar creeds, for calendarsof any stripe live by such things. 
	
	Ingebargepronounced "Ihng'geh'bee'arr'gee;" or Biarge the Beautiful, as she is commonlyknown, a powerful creature who relishes the taste of vinegaroon and has livedas long as modern matter can tell. See Biarge the Beautiful. 
	
	invidist(s)commonlythought of as loathards, those who utterly hate monsters, who feel theiromisia(deliberate and pointed malice against teratoids), as opposed to those who feela general dislike or habitual, mindless fear (the average citizen of the Empire). Also know as aspex (typically in reference to a teratologist),theirmisers, execrats, these are the inveterate enemy of sedorners. 
	
	ipse adversusas the Marshal says, this roughly means 'standing alone' and comes from"(ipse) solus adverso malus," literally, "(oneself) alone against the evil."
	
	"I will wait for thee / If thou wouldstcome with me"a quote from "The Wide-faring Merchant," also called"The Plaint of the Merchant's Wife," a popular tune heard the Soutlands over. 
	
	Offgo thou to a fabled land,
	Tomystic Fiel and Samaarkand,
	Forprospect's grasp at money's hand
	Andthat fortune's making;
	Iwouldst go with thee,
	Ifthou wouldst wait for me.
	
	We'llsit on plushest gala seats,
	Eatmani-plattered sweetest meats,
	Aplethora of toothsome treats,
	tillour stomachs' aching;
	Iwill wait for thee
	Ifthou wouldst come with me.
	
	We'dcharter ram to Hagen'Sere, 
	Plythe mares to fartherst vere,
	FromTintinabuline to Quimpermeer
	andsee the world a'passing;
	Thoushouldst wait for me,
	ForI would come with thee.
	
	Andif I catch a morbid ill,
	FromHeilgoland's most wretched chill,
	Andspend my days on Death's doorsill
	tillmorning turns to mourning;
	Wouldstthou stay with me,
	As Iwouldst stay with thee?

	J
	
	jakes, the ~toilets, alsocalled heads (navy), or garderobe,water closet, the gong and the rest. 
	
	Josclinsaid "joss'lyn"; scourge of Winstermill. Hailing from Brandenbrass yet said to be descended from Cloudeslee stock, thatquasi-mystic land beyond the southern bounds of the Haacobin Empire, reputed to be populated with sedorners and mostfamous for its deadly accurate archers -- or toxothetes. Josclin does not elaborate on his heritageand, as a scourge, has chosen aprofession quite at odds with the principles of his reputed forebears. He trained at the Madrigoll, the much-vauntedrhombus in Maubergonne, rather than at the Saumagora -- or "Soup Pot" -- in Brandenbrass, won by the former's well-earnedreputation for producing first-rate scourges. He so rarely ventures forth without his fascins that though he has served withthe lighters at Winstermill for nigh on a decade, only a few of his fellows knowwhat he actually looks like. 

	K
	
	knave(s)(noun) the opposite of a spurn; broadly any teratologist who hires services out to the highest bidder or anyother paying customer, but used in reference to lahzars particularly -- a nonlahzarine monster-slayer is sometimes called a hack, because thesenonsectified gallants have to 'hack'at a monster to battle it (as with asword or cudgel or the like). How this includes skolds (which it does) isunknown and also unquestioned. ( verb) to hire oneself out, especially asa teratologist; to sell one's services. 
	
	knaveryoffices where a person can go to hire ateratologist or three or as many as are needed.Such establishments gain their name from the term "knave,"that is, any personwho sells services to any paying client, as opposed to a spurn, who serves a retaining lord or master. When entering a region for the first time, a teratologist may register at the localknavery to make it known that he or she is about and going on the roll offeringservices. In doing this monster-hunters are agreeing not to shoptheir skills through other neighboring knaveries or their own advertisement,thus denying the knavery its commission. The knaving- clerk will take arequest from a customer and offer a selection of monster-hunters they believe will solve the dilemma. Once the teratologisthas been selected, he or she is approached with an Offer of Work, which may beaccepted or rejected. Work is moresteady for teratologists who use theknaving system, though they usually make less money for service rendered. 

	L
	
	lackbrainedempty-headed,slow-witted, not very bright or clever.
	
	Lady Dry-stickvulgar termfor an uptight, unfriendly, upper-class woman.
	
	Lady Vey, the ~see Vey, the Lady ~. 
	
	laggard(s)leersspecializing in the detection of hard to see things and things far off, gettinggreater use out of a sthenicon, whichis made in part to enhance such senses, than a falseman. 
	
	lahzar(s)said "luh'zahr"; the premium monster-hunter, gaining peculiar and deadly abilities throughsurgery. See entry in Book One. 
	
	laleshort afternoon break usually held at 4p.m., where the lantern-watch readythemselves to depart, taking a small meal to help them on the road. The word is an antiquated rendering of"lull," a time of quietude. 
	
	"Lamp East Winst(ermill)x West Well(nigh House) y" system fordesignating the placement of a great-lampon a highroad, x and y being the number of lamps away from a cothouse or other fortification. 
	
	lamplighter(s)pediteerresponsible for the lighting and dousing of lampsalong highroads, low-roads and any other roads in between. One of the benefits of experience is knowingjust how many winds it takes for each lamp to be fully wound out, for not everygreat-lamp requires the same numberof lift-and-drops to bring out the bloom. Upon joining as a prentice, a lighter isissued with the following: 
	
	"1 quabard, Imperial mottle 
	"1 sash,twin-pattern, rouge blank and rouge and cadmia checks 
	"1 fodicar, Scutid pattern 
	"1thrice-high, felt, black, with gaulded band 
	"3 shirts,linen, white 
	"3longshanks, proofed, black 
	"3 pairundergarments, white 
	"3 pair trewsor stockings 
	"1 trencher,wooden 
	"1 cup, tin 
	"1 setturnery or cutlery 
	"2 blankets,woolen 
	"1 pillow,hay-stuffed 
	"1clasp-knife (for paring toe- and fingernails, cleaning fouled equipment) 
	"lug-pipe,pewter (used in the cleaning of firelocks) 
	"1 ox-trunk 
	
	Of course, if fellows possess equivalent items oftheir own, then these are employed instead, and they may expand their equipmentas they wish.At some cothouses each lighter is also issued with charges of repellents or blastes (such as bothersalts, Frazzard's powder, salt-of-asper and thelike) and given a little training in how to use them, thus acting as his ownskold. Every second lighter is also issued a record; a small book in which thedisrepair of a lamp can be recorded and left for the seltzermen to read and act upon. See entry in Book One and Appendix 7. 
	
	Lamplighter-Marshal, the ~his correcttitle is the Eighth Earl of the BatonImperial of Fayelillian. Though hecomes from a well-to-do family, an entire life spent in military service inclose association with the common pediteerhas meant the Marshal has picked up their less-than-couth manners. He is the kind of leader who shows by exampleand has fought several stouches inthe front with his men, gaining himself their deep respect, several gruesomescars and so small number of cruorpunxis. The rank itself is the highest possible for alamplighter, an Imperial commissionthat is usually only granted to peers -- with the heroic Protogenes being anotable exception. In order for theLamplighter-Marshal to succeed at his tasks he is heavily reliant on thecooperation and skill of the Comptroller-Master-General and with him the Master-of-Clerksto keep the more bureaucratical gears of thelighter's world turning efficiently. 
	
	Lamplighter-Sergeant Grindrodsee Grindrod, Lamplighter-Sergeant. 
	
	lampscollective noun for all lights, andparticularly those that give light to streets and roads.
	
	"A lamp's worth is proved by itscolor"also "a lamp's weal (health) is proved by its color," an old lamplightertruism meaning that someone's moral value isproved by his or her actions, or "actions speak louder than words." It comes from the idea that you can tell a seltzer lamp's condition by the color ofthe light coming through the seltzer. 
	
	lampsman 3rd class the lowestrank of a properly qualified lighter,being the rank prentices are promotedto once prenticing is done. See Appendix 6. 
	
	lampsmananother namefor lamplighters, meaning generallythe non-officer ranks. 
	
	lamp-watchalso calledthe lantern-watch; the nightly dutyof moving along a stretch of road to light the lamps and then spend many hours on watch in your bastion-house till early morn when yougo out once more and put all the lampsout again. After this it's a well-earnedsleep during daylight hours. The termalso refers to the folk involved in the performance of the lamp-watch. 
	
	landgravea rank of peerin the Lauslands, equivalent to somewhere between a duke and an earl of the Haacobin Empire; essentially the nowhereditary rulers of their lands, the ranks formerly granted by a long-gonedynasty of kings when the Lauslands were once a part of Ing. Now they elect for themselves a valastin(chief elector) from among their own, who rules for a set period and isresponsible for those troubles of state that require centralized governing. The Haacobins and the Sceptics before themhave long coveted these fertile western lands of the landgraves and have longwaged war to get them. Yet they havenever been able to prevail over their western neighbors. The soldiers on those failed campaigns haveclaimed hat the monsters of thoselands are actually working in the favor of the landgraves and their peoples;the ministers back in Clementinedismiss this as an excuse. 
	
	landsairealso spelledlandtseir, an organized group of lesquinsof battalion strength or greater. Sometimes they include "legio" or "legion" in the names, after the Tutin armies of old. 
	
	lantern-crookanother namefor fodicar. 
	
	lantern-spandistancebetween great-lamps on a highroad,the agreed standard being 400 yards, though the lamps themselves can beanything from 200 to 600 yards apart, depending on where in the road they aresituated. 
	
	lantern-stick(s)mildlydeprecating name for prentices giventhem by full-ranked lampsmen. It comes from the name for the lighter woodenpractice-crooks that are sometimes employed to help young would-be lighters in winding a great-lamp's mechanism. It is also an insulting nickname infrequentlygive to fodicars by nonlighters. 
	
	lantern-watchanotherrendering of lamp-watch, usedespecially to refer to the period of duty itself rather than the group of lamplighters. 
	
	lark-lampalso called aswadlimn, a 1:6 to 1:10 scale model of a great-lamp,used to instruct lamplighters on theworkings of the lights used along the Emperor's highroads. They are lights in their own right, fullyfunctioning, with the bloom capableof being wound in and out of the seltzer. Unlike bright-limns,however they do not suffer being tipped about, such action generally causingthem to spill seltzer water and foulup the fine gears of their workings. 
	
	laudeassistant, voice and rod of the august of a calendar clave who knows all the comings and goings of the localarea. It is to her and her assistantsthat all appeals, requests and visitors must come before being referred to the august for final arbitration. Highly capable and dangerous in her ownright, a laude is the deliverer of all the censures and commendations of her august and clave. 
	
	leakvanekind oftarbinaire, a potive composed of twoparts that combine to make the required reaction. Leakvanes themselves are small elongatedboxes of thin light wood, designed to break apart, divided into two wax-sealedhalves between which is a heavy film of treated velvet that protrudes from thetop of the box. When this tab is pulledthe two potiveskept separate in either half mix together,and after anywhere from a few seconds to a minute they will react with thedesired effect. The best tarbinaireswill have the expected time for reaction stamped on them, and it is recommendednever to shake one, as this can cause an almost instantaneous effect while thedevice is still in your hand. 
	
	ledgermain(s)person who haslearned skolding from books and notfrom another skold. Ledgermains are considered grossly inferiorto the genuine, once-prenticed article. 
	
	ledgerstonestone carved withpretty words commemorating the life of some noteworthy individual.They are usually used as part of a floor orpath, and sometimes are actually placed over the remains of the greatpersonage. What is remarkable about thisis that the body is typically laid right out rather than placed vertically orcrouched in the fetal position. Thelatter is common practice in cities not wanting to dispose of the beloved deadoutside the city walls where monsterscan dig the corpses up and corserstoo, and where they need to conserve space in the tight confines of the cityitself. 
	
	leer(s)people who soak their eyes in remarkableconcoctions to achieve extraordinary feats of sight.See entry in Book One. 
	
	lentumshorthand for a post-lentum or any other covered and enclosed carriage of fourwheels. 
	
