The Master-of-Clerks bridled for a moment and then, with admirable equanimity, said soothingly, 'I'm sure you're a fellow who knows his business well enough when teaching a poor lad his first clues, but it now falls to me to choose their best uses. That is to be the end of it, Lamplighter-Sergeant-I do not want to be put in the position of having to take you in firmer hand. Indexer Witherscrawl,' he said, dismissing Grindrod with a turn of his gorgeously bewigged head, 'read the tally if you please.'
The sour indexer stepped forward, glared at the prentices-at every single one-and especially at Threnody. 'Harkee, ye little scrubs! Here is the Roll of Billets, of who will go to where and when they will leave. Listen well-I shall tell this only the once!'
What! The prentices could not quite believe this: they were to be denied the full honors of a beautiful and especial ceremony. There were supposed to be martial musics; the whole manse was meant to turn out in respect at the boys' success in prenticing and their coming into full rank as lampsmen. A susurrus of deep displeasure stirred about the boys.
Grindrod did nothing to quell them, simply folding his arms. In fact, he showed open pride in the prentices' muttering rebellion.
'I said, quiet!' Witherscrawl shouted, and a foot-guard rapped the floor with the shaft end of his poleax, its cracking report startling the whole room to dumbness.
With a foul sneer, the indexer raised a tall, thin ledger close to his face and from it began to read out names in letter-fall order: Arabis to go to Cothallow, Childebert to Sparrowstall, Egadis to Tumblesloe Cot just beyond the Roughmarch, and so on.
Attention focused.
'Mole to Ashenstall…'
Onion Mole went white with dismay.The other prentices winced, Rossamund with them. A long way east, Ashenstall was one of the harder billets on the road, isolated and with few vigil-day rests.
Apprehension grew. They could not assume only the kinder billets would be given.
'Wheede to Mirthalt…,' droned the indexer, 'Wrangle to… Bitterbolt…'
With a chill, Rossamund knew his name was next, languishing at the end of the lists along with Threnody's…
'Bookchild to Wormstool…'
… and this chill became a frigid blank.
Some of the other prentices gasped.
Wormstool!
This was the last-the very last-cothouse on the Wormway, well east of Ashenstall, with only the grim Imperial bastion of Haltmire between it and the Ichormeer. Built at the 'ignoble end of the road,' Wormstool was no place for newly promoted prentice-lampsmen. Situated too near the sodden fringe of the dread swamp, it was held as one of the toughest billets of all. Only those who volunteered ever went there, yet here he was, a mere prentice, being sent. The Ichormeer had once been just a frightful fable to him. Now Rossamund was going to live and work as a neighbor to its very borders, where all the bogles and the vilest hugger-muggers that ever dragged themselves from putrid mud haunted and harried. Absorbed in his shocked thoughts at this revelation, he did not hear where Threnody had been sent.
Witherscrawl finished his recitation.
The Master-of-Clerks presented himself again. 'I will be wanting you all to your billets as soon as can be done. With time to travel in consideration, those farther out will leave sooner. Therefore those prentices stationed farthest away will be leaving on the first post of tomorrow morn. Well done to you all, my fine fellows-you are now all full lampsmen!'
Confused and silent, the prentices were dismissed and that was that: Billeting Day-such as it had been-was over, an insulting sham.
The Master-of-Clerks left without any further acknowledgment, taking his 'tail' with him. Grindrod followed, and an angry, muttered conference could be heard out in the hallway, terminating suddenly with the Master-of- Clerks' high clear voice saying, 'Cease your querulous bickerings, Sergeant-lighter! It will be as I have decided it. They have been sent where needed. If you are so concerned for the children, then get back to them and make certain they are ready for their great adventure. Good day!'
At first Rossamund's fellows were bemused. As the day progressed most were reconciled with their early promotions and many proved pleased with their billets, however untimely and however tawdrily they had been portioned. At lale-held indoors owing to inclement weather-they buzzed and boasted excitedly to each other about the various merits of their new posts, those billeted at the same cothouse gathering together in excited twos or threes. Every lad congratulated the others for their good fortune and the 7q extra they would all receive each month now that they were lampsmen 3rd class. For Onion Mole and even more so for Rossamund there was baffled commiseration: he was the only prentice to be billeted at the ignoble end of the road.
'Why are they sending you so far, Rosey boy?' asked Arabis, still smiling about his prime posting at Cothallow, one of the smartest cothouses on the road.
Hands raised, Rossamund shrugged.
'I reckon you'll be going tomorrow morning, then?' Pillow wondered aloud.
'It's a handy thing ye've had practice with yer potives.' Smellgrove patted him on the back.
'Aye.' Wheede grinned. 'The baskets will have to watch they don't get a pud full of bothersalts.'
Rossamund ducked his head, grateful for their fumbling encouragements.
Threnody had guzzled her saloop and was rising to leave.
'Where are you going?' he asked her quickly.
'Out from here,' she answered flatly.
'Where are you billeted?'
'Didn't you hear?' she asked tartly. 'I'm going to Dovecote Bolt. That Odious Podious thinks he is such a funny fellow-told me my mother would appreciate me being so close.'
'We'll be billet-mates!' cried Plod happily.
'Oh, hazzah,' Threnody replied with a wry twist of her mouth, and departed. For the rest of the day, as Benedict strove, in Grindrod's absence, to keep the animated prentices in line, Rossamund's mind was a hasty turning of half thoughts and unhappy conclusions. He was leaving-packed off posthaste to the worst billet in the land. Most likely he was leaving for good, to die at the hands of some ravenous nicker fresh plucked from the ooze. He had to tell Numps-just as Mister Sebastipole had done-that he might not see the glimner for a long time. Once again, mains became the prentice's chance to venture out. When the meal came around he took only a hard loaf of pong to chew 'on the foot' and hastened to the lantern store.
As he went to leave the mess hall, he passed Threnody, back from making her treacle in the kitchens. She snatched at his arm. 'I must talk with you,' she hissed.
Rossamund wrenched free. 'Not now, Threnody. I must visit Numps to tell him I'm going,' he insisted in return.
She glowered at him. 'What do you have to do that is more important than me? I have things to tell you-a surprise.'
'Truly, Threnody, it must wait,' he declared, pulling his arm free of her and dashing off, leaving her stunned and scowling.
In the early night he ran down to the Low Gutter. The sweet smell of rain-washed air-the promise of showers-was blowing up from the southeast. Passing through Door 143 just as water began to fall, Rossamund emerged from the shelves as his ready, if somewhat forced, smile of friendliness became a puzzled grimace. Numps was not in his usual seat by the glow of the postless great-lamp and the never diminishing pile of panes. Nor was he down the next aisle of shelves getting mineral fluids or other such things for cleaning stubborn crust.
'Mister Numps?' he called.
The rain a-hammered on the roof.
Ringing ears.
Nothing.
'Mister Numps?' He turned slowly by the glimner's empty seat, hoping the fellow might just shuffle out from behind a barrel or stack of lantern-windows. Horrid thoughts of some frightful crisis began to intrude into Rossamund's imagination, yet there was no evidence of trouble. Rossamund searched down every aisle and behind
