covering the mouth, nose and eyes. Inside it are various small organs-folded up nasal membranes and complicated bundles of optic nerves-that let the wearer smell tiny, hidden or far-off smells, and see into shadows, in the dark or a great distance away. Used mostly by leers; if a sthenicon is worn for too long, the organs within can grow up into the wearer's nose. If this happens, removing it can be difficult and very painful.
Down many well-trod flights of creaking, wobbling wood or frigid, slippery slate stairs Rossamund went, through the all-too-familiar narrows of the foundlingery's halls and passages, all the way down to the emerald- painted door of Madam Opera's downstairs apartments. Children were normally summoned to the madam's sacred apartments only when in the worst kind of trouble.
Rossamund's head spun. Am I in trouble after all? Was it just chance that this stranger happened to be there? He stood in the musty parlor before the green door, where all comers were to wait until summoned.
Tap, tap went his boyish knuckles on this hard wooden portal. He was let in immediately by the manservant Carp. Within, the madam sat like some august queen, almost obscured by the piles of loose papers, ledgers and registers that rose in clumsy stacks upon either side of her solid blackwood desk. Her chestnut hair had been knotted high into a hive of snaking coils. She had clearly gone to some lengths with her appearance. The stranger was there, standing silently by the desk. He wore a dark coachman's cloak that hid all other attire, even his boots, and he held in his hands an excessively tall tricorner hat of fine black felt known as a thrice-high. There was something wrong with his eyes. Not wanting to be caught staring, Rossamund flicked his attention between Madam Opera and the stranger's distracting orbs.
'You sent for me, Madam Opera?' Rossamund croaked in a small voice, bowing uncertainly.
The madam beamed at him. This was unnerving. She rarely beamed. 'I did, my dear boy. Come closer, come closer.' A hand waved at him, the handkerchief it clasped fluttering like a small white flag and filling the small office with the scent of patchouli water. 'Today is a very important one for you, young master Rossamund.' Madam Opera glanced almost coyly at the man alongside her, as though they shared a special secret.
Rossamund felt his heart beat faster.
'Mister Sebastipole here has come as an agent all the way from High Vesting, and has declared that he would very much like to meet you.' Madam Opera stood, an action which made the stranger straighten automatically. 'Mister Sebastipole, I would like you to meet young master Rossamund. Young master Rossamund, Mister Sebastipole.' She curtsied as she offered these greetings, her arms stretching out to encompass her two guests.
The stranger nodded, the corner of his mouth twisting slightly. 'Rossamund. What a-ah-fine name for, I am told, a fine lad.'
Adults were often remarking on his name, and it was by these reactions that instinctively Rossamund would gauge a person's trustworthiness. Had he not been unsettled by the stranger's eyes he might have thought this Mister Sebastipole was subtly mocking him. Rossamund dared one quick, determined stare. A thrill spread through his entire body: the man's eyes were completely the wrong color! What should have been white was bloodred, and his irises were the palest, most piercing blue. This man in front of him was a leer! 'Mister… S-S-Sebastipole.' Rossamund bowed awkwardly. For a moment he could hardly think: everything he knew about these men was now tumbling through his brain in much the same confused way as the Hundred Rules of Harundo. Leers were trackers, trackers of men, and even more so of monsters. They drenched their eyes with forbidden chemicals to enable them to see into things, through things, to spy on hidden things, to tell even if a person was lying.
Rossamund gulped. Unable to help himself, he looked surreptitiously for the man's sthenicon. He was fascinated by them, and longed to try one on. It was a rare thing to meet a leer in the city, and Rossamund had certainly never encountered one before. What could a leer want with me?
This fellow had come from High Vesting, Madam Opera had said. High Vesting was one of Boschenberg's colonies and the harbor of her naval fleet. Perhaps this terrible-eyed stranger worked for the navy. Rossamund tried to quell the rising excitement that threatened to overwhelm him. Oh, to become a vinegaroon-that was his heart's desire!
Madam Opera continued gravely. 'Now, Rossamund, Mister Sebastipole is here to offer you a chance for employment-an opportunity I understand you very much desire. I want you to take his proposal seriously and consider well what a fine offer this is. Please go on, sir.' She waved her hand ingratiatingly.