	lesquin(s)(noun) honored mercenary regiments and brigades of the obdacar or freebooter(mercenary) class, wandering the lands or stationed in home cities waiting forthe highest-paying master. They arespecial societies of soldiers with elaborate initiation ceremonies thatemphasize loyalty to the particular landsaire(a lesquin legion). Much used in thesquabbles between cities because they are a way -- a loophole -- around thestringent recruiting restrictions of the Accordof Menschen (where numbers within a state's standing army are limited). The use of lesquins also allows a certainamount of immunity from accountability should it ever be required by theEmperor. -- "So sorry, your Imperial Highness, the lesquins got out ofcontrol and we were not able to stop them," or that kind of thing. Lesquins dress as gaily as lahzars and calendars, though with differences that make them immediatelyrecognizable, wearing such things as sammosh (big baggy hats) with guirlandes(enormous dyed feathers worn on the head), plunderhose (baggy pants tied off atthe knee), exotic hide proofing such as crocodile (reptile skin), and favoringexotic weapons, especially combinades. Lesquin legions, or landsaires, originating from nonsignatory countries (Gottingenin,Worms, the Lausid States and anywhere north of the Marrow and the Foullands)are preferred, though their numbers may still be stocked from Old World(meaning "Imperial") populations. They will often charge their fee in accordance with theirreputation. Still, less expensive landsaires have their uses -- mostnotably affordability. The eliteregiments are marked out with fancy mottle accoutrements: ospreys and other hackles, ailettes, and bonnets to rival a calendar's dandicomb. Champions, known as machismards, are awarded harness and gear ofexceptional manufacture, beyond regular issue, to recognize their prowess andencourage such ambition among brother fighters. Lesquins make excellent soldiers, rivaled only by a few standing armiesor, more particularly, units within the same. Contests with such as these are fought bitterly to prove, of course, whois best. Ragtag bands of ill-trained,ill-equipped, ill-led and very cheap mercenary regiments are called foedermen,and are not considered worthy of the lesquin name. ( noun) card game commonly played by serious gamblersbetween a dealer (known as the colonel) and any number of wagerers. It is based on matching cards, and who holdswhat card determines whether the colonel or wagerers get the pot or ante. It takes its name from the soldieringlesquins, for some mistakenly believe it was invented by these sell-swords, butit is more likely that the lesquins are responsible not for its invention butfor spreading it about the known world. There are certainly among its most frequent players. The prenticesof Winstermill would be playing it tofeel all manly and brave; the lighterson the Wormway would be playing itbecause all soldiers the lands over do. 
	
	letter-fallthat is theapt sequence or "fall," of the letters as they are in what we would call thealphabet; alphabetical order.
	
	liaphobe(s)see gretchen(s), gretchen-globe(s)
	
	libermanepotiveused to prevent the cruor of a monster fromclotting too quickly as it is stored in a bruicle. Useful as this is, it also affects thequality of the blood, thinning it and making the cruorpunxis it is used for pale, less distinct. Therefore libermane is used only when a teratologist is more than a couple ofdays' journey from a punctographist. Another function of libermane is itsapplication on swords, knives and other blades of war to make a wound flow morethan it ought, though by the Accord ofMenschenthis practice is deemedunacceptable in modern conflict. 
	
	Lictorperson in charge of punishment anddiscipline, the deliverer of the lash, the clapper of irons, the locker ofstocks, pillories and durance doors; the tightener of the noose or the cords ofa Catherine wheel. In more extreme regimes, the Lictor is also the chieftorturer.
	
	lighter(s)shortened termfor lamplighter. 
	
	limesshort, universal morning intervaldesigned purely to make certain pediteersget some citrus juice into them. Afterthe discovery by Callio Catio (reputed -- along with Asclipides and others -- tobe the founder of modern physics) ofthe prevention of scurvy and other nutrition-related diseases, militaryorganizations the lands over have fastidiously ensured their men take theirlime or lemon juice (Juice-of-Orange is a more recent advent, reserved forthose who can afford it and not your ordinary foot slogger). 
	
	limulight(s)smallbox-light whose source of effulgence is living bioluminescent mosses andlichens.See moss-light. 
	
	linen packagewrapped parcelcontaining one's underclothes.
	
	liripipiumhat with apeak that hangs down at the back in a "tail."
	
	locumusually a physician in training orsomeone working as assistant to a physic with a view toward attending aphysactery and gaining a full qualification.
	
	long-riflesmooth-boremusket with an extraordinarily long barrel to provide greater accuracy.The name is a misnomer, for the bore is notin fact "rifled," but left smooth, though the great length of the barrel doesmake for very true shots. 
	
	loomblazepowerfulrepellent that is also part fulminant. Because it both poisons and burns with false-fire, it is regarded as a veryversatile agrise (violent potives; asopposed to palliates -- helpful, healthful potive;or obstrutes -- most other potives),useful against both human and monster. The nature of its violence means its use isrecommended only when deadly force is required. 
	
	lordiamild restorative that is meant to balancethe humours (see Four Humours, the ~in Book One). Balancing the humoursrestores equilibrium to intellect and soul, pith and thew, calming the imbiberand settling agitations to ease. Itsmild efficacy is matched only by its small expense; a cheap pick-me-up that hasbeen said to be the cause of addiction in some. 
	
	loricaalso known as a corslet, a proof-steel back-and-breastplate, wornmost by troubardiers and the fewheavy equiteer regiments in the Half-Continent. Its front is fairly steeply peaked to allow shots from a firelock tomore easily ricochet. It is a commonpractice to adhere lour or soe or villeny to the metal or to blackit in order to eliminate or reduce shine. 
	
	Lornstone, the ~also known asthe Heptafornix or "seven arches," a bridge and causeway built as part of thegreat project to run a road through the Ichormeer. The causeway that runs east from it was builton the pattern of the Pettiwiggin andhad been intended to carry the road all the way through the Frugelle. The attrition of economies and a lack ofdesire meant this ambition was soon abandoned after only a few miles ofraised-road were completed. The first ofmany small failures that dogged the great work of the laying of the Conduit Vermis. 
	
	Lot's Bookspopulardiagrammatic readers written on a whole host of topics -- navies, monsters, famous people, animals,weapons, etc. -- and filled with helpful diagrams. Expensive, they are a favorite educationaltool for children among the well-to-do. 
	
	lour(noun)velvet that has been treated with gauld, other gaulded cloths include linteum(lint) = cotton; duram = hemp; buff = leather; ombyx = gauze or other filmymaterials; soe = silk; pellis = fur; fustian = hessian; villeny or lawn =felt. ( verb) to frown. 
	
	Low Gutter, the ~in the distantpast of Winstermill's history, thesouthern end of the huge mound upon which it was erected collapsed with loss oflife, the historied rubble on which it was founded failing at last. Rather than abandon the fortress, as someadvised, cooler minds prevailed to have that ruined section of what was once anenormous open ground shored up and leveled, a stable shelf several score feetlower than the main Mead. Upon thisshelf it became practicable to construct servants' quarters and mills forlaboring work as the staff of Winstermillexpanded beyond the simple barracks it once had been. It was during the early repairs that the namethe Low Gutter was coined, for the ruined foundation would fill with the rainsand spout water from many cracks and corners like a roof gutter. 
	
	lurcher(s)(noun) also called finegars, the vernacular for those who especially trap monsters, doing their level best to keepthem alive. They are considered worsethan poachers and other such slyboots, and often trap on lands otherwisedeclared out of their bounds, such as the private lands of a peer. ( noun) derogatory name used to refer to someone whokilled a monster for which anotherhad the Writ of the Course to slay, thus robbing that second gallant of hishead-money. 
	
	lurksman, lurksmensometimescalled pathprys, these are trackers and spies, and are often nonleers practicedin the use of a sthenicon. Given that a sthenicon is made to be used and understood by a leer, it takes a lot for nonleers toachieve such skill, and once they have mastered it they are never as good as abox-faced laggard. Still, a lurksman is far better than nosensurist at all. 
	
	lurksman-generalinformal namefor the General-Master-of-Palliateers and the commanding officer of the Palliateer-Major. Palliateers are those soldiers and auxiliaries concerned with sneaking andspying and tracking, including leers,lurksmen, ambuscadiers, sneaksmen and other clandestine agents. 

	M
	
	mabrigondone of theconstituents of Craumpalin's Exstinkermade from the dried and ground buds of the flower of the same name; a typicalinclusion in nullodors, where its ownflat smell helps obscure other scents. 
	
	maiden-fraughtany womangiven to a life of combat, including calendars. In a typically patriarchal society, skolding and more recently becoming a lahzar has been an oft-used path foryoung women seeking relief and independence from their fathers, uncles,brothers and the usual societal mores. Lahzars, particularly, occupy an unusualplace in society, outside of it in an ill-defined way: respected, feared, despised and needed. And a woman as one is regarded as the acme ofall things 'modern' -- and modernity is generally regarded as a bad thing bythose of breeding. "You look verymodern," one might say with a sneer. 
	
	Maids of Malady, the ~clave of calendars from Burgundia. Little is known of them in the Empire, forthey direct their activities more to the eastern lands, though any who have haddealings with the Soratche will havelikely heard of their allies the Maids as well. Indeed the Maids are said to be aspex (see invidists), treating sedorners most severely, going out of theirway to chase down a proven outramorine. They are even more zealous than their alliesin their pursuit of black habilists. 
	
	mainslast official meal of the day, usuallybegun at 6 p.m..Much to Rossamund'searly discomfort, mains is later in the day than he was used to at the oldmarine society, and he was terribly sharp-set in the first week as a prentice-lighter at Winstermill, as his tummy emptied on habit two whole hours earlierthan it would be filled again. 
	
	Major-of-Housethe correcttitle of a house-major. 
	
	Makepeaceone of thesmaller settlements in the Idlewildsponsored by Brandenbrass. The sister colony of the mining villageGathercoal, this hopefully named township is the main source of supply andsupport to the peltrymen of theUllwold to the north, and pastoralists of the Swiddenlands or Swide -- thenarrow hilly stretch of farms to the south along the northern fells of the Sparrow Downs. It is also home to the cothouse of Makepeace Stile. 
	
	manchin(s)thick sleevesof proofed materials, usually voluminous enough to be pulled over othersleeves, then tied to the body with straps or ribbons.They serve as extra protection for the arms,and are often lined with fleece for added warmth. 
	
	maraude(s)theroscadeson a large scale, with an abnormally large collection of monsters in one attack or many attacks across a range or, mostfrightening of all, both at once. Forreasons not properly understood, winter has proved to be the more usual timefor such things, but they are mercifully less common than might beexpected. Unless they are beasts whonaturally pack together, it takes a mighty showing of will to get monsters to behave in concert. Even so, history both popular and obscure isfilled with the hushed tellings of these terrible days and the Empire is still recovering from theaftermath of the greatest maraudes -- those civilization-ruining massings of nickers great and small. 
	
	Maria Diemold Tutin word meaning "Meerday" -- the Dayof the Sea. For the other days of theweek there are Newwich = Prima Diem, Loonday = Luna Diem, Midwich = Media Diem,Domesday = Festus Deis, Calumnday = Caelum Dies, and Solemnday = Gravis Diem. 
	
	mark( noun) monster-blood tattoo;( verb) to apply a monster-blood tattoo. 
	
	marshal-lighteralternativerendering of Lamplighter-Marshal. 
	
	massacar(s)common namefor a black habilist, especially those loathsome dabblers who make rever-men and other gudgeons. See habilists in Book One. 
	
	Master Come-latelya mildlyderogatory name for Rossamund, given to him first by Lamplighter-Sergeant Grindrod and quickly adopted by the other prentices. 
	
	Master-of-Clerks, the ~also known asthe clerk-master, the rank of Podious Whympre, the youngest son of ayoungest son of a line of glossagraphs (foreign clerks) from Brandenbrass. There is money in the family, but Podious isnot likely to inherit. The parsimoniousfellow is an ambitious and shrewd administrator who loves a complete andthorough system of paperwork. Hissubstantive (actual) rank is the highest non-commissioned clerk in a military establishment; his brevet (temporary) rank asComptroller-Master-General puts him equal with the second highest ranks in Winstermill, though its position as theleader of all bureaucracy makes him the second-in-command. His appointment to this powerful position,after the original Comptroller-Master-General took sudden leave of his sensesand the manse, was due to the influence of the Imperial Secretary stationed in High Vesting. An old friend of the family's scrupuloussicus has taken to patronizing Whympre, exerting influence at the political endin the clerk-master's favor. Ultimately taking his orders from Imperialbureaucrats, the Lamplighter-Marshal,whatever his personal take, has had to promote as directed. It is very frustrating for a military leaderto have his affairs meddled with from afar. 
	
	mathematician(s)bitter rivalsof the concometrists (see entry in Book One), trained at an institution knownas an abacus, and more interested in the beauty and function of pure numbersand systems than the functions of society.Trainees of an abacus are prized for their sharp minds, rapidcalculations and other skills of genius and mental aptitude. Indexers, for example, are those who canorganize figures and information in their heads without writing anything down,then remember it all and retrieve some point or fact for you at will, likethumbing through a file. Probably themost famous kinds of mathematician are the Imperial Computers, striving up in Clementine, figuring probabilities andsums that might affect the Empire. 
	
