Marshal spoke loudly and confidently about the details of the routines of Winstermill, on subjects almost everyone had heard before. He reminded them of duties botched and the need for vigilance, for care, for the particular regard of one another. The pageant listened dutifully, for most loved their dear Marshal and knew these things needed to be said. However, their attention became genuine when the 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 day reports come to me and I am applied to for aid.Yesterday I learned that the whole 2nd Lantern-Watch of Ashenstall was slain without quarter, not six nights gone, and also lamps pushed over on the Patrishalt stretch. Today already I have been informed of the taking of a family in the broad of day by the walls of Makepeace.'There was a chorused murmur of angry dismay among the lighters and pediteers, while the clerks remained quiet. 'Aye, and no doubt ye are all informed of the assault witnessed five nights ago by our own barely breeched prentices.' The murmur grew to a growl, a rumble of solidarity and resentment. 'And yesterday morning were yourselves witness-as was I-to the end of one of our doughty 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!' The Marshal's steady voice stilled them. 'From loftiest officer to lowliest lighters' boy, we must stand together-and we will. We have fought the long fight for eons beyond the telling of books. Humankind stands and will stand the longer if we stand together. Even now a faithful band seeks the very beast who slew our brother, as we, undaunted, continue to keep the way clear and safe. Lighters! We are the bulwark between our fellow men and the raging monstrous malice: we are the brave band who shall always light the way! Of discipline and limb!' he cried with a burst of steaming breath, jaw jutting proudly and a deadly gleam a-flashing in his eye.
'Of discipline and limb!' cried the many hundred throats before him, Rossamund's own among them.
Smiling with paternal grimness, the Lamplighter-Marshal took his place at the head of the line of most senior officers as the Sergeant-Major-of-Pediteers stepped forward with a rousing monologue of his own. After him came the bureaucrats, their ornamental wigs drooping curls almost halfway down their backs: the Quartermaster, the Compter-of-Stores, the rotund works-general, each complaining about some unheeded quibble of clerical detail or neglected civil nicety. Last of all was the Master-of-Clerks. With saccharine gentility and that never-shifting ingratiating smile, he droned about some new bit of paperwork required, some new process to record the change of watches. At times he would say things that Rossamund did not understand but had the vast plethora of clerks chuckling knowingly. As the bee's buzz went, the clerk-master was the darling of the bureaucrats of Winstermill. They looked up to him-so Rossamund had learned-not just as their most senior officer, but as a genius of perpetual administrative reinvention. His only joys were the minutiae of governance and refining of systems that already worked.Tending to the clerical quibbles of fortress and highroad Rossamund had heard Assimus and Bellicos (when he had lived) griping to each other-Podious Whympre was getting a better grasp upon the running of the manse than the overworked Lamplighter-Marshal.
Near the Master-of-Clerks-as always-was Laudibus Pile, lurking at the back of the podium, looking out over the pageant with narrowed, quizzing eye. For a beat Rossamund was sure the falseman had fixed him with his lie- seeing eyes. The prentice was held in this distant interrogation till Pile seemed to see what he sought and, satisfied, looked for another to play this game upon.
Piebald gray clouds stretched over them from horizon to horizon like a roof on the day. Beneath these drifted smaller, knobbled cumulus blown up by southern winds, increasing the impression of a vaporous ceiling. Cold clouds these were, but not rainy ones. With the winds came the faintest scent of the Grume, the great bay to the south. Breathing deeply of this sweet-yet-acrid hint, Rossamund could have sworn 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 his bosom.
Snap! went the flags in the winds.
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 coach rushed through with all the self-importance of a post-lentum. It was a dyphr, a small carriage pulled by two horses, its sides raised and roof lowered.
'Eyes front, you slugs!' barked Grindrod, as several boys turned their heads to see.
The vehicle dashed past the parade, peppering those standing nearest the drive with fine gravel flicked from its wheels, and pulled up sharply before the great steps of the manse.
Most of those on the podium made to continue, a bloody-minded show of their disregard for the impetuous arrival. Yet, as the Surveyor-of-the-Works finished his housekeeping plaints and before the Master-of-Clerks could return to reiterate, the Lamplighter-Marshal stepped forward and, to general relief, ended proceedings prematurely. Finally, with a blare of horns and a rattle of toms, the pageant-of-arms was done.
Grindrod dismissed the prentices with a simple order of 'Port arms!' — perhaps keen himself to be on with the vigil-day rest. 'Master Lately, be sure to report to the kitchens,' he reminded Rossamund with no evident satisfaction. With that the lamplighter-sergeant walked abruptly off to join other sergeants milling at the edge of the Grand Mead to watch the small carriage.
Released from the painfully motionless dumb show of the pageant, the delighted prentices hurried off to get ready for the jaunt to Silvernook, all interest in the dyphr forgotten in their eagerness to be away.
Rossamund stayed. He was intensely curious to know of the passengers and in no hurry to start a long day of pots-and-pans.
Threnody too observed the carriage, her expression strangely intense. She gave a soft groan. 'Yes, Mother, I have been a good girl…'
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 raven tresses recovered. She cocked an eyebrow emphatically at the lentum and said bombastically, 'Who is it that has so quickly come in yonder conveyance, you want to ask? Why, it's my mother, come to chastise her wayward daughter no doubt, and sermon me on the honor of our clave.'
'Your mother?'
'Indeed. She cannot leave me be for a moment! I am not a week gone and she is come to crush me back into her shape.'
The Lamplighter-Marshal now approached the carriage with Inkwill and a quarto of troubardiers. He was followed by the Master-of-Clerks and that man's attendant crowd. Dolours too had appeared, walking over from the Officers' Green, her favorite spot it seemed, from where she must have been watching the entire pageant unheeded.Two calendars had already emerged from the dyphr clad in the mottle of the Right of the Pacific Dove, and they acknowledged the bane's approach with subtle hand-signs. Rossamund recognized one as Charllette the pistoleer, though the other he did not know. Standing proud upon the manse steps, the marshal-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.' His declaration was gracious without being fawning.
The last passenger, a woman with hard eyes, hooked nose and a sardonic curl to the corners of her mouth, emerged and responded with equal decorum. 'Well betide you, sir,' the Lady Vey enunciated beautifully. She was tall, with black hair the hue of her daughter's, yet hers was as straight as Threnody's was curly. Like everyone that morning, she was dressed against the chill in a thick mantle of precious, fur-lined silk with a sumptuous fitch of bristling white dove feathers about her neck and shoulders. Lady Vey stepped away from the dyphr with all the poise and arrogance of a peer. She glared at the lowering sky and 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, the Lady Dolours,' the woman declared with a tight smile.
'Always her first, isn't it, Mother?' Threnody muttered. 'Never a kind thought or concern for me…'
Dolours bowed low, with apparent deep and genuine respect.
'She has been abed with fever, gracious August,' the Lamplighter-Marshal declared. 'But our locum has seen to her as best he can.'
