plaudamentum-self-consciously pull and play at her hems and fringes whenever she thought the lampsmen were not looking.
She barely acknowledged him, however.
The 'Stoolers,' those lighters-Rossamund quickly learned-from Wormstool, and the 'Bleakers' were fascinated by the two young arrivals, but especially by Threnody. She made much of being superior to their attentions, yet from Rossamund's vantage she relished every rough jest or idle tease.
'How come they're sending them out to ye?' a Bleakhall lighter asked. 'We need replacements just as much…'
'More's the point: what's the Marshal doin' billetin' such pink li'l morsels out to us?' one extraordinarily hairy Stooler-one Under-Sergeant Poesides-added.
'Aye!' Rossamund heard one lighter whisper theatrically to a brother-in-arms. 'What do they takes us for, wet nurses?'
'Doesn't he know we eat 'em alive out here?' Poesides added, raising sinister chuckles from his amused colleagues.
Rossamund grinned sheepishly.
Threnody sniffed superciliously as she said sourly, 'You might find us a little hard to chew!' inciting a general 'ooooh' and loud laughter.
'I can see thy arrow-spoor, Miss Muddle!' A rather thick-set sergeant sporting raven-hued mustachios and a bulbous nose grinned and pointed to Threnody's brow. Isambard Mulch was his name. 'Going to fish our heads from inside our tummies after we've eaten ye, are ye?'
Some small lighter, old enough to surely have earned retirement, aped exaggerated actions of eating then keeled over, clutching dramatically at his head and stomach. The laughter became a roar, Rossamund joining them. Even Threnody broke a smile.
'Ahhh there, lads,' Sergeant Mulch cried, pointing to the girl's reluctant grin, 'she's human-hearted after all!'
Her smile vanished and the guffaws roared louder still.
Perhaps service at the ignoble end of the road might not be so wretched after all.
23
Gourmand's cork also known as a throttle or a gorge; the projecting 'knuckle' of cartilage in a person's throat, in which is situated the vocal cords; what we would call the Adam's apple. It is called the gourmand's cork (a gourmand being one who is a gluttonous or greedy eater) because of the tight sensation you can get there when feeling nauseated, which vulgar folk hold is the voice box trying to prevent or 'cork' any further eating.
Rossamund was turned out into the small yard at the foot of Bleakhall the next morning to discover thick fog smothering the land, deadening sound, diminishing light, dampening spirits. There was no wind, not even a gentle breeze; just the clammy touch of tiny, infrequent eddies. In the unsettling quiet the half quarto of lampsmen who were to be his billet-mates, perhaps forever more, said very little above common greetings and introductions. One old fellow, who presented himself as Furius Lightbody, Lampsman 1st Class, checked the two new lamplighters' harness and their equipage. He paused when he spotted Rossamund's salumanticum.
'Good lad,' he said. Lightbody tugged on its strap to test the repair, then patted a satchel of his own, showing a hand missing the third and fourth fingers. 'Wise. We've all got one.'
Rossamund nodded. 'Why are there five of you?' he asked in a hush.
'Them city-scholars say it takes three fit fellows to best a single hob-possum' was the gruff return. 'That's all well and good for them and their books, but out here we reckon five of us stands a better chance. In truth there should be more…'
Lampsman Lightbody attached a bright-limn to the head of each of their fodicars, fixing the bottom of the small lamps-known as crook-lights-to the shaft to prevent them from swinging about noisily.
'Why do we not take a leer with us?' Rossamund wondered aloud, looking worriedly at the thick airs.
' 'Cause we don't got one to take,' came the simple answer. 'The Hall's fellow is with his own lamp-watch, and Crescens Hugh-he being our own one-and-only lurksman-is off-watch. Even he needs his sleep.'
Another lighter named Aubergene stood before them. He was a much younger fellow with black hair, angular features similar to Sebastipole's and a protruding gourmand's cork that bobbed disconcertingly as he addressed them with suppressed, whispered enthusiasm. 'Don't you fuss too much about this soup, young fellows, it's just Old Lacey,' he explained kindly. 'It's the fleermare. Comes in off the Swash and leaves everything dripping, but without it there'd be no water for us or the plants-it rains dead seldom about here. Take these… it's phlegein,' he said to Threnody's blank look at the small tubes the man held out to them, 'or falsedawn if you like. In case you lose us. Just pull the hem.' He indicated a small silk protrusion on the bottle. 'Strike the raised end on the ground and hold it high, well away from your face.'
Threnody went to refuse, tapping the fine-drawn arrow on her brow, as if it were an answer to everything.
Aubergene looked at the spoor with a slight hesitation. He puffed his cheeks out and in and said, 'That'll help you find us, lass, but not us you. Take it and let us get on.'
Sergeant Mulch led off, and as Rossamund then Threnody followed the five bobbing lights out the heavy gates of Bleakhall, Rossamund looked back at the barely visible mass of the Fend amp; Fodicar. He tried to guess which window Europe slept behind.
Leaving Bleak Lynche, it was impossible to reckon distances between lanterns. In the opaque fumes the beclouded nimbus-light of a great-lamp could be seen only when the watch drew very near. The assiduous lampsmen worked, stoutly feeling their way one great-lamp to the next, each lighter nothing more than the suggestion of a shadow and a bobbing globular glow, communicating only rarely in terse whispers. Rossamund had never been anywhere so completely blank: anything could leap out and snatch them away. Ears were a-ring with anxious straining, eyes bugging to keep sight of the will-o'-the-wisp gleam of the leading crook-lights. His throat was in a constant constriction of dread; he did not know how the lamplighters of the Frugelle ever managed to do their work without blubbering into an overwrought mass. No amount of practice on the Pettiwiggin could have prepared him for this. It was a relief to learn that neither he nor Threnody was expected to wind any of the lamps on this blind morning. Nevertheless, he waited impatiently for each lamp to be wound, one-two three-up, down- two-three, one-two-three-up, down-two-three, cringing at the ringing clatter of the cogs and chains. Though the mechanical sounds were muffled by the turgid airs, Rossamund found them a clashing of cymbals in the tomblike silence, sure to attract some nasty lurker.
The all-too-sluggish encroachment of the new day's growing light served only to illuminate the fog itself, making it pale and almost phosphorescent; a yawning whiteness where the only tangible thing was the hard-packed road grinding under his boot-soles. This luminous nothingness obliterated any sight of the crook-lights, and forced the lantern-watch to march closer than the regulation spacing.
Suddenly the column stopped.
Rossamund could sense the lampsmen becoming very still.
The fellow immediately before him-Rossamund thought it was Aubergene-crouched and indicated the young lighter do the same. Rossamund obeyed and repeated the motion for the benefit of Threnody behind.
I am the very soul of stillness. He repeated Fouracres' old formula. I am the very soul of stillness…
Motionless and listening, he understood almost instantly. Something was snuffling in the veiling murk off to the left, its shuffling movement faint yet obvious in the dry crackle of the stunted Frugelle grasses. Staring out into that awful blank, Rossamund had a prodigious sense of the malign intent of this sniffling, searching something. He