	Maudlinsaid "Moord-lin";a planet, and one of the brightest lights in the night sky, having a distinctgreenish tinge. See entry in Book One. 
	
	mercerpublic messengers and parcel delivererswith a distinctive red-and-yellow-checked mottle.Usually employed within the confines ofImperial bureaucracies, they are sometimes sent to roam the lands taking notes,letters, invitations, packages and advertisements from someone to another andback. 
	
	middensmeal between breakfast and mains, aroundthe middle of the day; lunch.
	
	miltthe depth of one's self; the core ofone's soul and convictions, deeper even than the heart.
	
	Mirthlbrook, the ~sometimesspelled Myrthlbrook; also known as the Mirthbyr or Mirthlstream or just theMirthle, the fast-running stream that runs the length of the main valley thatis the western Idlewild (otherwiseknown as the Placidine). The origin of its name is unclear; some sayit is because of the many kinds of myrtle crowding along great lengths of itsbank; yet others hold that it is because of the merry sound of its watersbubbling along its stony bed. 
	
	monster(s)the nonhumandenizens of the Half-Continent.Seeentry in Book One. 
	
	monster-blood tattoocruorpunxis;see entry in Book One.
	
	monster-makingprovince ofthe massacars -- or monster-makers --its practitioners are either called cadaverists (working in fabercadavery --making monsters from parts) ortheropeusists or threopusists (working in theropsusia -- making monsters by growing them). See habilistsin Book One. 
	
	mordant(s)scripts that work by corrosion, otherwise known as distinct acids. 
	
	moss-lightalso known aslimnulin or limelight, this is asmall, pocketable device, a simple biologueconsisting of a small, lidded box holding a clump of naturally phosphorescentmosslike lichens (either funkelmoos or micareen), set on a thick bed ofnutrient to keep it alive. This nutrientbed can be reinvigorated with drops of a liquid similar to seltzer. The light providedby a limnulin is not bright, but can give you enough to see your way right on adark, dark night, and is diffuse enough to not attract immediateattention. The color of the light varieswidely: white, yellowish, green, blueand reddish illumination. The lightproduced has a distinctive natural glow and discrete focus that keeps it frombeing seen by unwanted eyes at oblique angles. 
	
	munkler(s)also known asholzkreggers or nimsmen, being the fellows whose dangerous task it is to gointo the deep wild woodlands, seek out, cut down and carry away as muchalmugwood, black elder and other rare growths (see sectithere) as they can find. These woods are found mostly in the dark forests of Worms and thecentral Gottskylds (as well as the uninhabitable spaces between Wencleslaus andIng), and the name comes from the Gott word for 'whisper.' It is given to them because of the silenceand care with which they must proceed into the remote places and the relativequiet they must employ when taking down a tree. This is done using a great array of tackle and ropes strung fromsurrounding trees, which prevent the felled logs from crashing noisily. Munklers are therefore skilled climbers andknot-tiers. Animals are never taken onthese expeditions, and the munklers carry out only what they themselves canbear. This is not much as woodcuttingmight go, but such a high price can be got for their precious cargo that fouror five back-loads is enough to set a man up for more than a year'sliving. Consequently, munklers maketheir dangerous forays only once or twice a year. One of the characteristic practices ofmunklers is to always cover themselves in nullodorsso as to attract as little monstrous attention as possible as they extract therare timber. 
	
	muttony-greasyrich stew oflamb-gristle and goat-meat, cooked all day to make it digestible, its saucerich and salty, the best aromatic with a myriad of herbs.

	N
	
	Naught Swathealso known asthe Blank Swathe or the Dodderbanks, a region of the eastern bank of theHumour, near its mouth, and the lands farther east, inland to the TumblesloeHeap.Home to several villages, the mostprominent being Red Scarfe andSodbury Wicket. Rossamund actually madehis way through the southern end of the Dodder Swathe during his flight fromthe Spindle to High Vesting. 
	
	Neuroticrithtechnical orproper name for a wit. 
	
	new-carvedused todescribe a lahzar who had onlyrecently been operated on to become one. 
	
	nicker(s)generally any monster. See entry in Book One. 
	
	night-clerkan uhrsprechman. 
	
	nihillisone of theparts that make up Craumpalin's Exstinker,being a distillation of the odor-absorbing chalks dug from the mines of theOrpramine and Euclasia on the Verid Litus. The best chalks come from the pits at Caulk Sinter, Ferdigundis Rex andCalcedonys. It is a common ingredient innullodors. 
	
	nullodor(s)any potive that changes or hides an existingsmell. See entry in Book One. 
	
	Numps, Numption Orphiashighlytalented, semiretired seltzerman keptin service at Winstermill by thegoodwill of the current Lamplighter-Marshal. Disowned by his family after the terribleincident of three years ago. 
	
	Nuptarium, the ~also known asthe Collocation; lines down in the Low Gutter where married pediteers and lampsmen live with their wives and even children -- though fortresslife is not considered best for little 'uns. Married men with rank are still expected to spend two or more nightssleeping in the bachelors' lines each week. 
	
	nutrified wineusually claretthat, along with pear or apple pulp, is mixed with concentrates of oranges,lemons and limes and other decoctions of healthful herbs to provide a method ofkeeping folks healthy by duping them with alcohol.

	O
	
	obsequywhat we would call a funeral, also knownas a funery or inurment.These ritestypically include a declaration of the person's merit and then some traditionalfarewell given by the mourners. In the Haacobin Empire it is most commonlythought that when people die they simply stop: a life begins, a life ends. Inthe cultures about them and their own past there have been various beliefsabout afterlife and some all-creating elemental personage, but such notions areconsidered oppressive and outmoded. Theywould rather leave these ideas to the eekers, pistins (believers in a god) andother odd fringe-dwellers. 
	
	obstacular(s)often billetedalongside the lighters might be asmall garrison of suicidally zealous obstaculars: thief takers and excise-men who make oathswith their own blood to ferret out all lurching,smuggling, banditry and dark tradesin their range. 
	
	Ol' Barnythe Old BarnOwl, the affectionate epithet given to the Parracallid, also known as SagaxGlauxes or Saxo Glauxes, the Sagacious Owl of the Haacobins, the sigil of the Empire, which common pediteers of old held to look like abarn owl. 
	
	Old Gate pensioner, stiff as an ~Old Gate in Brandenbrass is a hospital for agedpensioned pediteers to spend whatyears are left to them in a quasi-military environment, still performing evolutions, though to as easily as theyonce did -- hence the expression. 
	
	Old Laceythe name the lighters of the Paucitine have given to the fleermare-- more properly called the Lacrimaria -- that comes in from the Swash. They use this name both as a corruption of its proper designation andbecause commonly as it is falling or lifting it looks like a web or "lace" offoggy tendrils. 
	
	ossatomistsometimes alsocalled a bone-setter; the proper name for a person whose job is indeed to resetbroken bones, a practice known as ossatomy.Because proofing is so effective in stopping lacerations, the morecommon wounds are bruises and breaks, as the body beneath the gaulding absorbsblows. There are no colleges orinstitutions that train ossatomists; they rather pass their trade on through prenticing, and yet are still consideredhigher in value than surgeons. Ossatomists also perform dentury, that is,many of the functions we might recognize as the work of a dentist. 
	
	outramorineone accused ortake by outramour, a monster-lover. 
	
	outramourhigh regardfor or love of monsters; the crime ofwhich sedorners are guilty. Technicallythis is known as theiragapia (and its perpetrators as theragapins), and is alsocalled sedonition (of course), and sometimes bewilderment (the state of beingdazzled by -- and therefore sympathetic to -- the wilds). 
	
	Owlgrave, the ~a thick woodat the eastern end of the Ullwold, in which can be found many boneyards --threwdish places where monsters ofthe region will take their prey and where they go to die when the weight of theeverlasting war with the everymenweighs too heavy or wounds too deeply. Most animals eschew such places and they are characterized by theabsence of birdsong -- but for the hoots of owls and other scavenging birds whodare to go there at night for the promise of a feast of moldering monster-meat. 
	
	ox draylarge, long, heavy, flat wagon with 4, 6or even 8 wheels for the carting of big loads and pulled by a team of 6, 8 oreven 10 oxen.When there is a paucity ofthese beasts, great trains of 20 or more mules are used instead to achieve thesame hauling strength. In tamer places,dobbins -- great draft horses as strong as any ox -- are employed. 

	P
	
	pagrininealso known asa filzhut, the soft squarish cap of proofed felt (lawn) worn by troubardiers. 
	
	palisadecloth and wirecap favored by women of the southern Patricine and Frestonia.
	
	Palliateer-Majorin charge ofsmall groups of leers, lurksmen, sneaksmen, and othererapteteers (those who creep), with captains to aid in their command. Palliateers tend to be divided intoambuscadiers (sneaking, ambushing soldiers) and srapteteers (sniffing,ferreting spies and trackers). 
	
	palliatrixone who istrained to lie and deceive without giving any hint of mendacity, gainingmastery over reflexive gestures and nuances of expression -- any small tic ortwitch or stutter of the eye or voice that could give away a falsehood.Not a very common class of person andtypically used only by less than-savory employers. 
	
	pallmain(s)heavy, oiledcoat used to keep the wearer dry rather than for warmth.Typically they are proofed, which adds totheir water-resistant qualities as well as their protective ones; among the fewitems of proofing vinegaroons will wear in service. 
	
	Pandomeone of the calendars of the Right of the Pacific Dove, a pistoleer (or spendonette as she would be called by her "sisters") ofgreat skill and fiercely devoted to Dolours,even over her loyalty to the Lady Vey. Her name, given her when she joined the Right, means "of the people, of thehouse," essentially "woman of the people." 
	
	Pannettea purrichin -- or calendine sagaar of the Rightof the Pacific Dove, young and fairly newly joined to the Right, being with them not even ayear. It is said she was banished fromher clave back in Grawthewse forundisclosed "irregularities" of conduct, though word has filteredthrough from visiting caladines ofother claves that it involved a series of assignations with a marriedpeer. The august of the Right has notpressed her for clarity, but rather has welcomed the increase to their numbersregardless of any reservations. 
	
	parenthiswaiting roomin acoach-hostor any other establishment requiring such a place. They are so called because of the Parenthinein Clementine, the great waiting hallwhere honored and lofty folk tarry before a meeting with the Emperor. 
	
	park-dragvery largecarriage that can carry up to eight passengers, needing at least a team of sixto pull it; it is more common in cities than the country.
	
	parti-huedmulti-colored;mottled with bright hues.
	
	Paucitine, the ~eastern halfor theme of the Idlewild, from the Wightto Haltmire, gaining its name fromthe poorness of farming and the harshness of life in general in that region, asmuch of which is taken up by the Frugelle. 
	
	pediteerany kind offoot soldier.See entry in Book One. 
	
	peltrymentrappers andfur traders living rough lives; tough and resourceful, these fellows know wellhow to avoid monstrous encounters and some even dare to trap the same and sellthem to agents in the dark trades,doing so to supplement their meager earnings. 
	
	pen(s)also imaginer or (derogatory) fabulist;what we might think of as an illustrator or commercial artist.Somewhat confusingly, the term is also usedfor freelance writers. 
	
	peoneer(s)militarylaborers with particular skills in constructing fortifications from surroundingmaterials and sapping, that is, digging trenches near enemy positions andundermining walls.
	
	pernicious threwdthe worst kindof threwd, said to drive people madwith fear. It is the kind of threwdthat is said to grip the inland places of the Half-Continent: the Grassmeer and the Witherlends. Some of the momre crafty monsters are actually able to amplify the effect of the threwd to terrify an individual. The most mighty of the monsters are said to be able to awe whole armies with suchamplification. 
	
	Pettiwiggin, the ~meaning"little worm," the more common name for the Harrowmath Pike. Part of theWormway, running from Winstermill in the west to Wellnigh House in the east. 
	
	phrantryspecificallythe collective membership or sisterhood of a clave of calendars. 
	
	physician(s)highlyrespected, these are the main practitioners of physics in the Half-Continent. See entry in Book One. 
	
	physicswhat we would call medicine.See Book One. 
	
	Pile, Laudibusa native of Brandenbrass and telltale to the Master-of-Clerks. From a middle-class family brought to nearruin by the cheating and falsehood of a viciously unscrupulous peer, Laudibusdecided by his tenth birthday that when he was old enough he would become a falseman and bring that same peerundone. This he did, rescuing his familythough corrupting himself in the process and earning a short stint gaol. Thinking his prospects ruined, Pile yetmanaged to work his way into a minor Imperial clerical position -- such is thedemand for falsemen. There he was "discovered" by one Podious Whympre -- then a senior tallyclerk in the Imperial Usury Bureau -- who took him under his wing, anticipatinga general upward movement in his own prospects and knowing full well how handyyour own falseman can be. When the promotion and shift to Winstermill arrived for his new master,Pile happily followed in Whympre's wake. 
	
