side-armsman put it. 'No amount of counters will get us to shift down on to that there dour place.'
Not at all inclined to argue, Europe dismissed them, declaring, 'No matter, we shall take the next post east.'
Post-lentermen were more game than public coachers.
As they waited, the woman and the girl sipped the Prideful Poll's best claret, while Rossamund stared from an east-facing window at the bleak view. Below was a gray arid plain strewn with countless tufts of dark vegetation. His Imperial Highness' Highroad, the Conduit Vermis, ran out like an anchor cable down on the flat, going steadily east, curving slightly south as it did. This stretch before him showed on the maps as the Pendant Wig. More than a league away Rossamund could see a tiny structure by the road-a cothouse: Patrishalt.The thrum of loneliness was a constant pang here-subtle threwd exquisitely balanced between threat and welcome. He could feel it through the glass, fluttering within him uncomfortably.
They did not wait long. The day's first post pulled into the cramped coach yard with a trumpet blast, bearing no passengers and keen to take some on board. Out in the yard the monotonous wind wailed its melancholy up from the eastern lowlands, bringing a faint stink of rot on its breath. With a quick inspection that all their luggage was intact, Rossamund entered the coach and they were away. Speed was a traveler's best defense out here.
The Wormway wound down the flanks of the hills, following a shallow cleft eroded by a seasonal brook.The post-lentum gathered momentum as it descended the face of the hills. It crossed the Lornstone, an old brick bridge that spanned a gully thick with sighing swamp oaks and stunted pines. On seven great arches the Wormway crossed the bridge and continued along on a stone dike that reached out for a mile into the Frugelle. The great flat was a continuous low thatch of thorny, stramineous stubble.Trees collected in dell or hollow, writhen, dwarfish things, their gray trunks rough and fissured. The unsettled threwd nagged persistently, not foe but certainly not friend.
The travelers' breath steamed inside the lentum cabin. Threnody shivered, glared at the glimpse of frosty sky showing through the grille of the lentum windows and wrapped her furs closer about.
Europe proved unperturbed by it all, rugged in a long, thickly furred huque, hair down in a long plait; she watched everything through her pink quartz-lensed spectacles with regal equanimity. Nothing reached her, and for this Rossamund was deeply grateful. For no matter how the lugubrious threwd pressed in or the chill gripped, the young lighter felt that all things might be compassed with the Branden Rose at the lead.
'My, this is a dreary land,' she said, looking around at her two companions. 'Yes?'
Rossamund nodded.
From her den of furs Threnody raised an eyebrow and barely shrugged.
'And dreary company too…' Europe arched her spoored brow.
Along his side of the road Rossamund discovered the low, half-buried strongworks he had first spied between Makepeace and Hinkerseigh. This time they were positioned at every third lamp, looking very much like sunken fortifications. But to what purpose? Rossamund wondered.
Built on the connection with the northeast running Louth-Hurry Road, Patrishalt was much like every other cothouse they had passed. With nothing to recommend it as a rest-stop, the lentum delivered a small amount of mail and carried on.
The country varied little, and by the time they achieved Cripplebolt two hours later, all three passengers were dozing. When the lentum was back on its way east with a fresh, new-shabraqued team, Rossamund tucked into the provender bought at Wightfastseigh. Threnody grimaced from over her duodecimo with open disgust as he chewed on the pork sausage in one bite and took a spoon of preserved apricots, plopping about in their earthen jar, in another.
Hiss-CRACK! A musket shot just above shattered the delight of his light repast. It was followed by a short series of thumps joining the din of travel, a pause and then Hiss-CRACK!
'What is happening?' cried Rossamund, ducking at the smack of the second discharge. A puff of gun-smoke burst above, on his side of the lentum, to be whipped away by wind of the vehicle's passage.
'I think you'll find they are warning off a passing nicker,' Europe said calmly.
Threnody clambered over to the same side and joined him in a search of the passing land without, frustrated that her view was blocked by the window-grille. 'I cannot see what they shoot at,' she complained, leaning over Rossamund. 'They'd better hit it, the cheeky bugaboo!' she hissed.
