14
The Skillions the southeastern corner of the Low Gutter in the fortress of Winstermill. It gains its somewhat derogatory name from the many small, wood-built single-story sheds, warehouses and work-stalls found there. These are a recent addition to this part of the Gutter, it previously being the site of a stately old building designated for multiple uses, including the growing of bloom and the making and storing of lanterns. This reputedly burned down in mysterious circumstances two generations ago, outside of any current occupant's memory.
Though the menagerie of teratologists had begun to move into the Idlewild, disturbing reports continued to arrive at Winstermill. One told of the cothouse of Dovecote Bolt east of the Tumblesloe Heap that had lost three lamp-watchmen to an unseen unterman. Another told of a small band of nickers having the audacity to attack Cripplebolt near the farthest end of the Wormway, destroying lamps in the process. For three days-the report said- they maintained a kind of siege before relief arrived from the fortress of Haltmire.
The weather grew foul, either storming or foggy. Roads became nigh impassable. With the continued monstrous threat to the Wormway, the regular merchants from the south became reluctant to deliver. Only paying triple or quadruple the fair price for the essentials seemed to make them willing to come up from Silvernook and High Vesting. Informed by the Master-of-Clerks that the coffers could ill afford such prices, the Lamplighter-Marshal was forced to introduce restrictions to the diet and habits of the manse. Starting with the prentices, the fortress had been on short commons for the whole week. Rumors abounded of the clerks getting better fare than the lighters, of certain well-to-do officers using private resources to purchase delicacies for themselves but not share them about.
Worse yet, the lighters discovered during a wet and dismal pageant-of-arms that their customary vigil-trip was canceled.The prentices were in foul spirits by the time they were dismissed to loiter about the manse with little to occupy themselves. 'Who does the Marshal think he is, making us miss our stingos!' some of them grumbled. Small arguments broke out between boys harboring worthless grudges. Other prentices bickered over their high- stakes card games of lesquin and punt-royale, and cell row and mess hall became unbearable. Rossamund sat on an easy chair in the corner of the mess hall, regretting he had not gone with Europe. He had been reading and rereading the same line in an already well-read pamphlet while beside him a semantic spat between Smellgrove and a stocky prentice by the name of Hapfauf revolved endlessly. To Rossamund's surprise Threnody sought him out 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 a sly wink as he exited.
Out into the biting squall they bravely ventured, clutching their regular-issue oiled pallmains tightly about, heads bowed against the sleet, ducking involuntarily at the mighty cracks of thunder that snapped above the Harrowmath. Having never owned a hat till he had left the foundlingery, Rossamund found them an absolute boon for keeping rain off the face. He could endure the foulest weather if his dial was not being splashed and pelted with water.
'Who was that woman yesterday?' Threnody had found a small garden lean-to by the 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 you know her?'
'Aye, it was. She and I met on my way here.' It seemed a too-simple explanation. He wriggled uneasily, trying to get comfortable atop a rather smelly sack that was digging into his buttocks and dampening the seat of his longshanks.
'But how did someone like you meet 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 the Vestiweg.'
'What in the Sundergird were you doing there? Hardly anyone travels that way-at least not anyone in their right minds. It's just a supply road for the Spindle.'
He told Threnody the story of his journey, beginning with the day Sebastipole had come to select him.As he told it he was struck by the extraordinary nature of that adventure-had he really done all those things and survived those dangers?
She leaned in close as he told his story, never interrupting, and when he had 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 call them? Grinnlings? And all the while that amazing woman is feeding you whortleberries and letting you make her treacle?' Threnody's face was alight with a deep, previously hidden enthusiasm. 'I always have to make my own treacle. Mother has drummed into me that you should always make your own-that way you know what is in it and that it will work. But, oh! Tell me, what does a whortleberry 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 I wouldn't believe a jot of your impossible story.' She hesitated. 'Is this all really the truth?'
'Of course it's the truth. She wants me to become her factotum!'
'You!' Threnody barked an incredulous laugh.
He scowled, wanting to say several things at once but saying nothing at all.
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 noticed Rossamund's scrutiny and said testily, 'What do you goggle at, lamp boy? It's just Friscan's wead. Have you never seen a girl drink her alembants before?'
Rossamund gave a wordless splutter and quickly looked out to the sodden view.
'I should have been a fulgar.' Threnody spoke softly after she had secreted the vial. 'They only need two treacles; did you know that? I have cartloads of potives to take. Wits need so many different treacles and alembants at so many different times it's a wonder we do anything else at all. If anyone needs a factotum, it's a wit.' She glowered at the wintry garden patch, and Rossamund wondered what he was meant to say in reply. He had only rarely seen her take a sip of her many draughts: a far greater variety of red and blue and black liquors, taken far more frequently than Europe's.
'It does seem somewhat unfair…,' he offered into her angry silence.
'And she gets to keep her hair.'
'Well, you have kept your hair,' Rossamund remarked cautiously.
Threnody looked at him acidly, as if he had made a foul and tactless jest, 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 called Mister Numps-'
Threnody cut him off before he could finish his sentence. 'Of course, Mother does not think the Branden Rose is much good at all. In fact, she very much dislikes her.'
It was best to remain silent.
'But really, she and my mother have a lot in common.'
Rossamund waited. He could not fathom what these two women might share.
'They were at the sequestury in Fontrevault together when they were my age. The Branden Rose was set to be a calendar, 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 her entire lineage, that if Mother had such a proud heritage she would never carry on so.' Threnody paused. 'The Branden Rose was the reason I so wanted to be a fulgar,' she murmured, looking sadly at her