Mister Sebastipole cleared his throat and narrowed those intense eyes. 'Well, young master Rossamund; I have come to represent my masters in Winstermill and High Vesting, who in their turn represent their masters, who represent their master-that is, the Emperor himself.'
Rossamund was impressed. Somehow, he could tell that Mister Sebastipole had meant him to be.
'I am told you are quick of eye, good with letters and know a little of the chemistry,' the leer continued. 'Would you agree this is so?'
Rossamund hesitated. This did not quite sound like the navy. 'I… I suppose I would, sir.'
Mister Sebastipole continued. 'Very good. You see, our Imperial charge-handed even from the great Imperial Capital of Clementine itself-is the care, the maintenance and clear passage of one of our Most Imperial Master's Highroads: the Conduit Vermis, which follows its course from Winstermill through the Ichormeer-that some call the Gluepot-and on eastward to far-famed Worms.'
Rossamund blinked. This definitely was not the navy.
'I have come to offer you the employment of a lifetime-that is, to work the lamps with us and tread the paths of this great highway to keep it safe for all happy travelers. In short, we would like you to become a lamplighter. I am pleased to say that this good lady, Madam Opera'-he half turned his body and gave the slightest bow toward the woman-'agrees you would be excellent for the job.'
Something about the way the lamplighter's agent said all this sounded very final.
Rossamund's head was spinning once more. A lamplighter? They wanted him to become a lamplighter? What happened to the navy? Now he would never see the sea…
'Um…' Rossamund tried his best to look grateful. 'I… ah…' This was not the plan at all! Stuck on the same stretch of road day after day, night after night, lighting the lamps, dousing them again, lighting them again. No chance for prize money. No chance for glory. Could it get worse? He had no choice. It was either become a lamplighter or stay at the foundlingery. A glance at Madam Opera showed her genial expression becoming stiff with impatience. He was stuck between two very unpleasant choices-the stone and the sty, as Master Fransitart might say.
'Thank you, Mister Sebastipole,' he managed, giving another awkward bow.
'As you should!' Madam Opera beamed and clapped once and loudly. Nothing about Mister Sebastipole's face altered at all. He clearly had not anticipated the slightest resistance to his suggestion. Madam Opera stood and shepherded Rossamund toward the door. 'Go and ready yourself. Fransitart will know what to do… Now, Mister Sebastipole,' he heard her murmur as she closed the door behind him, 'you will stay for a sip of tea?'
And that was that.
The necessary arrangements were made. Rossamund was to meet Mister Sebastipole in two days' time, at the Padderbeck, one of Boschenberg's smaller piers upon the mighty Humour River. His luggage was to be limited to no more than one ox trunk and a satchel. He was to be dressed in hardwearing clothes for a long journey, and a sturdy hat too. Unfortunately, he did not have any. Nor did he possess a suitably sturdy hat. As for the rest of his belongings, the collection of his entire life-they fitted neatly into two old hat boxes. For the rest of the day and all through the next, interested staff of Madam Opera's Estimable Marine Society for Foundling Boys and Girls, the Vlinderstrat, Boschenberg, were a-bustle as Rossamund was prepared for his great going forth. Even the madam herself joined in, drawing up a list of what he needed, entitling it Rossamund's Necessaries.
Masters Fransitart and Craumpalin took Rossamund to see Gauldsman Five, the gaulder. His was the best place in this part of the city to get clothing sturdy enough for Rossamund's journey, for Gauldsman Five made the best proofing. All proofing could turn sword strokes, and could even stop a ball fired from a musket or pistol. The simplest piece of proofing was costly, but the better the quality of protection the higher a garment's price. Proofing was, however, also absolutely necessary for folk looking to venture beyond the city walls, where monsters and brigands and other horrors waited. It was made from cloth-anything from hemp to silk-treated with a chemical potion known as gauld, which made it very hard to tear or puncture. Broad straps of gauld-hardened leather and thin padding of soft, spongy pockweed were then sewn into the lining as the unproofed cloth was turned into