'For the nicker's sake let's hope they do.' Europe peered briefly through the window-grille. 'It would be a kinder death to have a musket ball in your meat than come to hand strokes with me.'
There were no further shots and no beast assailed them. The lentum made good time on this flat straight road, and in the paleness of the eastern quarter of the evening sky they spied the rectangular towers of a settlement a-sparkle with lights easily seen from the straightness of the plain.The township of Bleak Lynche.
As the lentum drew closer, Rossamund could see that every structure was three or four or five stories tall, raised close together and with no gate nor surrounding wall to protect them. How is that possible! It was only as they entered the town and crept between these towers that he realized none of the buildings had ground-level doors opening out to the dangerous world. The higher stories were accessed from the ground only via retractable iron ladders, and an arrangement of covered walks-the lynches-stretched the short gaps between structures, their weight carried on sturdy arches.
The hard-packed dirt of the Wormway went right through the middle of the town, leading them to a small wayhouse called the Fend amp; Fodicar, its sign a fodicar and a spittende crossed. Upon the other hand was a large oblong fort of four levels and, like every other building here, a flattened gable roof of red tiles. This was Bleakhall, the lamplighters' bastion and the only structure to be surrounded by a wall, which protected a coach yard and steep stairs to a third-story door. With the yell of its horn the post-lentum was let through gates as thick and tall as the bronze portals of Winstermill and rattled slowly into the tight area within, brightly lit by slow-burning flares lifted up on lampposts. A quarto of heavy-harnessed haubardiers met the carriage and humbly did the tasks of yardsmen: helping the lentermen take the horse-team in hand, organizing the setting down of the luggage. The postilion opened the doors of the lentum and lowered the folding-step, handing the women out of the cabin. The haubardiers were puzzled by a calendar in lighter's vestments and they were downright astounded by the dangerous graces of the fulgarine peeress. Europe played the part with practiced ease, feigning ignorance at their awe with a studied grandness. Threnody met them with her typical superciliously lifted chin. Rossamund just helped to carry the bags.
The three were shown up the steps through a door of solid black iron, the postilion following after with a mailbag. Beyond was an antechamber slit with murder holes in roof and wall. A cheerful 'halloo' from their haubardier guide, and a second black door at the farther end was winched open. Europe, Rossamund and Threnody were admitted to a watch room furnished sparely with a clerical desk, a large clock and other doors to left and right.
They were met by a young man in a powdered scratch-bob, standing behind the desk. He was wearing the unmistakable white oversleeves of an altern-lighter and the same surprised expression as all the other officers of previous cothouses at the sight of newly made, newly arrived lighters. Stuttering a little at Europe's steady scrutiny, he greeted them all stiffly. As he sorted through the few items in the mailbag, he informed them that their Major- of-House and Lamplighter-Captain were away at Haltmire for an urgent conference with the Warden-General. 'How-be-it, young lampsmen.You have come to reinforce us?'
'No, sir, we're meant for Wormstool,' Rossamund explained.
'Wormstool, is it?' The altern looked a little put out. 'Well, they need it more, I suppose, though we are all sorely put. You can journey there with the lantern-watch tomorrow morn. I'll have the costerman take your dunnage across later in the day.'
'I'll set owt termorrer,' the costerman drawled with a thick Sulk End accent, entering at the altern-lighter's summons. Squarmis was the man's name. He was a withered, greasy fellow in many heavy layers of cheap proofing and a short-tailed liripipium.There was something indefinably odd about the man, something vague and unsettling. For a dread instant, Rossamund swore he caught a hint of swine's lard on the fellow.When he thought no one was paying him any mind he sniffed more deeply, but only got a nose full of the man's natural unwashed odors and the waft of strong drink.
Squarmis looked at them shrewdly. 'A jink for yer goods in the cart will cost ye one an' six.'
Even Rossamund could tell one sequin, six guise was thievery for such a short ride. It was more than the young lighter was paid for a month of prenticing.
