took him away. Threnody sat opposite him in the cabin, snuggled in a nest of furs.The first he knew of her joining him was her appearance on the Grand Mead that morning, baggage and all, as he waited for the lentum. Originally billeted at Dovecote Bolt, the girl was not supposed to be here in the carriage, the first to take freshly promoted prentices out to their new home. Somehow late the day before, she had succeeded in having her posting changed and was now with him on the road to Wormstool. Perhaps this was what she had been so intent on telling him the evening before. 'It's too dangerous just for one' was all she had said in explanation as they had waited on the cold Mead earlier that morning. 'I'll keep watch on your flanks, and you'll keep watch on mine.'
Rossamund wondered briefly how the besotted Plod would feel about her change of destination. She was surely the most gorgeously accoutred lamplighter along the whole of the Wormway in her scarlet and gold harness and mass of midnight ringlets. Under one arm she clutched a day-bag, while a linen package and a mysterious round box sat on the seat beside. One hand was kept warm in a fuzzy white snuftkin, the other clutched a duodecimo novel, which she was reading with pointed concentration. Despite her infuriating twists of manners and mood, Rossamund was at first glad she had come along. But beyond the initial word she had been ignoring him, for reasons he could not quite comprehend, spoiling the sweetness of her original gallant gesture.
Has she come with me just to have someone to still pick on?
Rossamund had reading matter of his own. Before the lentum-and-four had departed, he had ventured to the Packet File to deliver his letter for Sebastipole and had been given another missive in return. He still clutched it in his hand, forgotten in the haste of his embarkation. With him in the cabin he had also brought his restocked salumanticum, his old traveling satchel with its knife-in-sheath attached holding his peregrinat, and a parcel of wayfood. On the seat next to him was his precious valise crammed with smalls and other necessaries for five days' travel. Anything over that and he would just have to make do. The rest of what he owned-most of it issued by the lamplighters when he first joined-had been stowed in an ox trunk and fixed to the roof of the lentum along with Threnody's sizable collection of luggage, their fodicars and fusils.
In his pocket his buff-leather wallet was bulging full with traveling papers, reissued after the ruin his old ones had become on his way to Winstermill. There was also a work docket already bearing its first remarks: the period of his service as a prentice and the tasks undertaken, by which was a 'CS' for 'Completed to Satisfaction'; under 'Conduct' was the comment 'Late for prenticing period' and two small 'i's' for his impositions-pots-and-pans with the now-vanished Mother Snooks. It was all signed off by the Master-of-Clerks himself, now the Marshal-Subrogat.
With these papers was a fair wad of folding notes and coin-his three months' wages as a prentice and a large portion of the money Europe had given to him in High Vesting. As for a hat, there had been no time to replace it, and so here he was venturing out with little more than the bandage about his head.
The east wind whistled low on the Harrowmath, the usual odor of the long grass rank with the rot of sodden vegetation. Mixing with the flat nonodor of his newly applied Exstinker, it became an unpleasant half stink in Rossamund's nostrils. He rubbed his nose with the back of his hand and sighed his melancholy. An untimely departure, an uncertain way ahead, and Numps left in the rough care of the lighters, yet Rossamund was glad to be out of Winstermill and on the road once more. He even entertained the hope he might see Europe on the way through.
He looked down at the letter and opened it, his hands slightly trembling.
It was dated the nineteenth of Pulvis, Solemnday-almost a week ago.
Rossamund,
I have to tell ye of the profound and sorrowful news that on the night of the 5th of this month, the marine society was burnt down and that Madam Opera did perish in the fire along with, to my ever-living grief and shame, many children and Master Pinsum too, with valuables and papers burnt or maybe stolen.
Verline and we other masters all survived. Perhaps we should not have lived with so many young kilt. But survive we have and are seeking now to find berths for all the poor younkers made wastrel once more.
That wretched utterworst Gosling set the spark, or so it appears. Barthomaeus and I chased at rumors of him a'watching the building many times afore the fire, but obviously turned up naught.The splints say he has fled the city. He always was a yellow-gutted dastard and I should have ended him long ago but for the restraint of conscience-and Verline, bless her.