	Pilleminent illustrator of broadsheets andother periodicals known for the firm, confident quality of his lines and theprecise detail he can achieve in a relatively short time.
	
	Pillow, Giddeonnative ofDoggenbrass, Pillow is a younger son of small-time middle-class merchants whowas taken out of school and sent to the lighterswhen his parents inherited an old family debt. This had them put in the sponging house and all the children set to workuntil the debt was paid. Though Pillowdoes go on vigil-day trips to Silvernook, he does not spend much therebut sends most of his pay back home. Hewould much rather continue in his father's line of work than live a life ofdanger on the road. 
	
	piqueta small collection of ambuscadiers, lurksmen, leers and other sharp-eyedindividuals sent to scout or spy and return with their reports unnoticed. 
	
	pirouettecard gamewhere the highest hand makes the lowest hand dance a particular dance asdictated by the cards of the winner.Itis a complex game where knowledge of all the many ranks and meanings of cardsis essential if you do not want to find yourself hopping and hoppingembarrassingly all night. Eachcombination of cards or "route" has a name: "the Kindly Ladies" are anycombination of queens and duchesses; the four of brutes is "the dancing(or hopping) aurang" and soon. Knowing allthese names and theircombinations is held as proof of your skill with the game. 
	
	pistoleerteratologistwho performs services with pistols and other handheld firelocks loaded withvarious kinds of skold-shot. They are often skolds who make their own potives to be discharged from the barrelof a pistol, though many would be considered ledgermains with just enough habilistics to achieve the chemistrythey need to make skold-shot or anyother potive that can bedischarged. Pistoleers prefer to use hauncets and salinumbus rather than just a simple pistola, though they mightpossess one to deal with more mundane threats. 
	
	Placidine, the ~western halfof the Idlewild, so named because itis considered the safer (and thus more peaceful) than the eastern half. The Placidine is regarded by most (especiallythose who dwell therein) as the true Idlewild,the only part that really counts or has value. See Idlewild, the. 
	
	plaudamentumthe propername for Cathar's Treacle, which istaken by lahzars. See Cathar'sTreacle and entry in Book One. 
	
	"playing of strings"also known as"pulling the cords," both meaning using influence, favors, nepotismand whatever other means at your disposal to achieve an ambition within orthrough a bureaucracy, political body or anywhere else really.
	
	pledget(s)absorbentbandages, often made from lint or pullings of cloth and used mostly to staunchflows of blood, such as might occur in a surgery.
	
	Plod, Punthillprentice inthe same course with Rossamund.A nativeof Brandenbrass and the youngest offifteen children, Plod has joined the Imperial Lighters of the Conduit Vermis to escape hispoverty. He will not be missed by hisovertaxed and half-soused mother. 
	
	plushelegant finery, clothes of expensive makeoften finished with flourishes of lace and fur and metallic cloths and thelike.Especially used of uniforms somade; what we might call livery. 
	
	posolemn, serious or innocent-looking; alsosometimes used to mean unconcerned or indifferent.
	
	pokerunflattering name for lamplighters; so given because of thepole-pokes (see fodicar) they carryto light the lamps with. 

	poleax(es)not actuallyan ax, but rather a nasty-looking war hammer upon a long pole.At the end of such a length of handle thehead can achieve a terrible blow and as such they are the preferred tool of troubardiers wanting to hammer people tostuff inside their gaulded covers. 
	
	po'lentshortened form of post-lentum,"po(st)-lent(um)," and a common vernacular term for carriages of that kind.
	
	pollperson's head, or the top or "head" ofanything.
	
	pollcarry"on-seller"of a skold's potives, unable to makethem, but buying them for one zaumabalist (or skold) or more and reselling themfor whatever price the local market will bear. They have a variable reputation, and are often the only source of potives in some remoter places. 
	
	post-and-sixorlentum-and-six, simply the name of the carriage and the number of horses in theteam pulling it:in this case, apost-lentum and a six-horse team. 
	
	post-lentum(s)among thecarriages more commonly used to traverse the highroads and byroads of theHalf-Continent, post-lentums deliver mail and taxi people (for a fare) from onepost to another.They are manned by alenterman or driver, an escort (usually armed and armored) known as aside-armsman or cock robin (if wearing a red weskit of Imperial Service) orPrussian (if wearing a deep blue weskit of private employment) and one or twobacksteppers -- either splasher boysor post runners or amblers -- sitting upon the seats at the back of theroof. When traveling dangerousstretches, another backstepper may join -- a quarter-topman possessing afirelock and a keen gaze -- for extra protection The crew is collectively (and confusingly) referred to aslentermen. The delivery of post inremoter areas is irregular, the lentermen waiting for there to be enoughmissives and parcels to warrant the dangerous journey (usually a post-bag overhalf-full). If possible they also preferto take passengers along with them, the extra income making the risk of travelworthy. Po'lent is the common term for these vehicles, an abbreviatedderivation of po(st)-lent(um). 
	
	potive(s)anycombination of parts (chemicals) for a particular and definable effect.See entry in Book One. 
	
	prentice(s), prentice-lighter(s)"prentice" isthe name given to any (typically young) person taken on to learn a skill-set,in the case of this book, those training to be lamplighters. A prentice-lighter'sduties will include workings (hands-on learning), targets (shooting practice), evolutions (marching and drill),readings (very basic reading, writing and rimitry [arighmetic] lessons frombooks), refections (meals), impositions (minor punishments), castigations (the period after mainswhen punishments are read out to remind the prentices of who needs to be wherefor doing what. This is also the termfor major punishments, including time in the pillory and flogging -- very very rare) and confinations (whenprentices are kept in their cells). Thelife of prentices is governed by strict routine, and every moment of their dayis taken up with military and practical lessons in fighting and lighting the lamps. Four months (roughly thirteen weeks) is deemed long enough to turn a blunderer into a lighter, though once the prentices have been promoted to lampsman 3rd class  they aretypically billeted to the safer western end of the road till they have achievedthe rank of lampsman 2nd class . Because there are far fewer of them,prentices are treated better than other military recruits, husbanded as aprecious resource and fed well and trained intensively (though briefly) intheir tasks. Given this and that theyare better paid (slightly) than your usual pediteer,it is surprising more lads do to sign up for a life tending the lamps on the highroads. 
	
	prentice-watcheslantern-watchconducted for prentices, where theplatoon of prentices is divided into quartos and each one is sent out ontothe road on set nights to learn the job in the field. The quartosare named after noteworthy military persons from history or the currentregime. When Rossamund was prenticing he and his fellows weresectioned into three quartos, or prentice quarters, named as follows: 1 st quarto = Q Protogenes (1 stPQP), 2 nd = Q Io Harpsicarus (2 nd PQIH), 3 rd =Q Hesiod Gaeta (3 rd PQHG --which is Rossamund's quarto). Each one was sent out on this roster: 
	
	Quarto1 st2 nd3 rd1 stVigil 2 nd 3rd 
	DayNewich Loonday Meerday Midwich Domesday Calumnday Solemnday 
	
	Each quartosets out to light the lamps in thelate afternoon of the day named for that quarto,staying overnight at Wellnigh Housewhen they are done. The next morningthey wake before dawn, ready themselves and set out at sunup to "douse" thelanterns, arriving back in Winstermillto rest and ablute before rejoining their comrades for the usual day oftraining. These two days either side ofa prentice-watch are long for those involved, hence the two or three days breakin between for each quarto. See Appendix8. 
	
	prenticingtraining andinitiating people into a trade.
	
	"present and level"to presentyour arm is to hold it out in front of you; to level is bring it up and pointit in the general direction of the enemy.
	
	private roomWinstermillhas a few small chambers it dedicates to the accommodation and intimatemeetings of distinguished guests, found on the second floor of the manse.These are somewhat self-contained, possessingtheir own jakes, small conferencerooms and a wet area for ablutions. Evenso, these rooms are still quite spare as city standards to -- more on par with aprovincial wayhouse. 
	
	priverslong, sturdy tongs used to grip toxicarticles, especially such things as skold-shot. 
	
	proofenerone whosupplies proofing but does not manufacture it.
	
	proof-steelmetal (usuallyforged iron and the like) that has been backed with buff or some other sturdyproofed material.This allows the metalto be thinner and therefore lighter while still offering superiorprotection. The wearing of metalproofing of any sort is regarded as flashy or showing away or old-fashioned or all of these in one, thoughregardless troubardiers and lesquins typically reserve the right todon proof-steel. 
	
	pudding(s)what we wouldcall dessert.
	
	punctpunctingto mark someone with a cruorpunxis. 
	
	punctographist(s)also called anadeller (Gott) or marker.A person whois skilled in marking or puncting aperson with a monster-blood tattoo. A punctographist's tools are known as grailles, used for either extracting thecruor of a monster or for tattooing ( puncting)a mark of a person. A punctographist typically views the head andface of the slain monster in advanceof the actual puncting, and makes adesign for the tattoo in a book or on some other paper from what they see orare told. 
	
	punt-royalecard gamewhere the highest ranked cards are the least desirable.The game revolves around passing these cardsoff on each other till all the cards are played or a predecided number ofpasses (turns) have occurred. The loser,or knave, is the one with the most high cards; the winner, or free man, is theone with none. More of a recreationalgame rather than one for gambling, though inveterate wagerers have found waysto win and lose money with it. 
	
	purgationtaming theland and quelling the threwdthrough force and violence, especiallyagainst the monsters themselves. It is the more immediate way to beginconquest of the wilds, but its effects are only short term, for monsters will always return to placesthey consider their home, their original/proper range of wandering. See Idlewild,the. 
	
	Puttingersaid "Putt'ing'ger"; lampsman 1 st class of Winstermill, once a native of Gottland,being born in Wittzingerod; how he came to be in the Emperor's Service is atale he isn't telling. He is the eldestof the three lampsmen set over the young prentices and probably the friendliest-- though only just barely. Struggles tomake himself understood to the lads through his thick Gott accent. 

	Q
	
	qthe symbol for sequins, the middle-valuecoin denomination in the common currency of the Soutlands. The averageweekly wage for your common working fellows is 8 q, which in turn is about theaverage hourly rate of hire for your high-class teratologist -- such as Europe, theBranden Rose. See money in Book One. 
	
	QGUabbreviated reference to quo gratia. 
	
	Q Hesiod Gaetathe quarto of prentice-lighters to which Rossamund belongs. The Qstands for quarto, and Hesiod Gaeta was once Lamplighter-Marshal in charge ofthe lighters at the time that the Idlewild was founded. The names of the other prentice quartos are also taken from other noteworthy lighters of old. Io Harpsicarius was the founding marshal of Winstermill, while Protogenes isprobably the most renowned, performing great feats in defense of the fledglingcolonies of the Placidia Solitus. 
	
	quabardvestlike proofing for the chest,sometimes referred to in full as "quarter-bard," usually reachingdown over the abdomen.See entry in BookOne. 
	
	quacksalverdoctor or dispensurist, but particularly a bad oneor one who passes himself off as a person of physics without possessing theactual qualifications or skills. 
	
	quarto(s)the smallestdesignation of a group of soldiers.Itgoes: 
	
	quarto = ten men
	platoon = 30 men = 3 quartos
	company = 100 or more men - 3-4 platoons
	battalion = 300-500 men = 3-6 companies
	regiment (million) = 1,000-3,000 men = 3-6battalions
	tercion (brigade) = 3,000-12,000 = 3-4regiments (millions)
	legion = 10,000-40,000 men = 3-4 tercions(brigades)
	division = 30,000-40,000 men = 2 or morelegions
	army (marshalsy) = 60,000 or more men = 2or more divisions
	
	quiet-shoesalso calledpattens; soft, heelless, pliable shoes with stoutly proofed soles, usually tiedon to the foot with ribands wound way of the leg.Very useful for walking quietly and foractivities that require nimbleness, grip and a near-silent step. Easily the most preferred shoe of calendars and sagaars and even some fulgars. 
	
	Quinaultnorthernmosttown of the Idlewild, founded by theSovereign State of Quimperpund with backing from the peoples of the Maund. Situated on the borders of Sulk, it is amajor supplier and trafficker of foodstuffs from the Sulk to the other coloniesimmediately to the south. 
	
	quo gratiashortened formof the Tutin term "quo gratia exunicum," "the favor of the peerless," and often invoked in itsabbreviation -- QGU, it is the rightof a peer to circumvent certain laws -- civil or military, though the latter isa little harder -- or the due process of the judicial system, or even nullify acourt's ruling, all for personal ends. Based on an ancient code know as the Wittenrood that existed before eventhe occupation of the Empire, QGU ispreserved most in the Soutlands,where the Emperor tolerates it to keep the peers there on his side. It is not common to use this right toofrequently, though a peer with enough swagger might carry off even the mostoutrageous affront under the cover of QGU. Most, however, are careful and sparing in itsuse, for its invocation can get you unwelcome attention from Clementine. Generally if you are to use it, you want tobe pretty sure you can get away with it, either through corrupt practices, thejustice of your cause or the power of your lobby in the Imperial Capital. 

