The girl lighter frowned truculently in return, but the lamplighter-sergeant appeared not to notice. He paced before the quarto when they had returned their firelocks to their shoulders. 'It has been decided that a leer should be sent with us to improve the security of ye precious lambs. Not that we needed fancy-eyed gogglers to watch out for us when we were lantern-sticks.'
Assimus, Bellicos and Puttinger snickered.
Rossamund struggled to imagine the lamplighter-sergeant as a fumbling, square-gating lantern-stick.
'Ah!' Grindrod looked toward the manse. 'Here struts the fellow now.'
Leaving off a conversation with Dolours, a tall dark fellow stepped toward them. He bore a finely made long- rifle, wore a tall thrice-high upon his head and a dark coachman's cloak that hid all other attire and accoutrements, including his boots.
Mister Sebastipole! Here at last was the lamplighter's agent who had hired Rossamund back at Madam Opera's. He looked straight at Rossamund-with those disquieting red and blue eyes that signified his status as a falseman-as he stopped before the prentices, but if Sebastipole recognized him it did not show.
'Well, Lamplighter's Agent Sebastipole'-there was a coolness in the manner of Grindrod's address-'are ye ready to coddle we lowly lighters?'
'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 drank something from a small black bottle. Whether this was some special concoction to enhance senses or prevent the sthenicon's organs from growing up his nose, Rossamund could not know. Drawing in several solid sniffs, the leer took out his sthenicon from its wooden case under his cloak. Rossamund was certain he saw a hint of disgust as the leer strapped the ordinary-looking box to his face.
Rossamund breathed in the frigid airs. The whole Harrowmath stretched about him, a slightly undulating moor of rippling, swaying reeds, weeds and grass. It stretched far south to the low hazy fells of the Sparrow Downs, and reached long into the north where paler greens gave over to the great straw-gray expanse of Sulk End. This unbroken pastoral flatness continued all the way around to the west where, on clearer days, great, distant windmills could be seen, sails lazily turning. Rossamund had observed these very mills from the Vestiweg after his escape from the Hogshead. To the east, the stark, diminishing line of the Wormway ran out from under Rossamund's feet. On it went with the merest curve, right through the dark of the Briarywood and out the other side, on to the ancient, bald hills of the Tumblesloe Heap. There it 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 this evening 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 the chill gloom of Winstermill's late afternoon shadow. The line of twenty-four lanterns they had to wind began here, at the bottom of the stonework ramp. Lantern East Winst 1 West Well 24 was the very 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 either side of the main lamp-bell. They were small examples of the phosphorescent pearls formed inside the bellies of kraulschwimmen, spat out for brave divers to collect from murky seabeds. It was an ostentatious show of Imperial wealth 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, for no prentice was ever allowed to touch this most prized of lights.
Watching with his fellows, Rossamund wondered at the strangely lumpy spheres of the gretchen-globes with their soft, innate radiance, disbelieving that such beauty could come from the foul innards of some monstrous sea- beast. He looked to Threnody to see if she too was amazed by these pearlescent lights, but she stood stock-still, arms folded against 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 his messmates' ill opinion of her. He was trying so very hard not to look hopelessly, gormlessly smitten, and doing such a poor job of it, even Rossamund could see his intent.
'Things of rare purity, are they not?' came a strange, almost squashed voice behind them.
Rossamund looked to find Sebastipole there, his face hidden behind its sthenicon, its flat wooden front looking blankly at the gretchen-globes. The young prentice wondered how the lights might 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 was loudly describing the winding to the prentices, a quick revision he performed at 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 than these 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 frame through the taffrail at the stern of a vessel.'
Threnody snorted dismissively. 'Know-it-all,' she muttered. 'You sound like an edition of Lot's Books.'
'You remember me, I see.' The leer looked pointedly at Rossamund, passing over Threnody's aside. 'Glad to see you made it to us after all. Bravo. I should know better than to misname the parts of a ram in the company of a marine-society lad.' Even through the strange sonics of the sthenicon, the leer's humble pleasure at Rossamund's recognition was obvious.
'Altogether too much lip-flapping happening,' Grindrod barked, addressing Rossamund and Threnody and conveniently ignoring that Sebastipole outranked him. 'Are ye wanting more impositions, lippy-lucies?'
'No, Lamplighter-Sergeant!'
'Then attend to the winding, lantern-sticks, or ye'll attend a week'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-man and boy-keeping a full fodicar's length behind the next: the correct drill-book formation. The official wisdom had it that such spacing gave each lighter room to swing his lantern-crook, and the nicker a harder time attacking more than one lighter at once. This practice went against the natural urge to bunch together for protection, and Grindrod was continually correcting their gaps as the boys instinctively drew close to each other. 'Step back there,Wheede!Ye want to march behind the fellow, not take him home to yer mammy! If ye were any closer, Plod, I'd have to separate ye and Pillow with a chisel!'
It was proving to be a drizzled, windy night. The Harrowmath sounded alive with the hiss and rush of southerly gusts through its grasses, accompanied by the tuneful buzzing of a rabble of frogs sending their sweet night music into the gloaming. And with this, along the gap of road between each lamp, the gritty, crunching unison footfalls of the regular-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 ceasing reconnaissance.
At Lantern East Winst 8 West Well 17, Rossamund was required to wind out the bloom, his shortened fodicar just barely reaching the ratchet.Twice he tried getting the crank-hook into the ratchet housing way above him in the crown of the lamp. Twice he failed, the hook end uselessly hitting the outer bracket of the housing and failing to slot home. Rossamund had been issued this shorter lantern-crook in the belief that he could not handle one of full size, yet it had proved inadequate for the task. Winding out the bloom was one of the hardest skills to learn and a tool that 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!'