With all that has got to be done for the tots it appears that Craumpalin and I shall be arriving to ye later than expected, but can't be knowing when. Expect us maybe in two months.
With great respect and sorrow etc.
Frans, Mstr, Ex-Gnr.
I am sorry about being so long in scratching this down and sending it on to ye, but our labors have not let me do so sooner.Thanks to ye for yer own letter dated 13th of Pulchrys, it survived the fire and we esteem it like treasure. Hold yer course, my boy, hold yer course-I know it is hard. Remember I said once that paths need never stay fixed.
Also Craumpalin sends greeting: he says that he is most proud and very happy with the usefulness of his bothersalts and tells ye (as do I) to keep wearing his Exstinker, if ye do not already.
Miss Verline is safe with her sister and her new niece and would send ye her best-as ye well know-if she knew of this letter.
Well-fare-ye!
Rossamund could not believe what was written. He read again. '… the night of the 5th of this month…' That was the very night the horn-ed nickers had attacked Threnody and her sisters in their carriage.Yet it was not until his third time through, slowly and painfully, that the full impact of his old dormitory master's terrible news struck home. He turned his face away from Threnody, hiding in the collar of his pallmain, and wept as he had not wept in the longest time, letting all the bleakness sob out. He wept for the dear dead children, for Master Pinsum, and even for Madam Opera, who may not have been the kindest, but was by no means the worst; for the grief caused to his beloved carers; for fury at Gosling's malice. The fury passed but the grief remained, and Rossamund lost himself in sad, wordless reveries, only vaguely heedful of the progress of the carriage as it followed the Pettiwiggin along the Harrowmath.
They were passing through the Briarywood when he roused at last with thoughts of Fransitart's arrival-and dear Craumpalin coming too. I must write to let them know I will not be at Winstermill.
'What's wrong with you, lamp boy?' Threnody said, her voice raised only a little over the dull rumble of the lentum.'Why do you cry?' She looked at Fransitart's letter. 'Who is the correspondence from?'
Rossamund became suddenly very aware of the girl: aware of her proximity; of his unwanted tears. He wiped at them quickly, sniffing impatiently. 'My old dormitory master back in Boschenberg…,' he answered reluctantly. 'He… he sends sad news.'
'Sad news?' Threnody folded the duodecimo in her lap.
'My old home was burned down by an old foe,' Rossamund managed. 'Madam Opera died in the fire. She was the owner… and a… a mother, I suppose-in a strange way. She named me-marked it in the book… '
'You're a better soul than me, Rossamund.'
'How?'
'You weep over the death of some wastrel proprietress, yet I can only wish my very own mother might perish in a fire.'
With a frown, Rossamund returned to the window and broodily observed the passing scene. He knew she was just trying to be kind. It did not help that she was not very good at it.
The post-lentum clopped between the twin keeps of Wellnigh House without hesitation, under the Omphalon, and on through to the Roughmarch. With a feeling very much like going through the Axles of Boschenberg, Rossamund realized with equal parts dread and expectancy that he had never been farther east than this point, that he was hurtling into what were, for him, unknown lands.
A great-lamp at every bend, the Roughmarch Road twisted serpentlike through a valley clotted with thorny plants of many kinds-sloe, briar, boxthorn and blackberry, its spiny runners thickly stickling the verge. As with the wild grasses of the Harrowmath, fatigue parties were regularly sent out from Wellnigh House and Tumblesloe Cot to pull and prune these plants, to resist the threwd and deny monsters a hide from which to ambush.Yet either side of the way was only partially hacked and cleared, and Rossamund could still feel the haunting watchfulness here, strong but strangely restrained. He stared at the high bald hills, dark and silent, and pulled up the door sash to keep the threat outside, glad he did not have to work the lamps on this stretch.
If Threnody noticed the threwd, she did not show it. Indeed, she started to hum as she read her book and
