'Raise the alarm!' he hollered. 'A rever-man! A rever-man!'
And there, on the other side, he found himself staring directly at the shocked face of the Master-of- Clerks.
16
Telltale(s) falseman retained by one of office or status to inform their employers of the veracity of others' statements or actions, to signal if fellow interlocuters are lying or dissembling or masking the truth in any other way. If they could afford to, most people of any prominence 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. Then there are those honorable few who do it simply because it is their job and responsibility. Despite this rarity, many of the prominent work hard to nullify the advantage a telltale will give, either by employing their own falseman, or having a palliatrix (a highly trained liar-even rarer than a falseman) attend in their stead.
Rossamund did not much like the Master-of-Clerks, but right then the officious fellow was an astoundingly welcome sight.
'Blight your eyes, boy!' the clerk-master almost shrieked, pale and breathing hard from the fright. 'You were nigh on the end of me! Where have you come from? How did you get here? Where did you get that running gash upon your crown?'
'A rever-man below us, sir! A rever-man in the tunnels underneath!'
'A 'rever-man'? What do you mean?' the clerk-master snapped, recovering his composure and sitting again on his seat at the long table that dominated the room.The man was without his gorgeous wig, looking slightly ridiculous, his head bound with cloth and showing tufts of cropped wiry hair.
Rossamund could not believe the man did not know what a rever-man was. 'A revenant, sir! A gudgeon!'
'Nonsense, child! Utter fiddle-faddle!' The Master-of-Clerks flicked his hand in angry dismissal.
Laudibus Pile appeared as if from nowhere. 'What is the trouble, sir?' he purred with his oily voice, his disturbing eyes narrow and calculating as he saw Rossamund standing where he should never have been.
Looking about in a daze, Rossamund began to realize he was actually in the Master-of-Clerks' private file. He had been here just once before. 'Mister Pile!' he effused, unaware that he had just cut across his superior. 'I fought a rever-man down in the tunnels of old Winstreslewe!'
'The boy has a wound to the head. He is delirious! He forgets himself! Send for Surgeon Swill,' Podious Whympre seemed to demand of the air itself.
Rossamund felt at his head. His hat was gone, lost somewhere in the horrid under-dark. His hand came away bloody. 'I am not delirious.' He frowned at the red. 'I fought a gudgeon!' He could not understand the resistance, the lack of action.
'I do not know what you are jabbering about, child, but I would recommend you lower your volume and mend your manner,' the Master-of-Clerks ordered with a dangerous look. 'You are in thick enough without adding insubordination to your troubles!'
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 the Master- 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 vulgar thing. 'Take us to where you think you 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 to prove what he had been through. It was then he realized he did not know how to return to the scene of violence, so keen had he been on getting out. Some of his lefts had become rights in the end, and there was no telling precisely which and when. He hesitated.
Surgeon Swill arrived in the enormous room and all notions of going below were subordinated as, with an intently professional expression, he examined Rossamund's hurts. 'This is a nasty blow,' he declared after a silent observation of the young prentice's head. 'The boy must surely be in a daze. 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, watching nervously as the surgeon reached into a sinister-looking case.
'He persists with this daft notion of a monster in the cellars,' 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 of phantasms. Bed rest and a callic draught are the best for you, young lantern-stick. Let this be a lesson to you not to be dashing about after douse-lanterns!'
Callic draughts were for drowsing the mentally infirm-Rossamund knew his potives too well. He did not want an addled, forgetful sleep. He wanted to tell the horrible news that the unthinkable had happened: that a monster had been found inside Winstermill. As he submitted to the bandage being wrapped about his crown, Rossamund was keenly aware of the unsympathetic gazes upon him. 'I have to tell the Lamplighter-Marshal!' he insisted.
'And so you shall,' said Whympre, 'and illuminate him and me both as to your illegal surveyings and nocturnal invasions. I warn you though, child, your chatter about buried bogles will not wash with him either. The only event for which we have proof unavoidable is your trespass in my rooms.'
'Mister Sebastipole will confirm I tell the truth, sir,' Rossamund said obstinately with an angry glance at Pile.
The falseman gave Rossamund a cold, almost venomous look.
The Master-of-Clerks and the falseman and the surgeon exchanged the merest 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 he is always busy with his papers. Batterstyx!' he called to the air. 'Batterstyx! My perruque!' An aged private man appeared from some other door bearing the clerk-master's lustrous black wig. Once it was fitted to the great man's satisfaction, the Master-of-Clerks strode forth. 'Come along!'
Rossamund was marched through the perpendicular geometry of the manse. Accompanied by the three men, he was taken from the far back corner to somewhere near the front, where the Lamplighter-Marshal's duty room was found. Pile knocked for them and they waited.
Presently this port sprang open and Inkwill emerged, looking overworked. 'Master-of-Clerks,' the registry clerk said, managing a wry smile. 'What troublesome punctilio troubles you now, sir?'
Whympre sniffed as if to indicate Inkwill was beneath his notice. 'We have a disturbing breach of security to relay to the Marshal. Go tell this to him.'
Why not just tell him of the rever-man? Rossamund thought angrily. He knew there were forms to follow, but in a circumstance such as this, surely they could be put aside?
'Aye, sir.' The registry clerk nodded, his eyes going a little wide at the bandage about Rossamund's head.
The door closed, there was a wait; it opened again and Inkwill reappeared to gesture the four through.The anteclave was empty of its usual crowd of the Marshal's secretaries and assisting clerks, yet many piles of paper remained. Even to Rossamund-for whom these countless documents had no relevance-such a mass of paper gave the room a feeling of nagging, insurmountable and never-ending labor. Inkwill guided him through the thin lane between desks.
'Stay here, prentice,' the Master-of-Clerks ordered.