	R
	
	Red Scarferural centerconsidered a part of Sulk End, though many of its inhabitants have family andassociates in the Idlewild and soconsider themselves as being part of the westernmost end of the Idlewild. It gets its name from the red bricks thatwere originally used to make its encircling, sloping walls (a scarfe or scarp). 
	
	revenantsimply a moreformal, educated rendering of rever-man. 
	
	rever-man"zombielike" gudgeon, and the most human-looking ofthe same. See entry in Book One. 
	
	Right of the Pacific Dove, the ~calendar clavefound in the historied fastness of Herbroulesse,led by Syntyche, theLady Vey. The clave-membersare usually called columbines, fromthe Tutin word"columbarium," meaning "dovecote." Originally dwelling in Brandenbrass, the Right -- as it is called by its own -- was foundedover three hundred years earlier in the time of the Sceptic Dynasty. After too many rivalries with local lords, aswell as with another, better connected clave,they had their charter to exist in that city revoked. Acquiescing meekly, the Right moved toremoter lands, finding Herbroulesse,where it has endured ever since. Theirmotto is "Semper Fidelis" -- "always faithful." 
	
	rimplea curious-looking hairy-leather pursemade from the entire skin of a small rodent, shaved, with a drawstring at theneck hole, and the skin of one limb sewn back on itself as a loop to six onto abelt.Actually looking like some bloatedrat, a rimple is all the fashion as a coin-bag among the wayfaring classes. 
	
	Roughmarch, the ~thecombination of two deep gorges cutting through the southern tip of theTumblesloe Heap, worn down into the rock and earth by the action of twoancient, now-dry waterways:one runningroughly west, the other east. 
	
	RoughmarchRoad,the ~roadthat runs through the Roughmarchgorge, running along the serpentine wendings of the dry streambeds. The middle part of the road is straightestwhere Imperial peoneers androad-builders blasted and cut the small spur of rock that separated the twooriginal gorges to allow the road to continue through. The threwdis never far gone from this place, and the thorny plants that grow along itsedges are in need of constant pruning and lopping. Fatigueparties are sent out at least every two months to do this, thus preventinga monster from having a place whenceto ambush passing traffic. 
	
	rouse-masterone in chargeof a rousing-pit. See hob-rousing. 
	
	rousing-pitsholes in theground with stalls or stands or makeshift seats about and in which gudgeons and bogles are set to fight tothe death while the spectators above wager on the outcome. Such pits are usually situated well away fromprying authorities and common paths, kept hidden and secret to all but to thoseinitiated into the local rousing brotherhood. 

	S
	
	sabineexpensive weave of soft wools from thesmall kingdom of the same name, found beyond the northern shores of the SinusTintinabuline.It would be held asmythic by southern folk but for the existence of its exquisite wools, and thereare many imitators of their product, some so good only a connoisseur can tellthe difference. 
	
	sagaar(s)the combatant teratologist dancers who use theirnimbleness, the prescribed movements of their chosen 'dance,' and therimoirs to defeat the knickers andthe bogles. See entry in Book One. 
	
	salimumbusmeaning'salt-shaker' and also called a salt-gun; a straight-handled pistol made tofire special potives designed for thepurpose. The inside of its barrel istreated with coatings to reduce the corrosive damage done by the chemistry ofits shots. 
	
	Sallowstalla cothouse on the Wormway situated in a small dell, by a ford-crossing on the Mirthlbrook. Sallowstall is thickly surrounded by a smallwood of maples and ancient willows, and gains its name from the thicket ofwillows -- sallows being the local name for willows -- that grow about it andalong the banks of the Mirthlbrook onwhich it is built. It is actually acot-rent, with a few extra, cramped rooms where non-lampsmen can stay formodest board. 
	
	salpert(s)small, fragilesacks of cloth that hold potives,especially those that need to burst when they are thrown and hitsomething. A fair amount of care must betaken when handling them, and the recommended method for carting them is insidesome kind of padded box such as a stoupor digital. 
	
	salt-bag(s)simple namefor a salumanticum, and so calledbecause it is designed to hold the parts or 'salts' of a skold or otherhabilist or parts-dealer. 
	
	salt-horsea uselessperson, taken from the idea of a horse that is so old it is no longer good foranything but being turned into dreid, heavily salted meat.
	
	salumanticum(Tutin, meaning 'salt-bag') also known asa salt-bag, usually a satchel withvarious pockets, flaps and slots for holding potives in all their varied forms. The arrangement of a salumanticum should facilitate easy access to theright chemical at the right time, and skolds will know and recall the inside oftheir salt-bags better than their ownbirthdays. 
	
	Scale of Might, the ~originally ananecdotal reckoning of the number of everymenit takes to best an unterman, it hassince become extensively codified by Imperial Statisticians, but simply put itis deemed possible for three ordinary men armed in the ordinary manner to seeoff one garden-variety bogle, and for about five to handle your more common nicker. Add potives or teratologists to the group and thisnumber fluctuates significantly -- depending on the quality of the potive or skill and type of monster-slayer. 
	
	scarlet powderwhat we wouldthink of as washing detergent, bright red flakes of crystalline surfactant thatlose their color as they form suds in water.Seeing them for the first time you might expect the water in which theyare placed to turn red too, but it remains clear. 
	
	scourge(s)skold whospecializes in the use of the most potent scriptsknown. See entry in Book One. 
	
	scratch-bobshort,powdered wig with dainty curls at the sides and a short tail of hair hanging atthe back.Usually referring to those ofcheap manufacture, but a common term for all such items of apparel. 
	
	script(s)potives or'recipes' for their making.See entry inBook One. 
	
	scrubber(s)very largetubs made from the halves of old brewing butts and used as washing basins toclean dishes or clothes or any other thing that needs a lot of room for a goodscrubbing.
	
	Sebastipole, MisterLamplighter's Agent of Winstermill and telltale to the Lamplighter-Marshal. Seeentry in Book One. 
	
	sectifactor(s)transmogrifyingsurgeons; that is, those people whoconduct the surgeries that make a person into a lahzar. 
	
	sectitheresaid "sek'tih'theer," kind of therimoir; knives made by a profoundlyancient method, used for the effective cutting of monsters, who are otherwise hard to harm with more mundaneblades. They were once the standardweapon of the heldins -- the mightyfolk of renown from obscure history -- and the weapons of these near-mythical folkare prized relics today, as the quality of manufacture cannot even beapproached currently. In more recenttimes sectitheres are the tools of sagaarsand therlanes (' monster-butchers' from the Tutin'therilanius' and some punctographists. They are very hard to make, which means theyare prohibitively expensive, and as such, very uncommon. The best kind, of course, are the relics.Some sectitheres come in the form of scissors. The blades are made of spiegeleisen (also vitrine or festverglas): a highly refined, almost glasslike ceramiccontaining powerful mordants, expungeantsand pestilents such as gringollsis. This is applied over metal, or allowed tosoak into wood which is then fired many times till it is tempered-steelhard. Different woods give differentresults: the best woods for thestrongest, most potent blades are made form now near-mythical almugwood orexceptionally rare black elder. Wood sotreated is known as glanzend (Gott for 'gift-glass') or giftwood. 
	
	Secunda Locathe 'bottomhalf' of the Haacobin Empire,encompassing the lands south-southwest of Tuscanin and Catalain, down to andincluding the Lent, reaching west as far as to the Patter Moil and east to theshores of the Ichormeer. The 'top half' is the Prester Regnum, andincludes the Seat and the Verid Litus. 
	
	seighthe local Sulk and Idlewild namefor the more fortified high-houses built in wilder places. 
	
	Sellry, wine-of ~constituent ofCraumpalin's Exstinker, a fairlycommon decoction made from the juices of several common plants that, when puttogether, have the qualities required by a wide of fluid potives. Mildly poisonous,it is most frequently used as a base for repellents, though it is seldom seenin nullodors. 
	
	seltzer, seltzer watersalts-infused'waters' used to cause bloom to giveoff light. Depending on the origin ofthe very first bloom from which yourstock was raised, the constituency of your seltzer will need to vary to allowfor the different marine environments from which each kind of bloom was once retrieved. This knowledge tends to be possessed only by seltzermen, the suppliers of bright-limns, and some skolds, who cantell what breed of bloom they mighthave before them and what mix of seltzer to nourish it in. Generally the composition of seltzer water is: 
	
	22 parts brine
	5 parts chordic vinegar
	3 parts wine-dilute penthil salts
	2 parts spirit-of-cadmia
	11/2 parts bluesalts
	
	Some seltzermenmight also include varying parts of ethulate, of which there are differentvarieties for the particular breeds of bloom. 
	
	seltzer lamplarger versionof a seltzer lantern, though theterms are interchangeable. 
	
	seltzer lanternany lamp that uses bloom-and- seltzer to givelight, but most particularly a portable light of larger size than a bright-limn. 
	
	seltzerman, seltzermentradesmenresponsible for the maintenance of all types of limulights. Their main roleis to make and change the seltzer waterused in the same. Among lamplighters, seltzermen have the dutyof going out in the day to any lamp reported by the lantern-watch (in ledgers set aside for the purpose) as needingattention and performing the necessary repair. This can be anything from adding new seltzer,to adding new bloom, to replacing abroken pane or replacing the whole lantern bell. See seltzer,seltzer water. 
	
	Senior Servicethe navy -- aname it gives itself; see entry in Book One.
	
	senior-sisterthe name clave members use among themselves torefer to their august, being thehighest active 'rank' among them. Carlins are the revered 'retirees' who often no longer actively servebut live lives of quiet contemplation or -- if they are peeresses -- return tothe glamour of their former lives as wise old dames. 
	
	Sequeciouspronounced"seh'kwee'shuss" enormous, easygoingand almost unquenchably jovial, he is a native of the independent realm ofSebastian, a direct western neighbor of the Seat, the heartland of the Empire. A war over the fertile lands of the downs of the Agrigentum and theplateau of the Stipula has been waxing and waning between Sebastian and theHaacobins (and the Sceptics before them) for centuries. Sequecious was a camp cook for an eminentSebastian officer and was captured when the baggage train of that officer'sregiment was ambushed and ransacked by Imperial ambuscadiers. Spending time first in a war prison, he wasprocessed and set out to serve as a soldier slave -- as with so many of theHaacobins' prisoners of war -- on the Empire'smore southerly borders, despite his size. This found him as the cook for the lightersof Wormstool, as remote a post as youcould want for. The good dealings he hasin the hands of the lighters giveshim hope for a better life as a citizen of the Empire, as does the promise of actual pay he is due should hebecome a native of the Haacobindomains. 
	
	sequestery, sequesteriesplaces ofquiet and contemplation well within the protecting walls of a calanserie, originally established toprovide well-to-do women with a refuge to which to retreat from undue attentionor unpeaceful lives. Accommodated intheir own apartments, these anchoresses (hermit women) are granted the rightsof their degree and live in familiar worldly comfort. They are the great benefactresses of the calendars the world over and with theirsupport sequesteries are able to take in battered wives, destitute widows, good-day gala-girls and other ladies ofpoor repute fleeing their handlers and seeking a better life. They also seek social justice for women as asex in general. 
	
	sergeant(s)second highestrank of non-commissioned officer, below master but above under-sergeant, involved in the training, evolving and supervision of the lives of their charges. A good sergeant will play 'mother' to alieutenant's or captain's 'father', tending to the welfare of his subordinates. 
	
	sergeant-lighteralternative toLamplighter-Sergeant, a slightly lessformal way of addressing one of that rank and normally allowed only to those ofequal or higher rank. 
	
	shabraque(s)proofedcoverings for horses, commonly made of panels of buff (gauld-leather), fixedtogether by rivets or points (reinforced ties) or both, flexible yetsolid.Every time a horse goes out withits shabraque, the proofing is smeared or splashed with a nullodor, either deadening the horsy odor or transmuting it tosmell like some other less tasty creature. Over all this may be hung a couvrette, a colorful, sturdy blanket inyour chosen mottle and even marked with sigils, a purely decorative feature andthe kind of excess insisted upon only by the conspicuously wealthy. 
	
	"chaffe or equiperson: a mask covering poll, forelock and forehead, down to the nostril and over thecheeks with holes for the eyes. Notoften used, as it limits a horse's vision. 
	
	"crinarde: covers mane, neck andoften hangs over the points of the shoulders as well. 
	
	"petraile: covers withers,shoulder, chest and foreparts of ribs down to the knee. 
	
	"Crouppere: covers back, loin,flank, croup, thigh and buttock, down to the hock, and typically leaving thetail free. 
	
	sheercrane or winch used to lift loads up andlower them down.
	
	showing awayboasting orshowing off.
	
	siccustrumnany script used to staunch a flow of bloodfrom a wound. This is achieved bypastes, fast-setting liquids and powders. The better siccustrumn will not only stop a flow quickly, but will actlike sutures and keep the wound from opening and bleeding again. Best results are achieved by a siccustrumncombined with bandages. 
	
	signifer(s)the distinctparts of a scent or other trail that aid leersor lurksmen in their work. One of the more remarkable applications of asignifer is a group of potives knownas anavoids, which leers use to mark someone or something they want totrail, following the distinct scent wherever it may lead. The best anavoids will last for weeks even inwater and are hard to detect by fellow leersand other "box-wearers," seeming more like a natural smell to all butthe person who used it. It has beenknown for talented and well set-up leersto follow an anavoided trail even over waters from one harbor to another. 
	
	sillabubhoney-sweetenedmilk mixed with either strong wine or, in a Skyldictwist, with vinegar -- a taste for the dead of mouth and strong of stomach. 
	
	Silvernookminers' townon the northern edge of the Brindleshaws.See entry in Book One. 
	
	Sinsterthe best place to go to be made into alahzar.See entry in Book One. 
	
	Sinus Tintinabulinecalled the SinTin for short, and meaning the Bayof Bells, it is the greatbody of water to the northeast of the Half-Continent, its western shores hometo the ports of the Turkemen, its east coast hiding the pirate-kings of theBrigandine States. The Sin Tin gets itsname from the many, many buoys and markers with their warning-bells that havebeen moored by the myriad of submerged hazards for as long as historyrecords. These buoys and markers withtheir warning-bells have been moored by the myriad of submerged hazards for aslong as history records. These buoys arefreely maintained by all who use the waters of the Bay; even the pirate-kingsplay ruses with them only very occasionally, otherwise doing their part to tendthe ancient warning system. 
	
	sis edisserumTutin term,loosely meaning "please explain," this is an order from a superior (usually theEmperor) to appear before him and a panel of peers forthwith, to offer reasons,excuses, testimony and whatever else might be required to elucidate uponwhatever demands clarity.A sisedisserum is normally seen as a portent of Imperial ire, a sign that the personor people so summoned are in it deep and must work hard to restore theEmperor's confidence. A sis edisserum isa 'black mark' against your name, and very troublesome to remove. 
	
	Skillions, the ~south-easterncorner of the Low Gutter in thefortress of Winstermill. It gains its somewhat derogatory name fromthe many small, wood-built single-story sheds, warehouses and work-stalls foundthere. These are a recent addition tothis part of the Gutter, previously being the site of a stately old buildingdesigned for multiple uses, including the growing of bloom and the making and storing of all lanterns. This reputedly burned down in mysteriouscircumstances two generations ago, outside of any current occupant's memory. 
	
	skillygruel or broth made from scrap meat andleftovers from the previous evening's mains.
	
	skittle-alleywhat we wouldthink of as a "fun-parlor," where folks pay to play at skittles(obviously), hoop-a-ring, bowlers (essentially carpet bowls) and pegstops (agame that involves using batons known as pegs to knock your opponent's pegsdown and get a ball into their 'goal').The best skittle-alleys also possess billiard tables. 
	
	skoldingpractices andarts of a skold, to work as a skold or to got out hunting monsters with potives. See skold(s)in Book One. 
	
	skold-shotleaden ballsfired from either musket or pistol, and treated with various concoctions ofpowerful venificants known as gringollsis, particularly devised for the destruction of monsters. These potivesare corrosive, damaging the barrels of the firelocks from which they are firedand eating gradually, yet steadily, away at the metal of the ball itself. Left long enough, a skold-shot ball willdissolve completely away. Very effectiveagainst most nickers and bogles, someof the best gringollsis actuallypoison a monster to the degree thatit becomes vulnerable to more mundane weapons. 
	
	Skyldiccoming from or of the Skylds.In modern parlance, it is used in referenceto the people of Worms or Frissia. 
	
	slot and draga slot is atrail of smells and a drag is a trail of prints and other visible signifers of passing. These two trails are much more acute to a leer's augmented senses. 
	
	slug(s)truly insulting invective againstprofound dim-wittedness and tardiness.
	
	Smellgrove, Euguswastrel from Brandenbrass and fellow prentice with Rossamund who loves hissleep. Smellgrove started outpromisingly as a journeyman rat-catcher before being enticed by the romance ofImperial Service and the immediate glory of a whole Imperial billion. 
	
	Snooks,the culinaire of the Winstermillkitchens, who rules her boiling, bubbling, savory domain from the head of along scarred bench -- a scale and weights always handy -- attended on either sideby a row of hanging carcasses glistening in the heat -- mutton, bully beef,coney, pullet, venison for the officers. She reads from recipes and writes lists of comestibles required whilekitchen hands chop and carve before her and the harried bustle spins abouther. She rarely moves; certainly shenever lifts a limb to help her henpecked staff, tyrannizing all with herwheezing, penetrating voice. Anear-mythic fear of her makes pots-and-pans an excellent punishment fordefaulting prentices. 
	
	snuftkinwhat we mightcall a muff, a "tube" of fur worn over the hands, wrists and lowerarms, for the warming of the same.
	
	sobersidesone who doesnot drink or get drunk.
	
	soegaulded silk; already a strong material,silk made into soe is an expensive but highly sought material forproofing.See lour. 
	
	Soratchesaid "Saw'rat'kee"; a small but widely spread andwell-known calendar clave consistingalmost entirely of caladines, thosewandering loner calendars. The Soratche's stated mission is not so muchto fend for the poor and helpless, but to eradicate the dark trades, especially the abominable practices of the massacars. Strangely, they have not been granted an Imperial Prerogative (an officialcommission from the Emperor). Notwithstanding, they are infamous for the vigor and violence with whichthey pursue their self-appointed mandate. 
	
	sot-headeddrunk oracting as if you are drunk; to be slow-witted and stupid.
	
	soutainelong coat withdead straight hems reaching to the knees or even ankles.A foreign style imported from Heilgoland andworn by those seeking to look serious and unaffected by fashion. 
	
	Soutlands, the ~the largesouthern part of the Haacobin Empire,requiring two secondary capitals -- the alternats-- to govern properly and keep under the Imperial thumb. See entry in Book One. 
	
	sovereign limethickened limejuice mixed with lemon juice and other fortifying traces.Often mixed with cheaper alcohols to addflavor and encourage people to ingest some kind of antiscorbutic. 
	
	spangled whelp-hound(s)smaller kindof tykehound but still big as dogsgo, white with black spots on the rump and flanks and black points. Probably one of the more people-friendly ofthe tykehound family, and verysimilar to our own Dalmatians, yet a little larger and bulkier. 
	
	Sparrow Downs,the ~ rangeof hills between Small and the Idlewildthat acts as a boundary between the two. It is the reputed home of the Duke of Sparrows, an urchin-lord said tolurk and hide within. There are noofficial reports of a sighting of this mythical monster, and many doubt thetruth of the tale. The deeps of the forest(the Nigflutenwald -- "the Wood of Little Wings") are held to be atykewood -- a woodland haunted by monsters,impenetrably threwdish and thickly grown. Those few peltrymen who dareto venture there report skulking threats and an inordinate number of sparrowsand other small fowl. 
	
	Sparrows, the Duke of ~See Duke of Sparrows. 
	
	spatterdash(es)also known asspats -- which are usually a shorter version of the same -- these areleather-and-buckle coverings for the shins and reaching over the top of the foot.Often proofed, they provide excellentprotection for the lower leg. 
	
	spendonettethe term usedamong calendars for a pistoleer. 
	
	spittende(s)a kind of fend, spittendes are very long pikesused especially to fend away monstersand sometimes large game, with barbed points and strong flukes to prevent askewered beastie from pushing down the pole and harming the wielder. Also known as durckshlagen. 
	
	splasher, splasher boymost juniormember of the lentermen crew, sitting at the back of the carriage ready to opendoors, haul luggage, run messages, carry the post when necessary and otherwiseserve the needs of the passengers, the driver and his side-armsman.It is a dangerous job, but a good one for alad of between twelve and eighteen, paying pretty well, near as much as the prentices of Winstermill earn in a year, and without quite the sameconstrictions on their lives. When acarriage is in port and the spasher's chores are done his time is his own. 
	
	Splinteazle, Seltzerman 2ndClass ~ bosunto House Major Grystle when he was aram captain, following him from vessel to vessel and so loyal he went with theman when he was ejected from the navy. As the best fit for his previous skills he has taken up the role of seltzerman, and though in the ranks of Winstermill he no longer has quite thesame authority, he is known as the old servant of the house-major's and is respected accordingly. 
	
	sprithersaid "sprih-there," with a short i; the common name for the tubelikeneedle used to extract ichor ( monster blood) from a slain monster;also known as a bludspritz, its technical name being a cruorclyst. It comprises a long, thick, needle-pointed,steel tube known as a clystron; a round pewter or tin receptacle known as acurbit is fixed to the clystron's blunt end. Usually, a preserved gut tube -- the intestine -- is attached to the otherside of the curbit, upon which the user draws with the mouth, sucking the ichor out of the monster and into the curbit. The more advanced cruorclysts will have a small preserved bladderinstead of the intestine, which is squeezed rapidly to achieve the sameoutcome. Ichor, once taken out of the monster,is known as cruor -- "spilledblood." If the curbit becomes full, the cruor is siphoned into a bruicle. See graille(s). 
	
	spurn(s)lahzar orother teratologist who faithfullyserves one master or organization. Theword is used more generally to mean someone acting as a personal bodyguard toan individual, the non-teratologist kind sometimes known as harnessgarde. 
	
	Squarmisa costerman who dares the long stretch ofthe Frugal Way (see entry on the Wormway) to make occasional deliveriesto Haltmire with an old boneshaker ofa cart harnessed to a crotchety she-mule, Assanina, hiring out his services asa kind of wayfaring porter; a native of Brandenbrass,come to the Idlewild to escape someunpleasant business back home. 
	
	"Stand While You Can"rousingmilitary tune with an up-tempo beat despite the grim turn of its content,showing typical bravado in the face of a violent end.Sung by soldiers throughout the Haacobin Empire, it goes something likethis: 
	
	Thoughfoeman press hard, lads
	Thefoemen press hard;
	Fightfor Ol' Barny and
	Standwhile you can.
	
	Standwhile you can, lads,
	Standwhile you can:
	Witha shout of "Ol' Barny!"
	Standwhile you can
	
	Don'ttarry o'er death, lads
	Don'ttarry o'er death;
	Justput your thew forward, and
	Standwhile you can.
	
	Standwhile you can, lads,
	Standwhile you can:
	Forthe Glory of Ol' Barny,
	Standwhile you can.
	
	And so on like that for a whole twenty verses.Its history is obscure, thought the tune isof some antiquity and was around in other songs well before these words wereput to it. 
	
	Stander Lates, the ~Brandenardrendering of Stendrlaeti ("shores of fiendish howling"), the Hagenard name for the southwestern coastof the Hagenlands, where Ingebarge issaid to dwell, devising her wicked brews and waiting for sailors to eat. 
	
	stheniconthesesensory-enhancing biologues are wornby nonleers as well; such folk are called lurksmen. For both lurksmenand leers the sensation of removing asthenicon is, for a very brief moment, powerfully disorienting as the wearer'ssenses adjust back to normal input: theworld seems dull and colorless, sounds oddly muted, the air too still andbland. This confusion is properly knownas accosmia or more commonly as the dulldrins or dimmings. In a few this can continue on for severaldays, characterized by the squints, -- or strabismic droop -- with squinting eyesand disorientation. The squints isalmost guaranteed if you wear a sthenicon for more than a week without respite. 
	
	stingo(s)a common termfor pints of beer.
	
	storm-bird(s)cuckoo-shrikes,whose appearance is said to precede and therefore announce the arrival of rain,especially heavy, storming rains.
	
	stouche(noun) a fight, a battle. ( verb) to fight. 
	
	stoupalso called a fistulum, a cylindricalcase of (usually) leather-covered wood or just layers of stiffened leathers, inwhich scripts are carried for easyaccess. The interior of a stoup is wellpadded and so arranged with removable platelike layers that allow the mostneedful potives to be got to first,with others arranged by priority beneath. Most stoups have about 4 or 5 layers, but some are double-ended and canbe up to 12 layers long. See Appendix 7. 
	
	stovepipe hatvernacular fora copstain or capstin, a tall cylindrical hat with a flat crown and a somewhatnarrow brim.Some varieties are a littlemore conical. 
	
	strig(s)originally thewild heldin fighting women of thePhlegms and then the Attics duringthe Heldinsage. The term is used now torefer to any combative female, especially a teratologist. Such women are also known as beldames. See calendar(s)
	
	stuff(noun)clumps of thread or frayings from rope or cloth. ( noun) synonym for bloom. ( noun) flesh -- though this isnot a common use except in the phrase "stuff and bits." 
	
	"stuff and bits"flesh andbones.
	
	sturdy rough(s)hired muscle,as they say; your 'heavies' used to do dirty work and intimidate opponents.
	
	Sulk Endsouth-westernmostpart of Sulk of which the Harrowmathis considered a part. See entry in BookOne. 
	
	SundergirdtheHalf-Continent, including all the lands outside the Haacobin Empire. Escatoris,the Gottskylds, the Herelands, the Netherlands and beyond, and thesouthern reaches of the Witherlends. 
	
	surgeon(s)considered thelesser counterpart of physicians. See entry in Book One. 
	
	swab(noun) small child ( verb) the action of washing a floor with a mop,which is also called a swab. 
	
	swaggererknave orhack or other hired tough; those who put themselves forward as monster-huntersor spurns; a mercenary. 
	
	Swash, the ~the great bayeast of Needle Greening, south of theFrugelle and northwest of Flint,the source of thick fleermares thatare blown inland by strong southerlies to saturate and water the parched Frugelle. 
	
	Swill, Honorius Ludius Grotiusnamed after anempress-dowager of old, Honoria Ludia Grotinia -- said to be a revered distantrelative of Swill's line -- Grotius is the young and gifted surgeon and physician'sward at Winstermill, gaining theposition through the influence of the Master-of-Clerks. A true Imperial subject, being born andraised in the Considine, his originalpoverty did not prevent him setting up shop as a talented carver. He soon got the attention of the surgeons of Sinster and became an articled man there under the tutelage ofFlaccus Fusander, a sectifactor of great and irregular vision. There is a strange, suspicious cloud overSwill's departure from Sinster, adeparture he says was due to the near-violent jealousies of his rivals. A voracious reader with a large personallibrary, Swill is ambitious for knowledge -- the more obscure the better -- andwith this the power it might bring. 
	
	Syntychesee Vey, the Lady; forename of the august of the Right of the Pacific Dove, and Threnody'smother. A peer of middling rank, shepossesses the hereditary title of marchess and, like most peers, claims a bloodlink to Dido's race. It is said she wastransmogrified when in her twenties, though none beyond the intimacy of the Dovecote have ever seen her perform alahzarine act, and her true nature remains a mystery. 

	T
	
	tally-clerkpersonresponsible for counting and recording the comings and goings through whicheverdoor, gate or other portal he or she is assigned to watch.The use of such a function in a place like Winstermill is to regulate trade,traffic and even emigration, and for awareness of who and what is within themanse. They are assisted greatly intheir duties by cursors. 
	
	tandem, tandem chairfinely carved,two- or three-seater cushioned seat; what we might call a chaise lounge.
	
	telltale(s)falsemenretained by one of office or status to inform their employers of the veracityof others' statements or actions, to signal if fellow interlocutors are lyingor dissembling or masking the truth in any other way.If they could afford to, most people of anysignificance would employ telltales, but there simply are not enough falsemen to fill so many vacancies. This means that a leer can earn a truly handsome living as a telltale, many commonlycharging a premium for their service at fees usually beyond all but the verywell off, or serving with promises for advancement and personal advantage. Then there are those honorable few who do itsimply because it is their job and responsibility. Despite this rarity, many of the prominentwork hard to nullify the advantage a telltale will give, either by employingtheir own falseman, or having a palliatrix(a highly trained liar -- even rarer than a falseman) attend in their stead. 
	
	tempestinemilitary termfor a wit, gained from the notionthat they cause a tempest within the minds of the enemies. 
	
	teratologist(s)monster-hunter.In truth there are not a great number of teratologistsin the Half-Continent, and those who are there are stretched thin and typicallyprefer the higher financial recompense of knavingthemselves to the poor pay received in direct Imperial Service. This is especially true of lahzars, who maywell have a large debt to service, incurred to pay for their originaltransmogrification. Consequently it isonly a few teratologists ever feel community-hearted enough to work permanentlyin the government's pay at fortresses, manses and other outposts on the edgesof civilization -- and when one dies he or she is very hard to replace. See entry in Book One. 
	
	testplace where skolds, dispensurists or other habilists do their makings, their brewingsand combinations of parts. What we mightterm a 'laboratory.' Consequently, tobrew or otherwise make a potive is totesttelate. 
	
	test-barrowor chymistarium or testtle; awheelbarrow-like device, a sizable oblong box striated with hinges and doors,drawers and locks, that folds open to reveal many compartments and a small yetfully functioning and very portable test. This includes a small but remarkablywell-appointed portable chymistarium(what we might think of as a chemistry set) that can include a littlestone-lined stove-plate, kept hot even when on the move, providing the cleanpuffs of smoke from its chimney. Test-barrows are ancient tools, more basic versions used first by therubezhals of old and refined over the centuries. Expensive items, their possession proves theaffluence and (assumedly) the successful skill of its possessor. 
	
	thaumateer(s)term for a teratologist in military service; takenfrom the Attic word for 'a wonder' or'a marvel.' As may be expected, thevarious kinds of teratologist aregiven their own military designation, such as tempestines for fulgars, torsadines for wits, bombastines for scourges, avertines for skolds and soon. 
	
	theiromisiaalso known astheiraspexthis, apexthia or, most commonly, invidition:the implacable hatred of monsters. The opposite of outramour, which is the love of monsters, as an invidist or execrat is the opposite of a sedorner (see sedornerin Book One). See invidist(s). 
	
	theme(s)militarydistricts that are given into the charge of a general or even a marshal -- whomay even be in charge of a multiplicity of them.All matters military or to do with thedefense of the people are under the control of the marshal or general. There are two kinds of Static themes -- underthe control of a state, and Imperial themes, established by Clementine and not necessarilyconforming to sociopolitical boundaries established by the states. Where Static themes and Imperial themesoverlap there can be a great deal of wrangling and collision of jurisdictions. 
	
	therimoir(s)prounounced "there'ih'moyr" ( Attic, literally, " monster-fate",also tierschlacht (Gott); weapon designed or fitted to slay monsters. The most famous and useful of these are theancient devices, many of which have been lost in the many rises and falls ofcivilization. 
	
	therlane(s)literally, "monster-butchers," typically members ofthe dark trades who, by experience,are usually able to make a common sense of the varying anatomies of dead monsters and cut them up with sectitheres for the various uses forwhich each part will be employed. Thosewho use such parts are utterly reliant on these monster-carvers, and skilled therlanes can command high prices fortheir expertly dissected bogle-bits. 
	
	theroid(s)a moretechnical term for a monster. 
	
	theroscade(s)quite simply,an attack by monsters, particularlyan ambush, but the term is used to mean any assault by untermen. 
	
	Theuda, Fadusyoung lamplighter serving at Wormstool, born and raised in the Considine. His father is a midlevel bureaucrat in theImperial Service. Theudas could not berthe idea of desk life and fled his home; after many adventures he found theactive simple life he desired with the lamplightersof the Wormway. An eager fellow who, through persistence andthe excellence of his brief service record, gained a billet out on the "ignoble end of the road." 
	
	thill(s)shafts on acart or carriage onto which a horse or other such animal for pulling thevehicle is harnessed.
	
	Threnody of Herbroulesse,Marchess-in-waiting, the Lady ~only child and daughter to the Lady Vey, conceived outside of the banns of any intended marriage,simply for the purpose of producing an heir. She is a self-determined girl, stubborn and quick-witted, and evenquicker tempered, sent to Sinster byher mother on the advent of her thirteenth birthday to be transmogrified into alahzarine wit. Consequently, when Rossamund was still atMadam Opera's despairing of his chance at getting work, Threnody was under theknives of Spedillo and Sculapias, said to be among the best surgeons to have ever held a catlin. Dolours and others of the clave advised the Lady Vey to wait, but she would not, determined to have herdaughter as a powerful wit, welllearned in antics by the time she was old enough to begin to share thelead. Threnody has ideas of her ownwhich (of course) do not always correlate to her mother's ambitions forher. The tension between them iscontinual, often emotionally violent, to the point that Threnody's request tobecome a lamplighter was granted her,if only to give the Syntyche and the columbines of Columbris a rest from all the agonies of mother-daughterangst. One of the 'joys' of Threnody'snew state is the endless imbibing of the necessary chemistry to keep her neworgans in check. 
	
	Threnody'sAlembant Schedule
	
	MorningNoonNight
	Newichplaudamentum, Iambic Ichor, nil plaudamentum, 
	Nephushe Friscan'swead 
	Loondayplaudamentum, Iambic Ichor Cordialof plaudamentum 
	Sammany 
	Meerdayplaudamentum, Iambic Ichor Friscan's plaudamentum 
	Wead 
	Midwichplaudamentum,Iambic Ichor nil plaudamentum 
	Domesdayplaudementum,Iambic Ichor Friscan's plaudamentum 
	Wead 
	Calumndayplaudamentum,Iambic Ichor nil plaudamentum,
	Cordial of Sammany
	Solemndayplaudamentum,Iambic Ichor, Friscan's plaudamentum 
	Friscan'swead wead 
	
	threwdat its mildest, the haunted feeling ofwatchfulness that can be felt in wilder, less populated places.See entry in Book One. See also perniciousthrewd. 
	
	thrice-blightedemphatic cursemeaning that someone is truly wicked, useless and unwelcome.
	
	thrombishealing script of the siccustrumn group related to a larger, tasty and oddly threwdishfungus known as austerpill, thrumcops are a mushroom with a deep brown pileusspotted with swollen off-white circular patches. The essence of thrumcops can be used inrudimentary repellents, giving rise to the idea that eating them on their ownwill cause this essence to seep through your pores and make you less appetizingto a monster. 
	
	tinkersometimes mistakenly called a trifler(seller of cheap cutlery and other pewter and tinware), a tinker is a mender ofmetal items not requiring a forge to fix.One of the wayfarers that go 'huc illuc' about the lands to find work,though Winstermill employs a wholebunch of the fellows to look after their myriad of small metal-working needs. 
	
	toscanelleany lovelyrich red wine coming from the Tuscanin region, actually named after the streamthat runs through that country.
	
	towrough fabric made from hemp fibers orfrom jute -- a somewhat finer kind of hessian or burlap.
	
	tractor(s)also calledferalados or feraloderoes; handlers of animals and beasts of war whose task itis to feed and clean their charges and make intractable creatures eager to dotheir master's bidding.
	
	transmogripher(s)surgeon whospecializes in the making of lahzars. See lahzars in Book One. 
	
	troubardier(s)heavilyarmored pediteers trained to fight athand strokes with a variety of hand arms, including poleaxes, fends, huge swords known as claughs and spadrooms, andother exotic tools. See entry in BookOne. 
	
	trunk-road(s)roads made bythe need for trade and the easy passage of goods.
	
	Tumblesloe Cotone of theprimary duties of the lighters hereis to take part in the fatigue partiesthat venture regularly into the Roughmarchand clear it of monster-harboringvegetation. 
	
	Tumblesloes, the ~, Tumblesloe Heap, the ~Known by thePlutarch Tutins of old as the Arides, for they were ancient and witheredeven then; the north-south running range of hills to the east of Winstermill and the Harrowmath. Their tops,constantly buffeted by strong winds and covered with only a thin soil, supportno vegetation other than mean, stunted stubble. Their low places, however, are choked with dense knots of brambly plants,sloe, briar and blackberry. Among theoldest hills in the Soutlands, theyare known as the 'heap' for their tumbledown appearance and the great cracklikegorges that cross them, the evidence of some tectonic violence eons before. 
	
	Tutinlanguage spoken by the inhabitants ofClementine and the lands about. (It is based loosely -- or not so, at times --on Latin, and to those troubled or offended by this, the author might dare tosay: excusationesoffero propter licentiam quam cum hac pulchra lingua in libello meo cepi.Habete eam artificiosam libertatem et.obsecro, mihi ignoscite ). 
	
	Tutinsthe ruling race of the Haacobin Empire, descendants of Dido andher people, speakers of the language of the same name; also called thePlutarchs (actually their ancient forbears); a refined people of great capacitywho once, under Dido's rule, conquered the regions now known as the Soutlands before their decline. For a time they seemed to vanish entirelyfrom the southern parts of the Half-Continent, abandoning their allies anddependents to the ravages of their foes. It was only several hundred years later that they reappeared to rewinlands lost, a lesser people -- a shadow of their mighty forebears -- but stillstrong enough to conquer. 
	
	twelve of the besttwelve lashesof the straight-whip, or worse yet the three-o'-tail bob.
	
	twin keep(s)bastions orother small forts built side by side, one to support the other.Some are joined by bridges and coveredgalleries, others by tunnels, and still others are separate from eachother. The most common use of twin keepsis to straddle a roadway, with a tollgate hung between them for duties to becollected from travelers. 
	
	Tworp, Trememdussaid 'twerp';a rather fat young man whose now-dead parents were exiles from Gothia.Found wandering and starving by a cruel cantebank man, he was fed and set towork by this fellow as a pan-handler and mute beggar (for he could not speak aword of Brandenard beyond 'yes' and'thank you'). Providence stepped in when, while passingthrough Winstermill, the Lamplighter-Marshal saw the small abusedwastrel and bought him from the suspicious cantebank. The Marshal then installed the startled childin Hand Row, the small foundlingery down in the Low Gutter, and taught him the common tongue until Tworp was oldenough to begin prenticing. 
	
	tykehound(s)(noun) collective noun for a set of dog breeds raised to hunt and slay monsters. The collection of tykehounds includestykehounds themselves (sometimes also called selthounds -- see next point), spangled whelp-hounds, Greater Derehunds,garmirvithars and stafirhunds. Theircounterparts are the slothounds, who are trained to track monsters from even the faintest trail and corner them, rather thancome to grapple with them. A curregitoris the leading dog in a pack of tykehounds, what in our world might be termedan 'alpha male,'; it runs at the front and is first into the fight. A canignavor, from the Tutin word meaning 'lazy dog' (also langsbain, a Gott word meaning'slow-leg'), is the second dog of a tykehound pack; it periodically runs backor lags behind the main chasers waiting for its everyman masters to tell it the path of the rest of the hunt. These animals are anything but lazy, as theirtitle misnomically suggests, usually running twice or three times the distanceany of its fellows covers in a course. ( noun) also selthounds, specific breed of hound, thelargest of all the monster-huntingdogs; with long, heavy snouts; wide mouths and overlarge teeth for anirresistibly gripping bite; thickly gathered hide about the neck to prevent a monster from throttling it; covered inthick, short, wiry black hair and with powerful hips and shoulders, large pawsand great cunning. Some of the mostfamous dogs of matter -- such as Garngagarr -- are of this breed. 

	U
	
	uhrsprechman(Gott,literally "clock-speaking-man") also called a night-clerk, found only in cothousesand other military outposts. Their maintask is to complete any paperwork not finished by the day-clerks, sort mail as required and read the clock and tell thetime for the unlettered soldiers about them -- of which there are many. 
	
	umbergogettin-like nicker, but possessing an oversized headin deformed simulacrum of an animal's poll. If it were possible, umbergogs are even moredim-witted than their more manikinlike (personlike) cousins, the ettins, morebestial -- as their heads might imply. Typically they are a little smaller than ettins, but this does not meanthat there are not examples of umbergogs of numbingly enormous size; rivaledonly by the singular, portentous appearances of the mighty, mindless false-godslumbering across the doomed land. 
	
	under-clerkassistant to aclerk, a kind of corporal-clerk, putupon to do the most menial of clerical tasks, the dullest and most repetitiveduties, the ones sent to the less friendly places to act as bureaucrat andpaper-shuffler. 
	
	under-sergeantmilitary rankused by landed armies but not navies, and the next in rank under a sergeant and above a pediteer or other 1 st classof any type. The equivalent of acorporal. 
	
	Under-Sergeant-of-Prentices Benedictsee Benedict,Under-Sergeant-of-Prentices.
	
	ungerhaurone of manyGott names for monsters. 
	
	untermenGott word for monsters, roughly translating to'undermen,' meaning that monsters areless than men. As a name for monsters it has gained some currency allover the Half-Continent. 

	V
	
	venificant(s)poison-scripts,also sometimes known as pestilents -- these are particularly the more corruptingand wasting potives. Either way they are all very nasty. 
	
	Vey, the Lady ~official titleof Syntyche, the august of the columbinesof Herbroulesse. Born to the role and following her motherthrough five generations of augusts,five generations of the Lady Vey. Hertitle comes from a local corruption of the word 'fey,' thought to mean that she'convenes with monsters,' yet itactually come from Feye, a tiny Soutlandstate that was absorbed by another larger state almost two centuries ago. Fleeing the subtle conquest, the Lady Vey'sancestors made their way up to the Idlewildto seclude themselves in a small sequestarythere, and, by ambition, rose to rule it and expand its work. Syntycheis profoundly aware of her proud heritage, of the aggressive nature of herfamily's historied grasp on the control of the Right of the Pacific Dove and the dubious honor it is to be a calendar. Her zeal for her calendars and her heritage is almost consuming. 
	
	Vey, Threnodysee Threnody of Herbroulesse.
	
	vialimnmeaning 'path-light,' the 'correct' namefor a great-lamp. 
	
	vigil-daywhat we wouldcall a holiday.
	
	Volitusdispensurist of Winstermill,originally simply a confectioner from High Vesting, he has managed to gainstatus as a true dispenser, though the quality of his work is not alwaysguaranteed. It is fortunate for theothers of the manse that his assistant has a better grasp of habilistics. 

	W
	
	wandlimbtype of ash tree with a narrow trunk whosegracefully long, straight branches are a favorite for withies, cudgels and thebasis for fulgaris. 
	
	watch(es)among the lamplightersthere are three main watches that do not revolve so much about four-hourintervals as in the navy, but rather on duties whether it is day or night. During the day there is the house-watch, whose task it is tomaintain the day-to-day running of their posting; the day-watch, who keep lookout during the sunny hours and rove outbeyond their posting to accomplish the various tasks the day requires. At night while these two watches sleep it istime for the lantern-watch or lamp-watch to shine (ha! Get it?). Their duty starts with traveling from theirplace of day-rest, lighting lampsalong the way to the next cothouse orother fortress, where they stay up all night to keep guard. 
	
	wayfood(s)other favorites among hucilluctors are twice-pickled gherkins and evercap, a daintymushroom that preserves well when dried and can last for many years stilledible, though these too are preferred pickled -- either with pepper orhoney. See entry in Book One. 
	
	Wayward Chair, the ~a hostelry of barely a dozen rooms found inthe more down-at-heel suburb of Marlabone in the city of Compostor; run by a Mr. and Mrs. Phile, andnot particularly well known for its appointments or refinements. Why Europechooses to stay there is a bit of a mystery, for she usually prefers the finerestablishments if she can have them, and there is certainly more than one ofthose in that city. 
	
	Wellnigh Housethe small twin-keepcothouse most immediately east of Winstermill,gaining its name because it is well-nigh to both Winstermill and the TumblesloeHeap. It was once the tollhouse forthose coming through or entering the Roughmarch,the toll helping to pay to keep the marcheclear of the thick briars and thorns that ever seek to choke the path. 
	
	Wheede, Croftona somewhat clumsy and ineffectual by ofaverage build and average intelligence, and one of the other prentices at Winstermill. He is actuallya native of the Idlewild itself, froma line of cobblers in Hinkerseigh. His other was slain in a theroscade during a summertime Domesday stroll, his father killedby grief and the viscid humours (a terrible contagious disease said to bespread by nickers). Young Wheede has been shipped off bysurviving uncles and aunts to serve with the lighters. 
	
	"When falsemen disagree..."comes from an aphorism, "When falsemen disagree, to whom then can thetruth be known?" 
	
	Whympre, Podiouspronounced " Po'dee'us Wim'per"; see Master-of-Clerks. 
	
	Wight, the~also known as Wightbury; Imperialdesignation of the Imperial fortress-city of Wightfastseigh, built to collect tolls on goods coming down fromSulk and eastern Catalain and the Undermeer states. It is a center of military might in the midstof the Idlewild and the pivot betweentwo themes of the Placidine and the Paucitine, with each settlement of the Idlewild providing contingents of pediteers and even swaggerersto its guard. Yet despite its size andimpressive fortifications, it has no direct jurisdiction over the Wormway or in political affairs in the Idlewild (though citizens of influencemight have their say). Indeed the cothouses in the Wight are no largerthan those along the lonely road; this city is all about taxation revenue andthe protection of its collection and the trade route that most supplies it. The citizens of the Wight themselves aregenerally very concerned with the latest fashions, importing all the new fadsand baubles they can from down south -- where all the best people dwell. 
	
	Wightfastseighsee theWight. 
	
	Wine-of-Sellrysee Sellry,wine-of. 
	
	Winstermillgreat Imperial fortress of Sulk End and home to the lamplighters of the Wormway. Winstreslewe, theancient, abandoned Tutin fortressupon whose foundations it was built, was itself constructed about and upon aneven more ancient great hall and motte. This great hall was once a seat of power for the Burgundian kings beforethey were pushed aside by the greater might of the Tutins of old. Winstermillis the first port of call for anyone wishing to enter the Idlewild. It is the administrativecenter, whence are issued all Imperial writs and certificates that allow easierpassage through the varied bureaucracies of the colonies along the Wormway. See Appendix 5 and entity in Book One. 
	
	Winstermill, serving staff of ~an astounding collection of people somehowfind their home in the fortress: metalsmiths, wheelwrights, coopers, gaulders, cobblers, tailors,house-tinkers, glaziers, armorers, ostlers, farriers, feuterers, storemen, stewards, cooks, menservants, parlor maids,bower maids, scullery maids, fullers, porters, lighter's boys, pageboys andgeneral hands. 
	
	wit(s)lahzars who are able to sendout pulses of invisible 'static' to afflict people's minds. It is well known that wits lose their hair asthey continue to use their potency, and a calvine or calvous wit is a witcompletely without hair. There are thosewits known as mesmerists, who are skilled in and prefer subtle and gentletechniques of frission, coercingrather than blasting them with great feats of striving. To be a mesmerist takes great skill, butoverspecializing makes one less able to put forth powerful yet well-controlled frission in singularly destructivestriving. The opposite of mesmerists arestriveners, who practice mighty yet tightly controlled assaults of frission, the perfecters of the nexaspectus -- the killing look or 'eye of death.' In a similar way coruscists are fulgars who do not thermistor, who donot wish to take the risk of blasting themselves apart if the botch thesummoning of lightning. See entry inBook One. 
	
	Witherscrawltrained as a mathematician, he is the indexer and stooge of theMaster-of-Clerks. See Witherscrawl,Mister in Book One. 
	
	withy-wall(s)usually naturally occurring barriers ofsapling stems (withies). 
	
	works-generalproperly called the General-Master-of-Labors,the highest ranked peoneer in Winstermill. His charge includes all of the maintenanceand works about the fortress and on the road too; he also has charge over the seltzermen as well as the more commonlaborers. This is part of the reason whylighters do not truly consider seltzermen to be their equals -- theybelong to another corps. 
	
	Wormstoolvery last cothouseon the eastern end of the Conduit Vermis(from which it gets it name) with only the fortress of Haltmire between it and the untamed wilds. Built simultaneously with Haltmire, at the time when the Wormwaywas being forged through the Ichormeer,Wormstool is an octagonal tower rather than the usual fortress-house. It shares this trait with Dovecote Bolt and is reached by narrowsteps wrapping about three of the structure's sides. On every level, the windows are shutteredloopholes through which defenders can fire down upon attackers. There is provision for cannon on the thirdlevel and on the roof, yet pieces have never been supplied and Wormstoolremains without great-guns, despite the presence of umbergogs and other belugigson the Frugelle. 
	
	Wormway, the ~vernacular name for the Conduit Vermis (see both entries in Book One); also called the Harrowmath Pike. The Wormway is divided into named lengths: 
	
	"Pettiwiggin -- from Winstermill to WellnighHouse
	"RoughmarchRoad -- from Wellnigh House to DovecoteBolt
	"Mirthwayor Mirthle Road-- from Dovecote Bolt to Makepeace
	"Half-wigginPike -- from Makepeace to the Wight
	"PendantWig -- from the Wight to Bleak Lynche
	"The Frugal Way -- from Bleak Lynche to Haltmireand through to the Ichormeer. 
	
	Wranglepoor boy of obscure origins who goes by this name and this name alone --of too destitute a beginning, it seems, to have more than a first name. A fairly slow-witted but physically adeptlad, he is the perfect candidate for a soldier -- or lighter. 
	
	wrench-of-armswhat we would call arm-wrestling. 

	X
	
	Blood andsutures!No entry for x!

	Y
	
	Yesternightlast night, the counterpart of yesterday. 

	Z
	
	Pullets andcockerels!Still no entry for z!How is this possible?